kindle the flame

Space Theoi

Zeus is gravity– unseeable, unknowable, defying human understanding. He holds the planets in place. He slingshots rockets back home. He cradles Earth in a steady orbit and tells them that they are safe.

Hera rests on the rings around Saturn. She drapes herself across their icy surface, riding their steady rotations, ever-watching, ever-awake. 

Artemis holds the moon in her hands. Some call her goddess of the moon, but she knows that she is but a friend to Selene. She watches in awe as Selene glows, and she tries to bring that peace back to the forest with her.

Apollo lights up his sister’s hands as he rests upon the Sun. He surrounds himself with light, and he tries to find music in between the sunspots and the harsh solar winds. When he can’t find any music, he makes it for himself.

Hestia kindles the flames of the stars. She watches them grow up, and she mourns at their supernovas. She paints Earth’s skies with constellations, and she tries to keep the world aglow despite their dying light.

Poseidon takes pleasure in placing water in places where no one dares to look. He crafts great oceans in distant planets, at the center of unexplored moons. He knows that life is sacred, even if it is unknown.

Ares hurls meteors across distant skies. Asteroids are his cannonballs. Comets are his bullets.

Aphrodite watches in awe as Ares’ ammunition glides through the atmosphere. She sets them aglow and calls them shooting stars. She listens to the faraway wishes, but she can’t grant them all.

Athena plants ideas in the minds of faraway astronomers and cosmologists. She whispers of string theory, of the multiverse, of membranes, of dimensions. She smiles as ideas become theories and theories become facts.

Dionysus sends out constant reminders that the universe can never make sense. He muddles Athena’s great ideas and reminds us that the world doesn’t have meaning– it just is.

Demeter grows galaxies as if they are crops. She names them as if they are her children, “Sunflower”, “Andromeda”, “Tadpole”, and she nurtures them from seeds, waiting for the day that they will be ready for harvest.

Hephaestus sculpts quarks into atoms, atoms into elements, elements into entire nebulas. He knows that the other deities rely on him to make the universe work, but they seem to forget.

Hermes is the speed of light. He knows that he can’t be matched, can’t be broken, can’t ever be surpassed. He is infinite.

Hades sleeps at the center of blackholes. He pities those who quiver at the chaos, the terror, the horrible uncertainty of his gaping cracks in space; he knows that there is nothing to fear about darkness.

Libra ~ ♎ ♡
the enchanted lover ~ they who see the true magnificence and beauty in every soul, they who perceive clearly the delicate wonders of creation 

The Libra glyph symbolises what could be a vanity with a mirror, composing the reflective and projecting beauty and femininity expressed in Libra ~
libra is ruled by Venus it exemplifies connecting, collaborating, and forming relationships. Uranus rules libra in esoteric astrology. libra represents a moment in time where personality and soul meet balance
Archetype: The Lover ♡

“You must give everything to make your life as beautiful as the dreams that dance in your imagination.”  Roman Payne                                                                                                                                                                                             

  • libras manage to shake the world in gentle and comforting ways. they can change the spirit of each and every person singularly, ignite faith and hope in others, remind people of their interconnection and not their loneliness, they can kindle flames in hearts that have long been long extinguished. and libra’s can do all this for others, help people come home to themselves. but the hardest thing in the libra’s life is learning to be themselves, expressive and free from shame 
  • libras really know how to enchant the senses. there is a cosmic array of harmony and sweet stardust. they provoke the part of us that has a tremendous faith in humanity, and the part of us that wants to believe in true love. they project fantasies and ideals in a world that never quite matches up to reality. libras can become very absorbed in their own imagination
  • libra is filled with glowing thoughts and also shadowy secrets they are forced to reconcile. as it goes though, most libras fear the darker edges of their spirit, and instead focus on the psychoanalysis of others. this leaves the individual feeling split and dependent

their pain is their fragility and i really feel alone, when i’m alone, when I am channeling Libra? my thoughts echo louder, i can’t settle these worries, i feel empty and ruminating on the past mistakes i’ve made with people, that sort of feeling

to feel god is to experience the delight and comfort of being surrounded by friends, feeling connected and validated, to perceive and conceive beauty, to dance, to radiate love to all people, this is Libra in touch with God


[art: valfre]

Love is apart from all things.
Desire and excitement are nothing beside it.
It is not the body that finds love.
What leads us there is the body.
What is not love provokes it.
What is not love quenches it.
Love lays hold of everything we know.
The passions which are called love
also change everything to a newness
at first. Passion is clearly the path
but does not bring us to love.
It opens the castle of our spirit
so that we might find the love which is
a mystery hidden there.
Love is one of many great fires.
Passion is a fire made of many woods,
each of which gives off its special odor
so we can know the many kinds
that are not love. Passion is the paper
and twigs that kindle the flames
but cannot sustain them. Desire perishes
because it tries to be love.
Love is eaten away by appetite.
Love does not last, but it is different
from the passions that do not last.
Love lasts by not lasting.
Isaiah said each man walks in his own fire
for his sins. Love allows us to walk
in the sweet music of our particular heart. 

Jack Gilbert, “The Great Fires,” The Great Fires: Poems 1982-1992 (Alfred A. Knopf, 1994)                    


I trace your words with my fingertips
as I would trace your face
under orange blankets
warm cocoon of sunset
we are quiet in each other’s eyes
your blue somehow darker
two troubled seas
I would calm with my lips
this feathered language
we speak
like breathing
there is only yes
as we make our canopy of stars
the same sky
where we kindle
this flame
warmth like home
where you touch my skin
come closer
I will teach you
the words I long to say
whisper my secrets
in your patient ear
I know
you will keep us


“Luke stood in a forest clearing before a great pile of logs and branches. Lying, still and robed, atop the mound, was the lifeless body of Darth Vader. Luke set a torch to the kindling. 

As the flames enveloped the corpse, smoke rose from the vents in the mask, almost like a black spirit, finally freed. Luke stared with a fierce sorrow at the conflagration. Silently, he said his last goodbye. He, alone, had believed in the small speck of humanity remaining in his father. That redemption rose, now, with these flames, into the night.

Luke followed the blazing embers as they sailed to the sky. They mixed, there, in his vision, with the fireworks the Rebel fighters were setting off in victory celebration. And these, in turn, mingled with the bonfires that speckled the woods and the Ewoks village- fires of elation, of comfort and triumph. He could hear the drums beating, the music weaving in the firelight, the cheers of brave reunion. Luke’s cheer was mute as he gazed into the fires of his victory and loss.” 

- From the Novelization of Return of the Jedi by James Kahn

The motorway is packed as Holly drives home for Christmas. She turns on the radio - any old station will do, she’s bored out of her mind - and the car is filled with Harry Styles’ new solo record.

Holly immediately turns it off, feeling sick to her stomach. There’ll be none of that this Christmas, thank you very much.

kindle a flame in her heart, coming christmas eve at 11:00pm GMT

My father taught me fire
and my mother gave me words.
He knelt with me
on heavy slate slabs
showed five-year-old fingers how to crumple thick newspaper
under kindling
where to touch the flame floating from the lighter
to the fragile edges of the pages

My mother gave me stories
of her grandmother, whose name I carry
and who worked in a restaurant she owned with her husband
only to go home and cook there
and my grandmother, whom I never knew
whose name was close enough to a boy’s
that she made it all the way from a tiny town in North Dakota
to a national debate
before they saw her skirts
and sent her home.

My mother told me
about her first job
as an engineer
and being told, flat-out
“we had to hire you”
because affirmative action is necessary
to overcome a uterus

My mother gave me words
and showed me how to shape them–
this is how you tell someone
to fuck off
this is how you drop a piano on someone’s head
with only a paragraph
this is how you trick them into reading
and getting all the way to your point
until they no longer disagree with you.
This is how you ask politely
this is how you ask again
and this is who you go to
when the first person is pretending not to hear you.
She showed me, this is how you make a point
this is how you choose a word
this is how you yell
without ever raising your voice
(This is what is wrong
and this is how you fix it
and this is what you do
when the world is beyond fixing)

My father gave me fire
my mother taught me how to burn things down.

—  October 10

Mrs. Olivier smiled indulgently. “You are not on an island at all. You are on the mainland; in the Colony of Georgia.”

“Georgia,” Jamie said. “America?” He sounded slightly stunned, and no wonder. We had been blown at least six hundred miles by the storm.

“America,” I said softly. “The New World.” The pulse beneath my fingers had quickened, echoing my own. A new world. Refuge. Freedom.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Olivier, plainly having no idea what the news meant to us, but still smiling kindly from one to the other. “It is America.”

Jamie straightened his shoulders and smiled back at her. The clean bright air stirred his hair like kindling flames.

“In that case, ma'am,” he said, “my name is Jamie Fraser.” He looked then at me, eyes blue and brilliant as the sky behind him, and his heart beat strong in the palm of my hand.

“And this is Claire,” he said. “My wife.”



…Just think of how far Jamie and Claire have come since the beginning of Voyager - him on Culloden Moor in 1746, her in Inverness in 1968 - and all the terrible things they endured during their years apart - and all the crazy things that happen after they reunite. It’s miraculous that they end up where they do at the end of Voyager - but they do. And that’s what makes this ending - Jamie’s simple statement - so powerful and gratifying.

Malfunctioning just fine~flurrious-flame

A nightmare unlike any she had seen before. It wasn’t even her memories. These were fake, the kinds of nightmares ones greatest fears conjured. Pain…so…much…pain! She had to wake up, she had to force herself out of this! Her eyes opened and she stood up, AH IT HURT! She stumbled her way out of the mansion. She had to get to Even, maybe he could tell her what was wrong. The world was spinning around her, her brain felt like it was on fire and her heart was fairing no better!

“What’s…happening…to me….????”

Then suddenly it’s like everything stopped, and a voice that wasn’t her own even though it sounded like hers pushed itself out of her throat.

[Malfunction    Malfunction    Commencing   automated shutdown]

And just like that it was lights out. Her eyes were still open but she fell deeper and deeper and deeper, until she was trapped once again within Kairi’s heart. The vessel of light, the thing she had gotten used to as her body, had shut her out completely. It was lying on the ground face up, eyes open in a cold dead stare for anybody to find. She could see everything, and the vessel was still breathing even though she wasn’t in it, but she couldn’t move, feel, or anything except watch and listen, hopelessly calling out without the vessel making a sound.


Fold back the corners of my poems,
untuck them from their graves,
let the dust tumble from their hands
until the words burdened by the years
are known once again
to the foreign light of day.

Let them linger once more
amidst the wreckage of the world,
let time sigh against their skin.

I existed, once,
I might have been
something everlasting
instead of impermanent.

Light a match
and exhale,
kindle the flame.

Let it kiss the edge of my writing
until the entire set is ablaze.

Let ash take reign
where dust once ruled,
let my ghosts be freed
from their prison.

They must be tired
from being kept so long.

Let the cinders fall.

I never existed, at all.

Dionysus - Aleister Crowley

I bring ye wine from above,
From the vats of the storied sun;
For every one of yer love,
And life for every one.
Ye shall dance on hill and level;
Ye shall sing in hollow and height
In the festal mystical revel,
The rapurous Bacchanal rite!
The rocks and trees are yours,
And the waters under the hill,
By the might of that which endures,
The holy heaven of will!
I kindle a flame like a torrent
To rush from star to star;
Your hair as a comet’s horrent,
Ye shall see things as they are!
I lift the mask of matter;
I open the heart of man;
For I am of force to shatter
The cast that hideth -Pan!
Your loves shall lap up slaughter,
And dabbled with roses of blood
Each desperate darling daughter
Shall swim in the fervid flood.
I bring ye laughter and tears,
The kisses that foam and bleed,
The joys of a million years,
The flowers that bear no seed.
My life is bitter and sterile,
Its flame is a wandering star.
Ye shall pass in pleasure and peril
Across the mystic bar
That is set for wrath and weeping
Against the children of earth;
But ye in singing and sleeping
Shall pass in measure and mirth!
I lift my wand and wave you
Through hill to hill of delight :
My rosy rivers lave you
In innermost lustral light..
I lead you, lord of the maze,
In the darkness free of the sun;
In spite of the spite that is day’s
We are wed, we are wild, we are one.

At Shigar Baltistan.