nocturnal wanderings


I did this a while ago, but was too timid to actually post it anywhere. I’m a fan of your work Mr. Nocturn, and so I decided to make a piece of fan-art of you in the world of Don’t Starve, because it’s a rather creepy world and the artstyle is gorgeous. (Materials used were, a .5mm lead mechanical pencil, several different Micron pens, a Pentalic set of 12 colored pencils, and a white Gelly Roll pen.)

Featured above are my two personal Don’t Starve OCs, Wander Lost and Wakana(For those who don’t know, every canon playable character’s name begins with a ‘W’, and too often I’ve seen people just name their DS OCs whatever they want without any regard for following canon. Thus my two characters names start with ‘W’.), and @nick-nocturn ‘s four eyed cat form. 

Wakana(the biped-dragon thing) primarily uses sign language to communicate(here she is signing one of the forms of “fear/scared”). Although she can also speak normally, she prefers not to because she has exceptionally large teeth, and she doesn’t want to scare anyone.

Wander Lost(the pony) can understand her sign language, though obviously can’t perform it himself, and often translates for those who don’t understand her. For those wondering about his lantern, it’s his “Starting Item/Special Equipment” that only he has. The lantern itself is an enchanted item that is a source of constant light, and was given to him by a Unicorn friend, who enchanted it.

This post is getting long, but I wanted to write a little story behind this encounter, so there will be a cut in which the story will hide. (also figure I should say this… Yes, I am aware that there are some issues with anatomy, pose, and perspective. I am pleased with how it turned out, given that I am unused to drawing other people’s characters. Also sometimes you just can’t get something to look perfect.)

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V for Vicious

Originally posted by parkjmin

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Genre: HarelyQuinn!Au / Smut / Drabble

Rated M for mentions of blood (just a tiny bit) and mature themes

Word count: 3.6k

Synopsis: This night, under the stars and with wind blowing between your bodies, you and Taehyung are the queen and king of the world. 

May madness enlighten your way forever.

Author’s note: I’m weak, oh I’m so weak. I really couldn’t let go of my first fic, so here a drabble set in the same universe, following the madness of Tae and his love. This could be read alone, but I suggest you to check Sanitarium for a better understanding of the dynamics between the characters. This is dedicated to everyone who loved Harley!Tae and in particular to @sugajpg (gurl, I know you are a sucker for this kind of shit)

The wind blows cold and loud, it echoes against the moon and between the glowing of stars like pearly diamonds embodied in the sky – someone once told you they are the wings of fallen angels that still burn between Heaven and Earth.

You are on the top of the highest building of the city, feet well planted on the floor as the town shines in all its insignificance under you: everything is silent and slow, the city lights quivering like the breaths of a sleeping beast while the vain lives of humans fade into their blue dreams. The whole world is still, yet alive with almost unnoticeable tremors between the streets: some nocturnal souls wandering in search of gold and crowns and gems between the shadows – the army of evil and detriment, maybe.

And you, so mighty, so perfect above all this, are no different than a queen loving her king.

Really, it’s a breath-taking scenery, nearly empowering, yet you would be able to appreciate it way more if Taehyung’s knife wasn’t wildly pressed under your jaw.

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Blood, shiny and cobalt, covered the floor. Prince Arctic was in a pitch black cave, the only light coming from a moon globe, floating far, far above his head, so that it was a tiny speck of brightness in the dark. Looking down, he could see that his talons were also covered in blood, and on the floor next to him lay a traditional Icewing hunting spear. Suddenly, without warning, his hands reached for the spear and violently began swinging it around, stabbing and slashing at the darkness. He tried to stop, but he wasn’t able to control his motions. He yelled out in frustration, trying to regain control of himself, and his body paused for a moment. Then his hands expertly flipped the spear around so that the sharp point was pointed at his body, and his head jerked back, then down, impaling his own skull on the spear.

Arctic awoke with a jolt so forceful that his body almost slid off the stone slab he slept on. A cold sweat covered him, and he stared at the cave wall for a moment, his breath ragged and sharp.

Just a dream, just another nightmare.

His jaw hurt, and he realized he had been clenching his teeth as he slept. Taking a deep breath, he sat up and rubbed his jawline with a trembling hand. The shock of the nightmare was beginning to leave his body, and as it did the cold sweat that covered him from nose to tail slowly dissipated, and was replaced once again with the heavy, hot air of the Night Kingdom. Arctic closed his eyes and ran his talons over the top of his head, pressing lightly on his temples. But this did nothing to ease his newfound headache.

He brought his hands out in front of him, staring at his talons blankly.

“Your claws will betray you in your final hour”

Arctic shuddered involuntarily as the female dragonet’s prophecy ran through his mind, accompanied by a brief flash of blue blood soaking his claws. What was her name again? It didn’t really matter…what mattered was that now, thanks to her cryptic words, he had new nightmares to torment him at night.

“Or, at ‘day’, really….” he though with a grim smile, looking over at the window on the back side of the sleeping cave he shared with Foeslayer. The sun was high in the sky, and if Arctic had to guess he’d say it was probably a little past midday. Everyone in the Night Kingdom was usually asleep at this hour, being a nocturnal tribe.

Arctic’s eyes wandered from the window over to his mate, Foeslayer, still asleep on her bed across the room from his. They had stopped sleeping in the same bed not long after arriving at the Night Kingdom. Because of Arctic’s tragic animus accident, he began to have terrifying nightmares every single day, some of which were so horrific he would wake up screaming. This, combined with the fact that it took him weeks to finally adjust to the Nightwing’s schedule, meant that he did a lot of tossing and turning when he slept. Foeslayer had always insisted that it didn’t bother her, but he could tell that it did. After a few arguments about it, he finally lied, stating that sleeping next to her was ‘too warm’ and that if he was expected to sleep during the day, that he should at least be in a bed that was somewhat comfortable.

This had hurt her. He clearly remembered the way her eyes squeezed shut and her ears and wings drooped. He felt bad about it, he didn’t want to see that look on her face. But it was partially her own fault, she wouldn’t admit that sleeping next to him was keeping her awake too….so he had to do it that way. It was the only option.

Arctic stepped off his bed and lightly approached Foeslayer. He watched as her blankets rose and fell slowly as she slept, and occasionally her talons would twitch or her eyes would flicker behind her eyelids. A small smile crept up his face; even in her sleep she looked feisty and beautiful at the same time. He thought for a moment about crawling into the bed next to her, but decided against it. Even though he did miss sleeping next to his mate, he didn’t want to wake her. Just because he couldn’t sleep didn’t mean anyone else had to suffer with him.

He looked over at the window again, and felt the sun beckoning him to come outside. It was a bad idea, he knew that. A few months ago he had accepted a position at the queen’s palace, and she would expect him to be there right at sundown. Arctic was never late, no matter what, even if it meant dragging himself to the palace on only a few hours of sleep. He knew that on those days he must look ghastly, with bags under his eyes and dull scales. But what did it matter anyways? They would still give him looks even if he showed up to the palace fresh out of a snowbank, covered in jewels and looking regal and imposing, like an Icewing prince actually should.

“Well. I look more imposing then any of these snotty Nightwings either way,” he thought as he quietly made his way out of the room and towards their front door. Nightwings had no concept of proper posture, always leaning on tables or shuffling their feet or letting their wings droop or scratching itches in public. It was enough to make him furious at times. How on earth did he get stuck with such lowborn, uncultured-

A soft sound came from one of the back caves as Arctic reached their living room. He froze midstep, his ears swiveling back towards the sound. His children, Whiteout and Darkstalker, had rooms on opposite ends of the back hall. He couldn’t tell which room it came from, but he hoped it was only Whiteout, shifting in her sleep. The last thing he needed was Foeslayer’s nosy, eavesdropping son interrupting him, especially when he had barely slept and was in a foul mood already. A few moments passed and no more sounds came from their rooms, so Arctic quickly crept to the front door and slid outside. He closed the door slowly behind him, placing his palm over the latch so as to muffle the sound of the door shutting. But he didn’t bother to lock it; why would he? No one would dare attack him or his family. Not when they knew what kind of power he had.

“Beware your own power’

Arctic shook his head, growling softly as another line from Darkstalker’s little girlfriend danced uninvited though his mind. He spread his wings and leaned off the stoop of their front porch, gliding away from the walls of the cliff. Once he was a good distance away, he began flapping, rising up until he cleared the tops of the ravine where the Nightwings lived. He found an air current and rode it for a moment, trying to decide what he wanted to do. The sun was bright, but there were a number of expansive white clouds dotting the air above him. Good. He loved this kind of weather. The white clouds would camouflage him perfectly in case any Nightwings decided to get into his business and poke their heads out of their caves. Foeslayer had told him once that a Nightwing’s daytime vision was somewhat poor. She had said that in the day, things usually looked out of focus and everything was much too bright. This fact gave Arctic a sense of subtle relief. If anyone had heard him leave his cave, they probably wouldn’t be able to see him against the backdrop of white clouds.

He looked south, towards the long expanse of the ocean, and for a moment considered going down to the beach for a swim. Unlike other, inferior tribes, Icewings were both great flyers and great swimmers, not on par with Seawings of course, but close enough. The water did look inviting, and it would probably cool him down for a bit, but Arctic decided against it. The beach was where he would occasionally receive secret messages from his mother in the Ice Kingdom. He hadn’t gotten one in a long time, not since he refused to reply to her last message about killing his children. But still, he didn’t want someone accidentally seeing him and then placing guards at the place, in case he ever needed to use it again.

So instead, he decided on the next best thing. He began beating his wings powerfully, driving him up, up, up, far above the ground and the ocean, until he reached the towering clouds above. They were huge thunderheads, probably a sign of storms in the future. But for now they were calm, inviting. Arctic closed his eyes and dove into one, letting the cold air of the high altitude soothe his heat ravaged scales. The condensation from the clouds swept over his body like a soft blanket made of raindrops, all of them cool, pure, clean. In his mind he was flying through a gentle snowstorm back in the Ice Kingdom, feeling the snowflakes brush against his tired eyes.

The cool feeling of water left him, and he opened his eyes to see that he had emerged on the other side of the cloud. Now he was flying over a long, condensed cluster of them, and their smooth, poofy shapes looked almost like the rolling snow hills of his homeland.

“What am I even doing here….,” Arctic though to himself, flying low towards the field of clouds beneath him. He hated the Night Kingdom, almost as much as the rules and expectations in the Ice Kingdom. But at least back there, he wasn’t constantly tired. He wasn’t always aching and exhausted from the climate and the heat. Nobody gave him weird looks, and for moon’s sake everyone acted like proper, well-raised dragons instead of a bunch of scavengers.

Why was he forced to live this kind of life? What was keeping him here? He had often tried to convince Foeslayer that they should run away again, this time to a secluded island like he had originally planned. But no, she always had excuses.
‘No Arctic, I can’t, I’m with egg!’
‘No Arctic, the children have only just hatched, they are too young to travel, it would be dangerous!’
’No Arctic, the children must go to school like proper Nightwings and get an education! We can’t force them into a life of running and hiding like that.’

And, more recently:
“No Arctic, this is my home and my tribe, and we are at war. I won’t run away while my friends are out fighting and dying, I have to help!”

He rolled his eyes. Yeah right. She had barely any friends here, she had told him multiple times how she didn’t really get along with the others in her tribe, how they always thought she was strange and clumsy and loud. Why would she want to stay in a place where they didn’t respect her? If it was up to Arctic, they would leave the Night Kingdom far, far behind, and go to a place where neither of them had to deal with other dragons disrespecting them. Where they were really free.

He had a sneaking suspicion that she was just scared of leaving her home, that she didn’t want to live somewhere unfamiliar with no other Nightwings around. Arctic had hinted at this during one of their arguments, just to see what her reaction was. He had asked her, “You don’t want to leave here because you think dragons you know will die, right? We started the war so their blood is on your talons, is that it? And yet, for some reason it’s totally fine that when /I/ left my Kingdom, members of my tribe DID die. And….it was /my/ fault. Can’t you see…don’t you realize how hypocritical that is, Foeslayer? How can you act like I’m the only one who is supposed to make sacrifices here?!”

And she had shouted back at him, furious, saying that this was different, that she made sacrifices for their relationship all the time. ‘Like what?’ he had demanded. “Oh, you mean like living in a cozy cave in your very own kingdom surrounded by other members of your tribe? Yeah, such a sacrifice. You sleep when you want to, eat your favorite foods, and enjoy comfortable, inviting weather. How absolutely terrible for you.”
She had left then, running out of their room crying. He didn’t follow her. He knew he was right.

….But after awhile, when he had calmed down, he felt horribly guilty. She was the reason he had done all of this, the reason he was enduring all of this. He didn’t want to hurt her, he didn’t want to make her sad. But sometimes she was so /irrational/, and something inside him just snapped, and he would argue and rant and the anger inside him would take over. And it was only after the conversation was finished, only after his heart stopped racing and his mind cleared….that he realized how absolutely horrible he was being.

Arctic sighed, bringing himself back into the present moment. He’d been out flying for probably an hour, he should get back. As he descended, he thought about poor Foeslayer. “She makes sacrifices every day.” he mused. “She has to be with me….”

“No. She /chooses/ to be with me…moons above….why can’t I ever stop myself once it’s started? I know I’ll feel bad afterwards, but when we’re arguing I can’t ever seem to remember that…I wish I didn’t get so irritated about everything…why can’t I just let things be?”

It was all fine and dandy to think about, but he could never seem to change the way he acted. When he got angry or irritated it felt like someone else was taking over his mind, turning off his compassion and love for Foeslayer and replacing it with this overwhelming need to be ‘right’. To get the last word. To show her how hypocritical she was. But that wasn’t him. That’s not the kind of dragon Foeslayer fell in love with. That’s not the kind of dragon he wanted to be.
Arctic sometimes wondered if it was because of his animus powers. He knew that the flashes were; the images in his head of blood and death, and the nightmares of course. But the anger….was that from his animus powers too? Or was that a side effect of bad sleep and poor climate? He wasn’t sure…either way, there wasn’t a fix. Both of those things were permanent.

Arctic was at his front door again before he even realized it. He landed softly on the stoop, and looked up at the bright sky once more. “Maybe if I got more sleep it would be better….I don’t know. I wish I could get away, just for a week….but I know that’s impossible. They’d think I betrayed them…that I’d fled back to the Ice Kingdom. No one would believe that I only took a vacation from their stupid, smug faces.”

He stepped inside his home and closed the door quietly behind him. Making his way back to his room, he listened once more for sounds from his children’s caves, but they were both silent. Arctic’s eyes fogged over, and he rubbed them lightly with his hands. His lack of sleep had suddenly caught up to him. He entered his room; Foeslayer was still asleep, but she had shifted slightly and one of her many blankets had been kicked to the floor. Arctic considered putting it over her again, but instead, he gathered it up and took it to his flat bed of stone with him. It was still warm from her body, which was a tad uncomfortable for Arctic, but he wadded it up and laid his head on it anyway. Foeslayer’s scent surrounded him, and the tension in his body slowly released. He couldn’t sleep next to his mate anymore, but this was the next best thing. His eyelids drooped, and before he knew it, Arctic was once again drifting off into a deep, exhausted sleep…

And the dreams of blood continued.


Wow I don’t think I’ve written fanfiction since high school lololol. Anyways thanks for reading! I got this idea when I was thinking what daily life was like for Prince Arctic, and how he probably would have trouble sleeping a lot. Also, I bet he had a lot of nightmares too, due to what happened with his animus magic. So I decided to write a little scene depicting what might have happened one day when Arctic couldn’t sleep.

The bits where he is reflecting on how he treats Foeslayer are drawn from my own personal experiences and how I was before I found ADD medication that actually worked for me. I was irritable and all-together pretty rude most of the time, but I felt bad after I had arguments with people. However, unlike Arctic, I had a way to get better…

I enjoyed writing this, I’ll try and do more little fanfics in the future if people enjoyed this one!

I picked some of my faves from the prompt lists I reblogged earlier. This one is based on: “I came to your house for a sleepover but you weren’t here your house was trashed and when I found you again the next day you were naked and without any recognitions of what had happened” werewolf au because I am a sucker for a wolf!fic.

Under The New Sun

Klaus has come prepared and approaches Caroline’s front door armed with coffee (black for him, caramel syrup laden monstrosity for her). He’s also got bag full of donuts because he’s planning on starting a difficult conversation he figures Caroline might find ‘By the way, I’m a werewolf’ easier to swallow if she’s stuffed with sugar and chocolate.

It was overly optimistic, a sure sign of Caroline’s effect on him. And while he wasn’t banking on her taking the news without blinking he did rather think she was fond enough of him to keep an open mind. They’d known one another for months now, surely she’d accept him? That’s what he’d been telling himself. Truthfully, he hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate a world in which she couldn’t be won over. Caroline had come to mean a great deal to him and Klaus wasn’t one to let go of people he considered his.

He come to assume it was part of his nature though he’d had very little contact with other werewolves.

Klaus glances up when he reaches the porch, his muscles locking as he takes Caroline’s open front door. The coffee and the food hit the pavement, immediately forgotten, and he takes the steps at a near sprint, panic clawing at him.

He barreling through the doorway and calling her name, doesn’t even wince as the door slams into the wall. His alarm grows as he takes in the mess inside. He’s been a frequent visitor to Caroline’s home these last few months. Initially it had been pristine, the sort of clean that you’re afraid to eat in for fear of marring it. She’d relaxed as they’d gotten to know one another, left things slightly askew – a hamper of laundry left out here, an untidy stack of magazines there - and Klaus has spent many an evening comfortably eating takeout and arguing about Netflix selections in Caroline’s living room.

Something that’s going to be difficult to do again given the state of the place.

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There are many things I have loved and hated in life,
For many a problem I have been an ‘open city’,
But anyway…
Like a young man returning home late at night,
Exhausted and broken by his nocturnal wanderings,
Here too am I, returning to you,
Worn out after another escapade.
—  Ismail Kadare
Closed// Dead to the World

A deeply chilled breeze drifted through the dark woods. The trickling sound of a nearby stream could heard over the sound of nocturnal animals wandering about. Frost threatened to bite at the leaves of the trees and underbrush. 

Bright starts glittered in the sky, seen easily through the patches in the tree canopy. Sam smiled tiredly as he watched them as he slumped back against the broad redwood tree behind him. He hated to admit it but he loved being in the woods, the stars were always so beautiful this far from the city’s light pollution.

Sam grimaced and looked down at where he was holding his side. He frowned as he watched the blood well up around his fingers. The wound was bad enough that he had no hope of fixing it on his own. He always knew he’d die at least once in the woods.

He shook his head and rested it back against the tree trunk. He looked back up at the stars, thinking about what an idiot he was. He should never have come on this hunt alone. But how was he supposed to know it was a dulahan killing all the campers. Hunters hadn’t even heard rumors of one in almost a hundred years!

“Oh well, no use thinking about it now.” Sam commented softly to himself, ignoring the rustling sound nearby. It’s not like anything worse could happen to him right now,  “I should probably call Dean….”

dragons wearing masks and costumes at night of the nocturne to confuse the wandering spirits. dragons lighting candles to drive off lingering shade on the darkest night of the year. dragons being superstitious little shits in a world where superstition isn’t wrong

anonymous asked:

Can you tell me please, why The Picture of Dorian Gray is your favorite book? why do you love it so much?

Why, certainly! I’d be happy to! :)

The first time I read The Picture of Dorian Gray, I enjoyed it. But hardly anything more. But then again, the first time I read it, I read it in German, because it was for my Literature class, not my English class. There were a few parts that struck a chord with me, and I found it overall enjoyable. But that was it.
Quite a while later, however, I picked up the copy of the book in English. And it was like, all of a sudden, I was reading a whole other book.

One of the first reasons I loved The Picture of Dorian Gray was the language. Wilde has a way with words that fascinates me, he paints such vivid pictures in such vibrant colours, his works create images in my mind’s eye like no one else’s yet. I can fully immerse myself in the scenes and I feel like I’m there - one of the best examples for that is the night when Dorian breaks off his engagement to Sybil Vane and wanders nocturnal London for hours until, in the small hours, he comes to Covent Garden, where the new day’s bustle has already started on the market. It’s such an intense scene, at least for me.

The second reason are the characters. Wilde’s ways to describe human nature are wonderful, and all his characters have personality, even if it’s just a minor character (unless they’re not meant to have a personality, but more of that later).
Let’s take a look at Lord Henry. He’s such a cleverly constructed character, because despite him basically being the villain of the story, we all like him. He’s the manipulating mastermind, and let’s be frank, an asshole, but he’s so charming about it we can’t help but like him, root for him, agree with him. It is so hard to disengage yourself from that charm, bu if you do, you’ll see how wicked he really is, and that all the other characters have the same problem: They are so bedazzled by his charm and wit that none of them see his true nature. The subtle ways in which he manipulates those around him can elude the reader for a long time, after half a dozen times of reading the book, I’m sure I still don’t know half of it.
Then there’s Dorian. And the fascinating thing about Dorian is, that he really doesn’t have a personality at all. Dorian is completely vapid, a vessel that takes in everything of the people around him: In the beginning Basil showers him in compliments and adoration: so he is charming, but vain.
Then Harry fills him with his manipulations, with arrogance and hedonism, so he becomes conceited, frivolous and hedonistic.
When he meets Sybil (and this is interesting, because Sybil, too, is an empty vessel, that has been filled by the theatre with dreams of tragic lovestories and charming princes) he is filled with romance and naive visions of love, by the roles she plays and by herself; they fill each other up with their empty-headed dreams of the perfect love story, their savior come along to rescue them from a life of wickedness and misery respectively.
After that, there is the Yellow Book, and it tells Dorian all about decadence, so he becomes snobbish and decadent and entirely wicked.
Really, Dorian was the ideal subject for Harry to find, because like a sponge he absorbs everything that is put to him, he internalises all of Harrys manipulations and I’m sure Harry himself did not expect to go so horribly awry.

You see, my love for this book has little to do with the actual plot of the cursed Picture (even though it’s important: It wouldn’t have been possible for Dorian to be so wicked for so long without someone noticing, if it weren’t for the picture), but much more with the careful construction of the characters and the fascination of watching them interact in such subtle and (for the time) natural ways, how they influence each other and what decadence and vanity can do to people.

I’m sorry this turned into such an essay, but I suppose you asked, and you can’t really ask me about my favourite book and then expect me to keep it short. In fact, I could ramble on much longer, but I will leave it at this for now: I hope this answers your question.

Creating UTOPIA: a Process of Self Integration

Creating utopia requires integrating ourselves first.

Relax. We are all where we need to be. Chaos may be swirling around us, but we are lighthouses in the dark and springtime of the new world.

Intellect is giving way to heart-based compassion and soul-full intuitive living. We access heart and soul by learning to meditate, following our gut feeling, making decisions based on our own happiness and loving ourselves. We feel the shift in vibration as our mental, emotional and spiritual auric layers fuse with the physical body, and we come home.

The temple of heart and soul, the physical body, is a miraculous biospiritual community of trillions of specialized cells cooperating for optimum health. The template for each conscious cell is its spirit, powered by emotion and condensing into physicality. Even our genes, once thought to be immutable, are affected by thought and intention — the vast new field of epigenetics.

Each cell’s DNA holds our entire history, including every detail of past and future lives. “Junk” DNA, the 85% not mapped by the Human Genome Project, also includes capability to access multiple dimensions, millions of new genes, suppressors and activators of genes known and unknown, abilities to access light and free energy rather than food and drink as power sources, psychic abilities, unity consciousness, instant creativity and manifestation of our uniqueness.

Each cell’s membrane functions as its brain, allowing substances whose keys fit specific cellular locks to enter the cell via an elaborate canal system. Emotions release chemicals which flood the body and seep through cell membranes.

Human body cells are our babies to nurture, feed, sing to, talk with, listen to, discipline, rock to sleep, and hold dear for a lifetime. Like biological children, our cells delight, disappoint, sparkle with magic, misbehave, sleep and wake, and are always at our core.

From the first morning flicker of wakefulness, an attitude of gratitude infuses us as our soul returns from nocturnal wanderings. We enjoy and employ our half-awake theta-state to intend our dreams, send light and peace to those who struggle and let our minds float freely. Physical stretching stirs our biology. We are reminded of simple joys — our breath, the beloved spouse, birdsong or traffic noise, welcome relief of elimination, breakfast smells, sunrise, children’s and pets’ greetings.

Each moment we live in two worlds — one busy and concrete, the other impressionistic and other-dimensional. Every decision we make is derived from ours or someone else’s need, intuitive guidance, conscience or external stimuli. The busier we are, the faster time moves, the more we become adept at distinguishing the most appropriate choice, usually the first, often the loudest. Gracefully we become the current of life, radiant with peace and maintaining balance.

Old World is external power, enslaving us for someone else’s benefit, driven by greed and control. New World power is our own, based on love and the self-oriented, but not the selfish. The more we are able to integrate ourselves, the more we come to know our inner Messiah.

By: Dr. McIntosh 

Gabriel García Márquez. “El Último Viaje del Buque Fantasma”. 1972.

“The Last Voyage of the Ghost Ship" in fact consists of a single long sentence. A brilliantly crafted story of a troubled boy, fatherless at the outset; his mother soon dies in a freak accident; he is despised by the townsfolk, who ostracize and beat him. From the start, however, he is determined to prove that his nocturnal sightings of a wandering transatlantic cruiser are not a mere phantasm of his mind.

 Now they’re going to see who I am, he said to himself in his strong new man’s voice, many years after he had first seen the huge ocean liner without lights and without any sound which passed by the village one night like a great uninhabited place, longer than the whole village and much taller than the steeple of the church, and it sailed by in the darkness toward the colonial city on the other side of the bay that had been fortified against buccaneers, with its old slave port and the rotating light, whose gloomy beams transfigured the village into a lunar encampment of glowing houses and streets of volcanic deserts every fifteen seconds, and even though at that time he’d been a boy without a man’s strong voice but with his’ mother’s permission to stay very late on the beach to listen to the wind’s night harps, he could still remember, as if still seeing it, how the liner would disappear when the light of the beacon struck its side and. how it would reappear when the light had passed, so that it was an intermittent ship sailing along, appearing and disappearing, toward the mouth of the bay, groping its way like a sleep‐walker for the buoys that marked the harbor channel, until something must have gone wrong with the compass needle, because it headed toward the shoals, ran aground, broke up, and sank without a single sound, even though a collision against the reefs like that should have produced a crash of metal and the explosion of engines that would have frozen, with fright the soundest‐sleeping dragons in the prehistoric jungle that began with the last streets of the village and ended on the other side of the world, so that he himself thought it was a dream, especially the, next day, when he. saw the radiant fishbowl. of the bay, the disorder of colors of the Negro shacks on the hills above the harbor, the schooners of the smugglers from the Guianas loading their cargoes ‐of innocent parrots whose craws were full of diamonds, he thought, I fell asleep counting the stars and L dreamed about that huge ship, of course, he was so convinced that he didn’t tell anyone nor did he remember the vision again until the same night on the following March when he was looking for the flash of dolphins in the sea and what he found was the illusory line, gloomy, intermittent, with the same mistaken direction as the first time, except that then he was so sure he was awake that he ran to tell his mother and she spent three weeks moaning with disappointment, because your brain’s rotting away from doing so many things backward, sleeping during the day and going out at night like a criminal, and since she had to go to the city around that time to get something comfortable where she could sit and think about her dead husband, because the rockers on her chair had worn out after eleven years of widowhood, she took advantage of the occasion and had the boatman go near the shoals so that her son could see what he really saw in the glass of; the sea, the lovemaking of manta rays in a springtime of sponges, pink snappers and blue corvinas diving into the other wells of softer waters that were there among the waters, and even the wandering hairs of victims of drowning in some colonial shipwreck, no trace of sunken liners of anything like it, and yet he was so pigheaded that his mother promised to watch with him the next March, absolutely, not knowing that the only thing absolute in her future now was an easy chair from the days of Sir Francis Drake which she had bought at an auction in a Turk’s store, in which she sat down to rest that same night sighing, oh, my poor Olofernos, if you could only see how nice it is to think about you on this velvet lining and this brocade from the casket of a queen, but the more she brought back the memory of her dead husband, the more the blood in her heart bubbled up and turned to chocolate, as if instead of sitting down she were running, soaked from chills and fevers and her breathing full of earth, until he returned at dawn and found her dead in the easy chair, still warm, but half rotted away as after a snakebite, the same as happened afterward to four other women before the murderous chair was thrown into the sea, far away where it wouldn’t bring evil to anyone, because it had. been used so much over the centuries that its faculty for giving rest had been used up, and so he had to grow accustomed to his miserable routine of an orphan who was pointed out by everyone as the son of the widow who had brought the throne of misfortune into the village, living not so much from public charity as from fish he stole out of the boats, while his voice was becoming a roar, and not remembering his visions of past times anymore until another night in March when he chanced to look seaward and suddenly, good Lord, there, it is, the huge asbestos whale, the behemoth beast, come see it, he shouted madly, come see it, raising such an uproar of dogs’ barking and women’s panic that even the oldest men remembered the frights of their great‐grandfathers and crawled under their beds, thinking that William Dampier had come back, but those who ran into the street didn’t make the effort to see the unlikely apparatus which at that instant was lostagain in the east and raised up in its annual disaster, but they covered him with blows and left him so twisted that it was then he said to himself, drooling with rage, now they’re going to see who I am, but he took care not to share his determination with anyone, but spent the whole year with the fixed idea, now they’re going to see who I am, waiting for it to be the eve of the apparition once more in order to do what he did, which was steal a boat, cross the bay, and spend the evening waiting for his great moment in the inlets of the slave port, in the human brine of the Caribbean, but so absorbed in his adventure that he didn’t stop as he always did in front of the Hindu shops to look at the ivory mandarins carved from the whole tusk of an elephant, nor did he make fun of the Dutch Negroes in their orthopedic velocipedes, nor was he frightened as at other times of the copper‐skinned Malayans, who had gone around the world, enthralled by the chimera of a secret tavern where they sold roast filets of Brazilian women, because he wasn’t aware of anything until night came over him with all the weight of the stars and the jungle exhaled a sweet fragrance of gardenias and rotter salamanders, and there he was, rowing in the stolen boat, toward the mouth of the bay, with the lantern out so as not to alert the customs police, idealized every fifteen seconds by the green wing flap of the beacon and turned human once more by the darkness, knowing that he was getting close to the buoys that marked the harbor, channel, not only because its oppressive glow was getting more intense, but because the breathing of the water was becoming sad, and he rowed like that, so wrapped up in himself, that he. didn’t know where the fearful shark’s breath that suddenly reached him came from or why the night became dense, as if the stars had suddenly died, and it was because the liner was there, with all of its inconceivable size, Lord, bigger than, any other big thing in the world and darker than any other dark thing on land or sea, three hundred thousand tons of shark smell passing so close to the boat that he could see the seams of the steel precipice without a single light in the infinite portholes, without a sigh from the engines, without a soul, and carrying its own circle of silence with it, its own dead air, its halted time, its errant sea in which a whole world of drowned animals floated, and suddenly it all disappeared with the flash of the beacon and for an instant it was the diaphanous Caribbean once more, the March night, the everyday air of the pelicans, so he stayed alone among the buoys, not knowing what to do, asking himself, startled, if perhaps he wasn’t dreaming while he was awake, not just now but the other times too, but no sooner had. he asked himself than a breath of mystery snuffled out the buoys, from the first to the last, so that when the light of the beacon passed by the liner appeared again and now its compasses were out of order, perhaps not even knowing what part of the ocean sea it was in, groping for the invisible channel but actually heading for the shoals, until he got the overwhelming revelation that that misfortune of the buoys was the last key to the enchantment and he lighted the lantern in the boat, a tiny red light that had no reason to alarm anyone in the watch towers but which would be like a guiding sun for the pilot, because, thanks to it, the liner corrected its course and passed into the main gate of the channel in a maneuver of lucky resurrection, and then all the lights went on at the same time so that the boilers wheezed again, the stars were fixed in their places, and the animal corpses went to the bottom, and there was a clatter of plates and a fragrance of laurel sauce in the kitchens, and one could hear the pulsing of the orchestra on the moon decks and the throbbing of the arteries of high‐sea lovers in the shadows of the staterooms, but he still carried so much leftover rage in him that he would not let himself be confused by emotion or be frightened by the miracle, but said to himself with more decision than ever, now they’re going to see who I am, the cowards, now they’re going to see, and instead of turning aside so that the colossal machine would not charge into him he began to row in front of it, because now they really are going to see who I am, and he continued guiding the ship with the lantern until he was so sure of its obedience that he made it change course from the direction of the docks once more, took it out of the invisible channel, and led it by the halter as if it were a sea lamb toward the lights of the sleeping village, a living ship, invulnerable to the torches of the beacon, that no longer made invisible but made it aluminum every fifteen seconds, and the crosses of the church, the misery of the houses, the illusion began to stand out and still the ocean liner followed behind him, following his will inside of it, the captain asleep on his heart side, the fighting bulls in the snow of their pantries, the solitary patient in the infirmary, the orphan water of its cisterns, the unredeemed pilot who must have mistaken the cliffs for the docks, because at that instant the great roar of the whistle burst forth, once, and he with downpour of steam that fell on him, again, and the boat belonging to someone else was on the point of capsizing, and again, but it was too late, because there were the shells of theshoreline, the stones of the street, the doors of the disbelievers, the whole village illuminated by the lights of the fearsome liner itself, and he barely had time to get out of the way to make room for the cataclysm, shouting in the midst of the confusion, there it is, you cowards, a second before the huge steel cask shattered the ground and one could hear the neat destruction of ninety thousand five hundred champagne glasses breaking, one after the other, from stem to stern, and then the light came out and it was no longer a March dawn but the noon of a radiant Wednesday, and he was able to give himself the pleasure of watching the disbelievers as with open mouths they contemplated the largest ocean liner in this world and the other aground in front of the church, whiter than anything, twenty times taller than the steeple and some ninety‐seven times longer than the village, with its name engraved in iron letters, Halalcsillag, and the ancient and languid waters of the sea of death dripping down its sides. 

(Translated by Gregory Rabassa)

Monday night Anthony Tulliani and I decided to pull an all nighter and spend some serious time shooting in and around Boston after dark. Initially starting out at Central Square in Cambridge we made our way over and through Brighton and Allston. Then found ourselves wandering through the streets of Downtown Boston for the remainder of the night. Overall I think we covered about 13miles of ground in about 7 hours. More pictures to come soon.