phoenix aflame

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Phoenix Aflame

Finally done with my Phoenix painting! I recorded the painting process from my sketch phase and will put up a video on YouTube soon! Overall it took about 20 hours (the majority of the time being spent rendering feathers). I love working with warm hues and blending them with purples and greens- it becomes akin to a rainbow!

A unique touch I decided to add was sculpted fanciful elements to the wings. Flames emit from the cracks and swirls of the armored joints and stream behind the Phoenix/firebird when it is aloft. The Phoenix is present in many mythologies and cultures- from Europe to East Asia and I am thrilled to have finally made one of my own!

The Cage - Or How Peeta Lost and Found Himself Again

Like everyone else here, the latest MJ1 spots left me pretty desolate.  I have no idea what this is…but I wrote a thing.  Thanks to madambeth for reading it over - and keeping me company as our hearts broke over hijacked!Peeta.

XXXXX

The Cage,

Or How Peeta Lost and Found Himself Again.

He knew it would be bad. In fact, he was positive that whatever was awaiting him when they got to where they were going, would be in every possible way unbearable.  No matter what he tried to imagine, he was sure the reality would be even worse.  It would hurt.  He would surely lose his courage. He might even beg for it to stop. So he decided to stop imagining what was coming in the naive hope that if he did not conceive it, they would not be able to outdo his imagination.

He was only dimly aware that he was tied, hands and feet, which was particularly awkward given his prosthetic.  His head was covered with a sack and he was gagged. He had to admit, he was scared shitless but he got a handle on it.  They’d bound him up right after the interview and carried him like so much refuse into some kind a transport – probably a hovercraft from the sound of the engines.

“Okay, Peeta,” he said to himself, “Here’s how it goes.  I’m going to have to forgive you in advance for your weakness, for asking them to make it stop, to be willing to do anything just so they’ll go away. I forgive you because you’ve got other priorities.”

He didn’t have the chance to sort those priorities the way he’d wanted to – the transport stopped and he’d been picked up and carried to a room that, when his hood was removed, resembled a hospital ward. It was white and painfully sterile in a way only Capitol medical units could be – it was not humanly possible for any space or color to be so white.  There was a large screen across the wall and counters that gleamed with stainless steel accouterments – the only interruption in a sea of white that threatened to drown him. He was far too textured, too colored, too dirty for this environment.   The pure, uninterrupted monotony was the first thing to put terror in his heart.

Peeta sensed that when his handlers finally arrived, he would lose these precious moments with himself.  So he visualized the most important part of himself like a small grey bird that he picked up and put in a cast-iron cage.  The door was ornate but it was solid and whole and there was a heavy lock over the handle.  He envisioned this part of him, the part that sang from the merest hint of beauty, and took flight whenever she was near, even in the most absurd and dangerous of circumstances.  He shut the door on this tiny, fragile creature as it balled itself into the smallest possible shape, trembling behind those bars in hope and terror.

From its place in the cage, that tremulous thing watched as Snow’s honeyed words gave way to beatings, more interviews, the injections and the images.  Pictures and words and lies – so many lies that sometimes, the bird seemed to shrivel up and get lost in the battering and pounding of the caving metal.  At one point, the lies became so convincing, the little grey bird of morning began to doubt the truth he’d carried within him into captivity. The cage of his mind bent and bruised but the bird hid inside, safe, if somewhat weak from lack of nourishment, from the perpetual darkness and the pain that invaded its soul. At several points, it almost died.  Perhaps it did die and came back to life as an altogether different creature, much less gentle than the one that had arrived.  It was hard to tell in a place where night, day, good and evil surrounded him with the same uninterrupted pallor as the hospital room.

But he remembered, in the middle of that storm of relentless agony, he remembered his priorities. To keep his bird safe, above all else, even when the bars started to snap and the evil reached in to grasp him, those wicked fingers searing the feathers and setting it on fire.  To not forget the sunset, the color of light on white fur and her, the one who needed him to be whole.  

The space around his bird grew smaller and smaller and he knew that soon enough, all his resolutions would come to nothing.  He could not endure this forever. And even that was a small lesson in itself.  His father once told him that no one really ever knew just how strong they could be until they had no choice but to be strong. But Peeta had gained knowledge that few others would ever attained.  He had reached his boundaries.  He knew how much he could take and had been carried beyond the limits of his strength, where everything afterwards had become one endless act of dissolution.  He had surely died a thousand deaths until his bird was stripped of feathers and lay panting on the singed bottom of his cage.

So when they finally came for him, there was nothing left but bones and a croaking sound that was not a song but the memory of a song. 

The windowless door of his soul did not open smoothly, but in jerks and fits, sometimes letting too much light in, sometimes not enough.  He was no longer in that white room bereft of all human heat. His cage no longer rattled from the outside.  But everything hurt and the visions that did enter his cage were ones he could not trust – mutts and a monster who masqueraded as the one he loved and sought to destroy that beaten, unconscious thing inside of him.

There were explosions and dying children, and a violent becoming, not a singing lark but a phoenix aflame, with no way to quench the fire except to let it ravage him to the marrow of his bones.  Futile battles and thwarted suicides and finally, the peace and serenity to pluck the ashes from that piece of him that had huddled hidden, been beaten and starved and slowly, so slowly, give it a shape similar to the one it had once possessed.  It was then that he heard the song his soul once sang – deeper, sonorous, more mournful then the one with which he’d entered the cage.

When the memory of his song became stronger, the tiny bird stirred to life and took stock of its scars – its additions and subtractions.  It counted up its memories and affixed them like stars on the backdrop of the night sky.  Limping on broken legs and fluttering its frayed wings, it sang its lonely song.  And in that moment, he recalled his priorities for which his bird had struggled so fiercely – to not forget the sunset, the color of light on white fur and her, the one who now needed him to be whole again. 

You are not my muse
for your colors are
beyond painting
the sky in auroras
your heart shines brighter
than the Seven Sisters
as your mind swirls
mystery beyond abyss.
You, as silent one
made words as gifts
stories as books
that I read unclothed
unmasked…
I am enchanted.
You touch me softly
with sophisticated distance
your ‘being’ lures flight
one, two, three words
…my week soars.
In this world of echoing
you build foundations
hand carved in this place
I have never known, to name.
Imagining temperature and
taste of your mouth sets
aflame my phoenix spirit.
In that, I sit- meditate and journey
with the melody of love wings
you know you unveiled.

anonymous asked:

Would you marry a singhnee that has kes on her face?

lol of course. If I love the girl I’d marry her even if she had a tree growing out of her :P

…but you are merely talking about hair. Silky, natural, beautiful hair. 

It takes a strong woman to put aside society’s opinions and go natural. The very notion of hair being accepted on a man but not a woman baffles me… and not just that, people have gone one step further and scrutinised hair according to body parts. I mean, hair is acceptable on a woman’s head and eyebrows but anywhere else there’s something wrong with her?! Loool where’s the logic in that? Hellllll noo… There’s something wrong with your thinking man. We need to listen to the media less. The same media that makes us hate our true selves… we just need to try listening to common sense more…

To me, a woman is always attractive if she has the fiery courage to be herself. To be wholesomely honest with the world and herself… not needing to wear or hide behind a mask, walking life as the naked truth. I see a woman like that and I just think wow… I see a phoenix, all aflame and raw. I like that.

You see some people may hate others for being different and not living by society’s standards, but deep down, they wish they had the courage to do the same.

lol we’re going off topic here.

Hope that answered your question buddy.

Peace!