wax spill

hubris

I know you warned him. I know he knew those warnings himself, buried them beneath the clean press of his pillow case, the clean press of his skin, between the cracks of his pink, insidious mouth that I knew the taste of so well. 

I know you warned him about the bitter wave foam, the weight of sea air, damp heaviness like a lover’s arm draped across your waist in sleep; his arm, the dip of my too-slight waist. I can taste salt on the nape of his neck, the sweet crook of his elbow, the hardened dot-to-dot line of his spine like a patchy litmus test.

I know you warned him about the heat, wax spilling down his arms like oil, pupils minute inkpots with the light, skin bright and red and swallowing the rays whole. I can feel its tacky warmth beneath my bitten fingernails, see the reflection of collapsing, fractured wings in the window, sun glittering sharp from his skin like he’s made of it.

I know you warned him about that, the hubris, the arrogance of it, the ignominious death, ugly and shameful at the end of it, crumpled feathers and heavy bones in my arms when the sea gave him up at last. I know you warned him about the ruin, the mess of ruined limbs and a broken spine. 

I know you didn’t warn him about the cigarette smoke clouding his eyes, bloodshot with red veins like spiders’ webs, the sea-crag roughness in the back of his throat, the lungs storm-dark. I know you didn’t warn him about gunmetal heavy in the grooves of his sure palms, the cordite choking his warm breath.

I know you think you warned him. Did you think he’d listen?

Fool.

3

How to Render Beeswax

- cover your counters and floors around where you will be working to ensure a quick and easy clean up in case of any wax spill.

- create a double boiler by filling a pot with water and nestling a second pot inside the first. heat the water to a calm boil.

- empty your ‘dirty’ honeycomb from your honey harvest into the second pot and allow it to melt completely, keeping an eye that the wax itself does not begin to boil.

- when the wax is completely melted, remove it from the heat and pour it through a cheesecloth into a cardboard milk carton that you have cut the top off of.

- allow the wax to harden, then rip the carton away from the wax.

- honey will have settled around the wax. save some for your tea and rinse the rest off with cool water in the sink.

- your wax is now clean and ready to be used however you desire! time to make some balms or candles!

Winter-themed ask memes!
  • ☕ : our muses are in a coffee shop drinking hot chocolate together, watching the snow fall outside.
  • ⛄ : our muses are making a snowman together/ trying to outdo each other’s snowman (specify!)
  • 🌨 : my muse knocks at my muse’s door during a snowstorm.
  • 🍁 : our muses are playing in piles of leaves/ your muse is trying to stop mine from diving into a pile of leaves (specify!)
  • 🕯 : my muse was trying to be cute and light candles but accidentally spilled the wax and burned themselves/ set something on fire (specify!)
  • 🎁 : my muse is going to give your muse a present… what a lovely surprise!
  • ❄️ : snowball fight!
  • 🍴 : my muse is trying to cook a warm seasonal meal, like a dessert pie or a meat pie, and it smells delicious/ is going terribly, terribly wrong.
  • 🏔 : our muses are hiking in the wilderness and a blizzard is beginning to brew/ they are lost/ need to pitch a camp. 
  • 🌬 : the wind kicked up and blew something of your muse’s possessions, such as a pair of gloves or scarf, towards my muse (specify what it was!)
Wood burns
it chokes and it sizzles and it screams
it smokes and it blackens and it shrivels
while the blaze kisses it all over
and then it crumbles into dust
consumed
Wax melts
it folds and it collapses and it drips
it runs and it puddles and it flows
without once being touched by the flames
and then it solidifies again
transformed
What am I?
—  A.O.A.M. || Reaction
(….) You know
as well as I—Icarus is not for us.
He flies and falls, that’s all. He doesn’t joke
to hide his fear, or seem ashamed, or wound
lovers with rusted, jagged-edged words.
He never sulks in tristesse after sex.
He’s young and proud. He likes the sound
of his own voice. Of course the world must break
and scatter him among the falling birds.
It’s never him. His father, Daedalus—
he’s our muse, bent to an unforgiving craft
in someone else’s labyrinth, the dark
exile in which he sets himself to work:
letting the candles gutter so the wax
spills, seals vane and down at quill and shaft,
working longer into the thankless night.
He has worked feathers into these wings for years.
He has slim hope, at best, that they will hold.
Come daybreak they will stand outside the gate
and test the wind. For once he will be bold.
At last he sleeps, in fits and half-dreamed fears
that love, and work, and life are passing vapor,
and all the wings he’s made he’s made of paper.
—  dave lucas, about suffering
signs as all time low lyrics
  • aries: "you're just a daydream away, i wouldn't know what to say if i had you."
  • taurus: "here's to the fast times; the times we felt alive."
  • gemini: "spill the wax over the spaces left in place of angry words."
  • cancer: "put up or shut up, we're not wasting time again."
  • leo: "but do you really want to throw it all away?"
  • virgo: "my lungs gave out, as I faced the crowd."
  • libra: "she pulled on his hand with a devilish grin"
  • scorpio: "like a deer in the lights of an oncoming bus."
  • sagittarius: "i want to watch the way you take the stage by storm."
  • capricorn: "hold on tight, this ride is a wild one."
  • aquarius: "looking back, I see a setting sun, and watch my shadow fade into the floor."
  • pisces: "i don't even know myself, i wish i could be someone else."
*playing his guitar in the park*

Make it a sweet, sweet goodbye
It could be for the last time and it’s not right.
“Don’t let yourself get in over your head, ” he said.
Alone and far from home I’ll find you…
Dead, like a candle you burned out;
Spill the wax over the spaces left in place of angry words.
Scream, to be heard, like you needed any more attention;
Throw the bottle, break the door, and disappear.
Sing me to sleep, I’ll see you in my dreams,
Waiting to say,

I’m home alone and was lighting a candle and accidentally lit a towel on fire which lead to the counter lighting on fire which made me spill candle wax everywhere. To sum up this experience, my mums towel is ruined, my counter has wax stuck to it, and I can’t be trusted with fire

Banquet

Happy handers mush! Somewhere between acts 2 and 3, Hawke using his best persuasion techniques on Anders.


The small study at the estate was a motley of books, rolled parchment and various bottles and jars of potions and poultices. Most surfaces were given character by stains of dried candle wax and spilled ink. Boughs of elfroot hung in front of the window. If Anders wasn’t at the clinic, this is where you could usually find him. He’d typically be deep in concentration, back hunched, writing countless new drafts of his manifesto, often differing from the previous one only by a single word. Although the room had never been officially appointed as his, the multitude of materials he had scattered about had rendered it unusable for anyone else. He even caught himself calling it “my study” at times, and so far no-one seemed to protest.
    Today was as usual, with Anders staring relentlessly at the text in front of him, quill moving back and forth steadily, trenchant and determined. Sometimes he would pause for a second or two, tap a brief rhythm with the fingers of his free hand and then continue as if he’d never stopped. The pace did not falter even when the door opened.
    Hawke stepped in, rolling his shoulders and neck, letting out a frustrated sigh and mutter. He scurried about and fumbled for books in a shelf, although clearly not interested in their contents, taking glances at Anders every once in a while.

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