Ludwig vaguely remembers black silk robes and soft shoes. Now he’s clothed in scratchy material and leather boots, a strange man teaching him the basics of battle in the safety of a large castle. The man calls him brother and tells him he’s too young to really fight. He’s(more) not ready.
He remembers war though. He remembers blood and swords and destruction. It’s /all/ he can seem to remember at times.
And late at night, he thinks he remembers dying in war. (less)
There was something about seeing Aciel in his formal clothes that Zanis didn't like. Maybe it was because all those layers of heavy silk robes looked uncomfortable to him. Or maybe it was because he was so used to seeing more of Aciel's skin. A lot more. Or maybe(more) it was just because he knew he would have to get dressed up in the same way soon enough.
Even so, Aciel didn't seem to mind wearing the robes at all. He actually seemed to rather like wearing them. At least it seemed so as he was humming and combing through his hair. Still, Zanis couldn't help but give him sideward glances paired with frowns.
Aciel eventually noticed him in the mirror and frowned in turn. "... Something wrong?"
"... It looks so... /uncomfortable/."
"You think so?" Aciel said, laughing. "Come and feel it."
Zanis sighed and did as he was told. As he ran his fingers along the silk fabrics that mimicked Aciel's own skin in smoothness, he decided that maybe it wasn't so bad after all.
Yet, he stayed firm in the thought that the material would still be a lot better on the floor.(less)
Our art teacher has this difficult way of making us do things that she has never explained how to do. And she adds to the difficulty by using big words which she never cares to explain.
This morning our teacher told us to make small figurines using "indigenous" materials.(more) I didn't know what indigenous meant and it never occurred to me to approach our teacher to ask. I didn't think my classmates knew either so I didn't bother asking them.
Still confused, I walked home thinking about the word. In-dee-gee-nus. I wasn't even sure if I was pronouncing it right. It was probably some kind of white smooth stone, I thought. Most figurines were made of white smooth stone stuff.
I came home and told my mom about my difficulty and she did her best to explain to my five-year-old brain what indigenous meant.
She helped me with my assignment that night. I was pretty proud of the small figurine I made from indigenous material.(less)
She clutched the coarse material of her dress tightly, tugging at it sharply every few steps. The fabric of her dress refused to stray past the middle of her thigh, inching higher every time she raised her leg to take a step. She had nothing but the sheer fabric(more) of her pantyhose to depend on. The worst part was that the infuriating garment was skintight, outlining every line and bump she had spent years concealing with unparalleled vanity.
She kept walking nervously, her hands anxiously skating the hem of her skirt. She had somewhere to be, and this wasn’t it. She was running embarrassingly late. Those infernal heels weren’t making it any easier, either. One pace took four, frightfully loud, teetering steps. Like everything else in her fast paced life, they were just for show, functionality be damned.
She stuck her chin out defiantly. She was late, but this shouldn’t faze her. The company needed her, not the other way around. This attitude had taken her from the streets to a penthouse office, and she wasn’t about to stop now. If being this kind of woman was what it took to be successful, then she had no qualms in slipping on shorter, even tighter clothes and unleashing more defiance. She was an extremely narrow minded and goal driven woman, a fact more than exemplified by every firm click of her shoes upon the pavement.
She stopped on the side of the walkway and released her hem. For some reason, she was disgusted with her worries. Her discomfort should be the last of her priorities, she thought, though they consumed her mind. There was no room for petty girlishness in her world. Her world moved quick, and this woman needed to learn to move with it.(less)
She makes him immaterial. In her silence, her stillness he loses his shape. Let me try and say what I mean by it: her sound shapes him. Let me try and say what I mean by it: the empty space her voice leaves behind is his to fill. Now(more) she does not speak, and space closes in on him, crushing him, occupying him through the boundaries of his flesh. Now she does not move, and her form fills his petty world where he has withered from it. Still he shall not work to change it - that would be a suffering, an onerous feeling that he will not gladly take upon himself, a change of feeling that would terrify him even if he were not terrified already of his shapelessness, his absence in her lack of guidance. The irony of fearing suffering is not lost on him. He knows there is no escaping it, knows that terror is a suffering in itself. It's just inertia. Better - how can he but think it? - better that terror with which he's spent a thousand years than some new terror that he's never known before. And even if not better - easier. Easier for him now - everything must be easy. How else can it be? He's immaterial - he's got no feet on which to walk or hands with which to lift himself. He's got no eyes to see his way or mind to guess it. He's got nothing but her stillness and her silence, her inertia, his inertia, unmoved unmover, mute and terrified, unguided heedless, going nowhere fading out until, at least, it ceases to be clear to him if he has only just become invisible or if he - once, a thousand years ago - was born that way.(less)
A baby blue blanket. Must be used.
Locks of the to-be-parents. At least 3 inches long. Must be from both partners.
For the best results, use another human infant. If unavailable, exchange with a piglet, or another infant animal roughly(more) the size of the late child. Must still be alive.
6 gallons of water. Pure. Must not be holy water.
A cauldron, or other very large pot.
Priest/exorcist should be present in case of any outside entity sabotaging the ritual.
FOLLOW THE RECIPE.
The red letters spell out "On the Air." Alison is clicking her fingers on the table. The headphones are uncomfortable. The bald radio man is accusing her of something about the bible, of the morality, and other useless things. She interrupts him.
"People call us all the time, telling us we work for the devil. Tell us we are giving out faulty information. Saying we are evil people. But I don't think so. We are giving parents who have lost everything the chance to return to being happy. What could be a kinder deed?"
"You are not helping anyone. Let's get that strait. You are taking advantage of desperate and vulnerable people and convincing them that their pet pig or pet cat is a... a capsule of their child's soul. Couples going around, dressing their dogs in human clothing, dropping them off in school, in pure denial that they've been tricked. Your spell doesn't work, it just sells. "
"Thats where you're wrong. It does work. It's an ancient spell, used since the Egyptians. There no charge, no possible motivation for us to be dishonest. At Second Chance, a non-profit organization, we unite families together again."
"I'm going to have to end there. Thanks for coming. That was today's podcast of Clark's Controversies."(less)
You're just not Harvard material, son. You should have fun, go to Brown, or Colombia. You're seventeen, you're too young. The pressure at a place like Harvard; you're just not ready. You can come out to Aspen with me and your father while we're deciding our lives and while you're(more) deciding yours. . . I had the fellowship at Harvard, yes, and that's why I know it's not for you. The kids there, they're so. . . fine-tuned. I mean some have been on the Harvard track since elementary. These kids, the ones who are happy, they're academic machines: Ferraris. You're a, oh I don't know, a good car, like a, oh shit, you're like a Porsche or something, you know, really good but not as high octane or whatever. The metaphor is lousy, you're better than a Porsche, okay, you're just not a racecar. You're not meant for driving laps. I mean, these kids at Harvard, Yale, they burn up the track, that's what they live for. These kids live and die by their GPAs. You're much more. . . ambivalent.(less)
"I'm having trouble thinking of anyting to write about these days."
"You should shake your life up a bit."
He was a short, skinny Irish kid from Boston, or at least he claimed he was from Boston, and he loved hip hop. He was a student of h(more)ip hop, a DJ that never played anywhere. When he was drunk he would freestyle for about a minute then laugh because he'd get nervous from all the attention. We would sit in his dad's attic, and listen to Del, Q-tip, Rza, Ghostface, but he didn't like him that much. Some days it was an endurance contest to see who could drink each other under the table. I'd bring a case of Yuengling, and we'd down them while discussing the finer points of rhyme, style, flow, and message. He always focused on message.
"Shake your life up a bit"
So I did. I slept with some tourist girl from Ohio on the beach. No condom, no name, no strings attached. The advantages of being a local on Hilton Head Island. The advantage of having a girl three hundred miles away in Milledgeville. A man can really shake some things up. The next morning I woke up to the tide engulfing my shoes, and my face in the sand. The sun pierced my eyes like thorns, the smell of the ocean made me sick, and I puked by the sand dunes. She was gone. Probably never fell asleep, but stumbled home once she realized where she was. It took a few days to recover, and by the time I had my roommate had told the one in Milledgeville what happened. She yelled on the phone so loud the speaker would vibrate against my ear. I self destruct, in order to rebuild.(less)
Didn't Madonna say that? Anyways, I wrote this for another reason. This sentence is TRUE. at a 100%. We are so surrounded by material that we are becoming material, living for material, should I say. And so is the world around(more) us. So yes, basically, we are material people, in a material world.
The material is so much present, we have difficulty to differienciate material goods from human goods. Some people prefer an iphone to a friend. And I think it's lame. Material costs money, friends doesn't (and if they do, change friends). And what is money? Money is nothing. Then so is material.