mycursedface: (you can't take the sky from me)
She is not a Book

She is not a book to pick up
and discard when you grow
bored or the final page is read. She is not a story to read, ponder and shelve away to look at later with affection from afar while dust gathers on the page.

She is a woman; ensouled. Terrible and beautiful in her wrath and twice more so in her joys. With dreams dreamt before your coming and ones she’ll vision into being after you’ve gone. She is human and thus immortal with a largeness of fate that far encompasses your own dreams for her, however petty or noble. She is beyond your judgment and always will be.

She is not a book she can’t be leant to friends.

She is a living, breathing, creature of this earth. Her warm, soft body that sparks up your desires has suffered pains and ecstasies that can’t be measured by you. She’s had 2am nightmares and 4am tossings and turnings, her own wrestlings with death, loneliness, sin and salvation.

She is unique and utterly herself and that is close to the heart of the reason you love her, the lay of the land in the heart region you love her.

She is not a book, a shoe, a pen or a fork. She’s not a carnival toy, a new car, a beach towel or a blanket.

She’s been walking strange or familiar streets long before you looked into each others eyes, touched and tasted each others skin. She’s been trying and succeeding, trying and failing, loving and being made love to, on her own paths, in places far beyond your limited capacity to hurt or heal for half a lifetime now. Her life journey only intersects with yours and while you hope, pray and grovel to God that those paths merge, there will be a harsh parting one day. You cannot carry her into the next world and she cannot carry you, argue at the gates of heaven though you might.

You only love her and are overcome for desire for her because she won’t be closed or shelved. She can’t be put in your pocket, slipped into your wallet, placed on your pillow(well maybe that), clasped wholly in your hand, blown updrafted into the air like dandelion snow. She is whole and holy in her wholeness. Her delights and despairs are her own. Well-served you are to know her in part and considered by her to be beloved. But she is unknowable, as we all are, on so many levels, offers ten-fold fascination beyond you’re your childlike needs, male ego desires, your thinking with your groin and your mind set on fire.

She is a woman; ensouled. Be thankful to have her, be the days numbered, to lighten your life and load and offer partial coming home.
mycursedface: (Atton's a bad influence)
Aquilaris is where we set our scene,
a planet of cities few and oceans serene;
a glitzy resort for the rich and famous
and those attempting to be glam’rous.

In his favour, it should be said that Atton is neither
but in his present circumstances a mere fiver
would make him appear to be quite rich
(it is not his fault that they left him in the ditch.)

Of course, his companion is something different
through no fault of her own; if she is now content
it’s due to her fame and fortune being of another world
and making men’s heads turn never did grow old.

And Medusa Gorgos, rightly called snake-haired
(for to go among mortals with her head bared
would be foolish to say the least), has the exact
kind of mind to wreck havoc with Pazaak.

Her teacher Atton Rand is no slouch at the game,
using it as he does to shield his mind, but today his aim
is not quite so moral. There are stories of a treasure
and with distracting Meda he plans to steal for his pleasure.

Now Aquilaris may be a ritzy pleasure garden but it is still a planet
and all planets have cantinas where different folk can be met;
a cantina is where the duo are, he disguised by name and she by sight,
playing cards against a pirate whose pride is his intellectual might.

“You’re good, little girl,” and in return Medusa smiles
(the Gorgon is not above using her considerable feminine wiles)
as she places nine cards on the table without going bust;
a move which the pirate’s former players would think just.

Tension rules the table, a long moment frozen by Cil-Who-Ate,
who fumes and snarls and growls. When he speaks, his voice is a grate,
“You’ll pay for that,” and in the same breath he grabs her slender arm.
“Now, now, don’t be hasty,” Atton drawls, “you’ll come to some harm.”

(to be continued...)
mycursedface: (Berber girl)
from here:

First off let me say that Morocco, as I find is typical with many non-western nation, immediately penetrates all of your senses the minute you leave the plane. These places are vibrant with smells and sounds and colors, there is a sort of immediacy in everything that lacks in the more subtle, more contained and manner-focused western societies. I will try and share with you my impressions but I am sure that it will only begin to capture the feeling of the place.

Moroccan smells: donkey dung, jasmine oil, mint tea, baked earth, hyacinth flowers, tannery pits, new leather, fish, dust, smoke from the pottery kilns, the occasional smell of sewage less then expected, the smell of sheep that have been in the desert and often long without water

Moroccan sounds: the buzz of the muezzin early in the morning, the sound of the shuttle from a weaving loom, pounding on metal as artisans created the famous pounded silver, laughter, friends calling out to one another, tinny taxi horns, Arabic, French, and the clicking noises of the Berber like a bird in the brush, the hooves of donkey feet in narrow stone passages, loud shouting of men through the night (and how, I wonder, do they manage to get up for the 5am prayer?)

Moroccan visual: narrow, labyrinth streets, tall buildings, colorful mosaics & clothing, women dressed in gorgeous saris, leather works, pointy toes leather slippers, walls & gates to Medinas and around ancient cities, the dry Atlas mountains with onions piled under stone crates, Barbary apes hanging out with donkeys in a forest that seems too dry to be a home for apes, tiny steps and narrow passageways, homes dug out of the earth with put upon door fronts, symbolic colors: green for holiness, blue doors for Mohammad, red for Fatima, plastic bags strewn across the landscape as far as the eye can see, men holding hands or walking arm in arm down the street even a couple of policemen walking down the street hand in hand

Moroccan tastes: almost everything is sweet in Morocco with the exception of the olives which come with every meal. It is no wonder that so few Moroccans seem in possession of good teeth.
mycursedface: (shy little thing)

On this:

[01:59] herworldsonfire: Aww, kids. *squishes them*
[01:59] lamorgne: *snerk*
[02:01] lamorgne: and then I had this image of Jack and Sam going to Morocco in the early fifties, during the whole kicking out the French thing, attempting to find where they dumped Meda's body after shooting her, and it's actually kinda funny in a surreal, black humour sorta way
[02:01] lamorgne: Buuuuut the words only went to Meda going 'um....hi?' so, I left it.
[02:02] herworldsonfire: *giggles* I'm amused, at least.
[02:02] lamorgne: *solemnly* And Meda would be a ghost. Sometimes visible and sometimes not
[02:02] lamorgne: she'd have to haunt them
[02:02] lamorgne: and through a shoe at their heads
[02:02] lamorgne: *throw
[02:03] herworldsonfire: *giggles* she kinda does that anyway, though. Or would.
[02:03] lamorgne: ...this is true
[02:03] lamorgne: BUT SHE'D BE INVISIBLE THIS TIME
[02:03] lamorgne:
[02:04] herworldsonfire: Sam and Atton: *fear!*
[02:04] lamorgne: Muahah
[02:05] herworldsonfire: You just know that somehow, somewhere, Sam and Atton just simultaneously stopped what they were doing, sat bolt upright and screamed.
[02:05] lamorgne: Oh, yes
[02:07] lamorgne: ....oh, god
[02:07] lamorgne: Atton in 1950s French-occupied Morocco
[02:07] herworldsonfire: ....Ahahahahaohshit.
[02:08] lamorgne: IT'D BE HYSTERICAL.
[02:08] lamorgne: AND WRONG.
[02:08] herworldsonfire: AND YOU SHOULD WRITE IT.
[02:08] lamorgne:
[02:08] herworldsonfire: ?
[02:09] lamorgne: I WAS THINKING MORE RP IT, BUT I HAVE MONTHS TO GET IT OUT OF MY SYSTEM
[02:09] herworldsonfire: *snicker*

[02:11] lamorgne: I don't know Atton and Jack and Sam enough to fic together. I mean, have Jack and Atton met?
[02:13] herworldsonfire: Yeah, a few times.
[02:13] herworldsonfire: There was one Sam-Atton-Jack thread that involved a traffic cone.
[02:13] lamorgne: *raises. eyebrows*
[02:14] herworldsonfire: *shrugs*
[02:14] lamorgne: Well, MY brain just took a swandive into the gutter
[02:14] herworldsonfire: It was Sam and Jack.
[02:14] lamorgne: hee, fair enough
[02:15] lamorgne: well, I"ll think about it, at least. I guess I was complaing about a lack of plot.
[02:15] lamorgne: I just got unexpected Atton as well.
[02:16] herworldsonfire: Aha! Got it.

Unexpected naked Atton?

[02:16] lamorgne: ...in MOROCCO?
[02:16] herworldsonfire: http://community.livejournal.com/milliways_bar/15654559.html?thread=641257631#t641257631
[02:16] lamorgne: Just found that thread!
[02:17] lamorgne: ....oh, when did it get to be 2:17 in the morning? o.0
[02:20] lamorgne: and now I have Freya and Meda snarling at each other in my head. Iiiii should probably attempt to SLEEP
[02:21] herworldsonfire: Go sleep. *stern* I'm about to head out anyway.
[02:21] lamorgne: It's a Friday. I never get to sleep on Fridays. And yes, ma'am!
[02:21] herworldsonfire: *shoos*
[02:22] lamorgne: *toddles off!*
[02:22] lamorgne: somehow, though?
[02:22] lamorgne: Atton has to be naked in 1950s Morocco
[02:22] lamorgne: somehow
[02:23] herworldsonfire: Somehow, Atton always has to be naked. It is a Thing.
[02:24] lamorgne: I was not aware!

OOC: memes

Apr. 24th, 2008 10:03 am
mycursedface: (not amused. not me. nope.)
why is this so addictive? WHY? )
mycursedface: (Mardi Gras)
Kharis
Kharis is the root of ‘charisma’ and ‘charismatic’ and can simply mean grace or charm. But the original Greek also has a more sexualised connotation – a grace which ignites desire. Kharis was a gift of Aphrodite, the goddess of sexual love. It is that quality of raw seductive power that Helen possessed above all others. The girls who danced at the Platanistas – led on by the example of their presiding spirit, Helen – were experiencing a rite of passage that made them beautiful in that they were becoming charismatic, sexually mature and sexually available. For them, Helen was not the most ‘beautiful’ woman in the world, she was the most erotic.
-p.56

Beauty
Despite the corpus of created Helens we have surprisingly few clues from antiquity as to what men and woman imagined Helen saw as she looked into her mirrors of gold. When she is described, stock epithets are used; she is ‘white-armed’, her hair is ‘lustrous’ and ‘golden’. The ancients were in no doubt that she existed yet there is no attempt to define, physically and severally, what made her so beautiful. Quintus of Smyrna retelling The Fall of Troy in the 4th century AD writes that ‘shame sat on her dark-blue eyes and cast its flush over her lovely cheeks’. This is about as specific as we get; the further back in history one travels, the more the face that launched a thousand ships is an irrelevance. Helen’s physiognomy is less important than how she made people feel – what her extraordinary charisma made them do. She is not just invisible, she is ineffable.

For classical, pagan antiquity her beauty is too important, too powerful simply to set down, to shackle with portraits or words. Helen’s beauty cannot be defined by face alone. It is literally unspeakable. To witness Helen’s beauty, coming as it does from the gods, verges on a religious experience. When the old men of Troy see her walking along the ramparts, they know that this is a war worth fighting for, but they describe her beauty as ‘terrible’ – like that of a goddess.

‘Terrible beauty’ would have meant more to the ancients than it does to us today – they knew of the dreadful things that could happen if one looked on the transcendental face of a goddess or a monster-woman. The Gorgon’s stare turns her victims to stone; when Actaeon, a young man hunting in the woods, catches sight of the goddess Diana bathing naked in a pool, she turns him into a stag who is then chased down and torn to pieces by his own faithful hounds as unwitting friends urge the dogs on. This is why Helen becomes Byron’s Greek Eve. If we understand the Spartan Queen in the way the ancients did, her beauty cannot simply be viewed, it is coercive: she forces men and woman alike into a state of longing, she forces them to act. Those who look at her cannot walk away unscathed. She catalyses desire. She is an eidolon that burns with projected emotion.

…Considered a gift of the gods, beauty clamoured for attention. In Greek thought everything had an intrinsic meaning, nothing was pointless – beauty had a purpose, it was an active, independent reality, not a passive and nebulous quality that came into being only once it was discerned. Men such as Plato and Aristole, Herodotus and Euripides would have had some trouble with Hume’s oft-repeated sentiment of the 18th century AD – beauty is in the mind of the beholder. For them, nonsense. A discrete entity, beauty could be measured and quantified. It was a psycho-physical parcel that had as much to do with inner character as chest-size. Far from being insubstantial it was thought to wield distinct and determinate power.
pp. 116-117
mycursedface: (Athena)
Decline of Hellenistic polytheism

And Medusa, although she loves Artemis and Apollo and Eirene dearly...cackles.
mycursedface: (poison and cure)
Amphritrite's warning, and then talking to: Atton, Mark Antony, Teja, Merlin (with gift of sunglasses), Marc St James (with golden thread), Le Chiffre with vodka, Eirene, and then she falls asleep on Sam.

Death; hysteria; children

As a ghost, Deam and Sam Winchester aren't helpful, but Epimetheus is.

Then there is: Teja, Dot (with energy transfer), Sam, Eirene with mourning scars, Bob with worry over energy, a drunk Mark Antony, and then, finally, Hermes which goes about as well as can be expected.

and then there is Eirene's fall-out

resurrection and Poseidon receives his sons

In Bar with messed up curse: Atton, Sam and Villiers Moneypenny

And Medusa's fallout.

Mother stands for comfort
mycursedface: (good little Muslim)
The new house was indeed a proper riad, situated at the end of an alley in one of the oldest parts of the Medina. You entered a carved wooden door, ascended some of the stairs in a corridor, and arrived in a lovely courtyard of about a hundred square metres, complete with a orange and a lemon tree and an attractive fountain in the centre. At one end of the courtyard was the kitchen, at the other a large salon, and on the right-hand side were doorways leading to two separate bathrooms and to a staircase to the floor above.

On the fourth side of the courtyard was a large and unusual feature wall, the central five metres of which was recessed by a metre. A buttress descended on the left-hand side of this recess, ending in a scallop shape, in the middle of which was a small spy window. We later discovered it had unique acoustic properties, allowing anyone siting behind it to hear even the slightest whisper in the courtyard.

Two tiled columns stood in front of the downstairs salon, which had a set of massive decorated cedar doors. To either side of the doors were tall windows, framed with exquisite, hand-carved plaster. On the floor above this salon was another room of similar proportions, with its own set of beautiful doors.

Above the kitchen were two rooms large enough to be a self-contained massreiya apartment with its own entrance. The tops of these walls had a band of intricately carved plasterwork insert with rare and expensive coloured glass, known locally as Iraqi glass. And the first of these rooms contained the architectural treasure of the house – a huge ceiling with a spectacular radial design of carved and painted cedar.

Suzanna Clarke, A House in Fez, pp: 27-28
mycursedface: (daughter of the sea)
From here:

Air and Water Type
Although you often feel pulled between intellectual and emotional orientations of life, heavy doses of Air and Water elements can make you very much attuned to both realms of experience. Neither the abstract nor the feeling-intuitive world is alien to you, and you are thus able to develop a mode of operation that encompasses both types of perception. This results in your being able to give depth to your ideas and in your ability to gain detachment and perspective on feelings and deeper yearnings. You are physically and psychologically sensitive; a dreamer, an escapist, perhaps a little fantasy-prone. You have an amazingly fertile imagination and specialized skills for dealing with people. You know how to tune in to people, and communicate concisely.

Water and Air on their own )
mycursedface: (poison and cure)
To start with, the curse only affects people if Medusa looks directly at them. Given that Perseus was able to look at Medusa via a mirror, she can look at other people via mirrors as well. Sunglasses or a veil would also be disturbance enough, as would a dark room.

As for who it affects...basically, the curse kills you. Logically, then, it can only affect those who can die. It doesn't work on those who are already dead, and those immortals who can't die no matter what you do to them. (there is one version of the legend which has Medusa's head turning the Titan Atlas to a mountain - I am ignoring this, as it makes no sense with Heracles tricking him later on.)

And while the myths mention people and animals being turned into statues, it never mentions plants - so any sentient furniture and trees are perfectly safe.

For the record, the statues seem to always be of marble.

So, to sum up - her gaze can't harm those truly dead, those who can't die, and those based on plants.

She will also not be turning anyone to stone without the other player's express permission - she doesn't want to break the rules, and will be keeping her eyes firmly down. If the situation is starting to get risky, I'll be in contact.

Any questions or comments, or if you think your character might be strong enough/powerful enough to resist anyway, please talk to me. Either comment here, or catch me on AIM at lamorgne, or email at ashysaki @ gmail.com
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