LISTEN! CHRISTIAN MEDIA DOESN'T WORK IF IT IS MADE OUT OF SPITE FOR THE LACK OF MEDIA FOR US TO ENJOY!

“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and it was the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

“I can work with that,” said the witch.

i think, i think laika guides our souls to the beyond when our bodies finally go. she’s a chipper, bright eyed, little dog at our feet, yipping happily to take us to the next stage of our life, whatever that may be.

There's no better joy in this world than watching someone collapse to their own self when you agree with them:

You know witchcraft is probably the placebo, right?

Me - yeah

Them expecting a fight - wait, why do you practice it then?

I don't know whether I'm placeboing myself a new life or whether I'm manipulating the forces of change in the universe but either way, I'm becoming a better version of myself and overcoming my enemies, my own issues and living well. Is that not what the end game is?

Dropping this here for anyone who may not already know about it. paywallreader.com

I’ve been seeing something going around about how since Hermes is a trickster god, April first should be a new day of celebration for him. Here’s everything I have on it so far.

Seems super interesting and something I could really get behind.

Henry Ossawa Tanner's depiction of the Annunciation will always be my absolute favourite but I really do think there is something so ethereal and endearing about his study before the official artwork was completed.

The way Mary sits with almost no visible features but you can still tell that her hands are clasped in prayer- the angel Gabriel manifesting as a single stroke of light as the paint and room seems to contort around him. Easily one of the all timers.

“To think of the Midwest as a whole as anything other than beautiful is to ignore the extraordinary power of the land. The lushness of the grass and trees in August, the roll of the hills (far less of the Midwest is flat than outsiders seem to imagine), the rich smell of soil, the evening sunlight over a field of wheat, or the crickets chirping at dusk on a residential street: All of it, it has always made me feel at peace. There is room to breathe, there is a realness of place. The seasons are extreme, but they pass and return, pass and return, and the world seems far steadier than it does from the vantage point of a coastal city. Certainly picturesque towns can be found in New England or California or the Pacific Northwest, but I can't shake the sense that they're too picturesque. On the East Coast, especially, these places seem to me aggressively quaint, unbecomingly smug, and even xenophobic, downright paranoid in their wariness of those who might somehow infringe upon the local charm. I suspect this wariness is tied to the high cost of real estate, the fear that there might not be enough space or money and what there is of both must be clung to and defended. The West Coast, I think, has a similar self-regard...and a beauty that I can't help seeing as show-offy. But the Midwest: It is quietly lovely, not preening with the need to have its attributes remarked on. It is the place I am calmest and most myself.”

Curtis Sittenfeld, American Wife

***

Finally, someone gets it.

Today’s aesthetic: really enthusiastic historians talking about people who’ve been dead for centuries with disconcerting familiarity, like they personally knew the historical figure in question and possibly still owe them money.

mercy seems like a long shot here, so my prayer for inauguration day 2025: may they be incompetent. may they just be really bad at implementation. may their egos choke their effectiveness. may they drown themselves week by week with infighting and selfish posturing. may they be easily distracted. may the very governors and senators and agencies and religious leaders that the new administration expects to be friendly force endless stalemates to preserve their own power. may every delay turn into a three ring blame circus so chaotic that no one remembers what they were doing. may the good and necessary parts of government be too boring to draw attention and keep running quietly in the background. may the next four years be full of sound and fury and signify nothing.

We compare Loki to fire because watching a flame, you witness how truly free it is. Fire is unpredictable, it’s constantly in motion. You never know what it’ll do, where it’s going to go, or where it’s going to stop. You can never know if it’ll grow tall enough to make a building collapse, or if it’ll die down by itself when you press the trigger of a lighter. And still, fire is dancing: it’s bouncy and bright, it feels so alive and joyous. Fire is an enemy, a pest and a troublemaker, but it’s also a friend, especially when you’re freezing to your bones in the cold.