Jan
31st
2014
"...a cold, hard mother..." · 3:11am Jan 31st, 2014
Who gets to look down on the wedding--and who looks down on conception and birth?
Who gets to look down on the tender burial--and who looks down on the deathbed?
Who gets to look down upon justice--and who has to look down on the crime?
Whose work is finally done, every day--and who has to wander the sky sometimes, even when she should be abed?
Who gets to be the same every day, with slight seasonable variations--
and who has to go through monthly cycles?
I understand blood and I understand pain there can be no life without it
never doubt it...
EDIT: the artist is the lovely and talented KitsuneHino, whom you should visit here.
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TheJediMasterEd · 645 views
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Ooh. But I just promised Ghost I'd write a happy story.
I was just talking about Luna today and how I don't know how to get a handle on her character and came up with Luna the self-denying. She brings her ponies dreams, but saves none for herself, she's the patron of midnight assignations, but is ever alone, she is the muse of writers, but writes not a word herself. But is this self-denial about magic and the proper course of the celestial sphere, or about something else? And from there comes the fic.
But maybe... hm. Maybe something of what you say can be woven into it.
1777033
And I am to collect on that promise, pardner.
As for Luna—step away. Step well away. She is not for you.
Argh! Don't give 1777033 ideas! It was like pulling teeth to get him to...
He's right behind me isn't he?
1777083
You know, I'm not a religious person but there's this thing in the New Testament and it's very interesting:
When Jesus is dead on Golgotha and the Apostles are hiding in attics and root cellars and rain barrels, when the guy who stood up at the feast the night before and said "Oh hey Jay I'm your BEST FRIEND FOREVER and I will NEVAR deny you!" is now all like "Fuck you, I never knew the motherfucker!" in the cold grey light before dawn...
...who walks right the fuck up to the might of Imperial Rome and says "Yeah, we know him. He's ours. Give us the body?"
A childless widow. And a whore.
Yeah, the women.
It's kinda...mythic, innit?
1777087
Silly pony.
He's always behind you. With a knife, oh, with a knife so sharp. It's just a hair's breadth from the back of your neck. So close. Can you feel the coldness? No, no—don't turn 'round. He hates that. It might upset him.
You wouldn't want that.
1777152
Interesting point. I'm fairly sure St. Paul didn't quite see it that way.
1777233
I thought it was Peter? No, I am sure it was Peter. Paul/Saul came later.
1777087 No. Carry on. What were you saying?
It was Peter.
This conception of Luna makes me wonder if in the wake of her banishment, Equestria resembled the world in issue #1 of Neil Gaiman's Sandman. Sleep takes a holiday …
Goddamn I wish Gaiman hadn't done it first because that would be a hell of a hook.
1777083
For a moment, I read that as "I was just talking to Luna today …" and I got far more excited than I have any right to be.
1777538
If he's talking to Luna, I want some of whatever it is.
1777233
You know, my wife thinks I'm silly for always wanting to sit with my back to the wall and my face to the windows and doors.
There are things... more things in the dark and light alike that inspire that itch between your shoulder blades that says 'I am naked, and there is the knife'.
Some of them write cruel horsewords, and that's even worse.
1777083 1777087 Too late! Here you go. Not what I at first had in mind, but easy to steal and adapt.
1780322
Commented on your blog.
1777152 Of course, no preist or pastor or minister-- or any other of that tribe of charlatans-- would draw attention to that.
1782384
Actually I grew up Catholic, and I learned that perspective because more than one Pastor drew attention to it. As did my father. In fact I'm telling the story more-or-less in his voice (except for the obscenities: his generation is not given to the casual use of "fuck").
Not to say that a great many religious figures aren't charlatans, but that's hardly a recent discovery:
But in his craft, from Berwick unto Ware,
Was no such pardoner in any place.
For in his bag he had a pillowcase
The which, he said, was Our True Lady's veil:
He said he had a piece of the very sail
That good Saint Peter had, what time he went
Upon the sea, till Jesus changed his bent.
He had a latten cross set full of stones,
And in a bottle had he some pig's bones.
But with these relics, when he came upon
Some simple parson, then this paragon
In that one day more money stood to gain
Than the poor dupe in two months could attain.
And thus, with flattery and suchlike japes,
He made the parson and the rest his apes.