2021-10-10

greek mythology | txt/twitter posts

The Fall of Jason Grace (An Actual Ballad, Written By Me)

Fallen from on high, the Sun sinks into night.

With the daughter of the harvest, golden blades cut through the darkness.

Silent is the voice of Fate, the fallen god the Beast awaits.

The son of storms his life did give,

‘Gainst the madman, ‘gainst the rest,

‘Remember!’, cried the Pontifex.

One last time, blue eyes did close,

Of he honored as great among heroes.

The broken Sun remembered his face,

Swore not to forget, the Fall of Jason Grace.

The one who burned Rome lives again,

The mighty Python waits in his den.

Closed be the lips of the seers,

Awakened are Apollo’s ancient fears.

Demeter’s child passed the test,

Subjected to life’s weary unrest.

The son of storms his life did give,

'Gainst the madman, 'gainst the rest,

'Remember!’, cried the Pontifex.

One last time, blue eyes did close,

Of he honored as great among heroes.

The broken Sun remembered his face,

Swore not to forget, the Fall of Jason Grace.

Apollo’s lover returned from the grave,

Fire’s child, Calypso did save.

New Hercules is rendered blind,

Heroes quest for the lady who binds.

Revealed upon the throne of Memory,

Bodies shall plague the camp by the sea.

The flaming hero rides off once more,

The Sun heads south for vet'rans of war.

The son of storms his life did give,

'Gainst the madman, 'gainst the rest,

'Remember!’, cried the Pontifex.

One last time, blue eyes did close,

Of he honored as great among heroes.

The broken Sun remembered his face,

Swore not to forget, the Fall of Jason Grace.

The white horse rider is alive,

Intent on stopping the fallen god’s jive.

In the desert’s scorching haze,

Love is lost in the Burning Maze.

Through sacrifice for his friends and the land,

The prince of Lightning’s final stand.

The son of storms his life did give,

'Gainst the madman, 'gainst the rest,

'Remember!’, cried the Pontifex.

One last time, blue eyes did close,

Of he honored as great among heroes.

The broken Sun remembered his face,

Swore not to forget, the Fall of Jason Grace.

The daughter of love goes bravely on.

Child of harvest and fallen Sun,

Seek the daughter of war,

To open a soundless door.

Promised to the fallen one,

Apollo remembers and journeys on.

The son of storms his life did give,

'Gainst the madman, 'gainst the rest,

'Remember!’, cried the Pontifex.

One last time, blue eyes did close,

Of he honored as great among heroes.

The broken Sun remembered his face,

Swore not to forget, the Fall of Jason Grace.

Tiny House

© Tiny.Easy 

“You inspired me. For that, you are worth every inch of love I had to give.”

— Bianca Sparacino, Seeds Planted in Concrete (via thoughtkick)

He’s beauty, he’s grace, falling from Doctor Strange’s portal straight on his face.

Thor Ragnarok, 2017. Directed by Taika Waititi.

Tiny House Mexico

© Camila Cossio

Here’s how it works: we board the train. I sit at the back of the train, facing forward. You sit at the front of the train, glancing back. There is a distance, d, between us. The doors slide shut. The train lurches into motion.

If the train was moving at a perfectly constant velocity, we could pull the shades down over the windows, close our eyes, block out all other frames of reference, and believe that we were standing still, that our journey had not yet started, that it was not yet too late to stand up and disembark and still be standing at the station. But for now there is only acceleration, unmistakable, the train building, building speed, hurtling off towards the future.

It goes like this: we pass light and shade and light and shade and light.

Each time, a shaft of light enters from the very front of the train, through the engineer’s window, passes you and and travels the length of d all the way to the back of the train at 299,792,458 meters per second to reach my eyes. Then a moment’s shadow, then the next shaft of light, and so on, at regular intervals, so that in this way we can keep time.

We are constantly accelerating.

In the infinitesimal amount of time it takes for a shaft of light to travel the length of d, I have been accelerated forward ever so infinitesimally to meet it, reducing the distance each successive beam of light has to travel, narrowing the intervals between them from what you experience up in front, quickening the beats of light and shade and light and shade and light.

Time dilates.

Let’s pretend: that before we boarded we set our watches to move in sync, that they beat in perfect unison, that by some coincidence each tick marks the precise interval between shafts of light from my perspective. Let’s pretend that I am sitting here in the back, my world in order, moving with perfect regularity. The speed of light is a constant. Tick, tick, tick, for every burst of light.

Even then, in the front, though your conscious mind could not possibly begin to perceive it, you might subconsciously begin to sense the irregularity: that your watch was moving faster, out of sync, that each tick came a fraction of a nanosecond before the next beam of light; that, on a long enough time frame, you would eventually come to overtake it, that you would gain an extra second, then another, then another, time compounding inevitably until we both knew for sure that I was lagging behind.

We have to accept this: that the speed of light is a constant, no matter where we are relative to each other, no matter our velocities, no matter the directions that we’re headed. That in the equation of S = d / t, speed is distance divided by time, it is time that has to change to compensate. That if we are to exist under the same laws of physics, we have to accept the seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, all the relative differences between us.

I am seated on the back of the train, looking forward into the future. You are seated on the front of the train, looking back into the past.

The Nutcracker and the Four Realms (2018)

A true queen does what’s best for her people. And you were right, Sugar Plum… I am every inch my mother’s daughter.