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Post by Jagathara on Sept 28, 2005 15:32:54 GMT -7
[glow=purple,2,300] Why not a Halloween Thread? After all it is us 'Dark' folk's favourite holiday. To all things gory, gooey or scary!! [/glow]
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Post by Jagathara on Sept 28, 2005 15:35:15 GMT -7
Thing plays a tune... The Adams Family
They're creepy and they're kooky, Mysterious and spooky, They're all together ooky, The Addams Family.
Their house is a museum Where people come to see 'em They really are a scream The Addams Family.
(Neat) (Sweet) (Petite)
So get a witches shawl on A broomstick you can crawl on We're gonna pay a call on The Addams Family. Don't be afraid!! CLICK ON THE PICTURES
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Post by barncat on Sept 28, 2005 22:13:42 GMT -7
Darkness falls across the land, the midnight hour is close at hand, creatures crawl in search of blood something through something neighbourhood, ghastly ghouls from every tomb are rising up to seal your doom, and who so ever shall be found without the soul, for getting down, must stand and face the hounds of hell, and/or rot inside a corpse's shell. somethig something, yeah, THRILLER! Irony that nowMicheal Jackson is now freakier than any previous music video makeup job cuold have ever predicted.
Love that Addams Family! "Oh look at him, he's a lady killer!" "Acquitted!" I had the addams family video game on old nintendo, Fester's Quest, loved that opening tune, a jazzy funky midi version of the tv's theme.
Constantly trying to have Halloween as a day off on the grounds that fur me, it's a Religious Holiday!
Last year I thought of having {Trk} clan have a name changed costumed town to town chat to chat {Trk] or treating party, but it didnt get any further than thought. Thinking's hard enough work. What say an {EGO} town to town halloween blaze a path of merriment and joke em if they can't take a pkill/mkill everything in our path halloween hunting party? Such a show of funny force and farce to nears and fars, smashing cars, etc funblast like that, lol. By to Cora to Cloven to Sly to Gloomy to Boar to Stumpy's to Nachts to Ok'T to celebrate!
Hangovers and Atonement Runs later of course, but yaaaahoo sounds fun don't it?
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Post by Jagathara on Sept 28, 2005 22:34:24 GMT -7
[glow=purple,2,300]Michael Jackson Lyrics[/glow] Thriller Lyrics [1st Verse] It's Close To Midnight And Something Evil's Lurking In The Dark Under The Moonlight You See A Sight That Almost Stops Your Heart You Try To Scream But Terror Takes The Sound Before You Make It You Start To Freeze As Horror Looks You Right Between The Eyes, You're Paralyzed
[Chorus] 'Cause This Is Thriller, Thriller Night And No One's Gonna Save You From The Beast About Strike You Know It's Thriller, Thriller Night You're Fighting For Your Life Inside A Killer, Thriller Tonight
[2nd Verse] You Hear The Door Slam And Realize There's Nowhere Left To Run You Feel The Cold Hand And Wonder If You'll Ever See The Sun You Close Your Eyes And Hope That This Is Just Imagination But All The While You Hear The Creature Creepin' Up Behind You're Out Of Time
[Chorus] 'Cause This Is Thriller, Thriller Night There Ain't No Second Chance Against The Thing With Forty Eyes You Know It's Thriller, Thriller Night You're Fighting For Your Life Inside Of Killer, Thriller Tonight
[Bridge] Night Creatures Call And The Dead Start To Walk In Their Masquerade There's No Escapin' The Jaws Of The Alien This Time (They're Open Wide) This Is The End Of Your Life
[3rd Verse] They're Out To Get You, There's Demons Closing In On Every Side They Will Possess You Unless You Change The Number On Your Dial Now Is The Time For You And I To Cuddle Close Together All Thru The Night I'll Save You From The Terror On The Screen, I'll Make You See
[Chorus] That This Is Thriller, Thriller Night 'Cause I Can Thrill You More Than Any Ghost Would Dare To Try Girl, This Is Thriller, Thriller Night So Let Me Hold You Tight And Share A Killer, Diller, Chiller Thriller Here Tonight
[Rap Performed By Vincent Price] Darkness Falls Across The Land The Midnite Hour Is Close At Hand Creatures Crawl In Search Of Blood To Terrorize Y'awl's Neighbourhood And Whosoever Shall Be Found Without The Soul For Getting Down Must Stand And Face The Hounds Of Hell And Rot Inside A Corpse's Shell The Foulest Stench Is In The Air The Funk Of Forty Thousand Years And Grizzy Ghouls From Every Tomb Are Closing In To Seal Your Doom And Though You Fight To Stay Alive Your Body Starts To Shiver For No Mere Mortal Can Resist The Evil Of The Thriller
[Into Maniacal Laugh, In Deep Echo]
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Post by Jagathara on Sept 28, 2005 23:12:07 GMT -7
[glow=black,2,300]The Tell Tale Heart[/glow] .....By Edgar Allan Poe Art is long and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. ...........Longfellow. . TRUE! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been, and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Harken! and observe how healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! — yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture — a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so, by degrees — very gradually — I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight — with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it — oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I first put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly — very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see the old man as he lay upon his bed. Ha! — would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously — oh, so cautiously (for the hinges creaked) — I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights — every night just at midnight — but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into his chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute-hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never, before that night, had I felt the extent of my own powers — of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and the old man not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea. And perhaps the old man heard me; for he moved in the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept on pushing it steadily, steadily. I had got my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out — "Who's there?" I kept quite still and said nothing. For another hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear the old man lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; — just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death-watches in the wall.
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Post by Jagathara on Sept 28, 2005 23:16:04 GMT -7
[glow=purple,2,300]The Tell Tale Heart - cont'd[/glow] Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew that it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain, or of grief — oh, no! — it was the low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been, ever since, growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself — "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney — it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain: because death, in approaching the old man had stalked with his black shadow before him, and the shadow had now reached and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel — although he neither saw nor heard me — to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing the old man lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until, at length, a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open — wide, wide open — and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person; for I had directed the ray, as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And now — have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses? — now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment: — do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: — so I am. And now, at the dead hour of the night, and amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable wrath. Yet, for some minutes longer, I refrained and kept still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst! And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then sat upon the bed and smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on, with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the walls. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. The old man was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If, still, you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye — not even his — could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all — ha! ha! When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police-office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, — for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visiters all over the house. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues; while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and, while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: I talked more freely, to get rid of the feeling; but it continued and gained definiteness — until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; — but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath — and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly — more vehemently; — but the noise steadily increased. I arose, and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; — but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro, with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men; — but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had sat, and grated it upon the boards; — but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no! They heard! — they suspected! — they knew! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again! — hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! — "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
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Post by Jagathara on Sept 28, 2005 23:45:30 GMT -7
[glow=red,2,300]All Hallow's Eve[/glow] by Mike Nichols Halloween. Sly does it. Tiptoe catspaws. Slide and creep. But why? What for? How? Who? When! Where did it all begin? “You don’t know, do you?” asks Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud climbing out of the pile of leaves under the Halloween Tree. “You don’t really know!” —Ray Bradbury, The Halloween Tree Samhain. All Hallows. All Hallow’s Eve. Hallow E’en. Halloween. The most magical night of the year. Exactly opposite Beltane on the wheel of the year, Halloween is Beltane’s dark twin. A night of glowing jack-o’-lanterns, bobbing for apples, tricks or treats, and dressing in costume. A night of ghost stories and séances, tarot card readings and scrying with mirrors. A night of power, when the veil that separates our world from the Otherworld is at its thinnest. A “spirit night”, as they say in Wales. All Hallow’s Eve is the eve of All Hallow’s Day (November 1). And for once, even popular tradition remembers that the eve is more important than the day itself, the traditional celebration focusing on October 31, beginning at sundown. And this seems only fitting for the great Celtic New Year’s festival. Not that the holiday was Celtic only. In fact, it is startling how many ancient and unconnected cultures (the Egyptians and pre-Spanish Mexicans, for example) celebrated this as a festival of the dead. But the majority of our modern traditions can be traced to the British Isles. The Celts called it Samhain, which means “summer’s end”, according to their ancient twofold division of the year, when summer ran from Beltane to Samhain and winter ran from Samhain to Beltane. (Some modern covens echo this structure by letting the high priest “rule” the coven beginning on Samhain, with rulership returned to the high priestess at Beltane.) According to the later fourfold division of the year, Samhain is seen as “autumn’s end” and the beginning of winter. Samhain is pronounced (depending on where you’re from) as “sow-in” (in Ireland), or “sow-een” (in Wales), or “sav-en” (in Scotland), or (inevitably) “sam-hane” (in the U.S., where we don’t speak Gaelic). Not only is Samhain the end of autumn; it is also, more importantly, the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. Celtic New Year’s Eve, when the new year begins with the onset of the dark phase of the year, just as the new day begins at sundown. There are many representations of Celtic Gods with two faces, and it surely must have been one of them who held sway over Samhain. Like his Roman counterpart Janus, he would straddle the threshold, one face turned toward the past, in commemoration of those who died during the last year, and one face gazing hopefully toward the future, mystic eyes attempting to pierce the veil and divine what the coming year holds. These two themes, celebrating the dead and divining the future, are inexorably intertwined in Samhain, as they are likely to be in any New Year’s celebration. As a feast of the dead, this was the one night when the dead could, if they wished, return to the land of the living, to celebrate with their family, tribe, or clan. And so the great burial mounds of Ireland (sidhe mounds) were opened up, with lighted torches lining the walls, so the dead could find their way. Extra places were set at the table and food set out for any who had died that year. And there are many stories that tell of Irish heroes making raids on the Underworld while the gates of faery stood open, though all must return to their appointed places by cockcrow. As a feast of divination, this was the night par excellence for peering into the future. The reason for this has to do with the Celtic view of time. In a culture that uses a linear concept of time, like our modern one, New Year’s Eve is simply a milestone on a very long road that stretches in a straight line from birth to death. Thus, the New Year’s festival is a part of time. The ancient Celtic view of time, however, is cyclical. And in this framework, New Year’s Eve represents a point outside of time, when the natural order of the universe dissolves back into primordial chaos, preparatory to reestablishing itself in a new order. Thus, Samhain is a night that exists outside of time and, hence, it may be used to view any other point in time. At no other holiday is a tarot card reading, crystal reading, or tealeaf reading so likely to succeed. The Christian religion, with its emphasis on the “historical” Christ and his act of Redemption 2000 years ago, is forced into a linear view of time, where seeing the future is an illogical proposition. In fact, from the Christian perspective, any attempt to do so is seen as inherently evil. This did not keep the medieval church from co-opting Samhain’s other motif, commemoration of the dead. To the church, however, it could never be a feast for all the dead, but only the blessed dead, all those hallowed (made holy) by obedience to God—thus, All Hallow’s, or Hallowmas, later All Saints and All Souls. There are so many types of divination that are traditional to Hallowstide, it is possible to mention only a few. Girls were told to place hazelnuts along the front of the firegrate, each one to symbolize one of her suitors. She could then divine her future husband by chanting, “If you love me, pop and fly; if you hate me, burn and die.” Several methods used the apple, that most popular of Halloween fruits. You should slice an apple through the equator (to reveal the five-pointed star within) and then eat it by candlelight before a mirror. Your future spouse will then appear over your shoulder. Or, peel an apple, making sure the peeling comes off in one long strand, reciting, “I pare this apple round and round again; / My sweetheart’s name to flourish on the plain: / I fling the unbroken paring o’er my head, / My sweetheart’s letter on the ground to read.” Or, you might set a snail to crawl through the ashes of your hearth. The considerate little creature will then spell out the initial letter as it moves. Perhaps the most famous icon of the holiday is the jack-o’- lantern. Various authorities attribute it to either Scottish or Irish origin. However, it seems clear that it was used as a lantern by people who traveled the road this night, the scary face to frighten away spirits or faeries who might otherwise lead one astray. Set on porches and in windows, they cast the same spell of protection over the household. (The American pumpkin seems to have forever superseded the European gourd as the jack-o’- lantern of choice.) Bobbing for apples may well represent the remnants of a Pagan “baptism” rite called a seining, according to some writers. The water-filled tub is a latter-day Cauldron of Regeneration, into which the novice’s head is immersed. The fact that the participant in this folk game was usually blindfolded with hands tied behind the back also puts one in mind of a traditional Craft initiation ceremony. The custom of dressing in costume and “trick-or-treating” is of Celtic origin, with survivals particularly strong in Scotland. However, there are some important differences from the modern version. In the first place, the custom was not relegated to children, but was actively indulged in by adults as well. Also, the “treat” that was required was often one of spirits (the liquid variety). This has recently been revived by college students who go ‘trick-or-drinking’. And in ancient times, the roving bands would sing seasonal carols from house-to-house, making the tradition very similar to Yuletide wassailing. In fact, the custom known as caroling, now connected exclusively with Midwinter, was once practiced at all the major holidays. Finally, in Scotland at least, the tradition of dressing in costume consisted almost exclusively of cross-dressing (i.e., men dressing as women, and women as men). It seems as though ancient societies provided an opportunity for people to “try on” the role of the opposite gender for one night of the year. (Although in Scotland, this is admittedly less dramatic—but more confusing—since men were in the habit of wearing skirtlike kilts anyway. Oh well...) To Witches, Halloween is one of the four High Holidays, or Greater Sabbats, or cross-quarter days. Because it is the most important holiday of the year, it is sometimes called “The Great Sabbat”. It is an ironic fact that the newer, self-created covens tend to use the older name of the holiday, Samhain, which they have discovered through modern research. While the older hereditary and traditional covens often use the newer name, Halloween, which has been handed down through oral tradition within their coven. (This often holds true for the names of the other holidays, as well. One may often get an indication of a coven’s antiquity by noting what names it uses for the holidays.) With such an important holiday, Witches often hold two distinct celebrations. First, a large Halloween party for non- Craft friends, often held on the previous weekend. And second, a coven ritual held on Halloween night itself, late enough so as not to be interrupted by trick-or-treaters. If the rituals are performed properly, there is often the feeling of invisible friends taking part in the rites. Another date that may be utilized in planning celebrations is the actual cross-quarter day, or Old Halloween, or Halloween O.S. (Old Style). This occurs when the sun has reached fifteen degrees Scorpio, an astrological “power point” symbolized by the Eagle. The celebration would begin at sunset. Interestingly, this date (Old Halloween) was also appropriated by the church as the holiday of Martinmas. Of all the Witchcraft holidays, Halloween is the only one that still boasts anything near to popular celebration. Even though it is typically relegated to children (and the young-atheart) and observed as an evening affair only, many of its traditions are firmly rooted in Paganism. Incidentally, some schools have recently attempted to abolish Halloween parties on the grounds that it violates the separation of state and religion. Speaking as a Pagan, I would be saddened by the success of this move, but as a supporter of the concept of religion-free public education, I fear I must concede the point. Nonetheless, it seems only right that there should be one night of the year when our minds are turned toward thoughts of the supernatural. A night when both Pagans and non-Pagans may ponder the mysteries of the Otherworld and its inhabitants. And if you are one of them, may all your jack-o’-lanterns burn bright on this All Hallow’s Eve.
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Post by RAIVEN on Sept 28, 2005 23:54:27 GMT -7
[glow=black,2,300]The Raven[/glow] by Edgar Allan Poe First Published in 1845 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door; Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,. For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, Nameless here forevermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;--- Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before, "Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice. Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. " 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door. Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door, Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore." Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered; Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before; On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,--- Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never---nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-- On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore: Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore--- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore? Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted---nevermore!
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Post by RAIVEN on Sept 29, 2005 0:08:46 GMT -7
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Post by RAIVEN on Sept 29, 2005 1:00:44 GMT -7
ELMER FUDD"I'm trying to make the formula that will turn a normal character into a devilish fiend..hahahahahaha"
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Post by RAIVEN on Sept 29, 2005 2:09:47 GMT -7
PHANTASMAGORIA
.......By Lewis Carrol
Canto I: The Trysting
One winter night, at half-past nine, Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy, I had come home, too late to dine, And supper, with cigars and wine, Was waiting in the study.
There was a strangeness in the room, And Something white and wavy Was standing near me in the gloom – I took it for the carpet-broom Left by that careless slavey.
But presently the Thing began To shiver and to sneeze: On which I said "Come, come, my man! That's a most inconsiderate plan. Less noise there, if you please!"
"I've caught a cold," the Thing replies, "Out there upon the landing." I turned to look in some surprise, And there, before my very eyes, A little Ghost was standing!
He trembled when he caught my eye, And got behind a chair. "How came you here," I said, "and why? I never saw a thing so shy. Come out! Don't shiver there!"
He said "I 'd gladly tell you how, And also tell you why; But" (here he gave a little bow) "You're in so bad a temper now, You'd think it all a lie.
"And as to being in a fright, Allow me to remark That Ghosts have just as good a right, In every way, to fear the light, As Men to fear the dark."
"No plea," said I, "can well excuse Such cowardice in you: For Ghosts can visit when they choose, Whereas we Humans can't refuse To grant the interview."
He said "A flutter of alarm Is not unnatural, is it? I really feared you meant some harm: But, now I see that you are calm, Let me explain my visit.
"Houses are classed, I beg to state, According to the number Of Ghosts that they accommodate: (The Tenant merely counts as weight, With Coals and other lumber).
"This is a 'one-ghost' house, and you, When you arrived last summer, May have remarked a Spectre who Was doing all that Ghosts can do To welcome the new-comer.
"In Villas this is always done – However cheaply rented: For, though of course there's less of fun When there is only room for one, Ghosts have to be contented.
"That Spectre left you on the Third – Since then you've not been haunted: For, as he never sent us word, 'Twas quite by accident we heard That any one was wanted.
"A Spectre has first choice, by right, In filling up a vacancy; Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite – If all these fail them, they invite The nicest Ghoul that they can see.
"The Spectres said the place was low, And that you kept bad wine: So, as a Phantom had to go, And I was first, of course, you know, I couldn't well decline."
"No doubt," said I, "they settled who Was fittest to be sent: Yet still to choose a brat like you, To haunt a man of forty-two, Was no great compliment!"
"I'm not so young, Sir," he replied, "As you might think. The fact is, In caverns by the water-side, And other places that I've tried, I've had a lot of practice:
"But I have never taken yet A strict domestic part, And in my flurry I forget The Five Good Rules of Etiquette We have to know by heart."
My sympathies were warming fast Towards the little fellow: He was so utterly aghast At having found a Man at last, And looked so scared and yellow.
"At least," I said, "I'm glad to find A Ghost is not a dumb thing! But pray sit down: you'll feel inclined (If, like myself, you have not dined) To take a snack of something:
"Though, certainly, you don't appear A thing to offer food to! And then I shall be glad to hear – If you will say them loud and clear – The Rules that you allude to."
"Thanks! You shall hear them by and by. This is a piece of luck!" "What may I offer you?" said I. "Well, since you are so kind, I'll try A little bit of duck.
"One slice! And may I ask you for Another drop of gravy?" I sat and looked at him in awe, For certainly I never saw A thing so white and wavy.
And still he seemed to grow more white, More vapoury, and wavier – Seen in the dim and flickering light, As he proceeded to recite His "Maxims of Behaviour."
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Post by RAIVEN on Sept 29, 2005 2:11:59 GMT -7
Canto II: His Fyve Rules
"My First – but don't suppose," he said, "I'm setting you a riddle – Is – if your Victim be in bed, Don't touch the curtains at his head, But take them in the middle,
"And wave them slowly in and out, While drawing them asunder; And in a minute's time, no doubt, He'll raise his head and look about With eyes of wrath and wonder.
"And here you must on no pretence Make the first observation. Wait for the Victim to commence: No Ghost of any common sense Begins a conversation.
"If he should say 'How came you here?' (The way that you began, Sir,) In such a case your course is clear – 'On the bat's back, my little dear!' Is the appropriate answer.
"If after this he says no more, You'd best perhaps curtail your Exertions – go and shake the door, And then, if he begins to snore, You'll know the thing's a failure.
"By day, if he should be alone – At home or on a walk – You merely give a hollow groan, To indicate the kind of tone In which you mean to talk.
"But if you find him with his friends, The thing is rather harder. In such a case success depends On picking up some candle-ends, Or butter, in the larder.
"With this you make a kind of slide (It answers best with suet), On which you must contrive to glide, And swing yourself from side to side – One soon learns how to do it.
"The Second tells us what is right In ceremonious calls: – 'First burn a blue or crimson light' (A thing I quite forgot to-night), 'Then scratch the door or walls.'"
I said "You'll visit here no more, If you attempt the Guy. I'll have no bonfires on my floor – And, as for scratching at the door, I'd like to see you try!"
"The Third was written to protect The interests of the Victim, And tells us, as I recollect, To treat him with a grave respect, And not to contradict him."
"That's plain," said I, "as Tare and Tret, To any comprehension: I only wish some Ghosts I've met Would not so constantly forget The maxim that you mention!"
"Perhaps," he said, "you first transgressed The laws of hospitality: All Ghosts instinctively detest The Man that fails to treat his guest With proper cordiality.
"If you address a Ghost as 'Thing!' Or strike him with a hatchet, He is permitted by the King To drop all formal parleying – And then you're sure to catch it!
"The Fourth prohibits trespassing Where other Ghosts are quartered: And those convicted of the thing (Unless when pardoned by the King) Must instantly be slaughtered.
"That simply means 'be cut up small': Ghosts soon unite anew: The process scarcely hurts at all – Not more than when you're what you call 'Cut up' by a Review.
"The Fifth is one you may prefer That I should quote entire: – The King must be addressed as 'Sir.' This, from a simple courtier, Is all the Laws require:
"But, should you wish to do the thing With out-and-out politeness, Accost him as 'My Goblin King!' And always use, in answering, The phrase 'Your Royal Whiteness!'
"I'm getting rather hoarse, I fear, After so much reciting: So, if you don't object, my dear, We'll try a glass of bitter beer – I think it looks inviting."
Canto III: Scarmoges
"And did you really walk," said I, "On such a wretched night? I always fancied Ghosts could fly – If not exactly in the sky, Yet at a fairish height."
"It's very well," said he, "for Kings To soar above the earth: But Phantoms often find that wings – Like many other pleasant things – Cost more than they are worth.
"Spectres of course are rich, and so Can buy them from the Elves: But we prefer to keep below – They're stupid company, you know, For any but themselves:
"For, though they claim to be exempt From pride, they treat a Phantom As something quite beneath contempt – Just as no Turkey ever dreamt Of noticing a Bantam."
"They seem too proud," said I, "to go To houses such as mine. Pray, how did they contrive to know So quickly that 'the place was low,' And that I 'kept bad wine'?"
"Inspector Kobold came to you –" The little Ghost began. Here I broke in – "Inspector who? Inspecting Ghosts is something new! Explain yourself, my man!"
"His name is Kobold," said my guest: "One of the Spectre order: You'll very often see him dressed In a yellow gown, a crimson vest, And a night-cap with a border.
"He tried the Brocken business first, But caught a sort of chill; So came to England to be nursed, And here it took the form of thirst, Which he complains of still.
"Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound, Warms his old bones like nectar: And as the inns, where it is found, Are his especial hunting-ground, We call him the Inn-Spectre."
I bore it – bore it like a man – This agonizing witticism! And nothing could be sweeter than My temper, till the Ghost began Some most provoking criticism.
"Cooks need not be indulged in waste; Yet still you'd better teach them Dishes should have some sort of taste. Pray, why are all the cruets placed Where nobody can reach them?
"That man of yours will never earn His living as a waiter! Is that queer thing supposed to burn? (It's far too dismal a concern To call a Moderator.)
"The duck was tender, but the peas Were very much too old: And just remember, if you please, The next time you have toasted cheese, Don't let them send it cold.
"You'd find the bread improved, I think, By getting better flour: And have you anything to drink That looks a little less like ink, And isn't quite so sour?"
Then, peering round with curious eyes, He muttered "Goodness gracious!" And so went on to criticize – "Your room's an inconvenient size: It's neither snug nor spacious.
"That narrow window, I expect, Serves but to let the dusk in –" "But please," said I, "to recollect 'Twas fashioned by an architect Who pinned his faith on Ruskin!"
"I don't care who he was, Sir, or On whom he pinned his faith! Constructed by whatever law, So poor a job I never saw, As I'm a living Wraith!
"What a re-markable cigar! How much are they a dozen?" I growled "No matter what they are! You're getting as familiar As if you were my cousin!
"Now that's a thing I will not stand, And so I tell you flat." "Aha," said he, "we're getting grand!" (Taking a bottle in his hand) "I'll soon arrange for that!"
And here he took a careful aim, And gaily cried "Here goes!" I tried to dodge it as it came, But somehow caught it, all the same, Exactly on my nose.
And I remember nothing more That I can clearly fix, Till I was sitting on the floor, Repeating "Two and five are four, But five and two are six."
What really passed I never learned, Nor guessed: I only know That, when at last my sense returned, The lamp, neglected, dimly burned – The fire was getting low –
Through driving mists I seemed to see A Thing that smirked and smiled: And found that he was giving me A lesson in Biography, As if I were a child.
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Post by RAIVEN on Sept 29, 2005 2:14:12 GMT -7
Canto IV: Hys Nouryture
"Oh, when I was a little Ghost, A merry time had we! Each seated on his favourite post, We chumped and chawed the buttered toast They gave us for our tea."
"That story is in print!" I cried. "Don't say it's not, because It's known as well as Bradshaw's Guide!" (The Ghost uneasily replied He hardly thought it was.)
"It's not in Nursery Rhymes? And yet I almost think it is – 'Three little Ghosteses' were set On posteses,' you know, and ate Their 'buttered toasteses.'
"I have the book; so if you doubt it –" I turned to search the shelf. "Don't stir!" he cried. "We'll do without it: I now remember all about it; I wrote the thing myself.
"It came out in a 'Monthly,' or At least my agent said it did: Some literary swell, who saw It, thought it seemed adapted for The Magazine he edited.
"My father was a Brownie, Sir; My mother was a Fairy. The notion had occurred to her, The children would be happier, If they were taught to vary.
"The notion soon became a craze; And, when it once began, she Brought us all out in different ways – One was a Pixy, two were Fays, Another was a Banshee;
"The Fetch and Kelpie went to school And gave a lot of trouble; Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul, And then two Trolls (which broke the rule), A Goblin, and a Double –
"(If that's a snuff-box on the shelf," He added with a yawn, "I'll take a pinch) – next came an Elf, And then a Phantom (that's myself), And last, a Leprechaun.
"One day, some Spectres chanced to call, Dressed in the usual white: I stood and watched them in the hall, And couldn't make them out at all, They seemed so strange a sight.
"I wondered what on earth they were, That looked all head and sack; But Mother told me not to stare, And then she twitched me by the hair, And punched me in the back.
"Since then I've often wished that I Had been a Spectre born. But what's the use?" (He heaved a sigh.) "They are the ghost-nobility, And look on us with scorn.
"My phantom-life was soon begun: When I was barely six, I went out with an older one – And just at first I thought it fun, And learned a lot of tricks.
"I've haunted dungeons, castles, towers – Wherever I was sent: I've often sat and howled for hours, Drenched to the skin with driving showers, Upon a battlement.
"It's quite old-fashioned now to groan When you begin to speak: This is the newest thing in tone –" And here (it chilled me to the bone) He gave an awful squeak.
"Perhaps," he added, "to your ear That sounds an easy thing? Try it yourself, my little dear! It took me something like a year, With constant practising.
"And when you've learned to squeak, my man, And caught the double sob, You're pretty much where you began: Just try and gibber if you can! That's something like a job!
"I've tried it, and can only say I'm sure you couldn't do it, e- ven if you practised night and day, Unless you have a turn that way, And natural ingenuity.
"Shakspeare I think it is who treats Of Ghosts, in days of old, Who 'gibbered in the Roman streets,' Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets – They must have found it cold.
"I've often spent ten pounds on stuff, In dressing as a Double; But, though it answers as a puff, It never has effect enough To make it worth the trouble.
"Long bills soon quenched the little thirst I had for being funny. The setting-up is always worst: Such heaps of things you want at first, One must be made of money!
"For instance, take a Haunted Tower, With skull, cross-bones, and sheet; Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour, Condensing lens of extra power, And set of chains complete:
"What with the things you have to hire – The fitting on the robe – And testing all the coloured fire – The outfit of itself would tire The patience of a Job!
"And then they're so fastidious, The Haunted-House Committee: I've often known them make a fuss Because a Ghost was French, or Russ, Or even from the City!
"Some dialects are objected to – For one, the Irish brogue is: And then, for all you have to do, One pound a week they offer you, And find yourself in Bogies!"
Canto V: Byckerment
"Don't they consult the 'Victims,' though?" I said. "They should, by rights, Give them a chance – because, you know, The tastes of people differ so, Especially in Sprites."
The Phantom shook his head and smiled. "Consult them? Not a bit! 'Twould be a job to drive one wild, To satisfy one single child – There'd be no end to it!"
"Of course you can't leave children free," Said I, "to pick and choose: But, in the case of men like me, I think 'Mine Host' might fairly be Allowed to state his views."
He said "It really wouldn't pay – Folk are so full of fancies. We visit for a single day, And whether then we go, or stay, Depends on circumstances.
"And, though we don't consult 'Mine Host' Before the thing's arranged, Still, if he often quits his post, Or is not a well-mannered Ghost, Then you can have him changed.
"But if the host's a man like you – I mean a man of sense; And if the house is not too new –" "Why, what has that," said I, "to do With Ghost's convenience?"
"A new house does not suit, you know – It's such a job to trim it: But, after twenty years or so, The wainscotings begin to go, So twenty is the limit."
"To trim" was not a phrase I could Remember having heard: "Perhaps," I said, "you'll be so good As tell me what is understood Exactly by that word?"
"It means the loosening all the doors," The Ghost replied, and laughed: "It means the drilling holes by scores In all the skirting-boards and floors, To make a thorough draught.
"You'll sometimes find that one or two Are all you really need To let the wind come whistling through – But here there'll be a lot to do!" I faintly gasped "Indeed!
"If I'd been rather later, I'll Be bound," I added, trying (Most unsuccessfully) to smile, "You'd have been busy all this while, Trimming and beautifying?"
"Why, no," said he; "perhaps I should Have stayed another minute – But still no Ghost, that's any good, Without an introduction would Have ventured to begin it.
"The proper thing, as you were late, Was certainly to go: But, with the roads in such a state, I got the Knight-Mayor's leave to wait For half an hour or so."
"Who's the Knight-Mayor? " I cried. Instead Of answering my question, "Well, if you don't know that," he said, "Either you never go to bed, Or you've a grand digestion!
"He goes about and sits on folk That eat too much at night: His duties are to pinch, and poke, And squeeze them till they nearly choke." (I said "It serves them right!")
"And folk who sup on things like these –" He muttered, "eggs and bacon – Lobster – and duck – and toasted cheese – If they don't get an awful squeeze, I'm very much mistaken!
"He is immensely fat, and so Well suits the occupation: In point of fact, if you must know, We used to call him years ago, The Mayor and Corporation!
"The day he was elected Mayor I know that every Sprite meant To vote for me, but did not dare – He was so frantic with despair And furious with excitement.
"When it was over, for a whim, He ran to tell the King; And being the reverse of slim, A two-mile trot was not for him A very easy thing.
"So, to reward him for his run (As it was baking hot, And he was over twenty stone), The King proceeded, half in fun, To knight him on the spot."
"'Twas a great liberty to take!" (I fired up like a rocket.) "He did it just for punning's sake: 'The man,' says Johnson, 'that would make A pun, would pick a pocket!'"
"A man," said he, "is not a King." I argued for a while, And did my best to prove the thing – The Phantom merely listening With a contemptuous smile.
At last, when, breath and patience spent, I had recourse to smoking – Your aim," he said, "is excellent: But – when you call it argument – Of course you're only joking?
Stung by his cold and snaky eye, I roused myself at length To say, "At least I do defy The veriest sceptic to deny That union is strength!"
"That's true enough," said he, "yet stay –" I listened in all meekness – "Union is strength, I'm bound to say; In fact, the thing's as clear as day; But onions are a weakness."
Canto VI: Dyscomfyture
As one who strives a hill to climb, Who never climbed before: Who finds it, in a little time, Grow every moment less sublime, And votes the thing a bore:
Yet, having once begun to try, Dares not desert his quest, But, climbing, ever keeps his eye On one small hut against the sky Wherein he hopes to rest:
Who climbs till nerve and force are spent, With many a puff and pant: Who still, as rises the ascent, In language grows more violent, Although in breath more scant:
Who, climbing, gains at length the place That crowns the upward track: And, entering with unsteady pace, Receives a buffet in the face That lands him on his back:
And feels himself, like one in sleep, Glide swiftly down again, A helpless weight, from steep to steep, Till, with a headlong giddy sweep, He drops upon the plain –
So I, that had resolved to bring Conviction to a ghost, And found it quite a different thing From any human arguing, Yet dared not quit my post.
But, keeping still the end in view To which I hoped to come, I strove to prove the matter true By putting everything I knew Into an axiom:
Commencing every single phrase With "therefore" or "because," I blindly reeled, a hundred ways, About the syllogistic maze, Unconscious where I was.
Quoth he "That's regular clap-trap: Don't bluster any more. Now do be cool and take a nap! Such a ridiculous old chap Was never seen before!
"You're like a man I used to meet, Who got one day so furious In arguing, the simple heat Scorched both his slippers off his feet!" I said "That's very curious!"
"Well, it is curious, I agree, And sounds perhaps like fibs: But still it's true as true can be – As sure as your name's Tibbs," said he. I said "My name's not Tibbs."
"Not Tibbs!" he cried – his tone became A shade or two less hearty – "Why, no," said I. "My proper name Is Tibbets –" "Tibbets?" "Aye, the same." "Why, then YOU'RE NOT THE PARTY!"
With that he struck the board a blow That shivered half the glasses. "Why couldn't you have told me so Three quarters of an hour ago, You prince of all the asses?
"To walk four miles through mud and rain, To spend the night in smoking, And then to find that it's in vain – And I've to do it all again – It's really too provoking!
"Don't talk!" he cried, as I began To mutter some excuse. "Who can have patience with a man That's got no more discretion than An idiotic goose?
"To keep me waiting here, instead Of telling me at once That this was not the house!" he said. "There, that'll do – be off to bed! Don't gape like that, you dunce!"
"It's very fine to throw the blame On me in such a fashion! Why didn't you enquire my name The very minute that you came?" I answered in a passion.
"Of course it worries you a bit To come so far on foot – But how was I to blame for it?" "Well, well!" said he. "I must admit That isn't badly put.
"And certainly you've given me The best of wine and victual – Excuse my violence," said he, "But accidents like this, you see, They put one out a little.
"'Twas my fault after all, I find – Shake hands, old Turnip-top!" The name was hardly to my mind, But, as no doubt he meant it kind, I let the matter drop.
"Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night! When I am gone, perhaps They'll send you some inferior Sprite, Who'll keep you in a constant fright And spoil your soundest naps.
"Tell him you'll stand no sort of trick; Then, if he leers and chuckles, You just be handy with a stick (Mind that it's pretty hard and thick) And rap him on the knuckles!
"Then carelessly remark 'Old coon! Perhaps you're not aware That, if you don't behave, you'll soon Be chuckling to another tune – And so you'd best take care!'
"That's the right way to cure a Sprite Of such-like goings-on – But gracious me! It's getting light! Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!" A nod, and he was gone.
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Post by RAIVEN on Sept 29, 2005 2:17:41 GMT -7
Canto VII: Sad Souvenaunce
"What's this?" I pondered. "Have I slept? Or can I have been drinking?" But soon a gentler feeling crept Upon me, and I sat and wept An hour or so, like winking.
"No need for Bones to hurry so!" I sobbed. "In fact, I doubt If it was worth his while to go – And who is Tibbs, I'd like to know, To make such work about?
"If Tibbs is anything like me, It's possible," I said, "He won't be over-pleased to be Dropped in upon at half-past three, After he's snug in bed.
"And if Bones plagues him anyhow – Squeaking and all the rest of it, As he was doing here just now – I prophesy there'll be a row, And Tibbs will have the best of it!"
Then, as my tears could never bring The friendly Phantom back, It seemed to me the proper thing To mix another glass, and sing The following Coronach.
And art thou gone, beloved Ghost? Best of Familiars! Nay then, farewell, my duckling roast, Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast, My meerschaum and cigars!
The hues of life are dull and gray, The sweets of life insipid, When thou, my charmer, art away – Old Brick, or rather, let me say, Old Parallelepiped!
Instead of singing Verse the Third, I ceased – abruptly, rather: But, after such a splendid word I felt that it would be absurd To try it any farther.
So with a yawn I went my way To seek the welcome downy, And slept, and dreamed till break of day Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay And Leprechaun and Brownie!
For years I've not been visited By any kind of Sprite; Yet still they echo in my head, Those parting words, so kindly said, "Old Turnip-top, good-night!"
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yelosnow
Knight's Fury
Master of Monkeys
LVL 10 ~SLAYER~ {SOC} LVL 10 UNDEAD {CAT}
Posts: 119
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Post by yelosnow on Sept 29, 2005 14:44:38 GMT -7
ok this is kinda a scary link to a "christian" site but its got a lot of cool info on it bozman.net/glory/halloween.html oh ya dont go into the salvation room!!!!!! lmao but check out all the pages of halloween info/history cool stuff!! lol p.s page 5 the best
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yelosnow
Knight's Fury
Master of Monkeys
LVL 10 ~SLAYER~ {SOC} LVL 10 UNDEAD {CAT}
Posts: 119
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Post by yelosnow on Sept 29, 2005 14:53:37 GMT -7
SAM HAIN "Will you stop calling me 'Sow', all right? That's a female pig. The name is Sam. Sam, as in Sam". He whispers that lowly to the woman who has just announced his talk. He clears his throat, and steps forward to address the students, leaving the well-meaning facilitator behind. Someone always ends up slaughtering his name, he ruefully reminds himself. He's honored to be here, on Religious Freedoms day. This is the day each school brings in representative theo/alogians from all the different religions in the district. Each gets their hour in the sun. It also happens to be October, so there is only one thing on people's minds. "My name is Sam Hain. Rhymes with 'a-thame'. That's the gizmo Witches use to slice open apples to show that there are very few really regular pentagons inside. Oh, the pentagon. People are always confusing that with that building down there in Washington -- what is it? Yes, the Pentacle. You know, where they've got that demon trapped. "Oh, yes. Before I get too carried away with all that arcane lingo, let's touch upon some basics. The religion is Wicca. The root of 'Wicca' is 'Wic', and is derived from the word 'Witch'. And, in order to emphasize that letter 'C', the religion is often called 'WitchCraft'. Now, breaking this final word down, etymologically, we have the words 'Itch' and 'Craft'; beginning with the letter 'W'. 'W' stands for Woman, Wit, Wisdom and Woozy. Woozy, you know, like if you drink too much. So, anyhow: Witchcraft is an itchy craft or skill for women, wits, half wits, the inebriated, and the wise. Of course, we are all in the last category -- at the very least. "Okay. The roots of Witchcraft. The roots are to be found in your grandmother's root cellar. Which is to figure. They let some gardener loose, and he either tripped over some practitioners in the woods, or he made it up out of figs and mints, or somewhere in between -- your choice. It's appropriate, though -- the phenomenal growth of a contemporary earth religion had to be instigated by a gardener." He acknowledges a hand. "You don't ride brooms, do you?" asks a youth with a face like a pimple. He chuckles. "No, no. That myth was invented by the Inquisition. No brooms. Most of us don't keep clean homes, anyway. Too many grimoires, oils and incenses. And the stuff like eye of baby and wing of newt -- that went out about the time of Shakespeare. Besides, winged newts went extinct. Nowadays, we're pretty environmental. "Speaking of the Inquisition (and we all know nobody expects it), the Inquisitors wiped out the entire population of women in Europe. Men had to come up with a kind of a temporary reverse-parthenogenesis for the race to survive. Either that, or it was space aliens. We've got some revisionists out there now who don't believe more than a handful of people were deep-fat- fried by the Inquisition, but they're crackpots. A scarce few others claim that maybe only a relative few were killed for Witchcraft -- perhaps in the tens of thousands to maybe a couple hundred thousand. But those numbers seem reasonable, so these figures probably aren't right. The one thing the human race isn't is reasonable, so feel free to pick an extreme in either direction. "Anyhow, we Witches gather together in covens, or else in herds of solitaries -- otherwise known as festivals or networks. Sometimes we meet in gaggles, prides, pods or clutches. We meet once in a while, or whenever the moon is blue. "A lot of us follow the reincarnation thing. And the truths of ancient lands which rise from the sea. As proof, consider the tales of Atlanta. It's risen from the seas, and even from the land, into a mass of skyscrapers. It's no accident that one of the nation's largest airline hubs is in Atlanta. Gotta provide transportation for all the souls to home in on. And, if you don't think lands can rise from the seas, check out the Midwest. "Witches give honor to the elements. That's why we can be seen standing out in the rain so often. Our rituals take so long because we usually honor each and every of the 106 elements in the periodic chart, although we often leave out the man-made ones. The anti-nuke crowd leaves out all the radioactive ones as well. "The religious part is, of course, that we have a plethora of Gods and Goddesses. It's like an herb garden -- they're many, they're hardy, some of them are no better than weeds, and most of them come back the next year. Yes, we have our dying and rising Goddesses and Gods. Most important in the Goddess department is the Maid, Mother and Crone. The Crone is the old warty one you got to watch out for, but that's all right -- she's got arthritis and might not catch you. The Mother -- well, she gives birth to everything, so she hasn't time for much else. And the Maid, hey, she's the one who does the dishes and picks up after everyone." "What about Halloween?" asks someone else. "Samhain. Named after me." He pronounces it like his name. "Or maybe it was the other way around. I wasn't around, then. 'Halloween' means 'little hollow'. Hollows were those holes in tree trunks that were such a big deal in fairy tales. Where the Keebler cookie elves live, at least by ill-repute. "It's one of the Sabbats. There are eight of them. There are the Quarter Sabbats and the Crossed Quarters, and Samhain is a particularly cross Quarter. Almost a Susan B. Anthony Dollar of the occult world, it's that big and feisty. It's the night when the shawls between the world are thin, which is why it's usually pretty chilly. But we try to go outside anyway. "It's the night Witches talk to their Dead. There's a reason we collect those little decals with roses and skeletons at music stores. Ever wonder why there are so many of those things? It's us, man. Anyhow, it is permissible to discuss anything you desire with the Dead. Remember, the Dead tell no tales. "The purpose of Samhain is to prepare for winter. Those of you who are not Witches fill the same task by writing Christmas cards as well as by hiding from the Season of Advertising which begins about then. Well, since we do Yule instead of Christmas, we have other preparations. In the old days, the final crops were taken in. It's the Wiccan end-of-year, our New Year's Eve without streamers and overpriced restaurants. At Samhain, the last crop would be taken in, and that's what folks would eat until spring; mold, rodent droppings, and all. "The Celtic kids used to knock on doors, just like kids do today. Only then, it was "Trick and Treat". You were supposed to give the kid something tasty like pudding wrapped in boar's stomach lining, and you were supposed to pull some kind of nasty trick on the kid as well. Think of a drop floor under your welcome mat -- the Celts played tricks for keeps. Hardy and lusty sons of guns, they were. If you failed to do a trick of your own, the kid was perfectly justified in thinking something up on his or her own. Note that toilet paper, shaving cream, and rotten eggs are for pikers. Fortunately, we've come a long way since then. However, remember that there is a precedent for that razor in your candied apple. It's a gift from a reincarnated Celt. Witches are too busy partying to do anything like that. "In fact, we'll party all night long at the slightest provocation. On Samhain our excuse is that midnight is the most magical of the hours. And once one is up that late, one may as well continue. There's a certain somberness about this particular occasion, but we take it in stride. We'll even bob for apples -- the game's symbolic meaning is Futility, except for those bobbers with big mouths. We'll wear costumes, so long as they are black. Black's just a Witchy thing: you wouldn't understand. Its meaning is absence, since black is technically the absence of all colors. People who always wear a lot of black wish to bring this sense of the Void into themselves. At Samhain, black is highly appropriate: we often seek to void out the past year like a bad check." He takes a long pause for air. Attention still seems to be with him, he notes gratefully. "Okay, so what are we Witches doing today? Well, there's a certain type of politics. You know the old Craft saying, 'If that which you seek, you cannot find it within, you'll never find it without -- unless you push.' So we have lots of fun boycotting movies people wouldn't have gone to see in the first place if we hadn't made a stink about them. Darn shame cigars are out of fashion, even if Broomhilda still smokes one..." He fades into a reverie of musing. "Oh, yes, as I was saying. Witchcraft today. It isn't as picturesque as in the old days. The succubuses, incubuses and abacuses are all down in Club Med, where the rest of us can't afford to go. Glad they can afford it. If they head far enough south, maybe they'll transform the rainforests -- 'Make Love, Not Cattle'. Yeah, Witchcraft can be pretty transformative. Not many religions let you bang on rawhide all night and plunk a computer keyboard by day." He concludes his talk, and leaves to applause, feeling good about having clarified the Craft like drawn butter. Students follow him outside, as he straddles his ElectroLux. They laugh, as he makes verbal vroom-vroom- vroom noises. Nothing happens. "Drat", he says. "Anyone got a car? And jumper cables?" Ten minutes later, Mr. Haim and his vacuum cleaner are skybound, circling up and into the clouds.
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yelosnow
Knight's Fury
Master of Monkeys
LVL 10 ~SLAYER~ {SOC} LVL 10 UNDEAD {CAT}
Posts: 119
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Post by yelosnow on Sept 29, 2005 14:55:18 GMT -7
this is a link to a great site full of "pagan ideas theories and stuff... Quick Intro The original purpose of The Cauldron: A Pagan Forum was to foster an interfaith community of Pagans and their friends where all members could learn and grow spiritually and intellectually through discussion and debate -- and have a good time doing so. While we have expanded a great deal (for example, this large web site) since we opened our doors in late 1997, this is still our main focus today. We hope you will join us. www.ecauldron.com/index.php
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Post by recidivism on Sept 29, 2005 15:52:14 GMT -7
Nevermore
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yelosnow
Knight's Fury
Master of Monkeys
LVL 10 ~SLAYER~ {SOC} LVL 10 UNDEAD {CAT}
Posts: 119
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Post by yelosnow on Sept 30, 2005 11:39:09 GMT -7
All Hallow's Eve by Mike Nichols
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Halloween. Sly does it. Tiptoe catspaws. Slide and creep. But why? What for? How? Who? When! Where did it all begin? “You don’t know, do you?” asks Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud climbing out of the pile of leaves under the Halloween Tree. “You don’t really know!” —Ray Bradbury, The Halloween Tree
Samhain. All Hallows. All Hallow’s Eve. Hallow E’en. Halloween. The most magical night of the year. Exactly opposite Beltane on the wheel of the year, Halloween is Beltane’s dark twin. A night of glowing jack-o’-lanterns, bobbing for apples, tricks or treats, and dressing in costume. A night of ghost stories and séances, tarot card readings and scrying with mirrors. A night of power, when the veil that separates our world from the Otherworld is at its thinnest. A “spirit night”, as they say in Wales.
All Hallow’s Eve is the eve of All Hallow’s Day (November 1). And for once, even popular tradition remembers that the eve is more important than the day itself, the traditional celebration focusing on October 31, beginning at sundown. And this seems only fitting for the great Celtic New Year’s festival. Not that the holiday was Celtic only. In fact, it is startling how many ancient and unconnected cultures (the Egyptians and pre-Spanish Mexicans, for example) celebrated this as a festival of the dead. But the majority of our modern traditions can be traced to the British Isles.
The Celts called it Samhain, which means “summer’s end”, according to their ancient twofold division of the year, when summer ran from Beltane to Samhain and winter ran from Samhain to Beltane. (Some modern covens echo this structure by letting the high priest “rule” the coven beginning on Samhain, with rulership returned to the high priestess at Beltane.) According to the later fourfold division of the year, Samhain is seen as “autumn’s end” and the beginning of winter. Samhain is pronounced (depending on where you’re from) as “sow-in” (in Ireland), or “sow-een” (in Wales), or “sav-en” (in Scotland), or (inevitably) “sam-hane” (in the U.S., where we don’t speak Gaelic).
Not only is Samhain the end of autumn; it is also, more importantly, the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. Celtic New Year’s Eve, when the new year begins with the onset of the dark phase of the year, just as the new day begins at sundown. There are many representations of Celtic Gods with two faces, and it surely must have been one of them who held sway over Samhain. Like his Roman counterpart Janus, he would straddle the threshold, one face turned toward the past, in commemoration of those who died during the last year, and one face gazing hopefully toward the future, mystic eyes attempting to pierce the veil and divine what the coming year holds. These two themes, celebrating the dead and divining the future, are inexorably intertwined in Samhain, as they are likely to be in any New Year’s celebration.
As a feast of the dead, this was the one night when the dead could, if they wished, return to the land of the living, to celebrate with their family, tribe, or clan. And so the great burial mounds of Ireland (sidhe mounds) were opened up, with lighted torches lining the walls, so the dead could find their way. Extra places were set at the table and food set out for any who had died that year. And there are many stories that tell of Irish heroes making raids on the Underworld while the gates of faery stood open, though all must return to their appointed places by cockcrow.
As a feast of divination, this was the night par excellence for peering into the future. The reason for this has to do with the Celtic view of time. In a culture that uses a linear concept of time, like our modern one, New Year’s Eve is simply a milestone on a very long road that stretches in a straight line from birth to death. Thus, the New Year’s festival is a part of time. The ancient Celtic view of time, however, is cyclical. And in this framework, New Year’s Eve represents a point outside of time, when the natural order of the universe dissolves back into primordial chaos, preparatory to reestablishing itself in a new order. Thus, Samhain is a night that exists outside of time and, hence, it may be used to view any other point in time. At no other holiday is a tarot card reading, crystal reading, or tealeaf reading so likely to succeed.
The Christian religion, with its emphasis on the “historical” Christ and his act of Redemption 2000 years ago, is forced into a linear view of time, where seeing the future is an illogical proposition. In fact, from the Christian perspective, any attempt to do so is seen as inherently evil. This did not keep the medieval church from co-opting Samhain’s other motif, commemoration of the dead. To the church, however, it could never be a feast for all the dead, but only the blessed dead, all those hallowed (made holy) by obedience to God—thus, All Hallow’s, or Hallowmas, later All Saints and All Souls.
There are so many types of divination that are traditional to Hallowstide, it is possible to mention only a few. Girls were told to place hazelnuts along the front of the firegrate, each one to symbolize one of her suitors. She could then divine her future husband by chanting, “If you love me, pop and fly; if you hate me, burn and die.” Several methods used the apple, that most popular of Halloween fruits. You should slice an apple through the equator (to reveal the five-pointed star within) and then eat it by candlelight before a mirror. Your future spouse will then appear over your shoulder. Or, peel an apple, making sure the peeling comes off in one long strand, reciting, “I pare this apple round and round again; / My sweetheart’s name to flourish on the plain: / I fling the unbroken paring o’er my head, / My sweetheart’s letter on the ground to read.” Or, you might set a snail to crawl through the ashes of your hearth. The considerate little creature will then spell out the initial letter as it moves.
Perhaps the most famous icon of the holiday is the jack-o’- lantern. Various authorities attribute it to either Scottish or Irish origin. However, it seems clear that it was used as a lantern by people who traveled the road this night, the scary face to frighten away spirits or faeries who might otherwise lead one astray. Set on porches and in windows, they cast the same spell of protection over the household. (The American pumpkin seems to have forever superseded the European gourd as the jack-o’- lantern of choice.) Bobbing for apples may well represent the remnants of a Pagan “baptism” rite called a seining, according to some writers. The water-filled tub is a latter-day Cauldron of Regeneration, into which the novice’s head is immersed. The fact that the participant in this folk game was usually blindfolded with hands tied behind the back also puts one in mind of a traditional Craft initiation ceremony.
The custom of dressing in costume and “trick-or-treating” is of Celtic origin, with survivals particularly strong in Scotland. However, there are some important differences from the modern version. In the first place, the custom was not relegated to children, but was actively indulged in by adults as well. Also, the “treat” that was required was often one of spirits (the liquid variety). This has recently been revived by college students who go ‘trick-or-drinking’. And in ancient times, the roving bands would sing seasonal carols from house-to-house, making the tradition very similar to Yuletide wassailing. In fact, the custom known as caroling, now connected exclusively with Midwinter, was once practiced at all the major holidays. Finally, in Scotland at least, the tradition of dressing in costume consisted almost exclusively of cross-dressing (i.e., men dressing as women, and women as men). It seems as though ancient societies provided an opportunity for people to “try on” the role of the opposite gender for one night of the year. (Although in Scotland, this is admittedly less dramatic—but more confusing—since men were in the habit of wearing skirtlike kilts anyway. Oh well...)
To Witches, Halloween is one of the four High Holidays, or Greater Sabbats, or cross-quarter days. Because it is the most important holiday of the year, it is sometimes called “The Great Sabbat”. It is an ironic fact that the newer, self-created covens tend to use the older name of the holiday, Samhain, which they have discovered through modern research. While the older hereditary and traditional covens often use the newer name, Halloween, which has been handed down through oral tradition within their coven. (This often holds true for the names of the other holidays, as well. One may often get an indication of a coven’s antiquity by noting what names it uses for the holidays.)
With such an important holiday, Witches often hold two distinct celebrations. First, a large Halloween party for non- Craft friends, often held on the previous weekend. And second, a coven ritual held on Halloween night itself, late enough so as not to be interrupted by trick-or-treaters. If the rituals are performed properly, there is often the feeling of invisible friends taking part in the rites. Another date that may be utilized in planning celebrations is the actual cross-quarter day, or Old Halloween, or Halloween O.S. (Old Style). This occurs when the sun has reached fifteen degrees Scorpio, an astrological “power point” symbolized by the Eagle. The celebration would begin at sunset. Interestingly, this date (Old Halloween) was also appropriated by the church as the holiday of Martinmas.
Of all the Witchcraft holidays, Halloween is the only one that still boasts anything near to popular celebration. Even though it is typically relegated to children (and the young-atheart) and observed as an evening affair only, many of its traditions are firmly rooted in Paganism. Incidentally, some schools have recently attempted to abolish Halloween parties on the grounds that it violates the separation of state and religion. Speaking as a Pagan, I would be saddened by the success of this move, but as a supporter of the concept of religion-free public education, I fear I must concede the point. Nonetheless, it seems only right that there should be one night of the year when our minds are turned toward thoughts of the supernatural. A night when both Pagans and non-Pagans may ponder the mysteries of the Otherworld and its inhabitants. And if you are one of them, may all your jack-o’-lanterns burn bright on this All Hallow’s Eve.
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Post by Jagathara on Oct 1, 2005 0:29:18 GMT -7
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