Not So Molly

More pictures of James from the red carpet of the 77th Venice Film Festival. Golly, he's gorgeous.

From Olympus

Photo: Ana Martinez 

Styling and Creative Direction: Mario Ville (Kattaca) 

Makeup design and make up artist: Lewis Amarante for Kryolan and Pankr0 

Makeup and hairdressing: Sergio Jiménez 

A Death that need not fight against you, that will often fight for you, because why not? It will gather you home eventually. Why not enjoy you first?

A Death that treasures those who fight it most ardently. That loves healers and defenders and survivalists and necromancers and mad scientists and immortal gods. That lets them pour everything they are into fighting it, denying it, adoring every desperate scrap of strength and will and brilliance and raw determination poured out against it. That catches you when your strength is done and all your will and brilliance run out, that gathers you close beneath a warm, dark cloak, and whispers well done, oh child, you were magnificent, well done.

A Death who will not seek to hasten an inevitable end, who will chastise those who seek to hasten it for others in Death’s stead, who will slowly and patiently plot and sow and siphon away from the great monsters of the world. Because who are they to hasten Death’s domain, who are they to deny Death its time and its place, who are they to cut short these vital glories that illuminate it so? Who are they to presume upon its will, that is so much larger and so much longer than theirs?

Who are they to call, and presume that Death, of all beings, should obey?

A Death that is not a hunter but a gatherer, who is always and eternal, who loves you, and can afford to wait. A Death who will fight for you and defend you, who will place its hand upon those who would speed you to its embrace, who has no need to rush you, only to greet you when you call.

A Death who is kind.

And patient.

And, before all and above all,

My family likes to vacation in Topsail, North Carolina, which is a little barrier island mostly covered in vacation homes. We rent a huge house in their off season, when most people consider it too cold to be at the beach, and we, with our icewater blood, consider it quite pleasantly deserted.

I love going for walks at night, especially when there’s a clear sky, so I, age sixteen, would go a few miles up the beach around midnight most nights. One night, while still about a mile from our house, I saw something rolling in the surf. 

“That’s either a plastic bag caught on a log,” I thought, “Or a four foot shark.”

I jogged over. It was not a plastic bag caught on a log. 

The shark was moving and didn’t appear to be hurt, but was caught in water only an inch or so deep, being pushed higher with every wave. I was by myself, and didn’t own a cell phone, and couldn’t see a house with lights on in either direction. There was nobody around. Leaving to go get help would probably take long enough for him to suffocate. The best thing I could do for this shark, I figured, would be to get him back in the ocean. 

I have no idea how he wound up so high on the beach, because it was a very shallow slope. I’d have to carry him a good fifteen or so feet to get him into water deep enough to swim. It was nearly a full moon, so I could sort of see what I was doing. I got a grip on the shark, careful not to squeeze too hard, in case he was hurt, and picked him up. He didn’t like that at all. 

I started walking into the water. Here’s a thing I didn’t know about sharks: They’re pretty damn flexible. I got a couple steps with this shark, looked down, and realized there were a hell of a lot of teeth coming directly at my forearm. 

It occurred to me that I had not thought this through very well.

I’m not proud of what I did. It seemed like the best way to get this shark back in deep enough water and avoid dropping thirty pounds of very bitey animal directly on my own toes. So.

I yote the shark with as much force as I could muster. 

He curved through the air like a thing of beauty, all angry and toothsome in the moonlight, and splashed wonderfully into the deeper waters. I caught a glimpse of fin diving away shortly after. 

i sent a pestilence a plague into your house into your bed into your streams into your streets into your drink into your bread! upon your cattle, on your sheep upon your oxen, in your field into your dreams into your sleep until you break until you yield! I - sent - the - swarm - I - sent - the - hoard - thu'saieth the looooord 

once i called you brother, once i thought the chance to make you laugh, was all i ever wanted (ISENTHEFIREFROMTHESKYISENTTHEFIRERAININGDOWN.) and even now, i wish that god had chose another, serving as your foe on his behalf, is the last thing that i wanteeeeeeeeeed (I SENT A HAIL OF BURNING ICE ON EVERY FIELD ON EVERY TOWN!) THIS was my home, all this pain and devastation, how it tortures me inside, all the innocent who suffer, from your STUBBORNNESS AND PRIIIIIIIIIIDE (I SENT THE LOCUSTS ON THE WIND SUCH AS THE WORLD HAS NEVER SEEN FROM EVERY LEAF ON EVERY STALK UNTIL THERE’S NOTHING LEFT BUT GREEN!) I - sent - my - scourge - I - sent - my - sword - thu'saieth the looooord you who i call brother, why must you call down another blow, is this what you wanteeeeeeeed I - sent - my - scourge - I - sent - my - swoooooooord LET MY PEOPLE GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO (THUS SAITH THE LORD) THUS SAITH THE LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORD 

A male lion, once he finds his pride, is a fairly chill dude. He only becomes violent when his pride is threatened, most often by other males. Most versions of the myth have the lion “kidnapping” the women of Nemea, as opposed to killing them.

Why wouldn’t the women leave when the lion goes out again? Answer: living with the lion is better than living with the men in Nemea.

So, like Medusa, the lion becomes an enemy who is “stealing women,” when in actuality the lion is protecting them. Additional support for this comes from his mother being Selene, of the moon, and being raised by Hera, both are amazing goddesses who are full of the Female Spirit. One of the symbols of Hera is this lion, in fact, and once he died he became the constellation Leo. Tell me, why would Hera immortalize the lion in this way if he was just some violent beast, as opposed to a brave, valiant son she raised who died protecting women who needed it?