cumshitter posted:

just do it at your own pace its all good

quote:

No grasp is like the sudden strain of the cephaloptera. It is with the sucking apparatus that it attacks. The victim is oppressed by a vacuum drawing at numberless points; it is not a clawing or a biting, but an indescribable scarification. A tearing of the flesh is terrible, but less terrible than a sucking of the blood. Claws are harmless compared with the horrible action of these natural air-cups. The talons of the wild beast enter into your flesh; but with the cephaloptera it is you who enter into the creature. The muscles swell, the fibres of the body are contorted, the skin cracks under the loathsome oppression, the blood spurts out and mingles horribly with the lymph of the monster, which clings to its victim by innumerable hideous mouths. The hydra incorporates itself with the man; the man becomes one with the hydra. The spectre lies upon you: the tiger can only devour you; the devil-fish, horrible, sucks your life-blood away. He draws you to him, and into himself; while bound down, glued to the ground, powerless, you feel yourself gradually emptied into this horrible pouch, which is the monster itself.

quote:

Philosophy in her turn studies these creatures. She goes both less far and further. She does not dissect, but meditate. Where the scalpel has laboured she plunges the hypothesis. She seeks the final cause. Eternal perplexity of the thinker. These creatures disturb his ideas of the Creator. They are hideous surprises. They are the death’s-head at the feast of contemplation. The philosopher determines their characteristics in dread. They are the concrete forms of evil. What attitude can he take towards this treason of creation against herself? To whom can he look for the solution of these riddles? The Possible is a terrible matrix. Monsters are mysteries in their concrete form. Portions of shade issue from the mass, and something within detaches itself, rolls, floats, condenses, borrows elements from the ambient darkness, becomes subject to unknown polarisations, assumes a kind of life, furnishes itself with some unimagined form from the obscurity, and with some terrible spirit from the miasma, and wanders ghost-like among living things. It is as if night itself assumed the forms of animals. But for what good? with what object? Thus we come again to the eternal questioning

These animals are indeed phantoms as much as monsters. They are proved and yet improbable. Their fate is to exist in spite of a priori reasonings. They are the amphibia of the shore which separates life from death. Their unreality makes their existence puzzling. They touch the frontier of man’s domain and people the region of chimeras. We deny the possibility of the vampire, and the cephaloptera appears. Their swarming is a certainty which disconcerts our confidence. Optimism, which is nevertheless in the right, becomes silenced in their presence. They form the visible extremity of the dark circles. They mark the transition of our reality into another. They seem to belong to that commencement of terrible life which the dreamer sees confusedly through the loophole of the night.

That multiplication of monsters, first in the Invisible, then in the Possible, has been suspected, perhaps perceived, by magi and philosophers in their austere ecstasies and profound contemplations. Hence the conjecture of a material hell. The demon is simply the invisible tiger. The wild beast which devours souls has been presented to the eyes of human beings by St. John, and by Dante in his vision of Hell.

If, in truth, the invisible circles of creation continue indefinitely, if after one there is yet another, and so forth in illimitable progression; if that chain, which for our part we are resolved to doubt, really exist, the cephaloptera at one extremity proves Satan at the other. It is certain that the wrongdoer at one end proves the existence of wrong at the other.

Every malignant creature, like every perverted intelligence, is a sphinx. A terrible sphinx propounding a terrible riddle-the riddle of the existence of Evil.

quote:

This elusive quality it is, which causes the thought of whiteness, when
divorced from more kindly associations, and coupled with any object
terrible in itself, to heighten that terror to the furthest bounds.
Witness the white bear of the poles, and the white shark of the
tropics; what but their smooth, flaky whiteness makes them the
transcendent horrors they are? That ghastly whiteness it is which
imparts such an abhorrent mildness, even more loathsome than terrific,
to the dumb gloating of their aspect. So that not the fierce-fanged
tiger in his heraldic coat can so stagger courage as the white-shrouded
bear or shark.*

*With reference to the Polar bear, it may possibly be urged by him who
would fain go still deeper into this matter, that it is not the
whiteness, separately regarded, which heightens the intolerable
hideousness of that brute; for, analysed, that heightened hideousness,
it might be said, only rises from the circumstance, that the
irresponsible ferociousness of the creature stands invested in the
fleece of celestial innocence and love; and hence, by bringing together
two such opposite emotions in our minds, the Polar bear frightens us
with so unnatural a contrast. But even assuming all this to be true;
yet, were it not for the whiteness, you would not have that intensified
terror.

As for the white shark, the white gliding ghostliness of repose in that
creature, when beheld in his ordinary moods, strangely tallies with the
same quality in the Polar quadruped. This peculiarity is most vividly
hit by the French in the name they bestow upon that fish. The Romish
mass for the dead begins with “Requiem eternam” (eternal rest), whence
_Requiem_ denominating the mass itself, and any other funeral music.
Now, in allusion to the white, silent stillness of death in this shark,
and the mild deadliness of his habits, the French call him _Requin_.

Bethink thee of the albatross, whence come those clouds of spiritual
wonderment and pale dread, in which that white phantom sails in all
imaginations? Not Coleridge first threw that spell; but God’s great,
unflattering laureate, Nature.*

*I remember the first albatross I ever saw. It was during a prolonged
gale, in waters hard upon the Antarctic seas. From my forenoon watch
below, I ascended to the overclouded deck; and there, dashed upon the
main hatches, I saw a regal, feathery thing of unspotted whiteness, and
with a hooked, Roman bill sublime. At intervals, it arched forth its
vast archangel wings, as if to embrace some holy ark. Wondrous
flutterings and throbbings shook it. Though bodily unharmed, it uttered
cries, as some king’s ghost in supernatural distress. Through its
inexpressible, strange eyes, methought I peeped to secrets which took
hold of God. As Abraham before the angels, I bowed myself; the white
thing was so white, its wings so wide, and in those for ever exiled
waters, I had lost the miserable warping memories of traditions and of
towns. Long I gazed at that prodigy of plumage. I cannot tell, can only
hint, the things that darted through me then. But at last I awoke; and
turning, asked a sailor what bird was this. A goney, he replied. Goney!
never had heard that name before; is it conceivable that this glorious
thing is utterly unknown to men ashore! never! But some time after, I
learned that goney was some seaman’s name for albatross. So that by no
possibility could Coleridge’s wild Rhyme have had aught to do with
those mystical impressions which were mine, when I saw that bird upon
our deck. For neither had I then read the Rhyme, nor knew the bird to
be an albatross. Yet, in saying this, I do but indirectly burnish a
little brighter the noble merit of the poem and the poet.

I assert, then, that in the wondrous bodily whiteness of the bird
chiefly lurks the secret of the spell; a truth the more evinced in
this, that by a solecism of terms there are birds called grey
albatrosses; and these I have frequently seen, but never with such
emotions as when I beheld the Antarctic fowl.

But how had the mystic thing been caught? Whisper it not, and I will
tell; with a treacherous hook and line, as the fowl floated on the sea.
At last the Captain made a postman of it; tying a lettered, leathern
tally round its neck, with the ship’s time and place; and then letting
it escape. But I doubt not, that leathern tally, meant for man, was
taken off in Heaven, when the white fowl flew to join the wing-folding,
the invoking, and adoring cherubim!

quote:

BOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER I. (_Sperm Whale_).—This whale, among the
English of old vaguely known as the Trumpa whale, and the Physeter
whale, and the Anvil Headed whale, is the present Cachalot of the
French, and the Pottsfich of the Germans, and the Macrocephalus of the
Long Words. He is, without doubt, the largest inhabitant of the globe;
the most formidable of all whales to encounter; the most majestic in
aspect; and lastly, by far the most valuable in commerce; he being the
only creature from which that valuable substance, spermaceti, is
obtained.

quote:

Below the thunders of the upper deep,
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides; above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumbered and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge sea worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

twoday posted:

hosed this up, will redo with better wood

twoday posted:

Turns out woodcarving is a bitch

twoday posted:

Turns out woodcarving is a bitch

HugeGrossBurrito posted:

goddamn i love this

crazy cloud posted:

holy gently caress this rules so hard, nice going op

twoday posted:

Turns out woodcarving is a bitch

twoday posted:

Turns out woodcarving is a bitch

twoday posted:

Turns out woodcarving is a bitch

twoday posted:

Thanks all,

It was my first attempt to draw Trump and he's not nearly fat enough

HugeGrossBurrito posted:

vitruvian man except its trump

twoday posted:

Turns out woodcarving is a bitch

twoday posted:

crazy cloud posted:

A Spell to Bind Donald Trump and All Those Who Abet Him (version 2.0)

To be performed at midnight on every waning crescent moon until he is removed from office. The first ritual takes place Friday evening, February 24th, at the stroke of midnight. This binding spell is open source, and may be modified to fit your preferred spiritual practice or magical system — the critical elements are the simultaneity of the working (midnight, EST—DC, Mar-a-Lago, and Trump Tower NYC time) and the mass energy of participants.
See below for the upcoming dates. Some lodges/covens are doing a variation of this as a group working, while a number of solitary practitioners are planning to connect and livestream via Facebook, Twitter, and other social media.
Components:

Unflattering photo of Trump (small); see below for one you can print

Tower tarot card (from any deck)

Tiny stub of an orange candle (cheap via Amazon)

Pin or small nail (to inscribe candle)

White candle (any size), representing the element of Fire

Small bowl of water, representing elemental Water

Small bowl of salt, representing elemental Earth

Feather (any), representing the element of Air

Matches or lighter

Ashtray or dish of sand

Optional:

Piece of pyrite (fool’s gold)

Sulfur

Black thread (for traditional binding variant)

Baby carrot (as substitute for orange candle stub)

Preparation:

Write “Donald J. Trump” on the orange candle stub with a pin or nail

Arrange other items in a pleasing circle in front of you

Lean the Tower card against something so that it’s standing up (vertically)

Say a prayer for protection and invoke blessing from your preferred spirit or deity. Reading the 23rd Psalm aloud is common in Hoodoo/Conjure/Rootwork traditions. Experienced magicians may perform an appropriate banishing ritual.

RITUAL

(v. 2.2)
(Light white candle)
Hear me, oh spirits
Of Water, Earth, Fire, and Air
Heavenly hosts
Demons of the infernal realms
And spirits of the ancestors
(Light inscribed orange candle stub)
I call upon you
To bind
Donald J. Trump
So that his malignant works may fail utterly
That he may do no harm
To any human soul
Nor any tree
Animal
Rock
Stream
or Sea
Bind him so that he shall not break our polity
Usurp our liberty
Or fill our minds with hate, confusion, fear, or despair
And bind, too,
All those who enable his wickedness
And those whose mouths speak his poisonous lies
I beseech thee, spirits, bind all of them
As with chains of iron
Bind their malicious tongues
Strike down their towers of vanity
(Invert Tower tarot card)
I beseech thee in my name
(Say your full name)
In the name of all who walk
Crawl, swim, or fly
Of all the trees, the forests,
Streams, deserts,
Rivers and seas
In the name of Justice
And Liberty
And Love
And Equality
And Peace
Bind them in chains
Bind their tongues
Bind their works
Bind their wickedness
(Light the small photo of Trump from the flame of the orange candle stub and hold carefully above the ashtray)
(Speak the following loudly and with increasing passion as the photo burns to ashes)
So mote it be!
So mote it be!
So mote it be!
(Blow out orange candle, visualizing Trump blowing apart into dust or ash*)
(Pinch or snuff out the white candle, ending the ritual)

Grounding and Disposal

Afterward, ground yourself by having a good, hearty laugh, jumping up and down, clapping your hands, stomping your feet, and having a bite to eat. Grounding is very important—don’t neglect it. And remember—he hatespeople laughing at him.
Finally, bury the orange candle stub or discard it at a crossroads or in running water.

crazy cloud posted:

mitch hedbdrigishly],;; am i gonna do the magic ritual to bind donlrb ttrimp i download from the internet in 44 minutes... u bet ur rear end.... ... ....

Baloogan posted:

sign and number em like those art people do

shovelbum posted:

Oh I just got why it was 45

Tastykake posted:

i dont have pms but i would buy a trpm[ print

shovelbum posted:

Oh I just got why it was 45

crazy cloud posted:

4 + 5 = 9 = 3²


3 = trinity, triptych, triad
2 = yin & yang


3 - 2 = 1 *~*& the piss tape is real

crazy cloud posted:

4 + 5 = 9 = 3²


3 = trinity, triptych, triad
2 = yin & yang


3 - 2 = 1 *~*& the piss tape is real

Uranium posted:

Don’t forget Bloodborne runes, vaguely inspired by the “yellow sign” from The King In Yellow.