Взбульки

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

“While the vision statement focuses on tomorrow, the mission statement focuses on today—what the company is doing right now to make the vision a reality.” Dave Foster, Forbes Councils Member for Forbes Agency Council

To love and to trust,
To be joyful and calm,
To smile at the fog and the sun.
A road, a forest, a shore, a peace –
The Garden and Gardener one.

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

Guess this week is the “recognizing self in literature” week :DDD

Ray Bradbury published this in 1994. Rodney, who mocks himself and his siblings as the Science-Fiction generation is a few years older than me (provided that Bradbury intended the story to happen around the year it was published).

Bradbury cheated with the ages to make the lack of deaths obvious, and cheated with location to make it exist. It’s less about one’s generation, really, than about not living in Niger.

And yet, in the here-and-now, in the circle around my head that is eternally Thursday, we do live in sci-fi. The fact that Claude disagrees with me is, in itself, evidence.

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

Today (1950)

Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas!
You really are beautiful! Pearls,
harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins! all
the stuff they’ve always talked about

still makes a poem a surprise!
These things are with us every day
even on beachheads and biers. They
do have meaning. They’re strong as rocks.

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

I wanted a decorative tondo of plum blossoms against a sun rise and I’ve got myself a decorative tondo of plum blossoms against a sun rise. It uses pearlescent acrylics, Vantablack, and air dry clay on a wood circle.

Plum, and not cherry, because a) plum blooms when it’s still winter, not spring. They are brave this way. In addition to bravery plum blossom symbolizes auspicious beginnings, and certainty of coming joy. b) unlike cherry, plum blossoms are wildly fragrant. c) even sourest plums are traditionally turned into something joyful and tasty (by salting and pickling).

There’s one with six petals, because a greater number of petals stands for unexpected luck in my headcannon.

There are buds because the bloom is continuing.

in full bloom
may the plum not be touched
by the wind’s hand

Basho https://thehaikufoundation.org/omeka/files/original/4b7e705b2aa76b4a77e51fa5e09cc6d9.pdf #25

The beginning of spring

Amid white
plum blossoms, dawn
breaking now

Yosa Buson

https://www.nippon.com/en/japan-topics/b09609

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

There once was a cat and a very good cat
And a very good cat was she.
And she was as sweet as the day is long,
And she purred most prettily.

REFRAIN:
And she purred most prettily my boys
And she purred most prettily.
For she was a cat, and a very sweet cat,
And the fluffiest cat was she.

There once was a cat and a very good cat
And a very good cat was she.
And her nose was wet, and her ears were soft,
And she purred most prettily.
REFRAIN

There once was a cat and a very good cat
And a very good cat was she.
And she turned belly up when she wanted pets,
And she purred most prettily.
REFRAIN

There once was a cat and a very good cat
And a very good cat was she.
And her paws were gentle and her meow was sweet,
And she purred most prettily.
REFRAIN

There once was a cat and a very good cat
And a very good cat was she.
And her tail was bushy, and her whiskers were long,
And she purred most prettily.
REFRAIN

There once was a cat and a very good cat
And a very good cat was she.
And she slept in my bed ’cause I’m lucky that way.
And she purred most prettily.
REFRAIN

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

I walked with the Oldest Cat and the Youngest Kid. We went to the neighborhood café, we walked along the ocean (not for long – the cat disapproved), and I photographed the flowers. It was warm, beautiful, and restful.

I went to SF with Oldest Kid and found an easy place to park in the Mission. We strolled through Balmy Alley together and they appreciated it as much as I could possibly wish :). There were paper cranes and butterflies all over, which is not usual.

We continued to Medicine for Nightmares, which has more books I own than any other bookshop I’ve ever been in. There we played Exquisite Corpse (game where each player writes down a line of a poem on a paper going around the table, but sees only the line written by the player immediately before them in the circle) with very nice strangers. I was in my “exotic hilarious” persona and it went over well.

It was an open mic, so we read poems (Help for them, Lexapro and Future for me) and had some very kind praise from multiple people. The host asked where we’re reading next and said he might join.

One of those people kindly told me about an SF tradition (over 16 years, apparently) – the 16th and Mission open mic on Thursdays at 10:30 pm. One of those days.

Overall an incredibly good and well-spent day.

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

Eavan Boland. She has a merciless definition of “best”.

In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking — they were both walking — north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

Mikhailik’s Expedition series is my current favorite poetry reading. Kedrin was my favorite poet as a kid.

Alena of Arzamass was a Cossack or peasant girl married forcibly to an older man. Once widowed Alena entered a nunnery where she became a healer, and, some claim, a magician who could (or attempted to) turn bullets and arrows away by spells. In 1699 she gathered an army of 400 people and joined Stepan Razin’s uprising against the tsar. In the next year her army grew to over 2,000 people, but in 1670 they were beaten by the tsar’s army, Alena was captured (some say by the townspeople, others say by the soldiers) and, after torture, sentenced to be burned alive in a log house.

Иоганн Фриш:

Когда часть его войск была разбита Долгоруковым, она, будучи их предводителем, укрылась в церкви и продолжала там так упорно сопротивляться, что сперва расстреляла все свои стрелы, убив при этом ещё семерых или восьмерых, а после того, как увидела, что дальнейшее сопротивление невозможно, отвязала саблю, отшвырнула её и с распростёртыми руками бросилась навзничь к алтарю… Её мужество проявилось также во время казни, когда она спокойно взошла на край хижины, сооружённой по московскому обычаю из дерева, соломы и других горючих вещей, и, перекрестившись и свершив другие обряды, смело прыгнула в неё, захлопнула за собой крышку и, когда всё было охвачено пламенем, не издала ни звука.

This first poem is not actually about her.

Елена Михайлик

Бронзовая женщина, одетая не по погоде –

холодновато в Симбирске для греческих нарядов –

стоит на рыжем камне, чуть склонив голову,

в одной руке книга, в другой – труба,

смотрит туда, где должны лежать стылая чешуйчатая Волга,

Императорский мост.

– Рассказывают, гуляща жёнка была,

вот в этом виде и шлёндала –

все сплошь видать –

за то и окаменела, то есть, убронзовела,

а на столб её уже власти поставили,

в назидание…

Не пилить же на цветмет.

Назидание получается сомнительное:

женщина прекрасна пропорциональной красотой человека,

отдавшего дань легкой атлетике.

Тонкая ткань туники

оставляет мало простора воображению.

Смущает только выражение лица.

– Да она не в том смысле гуляла,

ты на глаза-то посмотри,

какая ж это гулящая?

Она разбойница была, по Волге струги водила,

ну а потом раскаялась, ушла в монастырь,

за что и поставлен ей памятник.

– В этом виде?

– Ну а в каком? В чем гуляла, в том и поставили.

Ткань-то дорогая, до сих пор видно.

Информанты, они как голуби –

стоит задать вопрос кому-то одному,

и ты уже в толпе,

и площадь заполнена шорохом сизых крыльев.

Третья старушка, в отличие от первых двух,

не в берете, а в очень теплой шапке-ушанке,

и без вязания, но почему-то с ножницами.

– И не в монастырь, а из монастыря,

и не ушла, а как раз сбежала.

К Разину, как Алёна-старица.

Только Алёна на суше воевала,

а эта на воде.

– А памятник почему?

– Так памятник-то не ей, а Карамзину.

Вот же надпись. И портрет.

Он же отсюда родом, симбирской.

Про нее первый и написал,

считай, с нее и сочинил

историю государства Российского.

Вот и поставили.

Как-никак муза.

А одежда такая, потому что делали

при государе Николае Первом,

а у них тогда принято было

всех рядить в греки и римляне,

чтобы единообразно

и как в настоящей империи.

Вот на постаменте горельеф –

Александр I «Историю» слушает,

так он в тоге и с голым торсом,

а чтение-то было зимой в Твери.

Сколько лет жизни у Александра памятник отнял…

Ну мало ли что мертвый,

что у вас задним числом за свет не вычитали? Или за воду?

Много, в общем. И у Николая.

То есть, Карамзин тоже простудился и умер –

но его-то она пожалела,

в 25-м, в декабре, слег

и не увидел, что было дальше.

А Николая – нет…

Не любит она Романовых. –

заключает женщина в шапке, –

Всех не любит, но Романовых – особенно.

– А куда она потом подалась?

– В каком смысле?

– Ну разбойница, если не в монастырь ушла,

а, наоборот, на Волгу сбежала.

Так Разина как раз здесь и разбили –

а она куда делась?

– Никуда не делась. – хором отвечают все трое,

и почему-то вдруг кажется,

что бронзовые книга и труба,

официальные атрибуты Клио, музы истории,

в этом случае означают что-то другое,

что-то совсем, совсем другое. –

Они ж у нее сына-трехлетку повесили. –

(Ни одна из трех не поясняет, кто такие «они» –

да и зачем?

Много кто может убить ребенка.

Но вот именно повесить и ждать, пока умрет –

только одна инстанция,

у того же Разина на такие вещи

просто не хватало терпения.)

Куда она после этого отсюда денется?

Вот и стоит.

И пишет.

И не только.

И если вы ее слышите

(конечно, слышит – это вовсе не шорох крыльев,

это шорох страниц,

где записано слишком много),

будьте осторожны.

Плохо, если она вас не любит.

Хуже только, если вы ей понравитесь.

Как вы думаете, кто подсказал Ульянову

бросить адвокатуру?

Дмитрий Кедрин, Песня Про Алену-Старицу

                      Что не пройдет -
                       Останется,
                       А что пройдет -
                       Забудется...
                       Сидит Алена-Старица
                       В Москве, на Вшивой улице.

                       Зипун, простоволосая,
                       На голову набросила,
                       А ноги в кровь изрезаны
                       Тяжелыми железами.

                       Бегут ребята - дразнятся,
                       Кипит в застенке варево...
                       Покажут ноне разинцам
                       Острастку судьи царевы!

                       Распросят, в землю метлами
                       Брады уставя долгие,
                       Как соколы залетные
                       Гуляли Доном-Волгою,
                       Как под Азовом ладили
                       Челны с высоким застругом,
                       Как шарили да грабили
                       Торговый город Астрахань!

                       Палач-собака скалится,
                       Лиса-приказный хмурится.
                       Сидит Алена-Старица
                       В Москве, на Вшивой улице.
                       Судья в кафтане до полу
                       В лицо ей светит свечечкой:
                       "Немало, ведьма, попила
                       Ты крови человеческой,
                       Покуда плахе-матушке
                       Челом ты не ударила!"
                       Пытают в раз остаточный
                       Бояре государевы:
                       "Обедню черту правила ль,
                       Сквозь сито землю сеяла ль
                       В погибель роду цареву,
                       Здоровью Алексееву?"

                       "Смолой приправлен жидкою,
                       Мне солон царский хлебушек!
                       А ты, боярин, пыткою
                       Стращал бы красных девушек!
                       Хотите - жгите заживо,
                       А я царя не сглазила.
                       Мне жребий выпал - важивать
                       Полки Степана Разина.
                       В моих ушах без умолка
                       Поет стрела татарская...
                       Те два полка,
                       Что два волка,
                       Дружину грызли царскую!
                       Нам, смердам, двери заперты
                       Повсюду, кроме паперти.
                       На паперти слепцы поют,
                       Попросишь - грош купцы дают.

                       Судьба меня возвысила!
                       Я бар, как семя, щелкала,
                       Ходила в кике бисерной,
                       В зеленой кофте шелковой.

                       На Волге - что оконницы -
                       Пруды с зеленой ряскою,
                       В них раки нынче кормятся
                       Свежинкою дворянскою.

                       Боярский суд не жаловал
                       Ни старого, ни малого,
                       Так вас любить,
                       Так вас жалеть -
                       Себя губить,
                       Душе болеть!..

                       Горят огни-пожарища,
                       Дымы кругом постелены.
                       Мои друзья-товарищи
                       Порубаны, постреляны,
                       Им глазыньки до донышка
                       Ночной стервятник выклевал,
                       Их греет волчье солнышко,
                       Они к нему привыкнули.
                       И мне топор, знать, выточен
                       У ката в башне пыточной,
                       Да помни, дьяк,
                       Не ровен час:
                       Сегодня - нас,
                       А завтра - вас!
                       Мне б после смерти галкой стать,
                       Летать под низкой тучею,
                       Ночей не спать, --
                       Царя пугать
                       Бедою неминучею!.."

                       Смола в застенке варится,
                       Опарой всходит сдобною,
                       Ведут Алену-Старицу
                       Стрельцы на место Лобное.
                       В Зарядье над осокою
                       Блестит зарница дальняя.
                       Горит звезда высокая...
                       Терпи, многострадальная!

                       А тучи, словно лошади,
                       Бегут над Красной площадью.

                       Все звери спят.
                       Все птицы спят,
                       Одни дьяки
                       Людей казнят.

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

So, I was sick around Thanksgiving, and B turned up with a giant beautiful nook set I’ve wanted forever saying “you can’t stay vertical anyway, so maybe try sitting down” – and now I have the library!

It’s close to what the designers intended, but there are a few differences, notably the statue for which Younger Kid invented a whole new gilding-with-whiteout process making it look antique. Other differences are buns and flowers, because my library would have both.

This got me started, and I used two of my gifted nook sets that have been waiting. The first one, done in partnership with Younger Kid is a dream garage. The original nook set was supposed to be a steampunk zeppelin repair shop based, for some reason, in a garage that served as a US Army munitions storage facility. Had to do a lot of replacements and even more deletes. Discovered a technique for doing milk foam which I’ll now use all the time (tight packing foam cut finely and carefully placed over glue).

The second, which was supposed to be a detective agency in a clock tower, is now my dream office/crafting space. As such it, of course, includes artwork, treats, and a miniature display. I also figured out how to do crystal lamps/vases with thumb tacks.

Finally, B got my dream box for New Year (it had a wallet inside, but the box is the important part, ofc), and I built a cozy room mini showing a restful 2 pm breakfast on a New Year morning. Snowman was restored by Younger Kid from my first glass animal (broken decades ago). He also painted the seascape to match the room. Everything else, except for the tree decorations, is leftovers and might-use-this bits. I think it perfectly sets off the live-edge shelves that B built for me, and what I see on the screen during video calls finally looks like a me place.

Mirrored from Madam Nakamura-Branchevska.

by Morgan Rowanwaif

Every Dane down in Heorot liked to revel a lot
But the monster who lived just north of Heorot did not
Grendel hated the Danes and all manly races.
He hated their homes! He hated their faces!

He stared from his lake with a sour, Grendel frown
At the warm lighted windows above in their town.
For he knew every Dane in that gold-timbered spot
Was busy now, planning a post-viking blot.

“They’re roasting their cattle!” he snarled with a sneer.
“Tomorrow’s the blot! It’s practically here”
Then he growled, with his troll fingers nervously drumming,
“I MUST find some way to stop men-folk from coming!”

For tomorrow, he knew, every Dane-man and Swede
Would wake bright and early. They’d rush for their mead!
And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
That’s one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!

Then the Danes, young and old, would sit down to a feast.
And they’d feast! And they’d feast!
And they’d FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! FEAST!
They would feast on nut pudding, and fruit, and smoked beast
Which was something that Grendel couldn’t stand in the least!

And THEN, they’d do something he liked least of all!
Every Dane up in Heorot, the tall and the small,
Would sit all together, with drinking horns swinging.
They’d hark to the skald. And the Danes would start singing!

They’d sing! And they’d sing!
And they’d SING! SING! SING! SING!
And the more Grendel thought of this hall-shaking sing,
The more Grendel thought, “I must stop this whole thing!
“Why, for many a year I’ve put up with it now!
“I must stop this revel from coming! … But HOW?”

Then he got an idea! An awful idea!
The troll got a terrible, awful idea!
“I know just what to do!” Grendel laughed dark and deep.
“I will wait until all the Danes pass out asleep.”
And he chuckled and clucked, “What a great Grendel spree!
“With the Danes all asleep, they’re like nuts off a tree.”

All their windows were dark. Quiet snow filled the air.
All the Danes were all dreaming sweet dreams without care
When he snuck to the hall of King Hrothgar’s Great Chair.
“This is night number one,” Grendel said there and then
And he raised up his claws, and he slew thirty men.

The Danes tried to fight, but he brushed them aside.
No sword-point or arrow could pierce his thick hide.
Then he slunk through the deer-covered doorway with glee.
“Pooh-pooh to the Danes! If you’d just let me be.”

And so things were – for twelve long, dark years.
Until Hrothgar’s story reached Beowulf’s ears.
So he gathered his friends with tales of great gains,
And left the land of the Geats for the land of the Danes.

“You’ll see, my good men,” he was happily humming.
“They’re finding out now that Beowulf is coming!”
“When we meet with Hrothgar, I know just what they’ll do!
“Their mouths will hang open a minute or two
“Then the Danes down in Heorot will all cry WOO-HOO!”

When they reached the far shores, they met with the guard.
Their manner was grim and their faces were hard.
They didn’t cry “woo-hoo” to welcome the Geat,
“Look,” they said. “More warriors for Grendel to eat.”

They led Beowulf to the hall to meet with the King
(Who had saved Beowulf’s father at a long ago Thing).
Hrothgar welcomed the hero and called for a feast.
“This young man will help us get rid of our beast.”

They boiled beef and chicken. They baked some fresh bread.
They brought apples and cheese until all were well fed.
And after the King and his jarls did their toasting,
They settled on down and started in boasting.

“I am Beowulf, son of Edgetho, Prince of the Geats,
“I’ve done many great deeds, and performed many feats.
“I battled a sea monster off the Island of Yarna
“And killed the great wolf that was plaguing Dawlarna
“I’ve fought many battles and won many wars,
“I’ve killed lots of monsters! Now tell me of yours.”

King Hrothgar sighed and drank from his beer,
“Whatever they say, Grendel’s worse than you hear.
“We stabbed him with swords! We hit him with bricks!
“We beat him with polearms and Celt-bashing sticks!

“But nothing we did had any effect!
“He just goes on killing my warriors unchecked.
“The gods have all left us, they don’t hear our prayers,
“And that is how once proud Heorot fares.”

Beowulf put his hand on Hrothgar’s heavy shoulder.
“I will now make my already bold boast still bolder!
“Not only will I fight this beast and prevail,
“I will fight with no weapon. I will fight with no maile.
“I will fight. And I swear I will die if I fail.”

The cheers of the Danes made the great hall’s walls shake,
And it wakened old Grendel below in his lake.
“They never will learn. No, you can’t teach a Dane.
“I will have to give them a lesson again.”

He waited ‘til darkness filled up the hall
And the sounds of the revel stilled to nothing at all.
Then Grendel said, “It’s time!” and he started on up
Toward the hall where the King lay a-snooze in his cup.

He tore down the doors, didn’t try to be silent,
Grabbed the first Geat and got frightfully violent.
Beowulf jumped up and charged with a rush
And grappled with Grendel in a side-smashing crush.

The old troll howled, amazed to find
A mere, little human with strength of this kind.
They scrapped and scrabbled, they rolled and they wrestled,
The hall’s tables tumbled and the trestles untrestled.

Grendel tried to run, but Beowulf wouldn’t let
The monster who terrorized Heorot go yet.
The other men attacked, but their swords went unheeded,
‘Till Beowulf saw the opening he needed.

He grabbed Grendel’s arm, and he gave it a wrench
When he heard a loud sound like the crack of a bench.
He turned around fast, and pulled the arm with him,
And tore off Grendel’s shoulder, like a birk from a chithim.

And what happened then …? Well … in Denmark they say
That Grendel’s cruel heart lost three gallons that day.
And the moment the Geat’s grip didn’t feel quite so tight,
He whizzed through the door in the cold, frozen night.
And all that he left on the floor of the hall
Was his arm, which Beowulf hung on the wall.