http://devon9.livejournal.com/142767.html
Это очень красиво. Если бы у меня было куда повесить календарь, я непременно купила бы именно этот.

Стихи

Oct. 11th, 2016 10:39 pm
Вот тут можно купить стихи. Хорошие. Ну или просто почитать, хотя купить, конечно, лучше.

http://amarinn.livejournal.com/763816.html
I like this point of view http://jabberworks.livejournal.com/759970.html
for two reasons:

1. It is kinder than my default point of view
2. It brings up the importance of etiquette
Для тех, кому по жизни не повезло еще прочесть Звездные Дневники:

http://epizodsspace.no-ip.org/bibl/fant/lem/zvezd-dn/01.html

"Ардрит, пытливо взглянул на меня, позеленел (чувства у Ардритов выражаются изменениями окраски, зеленая соответствует улыбке) и спросил:
— Вы позвоночный?
— Да.
— Двоякодышащий?
— Нет, только воздухом.
— Благодарю вас, прекрасно. Всеядный?
— Да.
— С какой планеты, можно узнать?
— С Земли.
— Тогда прошу к следующему окошку. Я подошел туда и, заглянув внутрь, убедился, что вижу того же самого служащего, вернее — его дальнейшую часть. Он перелистывал большую книгу.
— А, вот она!—сказал он. — Земля... гм, очень хорошо. Вы турист или торговец?
— Турист.
— Тогда позвольте... — Одним присоском он заполнил анкету, а другим в то же время подал мне другую для подписи, говоря: — Спотык начинается через неделю. Благоволите поэтому перейти в комнату сто шестнадцать, там наша фабрика резервов, которая вами займется. Потом прошу зайти в комнат шестьдесят семь, это фармацевтический кабинет. Та вам дадут пилюли Эвфруглия, которые вы будете принимать через каждые три часа, чтобы нейтрализовать вредное для вашего организма влияние радиоактивности нашей планеты... Угодно вам светиться во время пребывания на Энтеропии?
— Благодарю вас, нет.
— Как хотите. Прошу вас, вот ваши бумаги. Вы млекопитающее?
— Да.
— Ну, так счастливого млекопитания!
Простившись с любезным служащим, я пошел, как он советовал мне, в отдел резервов."
Навеяно http://antysk.livejournal.com/260459.html

1. Себя (свое благополучие, свободное время, спокойствие) я ценю больше, чем большинство других людей.
1а. Я не читаю журналов, в которых я могу ожидать прочесть что-то неприятное.
1б. Я не трачу своего времени на чужое образование

2. Пропаганду антивакцинирования я воспринимаю как угрозу моим родственникам, т. е. лично мне.

3. Я никогда не спорю о важных для меня вопросах, и вообще спорю редко и только спорта ради.

4. Я считаю вежливым попрощаться перед уходом.

5. Я всегда прощаюсь с людьми, кажущимися мне глупыми, и редко с людьми кажущимися мне гадкими.
Ugh. Can't remember when I was last this disappointed with a book. Little fucking golden miracle, Mr. Gaiman? Really?

What makes this worse is that it _is_ well-written, and the premise is good (the ending seems to have been an afterthought), and there are enough characters that are easy to like, and the imagery is amazing, and the language just complicated enough - all the things I look for in a book, and yet. Like finding half a worm in a ripe strawberry.

The main hero has two kids. With an interval of 20 pages or so each disappears into Faerie, the unmentionable realm of no return. The disappearance of the first kid makes him angry, ashamed, and upset with his wife for being upset. The disappearance of the second fills him with an "impotent tenderness" and makes him go to the rescue.

Guess which kid is a boy.

Btw, the girl is also rescued - the hero doesn't intend to search for her, but sees her and her school friends accidentally, realizes that their sale is illegal, and the illegality appalls him, so he rescues them.
Я рос. Меня, как Ганимеда,
Несли ненастья, сны несли.
Как крылья, отрастали беды
И отделяли от земли.

Я рос. И повечерий тканых
Меня фата обволокла.
Напутствуем вином в стаканах,
Игрой печальною стекла,

Я рос, и вот уж жар предплечий
Студит объятие орла.
Дни далеко, когда предтечей,
Любовь, ты надо мной плыла.

Но разве мы не в том же небе!
На то и прелесть высоты,
Что, как себя отпевший лебедь,
С орлом плечо к плечу и ты.
Iseult of Brittany

So delicate my hands, and long,
They might have been my pride.
And there were those to make them song
Who for their touch had died.

Too frail to cup a heart within,
Too soft to hold the free-
How long these lovely hands have been
A bitterness to me!
This is mainly a reminder for myself to google when I return. I spent approximately 24 hours in museums this week, and saw umpty-hundred-something Allegories of Charity. These usually look like a woman feeding and playing with a bunch of kids http://goo.gl/b36p0v Why are these kids overwhelmingly boys, to the tune of (rough estimate here) 5 to 1? Are baby penises somehow more awwww, or is there an actual art history explanation?

Gualdrada

Jun. 2nd, 2016 12:52 pm
Why don't I read more Boccaccio?
Today's news-to-me story is Gualdrada, who told her own father to shut up when he offered up a kiss from her to Emperor Otto in front of assorted nobles, which impressed everyone and netted her a nice dowry and a baron for a husband.

No word on what happened with the kissing once the baron took her and dowry over to Otto's court. Color me cynical.

O WESTERN wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
Catherine Faber


She is Gone

Melody and lyrics © 1994 by Catherine Faber

She is dressed for sin, in a blouse so thin, with her hair like sunlit flame,
Fifteen years old, looking scared and cold, and Candy is her name.
Now a man drives by with a hungry eye and a fifty dollar note.
And he drives her out down a country route with a jacknife in his coat.

She is gone, she is gone, and the earth closed over her head.
Like the ones before, just a worthless whore,
Selling sin to buy her bread.

So intent is he that he does not see that his quarry's fear has passed;
A fresh grave waits by the junkyard gates, the seventh, and the last.
Now he lays her down on the cold damp ground, with the moss to make her bed.
Where the willow grieves, with its rustling leaves, like the voices of the dead.

Now he stills her shout as the knife comes out, and he puts his face to hers:
"Six lives I fear I have taken here, the seventh shall be yours."
But the small cold fist that grips his wrist has all his strength and more.
"Oh no," says she, "that shall not be -- for I've been here before."

"There are five," she sighs, "who stretch and rise, to pay you for your tricks.
Beneath the firs where the grave-dirt stirs, for I was number six.
Chill and dumb from their graves they come, to serve you in my stead.
And more besides -- they shall be your brides, to grace your wedding bed."

Folk songs

May. 20th, 2016 11:14 am
Awesome post courtesy of [personal profile] andrewducker, but they are missing some countries.
http://metaphortunate.tumblr.com/post/144587331799/neil-gaiman-ellenkushner-shredsandpatches

Russian traditional folk songs:
I was in the army for 20 years, came back, and killed my wife
I was n the army for 20 years, came back, wanted to kill my wife, but turns out she's dead already
The army is my wife
I was in the army and I got killed
My boyfriend went off to join the army and got killed
Yay, army!
My girlfriend is dead and I must die as well
My boyfriend does not love me and I must die
I almost died, but my boyfriend came back
My boyfriend came back with a wife
My husband does not love me, and I'm drunk
I got drunk and flirted, my husband will beat me
When you grow up, little girl, you'll get married to someone who likes to fight. Also it's raining all the time.

Russian 20th century onward folk songs:

The queen is unfaithful and she must die
The princess has lust in her heart and she must die
The troubadour sings about love and must die
I'm a thief and I die for love
I'm a robber and I die for love
I love a thief and die for love
I am a robber and accidentally killed my entire family
I love a thief, mama, you just don't get it
I love a sailor, mama, you just don't get it
I love the guy in yellow shoes, mama, you just don't get it
I loved a guy, my family didn't get it, I killed him and must now die for love
Hey, there, little apple, we live today and die tomorrow
Hey there, little chicken, you will be arrested and die in jail
The cowboy dies for love
The peasant girl dies for love, and not because her boyfriend cut her throat
The Latin-American dancer dies for love and not because her boyfriend shot her and her other boyfriend
The French dancer dies for love and not because some guy shot her and another guy she was dancing with
Dad kills five orphaned children for love
Dad is into law, son is into robbery, everyone dies
Women are unfaithful and everyone dies
There's a war and everyone dies mainly because women are unfaithful
There's lots of incest in Europe and everyone dies
There's incest in San Francisco and everyone dies
It's good to be a cowboy!
It's good to be an archaeologist!
It's good to be a mountain climber!
It's good to be a hiker!
I'm a thief, but I love my mom and it's society's fault

Russian Gypsy folk songs:
Our lives are worse than the Russians'
My husband killed my baby and threw me out into the snow
Look, ma, horses!
http://bububird.livejournal.com/1022386.html

Вот тут замечательный автор раздает красиво иллюстрированную книгу своих стихов.
I am incredibly ignorant, and only learned about this artist today. Excuse me while I go wander around thunderstruck.

Стихи

May. 18th, 2016 10:29 am
Цикл Антрекота Экспедиция
http://el-d.livejournal.com/tag/%D1%8D%D0%BA%D1%81%D0%BF%D0%B5%D0%B4%D0%B8%D1%86%D0%B8%D1%8F

Если вы это еще не читаете, то вы сами себе злобные буратины.

Bonnard

May. 8th, 2016 10:08 pm
Just saw this, and remain somewhat disturbed. It's not as obvious over a screen, but the flowers are more urgent than they have any call to be, the vase shinier than it seems at first, and together the vase and the flowers interrupt a perfectly calm room and demand something more than attention.
Bonnard - homage to Maillol
https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/1911_Encyclop%C3%A6dia_Britannica/Ambrose_(Archbishop)

Archbishop Ambrosius of Moscow is high on my personal list of good people, but he is not a hero in his story - just a sane man doing the work "for which he drew the wage". The hero is the guy who walked out of the broken monastery gates into a swirling mob bent on murder to give Ambrosius the eucharist. I cannot imagine what he was thinking, and how he nerved himself to do this.
Вот паутинка
В небе-
Ухватись и лети.

И далее много прекрасного http://www.proza.ru/2013/04/15/952
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