~*Revue_Blanche*~

“…And all day long a bird sings here,
and a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times;
the place is silent and aware;
it has had its scenes, its joys and crimes,
but that is its own affair.”
Welcome to my most exotic blog. “La Revue Blanche” is a title of the French literary magazine that existed in 19th century when Oscar Wilde used to visit Paris. Today I bring some of my miniatures to my reader’s notice. However, some of them, the best male lyric are Mr Blanche’s--in fact, his all amatory poems are dedicated to his son Jocelyn, the young boy, or the young man whom the boy will be in the future.

*broken glass of your promises*
Master-Mistress of my passion. Not amorous--let it be--yet beloved. Giving yourself to sacrifice, you love the mystery of a non-giver. You are in love with the lovemaking of our bodies, giving me your flesh instead of your soul. In the hyacinth fields there are you and me, posterity of the ancient stellar gods--obedient and blind. You’ve been captured by me, who was wounded and captivated. Moonlit divine service every night. Your offerings--my incantations. You may call it ‘rubbish’, ‘mania’, but you know how I love you, appeasing your ardour and desire. Nothing to lose. All I want is you.

*to friend*
You believe in me like a child believes in father’s strength, like one believes in the porch as a beginning of odyssey, like a dying man believes in doctors, like mothers believe in children--frenziedly, without admitting betrayal or loss of what is within. The belief will die only with you; it overweighs all what against; it swallows the insult of everyday life. My voice is softer than the Syrens’, but I fear the belief. It will fetter my freedom. Sweetest, it will be more necessary than a dose of a necessary medicine. Most devoted, it’s like a most faithful congregation. Sunday morning will be intended for saying prayers. And I’ll bend under the burden, under the weight of the slabs of the temple, which your belief will set up. Less air at every new inhalation. The lungs spasm. The death-rattle. Your belief will inscribe on my tombstone: Requiescat.

*Inspiration*
A dream; a sigh;
a moment; your damnation.
It’s not with you, but it’s your silence.
Not love, but sweet embrace.
A tremble, rustle, agony.
Not love, but midnight dream.
Hand in your hand. Embraces. Bonds.
It’s night. Masks thrown off.
Your moan. Your castles in the air.
You feel it, but invisible it is.

To Myself by G. Leopardi (1798-1837)
(translation is mine)
And so, you’ll quiet down for ever,
o my poor, tired heart.
The deception’s perished--final, ultimate,
which I reckoned to be immortal within me.
I feel that not only the hope
of the dear deceptions has died,
but the desire to have them has gone out.
Calm down, for ever. You thrilled enough.
There is nothing what is worthy of your
pulsing, and the earth is not worthy of the sighs.
Our life is melancholy and bitterness, no more;
the world is dirtiness. Quiet down and stop.
Despair for the final time. Fate doesn’t give us
other gift than dying.
From now on, despise itself,
the nature, the insulting strength
that covertly bosses the show
of the universal vice, despise the futility
of it all.

*to my fear of death*
Among the whimsical candlesticks,
among the venerable cobweb
you comes to realize that we are not immortal.
Without hiding your pale face,
without projecting the shade
you go among the indifferent stone walls,
and the eyes of the pallid phantoms of truth follow you.
While in the neutrino realm of spectres,
in the land of mirrors, creepers and shells,
you can hear the wet mumble of nosferatus
and see the hearts that were drunk by them.
Now words spread like circles over water;
and again a star falls into Erebus.
And the panpipe lulls you for dreams
brought by the winds:
“Well, my friend, well,
here you are.
With the exquisite ancient setting
I’ll frame your pain and sorrow,
your pain and sorrow,
your first fright
in the face of eternity”.

*The Prime of Life*
While floating in the soft nothingness of a crystal,
I was listening idly to the lesson dictated
by an eloquent and myopic professor of universal harmony.
Supposedly I was learning the way to drink silence
from the empty, bottomless cup of knowledge
that was be known in order to sense the savoury taste of words.
We both were excited,
though neither the professor nor I cared about the subject--
no wonder--
as we never existed.

*Three Pageboys*
My aide-de-camp on duty,
the young Clarence Gale,
like a mauve lightning,
burst into my sunlit study
and reported laughing:
“Concerning Marcus Aurelius.
House in total panic.
Boycott is expected to be.
Being indignant Count Jocelyn himself
is going to Your Serenity.
And I’ve no time to taste a wine
or to throw my lilac eye to the azure.
I now hurry off to make Glace a la Violette
for the feast in honour
of Ambassador of Marmaland”.
His bilberry-coloured figure
whirled away to the garden.
The door opened wide again,
and the young Ondrik Flyte was ready for report:
“Concerning Marcus Aurelius.
House in total panic.
Boycott is expected to be.
Being indignant Count Jocelyn himself
is going to Your Serenity.
And I have no time to mount on your lap.
The apple of discord is amidst pageboys.
I'm off now to taste Creme de Orchidee,
served for our numerous guests”.
Swaying with the lavender-scented sides
of his frock-coat,
like a swallow,
he flew out through the French window.
In the garden, to the drone of bumble-bees
over the red and white flowers
the infused souls of herbs sang.
And to these sounds the door opened wide again,
and Jocelyn, Comte du Rosier,
amazing gourmet,
connoisseur of exquisite essences,
the boy in purple
entered the room, riding a black horse.
“We, who studied Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations
at your behest,
have fallen out with each other,
but I, Jocelyn will understand all,
and judge between everyone.
I’ll appease the nerves and noise,
and unite all the pageboys,
if only you, my beamish friend,
love me tender,
more tender than all of them”.

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your favorite movie
Lately I mused a little and then listed my favorite movies:
The Milky Way (1969), The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972), The Phantom of Liberty (1974), That Obscure Object of Desire (1977), Death in Venice, The Night Porter, Ludwig (1973), The Doll (1978), Lokis, Terminator 2: Judgment Day, Stargate (1994), Van Helsing, Brideshead Revisited (1981), Prospero's Books (1991), Salome’s Last Dance
What is yours?

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P. S.
One more picture. It consists of three photographs taken when I was younger, fatter and blonder. 3 in 1:

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new adult fiction:
http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=935938
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P. P. S.

Ancient Pages at Revue_Blanche

*blank verse on ancient times*
by Lara Biuts

The world that exists no longer, that attracts me so much.
The world of Hellas, the eternal, ideal world of heroes and gods,
the amber orb I look at with envy.
The world was extinguished, it has died away, is no more, will be never again.
Let it be.
Being immersed into the roaring world of the formation of Olympeion
I close my eyes and can see how, somewhere in the ideal world,
the amber orb rolls down a marble staircase.
A priest smitten with a poisonous arrow dropped the orb out of his hands.
Now he is falling down on the glossy marble floor,
his scarlet blood pours over the floor,
his lips turn pale, his eye grows dim.
One more illusion is dispersed; one more daydream is broken,
and only the amber orb is rolling down the marble staircase
now in the not ideal world.
Who will catch it? Who will restore the lost perfection?
Silence.
The amber orb is smashed to pieces glittering on the floor.
(2006)

*blank verse on ancient times 2*
by Lara Biuts

The moon rose red over Palmyra.
Translucent shadows covered the sands.
One of the noble guests of the palace,
Hadrian’s young friend went out to the balcony.
The newfound world spread before the youth:
the arcades, towers and pillars, light and dreamlike,
the bridges over the river silvering afar,
the still houses and peristyles,
and among the buildings--
the grandeur of the temple.
The youth was lost in a reverie;
while dreaming
and leaving the familiar circle of thoughts and words,
while being carried away
to where the noise of life evanished forever
he felt chilly,
his eyes scintillated,
his fists trembled with anger.
For he foresaw the future centuries at the moment.
A picture rose before his mind:
the night sky above,
a numb row of destroyed pillars,
and among the ruins--
a lioness
like a shade of the endless desert.
(2007)

*Ozymandias of Egypt*
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said:--Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal theses words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

one more poem and essay:
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/06/15/essay~2455233

*Gods*
by Henri de Regnier (1864-1936)
I dreamt gods talked with me:
one god--streams- and seaweeds-clad;;
one more--with vines and wheat ears;
one more--winged, inaccessible
and beautiful in his nude;
and one more--with his covered face;
and one more--he who plucks omegas and pansies, singing,
and two snakes enwind his gold thyrsus;
and others…
And then I said: here are flutes and baskets--taste my fruits,
listen to humming of bees and the humble rustle of willows and reeds.
And also I said: Listen, listen--
there is someone who speaks by echo’s mouth,
who is lonely amidst the world’s life,
who holds the double bow and torch,
he who is so inconceivably we…
O sacred face! I minted you as medallions
of silver, soft as autumn dawn,
of gold, hot as the sun,
of copper, gloomy as night,
of all the metals that sound clear as joy,
that sound fatal as glory, love or doom;
but the best medallions I’ve made of clay.
Smiling you will count them one by one,
and say: They are skillfully made; and smiling you’ll pass by.
So, no one of you saw my hands tremble from tenderness
and the world’s great dream live in me to come to life in them.
No one of you realizes that I’ve minted my gods of good metals,
that they are a face of all sacred, what we feel
in the forests, grass, sea, winds and roses,
in all phenomena, and in our body,
and that they are divinely we.

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Over these autumn months my blog seems to become vampire-themed, and there is no help for it: the elegiac autumn mood.

“...and so it was later... that a face at first just ghostly turned a whiter shade of pale...”--

“In St. Petersburg again we come together, as though the sun inside the town we have interred.”--

“The fires flicker in a lamp... How nice it is to read at home!”--

The Silver Age images, which you can see here, are of use and rather important: like silent regardful companions they brighten up loneliness of the image of the blog author…--

…who is sending the phloxes to you--

It’s neither Silver Age nor L'Age d'Or now. The weird demi-season time of a year and of my life necessitates me to resort to Mystical Evening Twilight over and over again:
It’s getting dark. The old Babylon of centuries stands still underneath the black abyss where Mars retreats in silence like history of the last two millenniums, and Pluto flares up like a star of the new pale fire burning the old world. Tomorrow the avid heat of desires will inebriate the knelt awaiting, and the ashy play of death’s faces will dilute the wine, where pearls dissolve, pouring into a new sigh of immortal blood.

read more in the blog:
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/07/27/anthony_blanche_fan_blog~2709191
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/08/20/vamp_up~2837823

today’s poem:
How many people fell in this abyss,
I fathom from afar!
There will be time, and I will vanish too
from earth's exterior.
All will be still, that sang and that did struggle,
that glistened and rejoiced:
my golden eyes, my brown hair,
and this my tender voice.
Life will continue with its soft hot breath,
with day's oblivion.
All will continue--under outstretched heavens
as if I'd never been!
Like children changeable in every mien
and angry not for long,
Who loved the times when in the fireplace
into ash turned the log,
violin and cavalcade within the forest
and in the village, bell...
upon this dear earth--I will be no longer
who was alive and real!
To all--who are the friends and strangers
to never having known the measure, me,
I turn to you with this my faith's demand
and love's query.
Both day and night, in word and letter both:
for truth of yes and no,
for that though I am but twenty I am
so often in such sorrow,
for unavoidably my slights and trespasses
will be forgiven me--
for all of my impetuous tenderness
and look too proud and free--
for quickness of events as they come rushing,
for truth, for play, say I--
please hear me! But do also please love me
for this that I will die.
(from Silver Age)

P. S.
True, I’d like to visit St. Petersburg in Chekhov’s time, or to drop in a Russian restaurant in Berlin in the 1920s, but I’m not a russophile, far from it, even on the contrary, a Russophobe. Now I present the link of the Polish miniseries, which I saw on TV in the 1980s. The movie is a screen version of the novel The Doll by Boleslaw Prus.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0127384/
Story of love and the tragedy of unfulfilled desire and ambition. Wealthy, ambitious middle-aged merchant is overwhelmed by obsessive and destructive passion for Izabela Lecka, who is intrigued by his strong personality but cannot fully appreciate him. The book was screened more than once. The movie (1978) is a good screen version of the great novel, which personally I dearly love. About Boleslaw Prus, a Polish journalist and novelist known especially for his novel Pharaoh, you can read here:
http://www.angelfire.com/scifi2/rsolecki/boleslaw_prus.html
“The Doll (Polish title: Lalka), rich in characters and observations from everyday Warsaw life embodies 19th-century realistic prose at its best. It brings its protagonist to a full awareness of the chasm that stretches between his dreams and the social reality that surrounds him.” The Doll at Amazon:
http://www.amazon.ca/Doll-Boleslaw-Prus/dp/185866065
Malgorzata Braunek, who played Izabela Lecka, appeared in the movie Lokis: Rekopis profesora Wittembacha (aka The Bear) (1970) as Julia Dowgiello. The movie is a wonderful faithful adaptation of Prosper Merimee's novelette Professor Wittembach's Manuscript aka Lokis (1869); set in Lithuania, it is the horror story of a man who, it would seem, is half bear and half man and enjoys feasting on human flesh. I saw the movie on TV--it is a loveliest movie I’ve ever seen.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0065994/
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P. P. S.
Author would not like her blog to consist of many pages, therefore some of the previous blog posts will be updated anew enlarging from time to time, here and there, according to their themes or seasons.

Author’s Preface
The elegiac autumn mood. The essay is my stream of consciousness. It doesn’t bear comparison with those by the writers who consider themselves Nabokov’s disciples or pupils, not at all. It’s just a small essay.
*Stream of Consciousness in Autumn*
Awaiting a miracle. An Ordinary Miracle. I don’t smoke, you know. Sleepy people; raindrops over the windowpane; and my GUCCI strangles me for some reason. You can admire nature too, and write long messages, but you don’t verse like me. Cher Maitre, Oscar Wilde prevails now. Formerly Carroll fascinated with his white rabbits. Hatters do tattoos over their backs: a girl going through the looking-glass. My lipstick stains somebody else’s lips and not scarves. Also my lipstick can draw angular hearts over the cold windowpane in the drawing-room. My mimsy and the slithy toves are asleep on the top of the wardrobe as usual. They dream of rainy days, milky fogs, and murmurs of night. And I’m not sleeping, being engaged in the witchcraft at the luminescent screen. I often lose my earrings. Tea and scones. Cakes and sex. Irrationality of life. Although one should admit the generally accepted sublime importance of sex, but they argue--they, who saw in the past what we couldn’t--those stirring times we were at the beyond, admiring the planet through the clouds; we didn’t know of our existence, but we existed to the future joy of our grandsires. The ignoble that pussyfoots by night. Coffee grounds, neon light, snatches of phrases online like a night wind from a goth’s dream. Cygnet.com. The moon-fleck plays over the bronze doorknob, showing that it has lost something like I’ve done but just: my gloves and your heart. Night dreams that shrug the day fallacies off. Smells. Aroma from the cup of hot coffee--to the open window--then over the wet roofs. The dark glassy asphalt, the headlights. Soon the borders of the asphalt will be powdered with vanilla-coloured snow. Similarity of people’s syndromes is seeming; they vary like decipherable hieroglyphs; but the people don’t take offence; no reproach in the notes of their hoarse voices of smokers. Be always rainy; it’s great to be rainy. To shower the dark streets, to patter over tiled pitches, to sail as an autumn obsession in the sky, to stain people’s faces. And the sunny flowers--like ox-eye daisies yet bigger, lilac, violet, crimson, purple, with golden center. I give the flowers to everyone--and all goes mad from the silly dreams like that. Mission accomplished. Floreat! Not knowing you, I believe in you as well as in myself and in the god. How to live without a god? How to be a touchy person being impassioned? God is a beautiful boy, an athlete and poet, naked and hot. Emptiness--it alone sees a moth that dances in a ray of hope--and the half empty glass is half full of bitterness. I dream I’ll travel round the world, and afterwards my house will meet me with its open windows. Eggnog, and the table lamp on. I dream I’ll learn to greet you in your language and to drink water, filtered with your lips. And that’s all, dearie. That’s all there is to it. The whirligig of life. The red cat on the bench in the defoliated garden, the lonely red leaflet like an orphan on the branch--the porch light, the plaid, the coziness of evenings by the fire-side--among our fairy-tales and dreams the red cat arches his fluffy back and snorts at the amber embers. On the clear night I seek you, and I’ll be seeking you my entire life. I hope we’ll have similar dreams some day; the discipline of the everyday life will undo its cinereous handcuffs, and you’ll stop seeing the colourless winter water, and the bay will turn Caribbean-blue. Two little boys at the plage, and nobody else; two young beautiful things, naked and holy; the waves enrapture them, rolling to the sands--the sky is friend, and the sea is fearsome friend; the friends bring both joy and fright; large waves and foamy spots over the sands--two little boys at the plage and nobody else. But we don’t have similar dreams. Time will glide, and I’ll go past over and over again, and it will be so till you take me away from the earth, and I take you away from infinity. Life’s dissonance. A soul's inheritance. I’ve forgotten of most important: the sky above, the Earth-Gaea below. And the Great, who knows the truth of phantasms, knowing uncertain indefiniteness, attractiveness and the inconceivable, will look with favour on our happiness. You know, someone saves the world every night! I adore this wonderful world; it’s so manifold; it’s my dream woven, and so real at the same time; et cetera, et cetera. Looking at your eyelashes I’ll say: “Wonderful!” And you’ll embrace me. Sub rosa. For mystery is in our eyes. The night breeze outside the window. The potted cyclamen. What else? To whom it may concern: séance of exorcism’s scheduled and it’s silly not to believe in successes, but it seems to me that the boy-narcissus will break through, since one hardly can kill his laughter. Dear cygnet, I'd stare at you without blinking any day. Hope to hear from you soon. Let’s go out for plucking symbols!
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tidings
NOVEMBER 21 is birthday of Nickolas Grace , British actor, best known for his roles on television--including Anthony Blanche in Brideshead Revisited and the Sheriff of Nottingham in Robin of Sherwood.

Flattering myself with hope that I am the first to congratulate him:
Many happy returns of the day, dear Nickolas! Sending you a basket of warm wishes for a bright and happy birthday! May you have the happiest birthday it's possible to have. Charm, dazzle and inspire your adorers for the next wonderful __ years, by simply being yourself. Love from Lara.

NOVEMBER 27 is the birth of Antinous . “Antinous was born on this day in the year 111 CE in the Bithynian town of Claudiopolis, also known as Bithynion in Asia Minor during the reign of Trajan. This date is given by the Lanuvium tablet, an inscription made by a funerary society devoted to Antinous and Diana. The human birth of Antinous marks the beginning of the religion of Antinous the God, and is the joyous celebration of immortal beauty descending from heaven to dwell on Earth”.
“When Hadrian fell in love with our god, he brought Antinous to Rome and cultivated the beautiful child into the flower of perfect manhood. It was during this time that the greatest building of Hadrian's reign was completed, the Pantheon, the magnificent domed Temple of All Gods. It was completed and consecrated in 126 AD, and Antinous was certainly present for the ceremony, he was the chosen favorite of Hadrian and attended Our Pontifex Maximus at the high altar of the only Roman Temple that has remained intact”.
“We pray that Antinous shall live again in our hearts, and that he will make his face known to us, spread out across the face of the world, and that we too shall known the mystery and sublime splendor of sharing the earth with a living god. We celebrate the Birth of Antinous the Bithynian in faith and expectation that he lives even now and that he will come before us as the New Antinous Rejuvinated, within us and all around us”.

NOVEMBER 30 is a Death day of Oscar Wilde . He died in 1900. In the minds of many people the name of Oscar Wilde associates with some great scandal. Nothing of the kind is in my mind. In my mind the name of Oscar Wilde is synonym of great professionalism; he spoke and wrote doing it all first class. My reader knows when and where he wrote his work De Profundis; that was the difficult period of his life when he was robbed of all, including his splendid library that used to help him to work, and yet the book De Profundis is brilliant, it is one of the brilliants of his imperishable crown. There are some my favourite passage from this book:
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/06/19/your_favourite_o_w_quotations~2478737
and there is not a contradiction in his words, for his big heart could hold much. He is handsome, 6 foot, 2 inches tall; in my view he looks like a demigod. His big face attracts with its beautiful, forgiving eyes as well as his beautiful mouth, and personally I like his nose especially. He had most beautiful nose I’ve seen in my life. And more, I think that the religion of Antinous was in Oscar Wilde’s mind, though he perhaps did not realize it. He thought of religion much ("Self-denial is the shining sore on the leprous body of Christianity."); he hesitated choosing the Church of England or Catholicism, and some of his poetic works, such poems as Charmides and The Burden of Itys were dedicated to paganism. The Catholic Church rejected him when he applied to it in his letter--my reader knows when this event took place--and in my opinion, at the end of his life he was a pagan, and he realized it. He was a great professional, a priest of beauty, and perhaps he was one of priests of the religion of Antinous at heart, one of predecessors of the priests of the modern day religion of Antinous.
“...For well I know they are not dead at all,
the ancient Gods of Grecian poesy,
the are asleep, and when they hear thee call
will wake…”
(The Burden of Itys by Oscar Wilde)

blasted writers
*Preface*
The story Remake is a remake of a famous detective novel. Which novel? Guess right by yourself. If by chance a crafty American collegian wanted to steal the essay, then it would be stolen from other, much more talented American-born writer and not from me. Now picture to yourself a man lying abed and reading before sleep. Shortly soon he drowses, the book falls down on his chest, and he has a dream. The story is not one of Mr Anthony Blanche’s writings, yet as his dream it is a subliminal procreation of his imagination as well.
*Remake*
http://www.geocities.com/larisabee/remake.doc
As for Mr Blanche’s writings, I can bring one of his stories to your attention here and now. Usually he writes on male love, on sex and violence--unlike me he has nothing against sex violence--and this story is not erotic; it is somewhat romantic, about a certain fiendish person and his love for a beautiful boy. It was published on the Net in 2006; the translation is mine:
http://www.geocities.com/larisabee/his_trick.doc
One more story from Mr Blanche’s writings is in process of being translated. It is a historical whodunit, set in ancient Rome. As my reader knows, it is hardly possible to write a detective story of the life in ancient Rome, because the ancient Romans had no the clocks or chronometers like those we have, but the chronology of events of a day is most important in a detective story to do the story a good charade. So the chronology in our sense of the word is impossible in a historical whodunit--what remains then? Mr Blanche uses Roman law, poetry and sex--as well as suspense, the core tenet of detective fiction.
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*delineation*
The gloomy sky. The defoliate trees. Transylvania. Castle Dracula in autumn.

*caught in the toils of autumn*
Hours, days, weeks rustle after;
the amber blizzard rushes after
throwing dead leaves onto face.
Taste the cognac wind--
a whiff of cedar scent,
a lump in the throat--
it tastes like heady salt of your skin.
Elixirless again. Why?
It smells like myrrh of your skin.

new adult fiction:
http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=935938

*Peace be unto You*
Greetings, o wanderer! Who are you? What brought you here, to my website, my garden of the branchy blossoming trees abundant in fruits of thoughts? Sit down in the chair, have a rest, stay by me. Perhaps in the garden, at the idle talk, when the summer heat gives a way to the evening coolness, you’ll find the fruit which your mind desires? Or perhaps, the fruit will fall down at your feet and show the way to your goal. Your way is as much difficult as much life holds all what there is in the world. And the world is wide, great and beautiful. And you’ve been gone with the unpredictable wind of life. Eager for knowing life, you’ve left the walls of your house, and set off for the long and obscure way. Now you walk along the roads of life, over the empiric dreams and mundane decorum, sail over the stormy rivers of fates, make your way along the paths of knowledge. As it happens you’ve wandered to my website, but this garden is just a part of me, it is my footprints and a part of my knowledge. And what about me? It’s simple. I am on the way. I am a wanderer too.
towards Castle Dracula
Follow me down to the sunless valley; feed me with fear that you breed.
The sun’s shining no longer to warm your breath lost in the caves of your creed.
Look in my eyes in desire to see what you don’t want to be.
Night is your home till the end of the days; blood is your food that you seek.
Lust is your heartbeat; and doom is your gift for those who have caught your glance.
Cursed by the mortals, wander by night sharing prey with the bats.
Nocturne
Bats, noctules, crepuscular insects, night-birds, night-flies and moths, nocturnal catlike carnivores and small leaping rodents with long hind legs, your nocturnal emission, baneworts and flowers-carnivores, night-flowers and finally the soft-green carnation, blighted and magic.
through the alembic of fancy
Night. So short for two lovers, and so long for a lonely person. So mysterious and at the same time so open for those who live in it. So many songs have been sung for it. So many poets have hymned its grace and self-will. So many humans have been doomed by it. So many humans have been born by it. O the trains flying into the night! Is night a dark side of good? What is it for me? Can it see tears? Can it feel pain? May be it gets bored while everyone sleeps? Is it lonely? Is it beloved? Most interesting to talk with it or about it. It is an open cosmos. It turns off light and turns on gas. It keeps vigil over a sick child. Its tears glitter on the grass at dawn because it has to leave and day is long. And in the evening it cools the sands and sea-waves. So dear and so alien. Paris, April, night is only ours…
What has been said above is prelude. Now imagine: the moon is shining. We sleep or walk at night, underneath the moon; we enjoy or shed tears; read or make love. And the moon watchs us; it contemplates us and our deeds, may be it smiles serenely, may be it rolls its eyes, may be it laughs at us, but always its attention is benevolent--at least I feel like this; every time I see it the moon seems to smile. It’s the divine attention of the goddess Luna. Now imagine: the weather has changed; a gust of a wind; the wind increases; the moon is veiled, then clouds cover the moon entirely. It’s Aeolus, the god of the winds. The rain begins to fall. The first thunderbolt. It’s activity of the Thunderer, the mightiest of gods. What am I driving at? I’ll tell you then kill. (I’m fond of a joke) Joking apart--I’ll tell you what I mean: while living in real life and contemplating wild nature it’s easier to believe in existence of many gods, the graceful Leonardesque deities than in existence of the only one.
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*curio*
Ancient Rome is a site devoted to the life and works of author, translator and dreamer. Dare you enter?
Welcome. I love ancient Romans. For they were/are stunning. Ancient Egyptians were stunning too; for example, they have written: "The God Loved Himself With His Hand". They believed that the universe, gods, mortals, all were products of primordial masturbation of the Great Creator. We have come from the loins of the Great Creator. Do you like the thought?
I’ve said but just that the ancient Romans were stunning, yet I realize that’s right just partly, because for the most part the Romans were ordinary people like you and me, like most of us, Europeans nowadays. It’s the small part of them who left traces in time, the bright, outstanding personalities who we know. About the life of the average citizens we can know too, at least something. And the more I know of them, the more ancient Romans seem to be like my contemporaries. Just they had no computers, and did not know tobacco and drug problems.
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*a simple story*
The life of my friend evaporated from the tip of the needle. I’ve found him at the cross-veins, but it was too late. He was like an empty autumn air, like a wrenched blank between words. It all was ordinary, silly and simply like a line from the chapter that you know by heart: his imaginary world swallowed him even without chewing well.
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*the great pursuit*
A highly talented and energetic person like N could be an excellent literary agent; I’d like to get hold of collaboration of the person like he to further and promote my sinful, beloved and improvable writings. Meaning, like the environment I am in need of protection and even more: furtherance. Who am I? Blasted writer. Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf? Who can protect the poor little thing, blasted writer? A good literary agent can do it. Dear literary agent, where are you?
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the supernatural boys
I watch the movie Supernatural on TV, an American paranormal drama television series, filmed in Canada, and debuted on September 13, 2005. The show follows brothers Sam and Dean Winchester, played by Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles, who travel across the country in a black 1967 Chevy Impala investigating and combating paranormal events and other unexplained occurrences, many of them based on American urban legends and folklore, as well as classic supernatural creatures such as vampires, werewolves, and ghosts.
http://www.cwtv.com/shows/supernatural
I like the movie in general, I love the story of the brothers and the life of their family; it’s touching immensely; I believe the boys are supernaturally nice--though I disagree with some ideas of the creators of the movie. For example, Dean says: “A daemon’s main aim is distraction and evil”. It is an entirely Christian attitude towards daemons, I see, and I disagree with it. My essay on daemons you can read here:
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/07/25/26_july~2702222
"We're stronger as a family."--Family Motto
You can test who is your ideal TV boyfriend. Dean Winchester is on that list! Thing is, will you give a right answers to snag him?!
Here's link:
http://www.buddytv.com/closedquiz/closed-quiz.aspx?quiz=36
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The Daffodils by William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:--
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company!
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

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