Silver Age

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...”--

“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/

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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