~*Revue_Blanche*~

“There was a time in my demented youth
When somehow I suspected that the truth
About survival after death was known
To every human being: I alone
Knew nothing, and a great conspiracy
Of books and people hid the truth from me.
There was the day when I began to doubt
Man's sanity: How could he live without
Knowing for sure what dawn, what death, what doom
Awaited consciousness beyond the tomb?
And finally there was the sleepless night
When I decided to explore and fight
The foul, the inadmissible abyss,
Devoting all my twisted life to this
One task. Today I'm sixty-one. Waxwings
Are berry-pecking. A cicada sings.”
(Nabokov, Pale Fire)

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We in Nickolas Grace Appreciation Society
http://www.new.facebook.com/group.php?gid=11033743462
have 126 members by NOVEMBER 21

(`'•.¸ (`'•.¸*¤* ¸.•'´) ¸.•'´)
!!!!!!♥WELCOME♥!!!!!!
(¸.•'´ (¸.•'´*¤* `'•.¸) `'•.¸)

questionnaire:
1.Is it decadence if one loves a wicked character like the Sheriff of Nottingham?
2.Could the Sheriff of Nottingham be regarded as one of Warriors of Darkness like Count Dracula, or he is a personage like Des Esseintes, ageless and timeless?
3.Don’t you think that the song I Shot the Sheriff (Clapton's version) was somebody’s subconscious/subliminal response to the performance of Nickolas Grace as the Sheriff of Nottingham?

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NOVEMBER 27 – Antinous was born in 111.
a new, Antinous-related interview. most interesting. plz read it:
http://www.sequentialtart.com/article.php?id=1151
Talking of my latest Facebookian adventures. Lately, I tried to writing on the Wall of one Antinous related group on Facebook and to put the link, which you can see above, but I was told the group’s Wall was currently unavailable. And this was several times. And then I realized that the Wall was forbidden for me as the person who placed two or three Antinous related links there before. Fancy that, Antinous related links are forbidden in the Antinous related group. Nonsense. It looks like the most what is allowed to a member of the group is a short note about the obvious fact that he/she has read Yourcenar’s book and loves it. That’s Facebook all over.
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NOVEMBER 30 -- Oscar Wilde’s Death day (in 1900).

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http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB.htm
http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB2.htm
http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB3.htm
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drunk birds singing:

new photo:

postprandial hour:

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one of my previous posts has been updated today:
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/08/14/golden_age_salon~2804337
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2bagatelles4you

*Always in Love*
It’s sun-up. Somewhere, on the ever-distant skyline, the ever-young Eos plaits purple, scarlet and saffron ribbons into the golden manes of Hyperion’s horses, and fiery sparkles splash from beneath the hoofs, and the charioteer of the world begins his flight--Luminophore, Donens-Lux, Life-Giver of hyperboreans--like you, My Sun, Light of My Life, who gives it to me. The ribbons in the manes fade, but you still sleep dreaming about an enigmatic kaleidoscope of your night dreams, and I feel jealous to them. For the dreams steal the precious minutes of your attention to me. For you won’t say whether you dream about me or not. No. You’ll only give a misty smile, teasing. Meanwhile the Rays-Bearer laughs spreading reflections of sunrays. The golden foam of light covers us, and a crazy little pack of sun smiles frisks over your moon-skinned body, heady-fragrant with my love. You are my wondrous man. You are heath-honey. You know of this, when somebody enjoys your intoxication. Oh yes, you are sweet, intoxicating honey, intoxicated yourself. Therefore you get intoxicated by yourself hundredfold more--melting, enveloping, going to my head so much that I can’t see anything. I drown, choke and begin to breathe again--with you--it’s so difficult to tell about. But you feel victoriously certain that I can’t be still and calm beside you. I’m swimming. But you are swimming too. Don’t you know how this is visible? You feel this, which is concordant to my withdrawal--or vice versa--no matter. Talking of you, of us, I use too often the words ‘drunk’, ‘intoxicating’, ‘honey’, because all this is so in fact. Just my own intoxication never ends. But my Amber-Like Honey gets sober quickly. When far from me. And he hardens. Because he forgets? If not, then why? Even if, awkwardly clumsy, I make you, My Joy angry, and you fall asleep, withdrawing and turning back to me, anyway, later, in your sleep, you burry your face in my neck or shoulder, and then, awaking, you don’t recoil, but you look at me, as I am still, and you smile softly, and I thaw as usual sinking into your tenderness. And my each excited cell gravitates to you, and I drown in the warm waves of ambergris and musk. Blind, hearing the whisper: “don’t be greedy!” I get greedy yet more. I say the tacit pray: “forgive my not breathing without you and my not living without you!” Will you forgive me? You’ll forgive. At least, while we’ll be gasping in the fierily-thrilling languor, in the mutually-charmed delight. Crazy in the you-and-me-intoxication, insatiable in the me-and-you-absorption, happy like blazes, stuck in each other like delighted moths in hardening drops of the treacherous amber. The moths knew too that they mustn’t, and they knew of the Cost, but they could not and did not want to resist to Temptation of Beauty. To sink or swim! I wonder what do they dream about now, they who have become a part of Beauty, pieces of the Sun? You know, after the reflections of sunrays die, they turn into ambers--or agates, if they used to be sad. The ever-warm, sleepy, honey-coloured ambers, the splashes of the sun smiles that have gone out. But each of yours, My Sun, will live forever in me.

*A Petal of the Mist*
A petal of the mist fell on my tweed,
a fragrant shade of flowers of the hope.
My garden used to have the flowers’ scent.
A kind of dope. Defoliated now.
I used to pluck the flowers for the thrilling
and magic fortunes-telling. I conjured
for tenderness--devoting, holding breath,
awaiting for a miracle. In awe. So hopelessly.
Now, borders of the seasons all crumbled
and quickly disappeared in the helix
between the petal of the mist and scarp of hope.

2008 © Lara Biuts
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