Art · Nouveau · Ho
Nulla est magna scientia absque mixtura dementiae
 | |
|
Washington DC's firstborn panda, Tai Shan, is being flown to China today. Here is a photo gallery displaying his many significant achievements. ( Of pandas, monkeys and nostalgia ) |
|
| |
|
Singing an early-evening set to kick off this extravaganza: WHITE MISCHIEF "SAINT VALENTINE'S NIGHT" |
|
| |
|
Science fiction author Kage Baker has died, too young, of cancer. I've been reading her books for so many years that it feels oddly like losing a friend. I loved the world she built; I loved the stories she told, especially the first two, In the Garden of Iden and Sky Coyote. Joseph, Lewis, Mendoza and the rest were astonishing creations, for whom my affection never faltered. The great thing about the Company novels was that the premise Baker created allowed her and her immortal cyborgs to access any and every point of human history, from the Paleolithic up through 2355. So in Iden, Baker gave us a protagonist who was: - rescued as a child from the dungeons of the Inquisition - cybernetically enhanced - immortal - educated to 23rd century standards, specialising in botany - contemptuous and fearful of "mortal monkeys" - nineteen years old, and utterly without experience ...and turned her loose on sixteenth-century rural England during the reign of Bloody Mary. Enough from me. Here's Baker's world explained by one of her characters, from the beginning of her first novel; here are some of her stories, viewable or listenable for free; here's a lengthy appreciation by Marty Halpern, who published some of her work. Farewell, Ms Baker. Ad astra. |
|
| |
|
2010 is already historic: this was the year the Poe Toaster didn't show. He may now be enjoying a sherry with Poe himself in the shadowy realms of Hades. In other literary news, a new Gormenghast novel has been found in an attic. (Of course in an attic. Where else would you find a Gormenghast novel?) This one was written by Peake's wife Maeve Gilmore from her husband's leftover notes. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "Christopher Tolkien", right? And rolling your eyes? Well, it may be merited. But if you've read Titus Alone, you know that Peake in his later years would have benefited from a ghostwriter in any case. The new book won't be Peake-- lugubrious, lunatic, stormlit Peake-- but it may still be interesting. |
|
| |
|
Sanctuary My land is bare of chattering folk; The clouds are low along the ridges, And sweet's the air with curly smoke From all my burning bridges. |
|
| |
|
Ballade At Thirty-Five This, no song of an ingenue, This, no ballad of innocence; This, the rhyme of a lady who Followed ever her natural bents. This, a solo of sapience, This, a chantey of sophistry, This, the sum of experiments: I loved them until they loved me. Decked in garments of sable hue, Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents, Wearing shower bouquets of rue, Walk I ever in penitence. Oft I roam, as my heart repents, Through God's acre of memory, Marking stones, in my reverence, "I loved them until they loved me." Pictures pass me in long review Marching columns of dead events. I was tender and, often, true; Ever a prey to coincidence. Always knew I the consequence; Always saw what the end would be. We're as Nature has made us - hence I loved them until they loved me. L'envoi Princes, never I'd give offence; Won't you think of me tenderly? Here's my strength and my weakness, gents: I loved them until they loved me. |
|
| |
|
Rainy Night Ghosts of all my lovely sins, Who attend too well my pillow, Gay the wanton rain begins; Hide the limp and tearful willow. Turn aside your eyes and ears, Trail away your robes of sorrow, You shall have my further years- You shall walk with me tomorrow. I am sister to the rain; Fey and sudden and unholy, Petulant at windowpane, Quickly lost, remembered slowly. I have lived with shades, a shade; I am hung with graveyard flowers. Let me be tonight arrayed In the silver of the showers. Every fragile thing shall rust; When another April passes I may be a furry dust, Sifting through the brittle grasses. All sweet sins shall be forgot; Who will live to tell their siring? Hear me now, nor let me rot Wistful still, and still aspiring. Ghosts of dear temptations, heed; I am frail, be you forgiving. See you not that I have need To be living with the living? Sail, tonight, the Styx's breast; Glide among the dim processions Of the exquisite unblest, Spirits of my shared transgressions, Roam with young Persephone, Plucking poppies for your slumber . . . With the morrow, there shall be One more wraith among your number. |
|
| |
|
Today's APOD appears to be the shores of Selidor and the Mountains of Pain. Don't ask me how NASA got there. The limerick duel in the comments of this post continues to amuse me. Disgusting Flu still lingers, meaning I can't see friends tonight as I'd planned. A shame. Dorothy Parker will have to attend the party instead: The Flaw In Paganism |
|
| |
|
Portrait of the Artist Oh, lead me to a quiet cell Where never footfall rankles, And bar the window passing well, And gyve my wrists and ankles. Oh, wrap my eyes with linen fair, With hempen cord go bind me, And, of your mercy, leave me there, Nor tell them where to find me. Oh, lock the portal as you go, And see its bolts be double.... Come back in half an hour or so, And I will be in trouble. |
|
| |
|
Some useful links: Partners In Health, a local Haitian medical charity just outside Port-au-Prince. According to their site, 94.8% of funds raised goes directly into their work, with only the remaining small percentage on overheads. These are the people I've donated to. Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières US, UK; Red Cross And, sadly, beware of scams-- make sure the charity you're giving to is legitimate. Photos of the Presidential Palace before and after the earthquake. Seriously, go give whatever you can. |
|
| |
|
I'm stuck at home with Disgusting Flu, so to pass the time, I declare this DOROTHY PARKER WEEK. This is something I've been wanting to do for some time. Parker is not only a fine wit but a fantastic poet, and her work deserves to be better known-- especially the stuff that doesn't end with a punchline (though a Parker punchline still packs more punch than most.) I've posted poems of hers here before: Braggart, which is the most fuck-off-world poem I know; and The Satin Dress, a fine poem about sewing. But how would Parker introduce herself? Like this, I think: Fighting Words |
|
| |
|
Artist Steve Bissette, justly famed for his work with Alan Moore on Swamp Thing in the 1980s, has begun a webcomic: King Of Monster Isle. Four scaled, fanged, tentacled, multiple-eyed pages so far. Bissette draws killer monsters; click "first" to see more of them. And those 1980s Swamp Things that traumatised my high school years are still nightmarishly scary. *shudder* On a lighter note, Naomi Novik, author of the Temeraire series, has put a free short story up on her site: Araminta: or, the Wreck of the Amphidrake. If you're in the mood for mysticism, gender-bending and pirates, go read. (Tentacle quotient: moderate.) |
|
| |
|
The best thing I have found today: Wikipedia's list of fictional elements, materials, isotopes and atomic particles. |
|
| |
|
Tsutomu Yamaguchi, only known survivor of both the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombs, has died aged 93. Knut Haugland, explorer (notably on the Kon-Tiki mission) and leader of commando raids for the WWII Norwegian Resistance, died on Christmas Day aged 92. They do not make guys like these any more. In other news, it's still fuck-off cold (that is, so cold that it can only be ameliorated by swearing. A lot.) To find out exactly how ball-shatteringly cold it is, go to Fuck This Weather and enter your cold-as-all-fuck location. Attempts to warm up by looking at Shirtless Superheroes ground to a halt when all the muscular torsos started looking sort of same-old-same-old. (except Nightcrawler, obviously.) So from there, I went to these images from the Harbin Ice and Snow Festival, which could heat a whole city with their sheer awesomeness. Also, some fun snow sculptures from Northern China. Enjoy! |
|
| |
|
I got back to London this morning, and I have to say the weather feels positively balmy compared to the past week in DC-- extremely cold, with a biting wind like Odin's own surgical knife. Factoring in the windchill, it was well below zero Fahrenheit (that's fuck-off cold, Centigrade users! See, I know [zero = freezing] has a certain logic, but [fuck-off cold] is a much more elusive measurement, neatly pinned down by the Fahrenheit system.) ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} speedlime and I went to see a movie the other night. Afterwards, I emerged from the building with one sleeve damp from having washed my hands. By the time we got to where the car was parked, my sleeve was crisply frozen. Fuck-off cold.I was impressed, though, by the sight of snowbound Britain as my flight landed today. As I type, there are flurries falling in London, but not quite settling-- in the centre, at least. I was going to try and fight the jetlag, but a hot bath and some comic books suddenly look like a much better idea. Abnormal service will resume shortly, true believers. |
|
| |
|
When I am in Britain, I care about sport. I care, specifically, about the England football team. I care about them losing as severely as possible so that they'll be knocked out of whatever tournament they're in and I won't have to deal with buses, Tubes and streets full of aggressive, loutish fans. This is the extent of my involvement with UK sport. ( Wholesome, muscular American pursuits below ) |
|
| |
|
I haven't been posting much here. One of my unwritten-yet-mandatory rules of blogging is "Don't post unless you have something interesting to say." Not that there's been a lack of material: speedlime and I prepared our usual Thanksgiving dinner, saw some amazing art, and went to Istanbul! Then esdi_leanne, for her birthday, decided to recreate the dinner party from that one scene in Rocky Horror-- and truly epic it was. I never cease to be amazed at the excellently inspired madness of my friends. Just before leaving for DC, I saw the Royal Opera's der Rosenkavalier. This opera is like an old friend in whom you keep discovering new reasons to love them. ( Then and now ) So there have been interesting things happening, but when there's been the time to write about them I haven't seemed able to muster the enthusiasm. I could blame the grey of winter for this, but I think it's probably some mental flaw instead. I hope all of you are staying warm. Firelight and friends are the best antidote to winter. |
|
| |
|
Today, as you may know, is International Liza Day. It is the time of year when we contemplate the true meaning of Lizatude. You may wish to enter into the spirit of the day by exchanging jokes that fall flat, making references that make the 2 people who get them think you're a huge dork, and/or committing some hitherto-uninvented social faux pas in the middle of an audition. Alternatively, you may accept this mission: For my birthday, I desire tales of awesomeness! So if you've done or seen or experienced something awesome, tell me about it. |
|
| |
|
A Nocturnal Upon St Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day by John Donne 'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compared with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death—things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; I, by Love's limbeck, am the grave Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow, To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death—which word wrongs her— Of the first nothing the elixir grown; Were I a man, that I were one I needs must know; I should prefer, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest. If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light, and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun At this time to the Goat is run To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all, Since she enjoys her long night's festival. Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's and the day's deep midnight is. |
|
| |
Sailing to Byzantium |
|