#cretan weed
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I went on a holiday to Crete once and made friends with a mid 50s shop owner who kept giving me weed the whole holiday (I’m a 29 year old man)😅
Hands down the best holiday ever.
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greek mythology au! sakusa x reader
SAKUSA AS THESEUS, retelling of theseus and the minotaur, original myth is changed to fit my narrative, mentions of death (the minotaur eats people!!), mentions of child marriage (ancient greece was sick), flirty and charming sakusa, hero!sakusa, 2.5k words.
the flowers were blooming early this year, speckles of color in the fields of green behind your small home. a sign of good fortune, the prophets of apollo had proclaimed, hard work will certainly be highly rewarded; the year of the bull. you grit your teeth and pulled harder, the weeds pestering your small garden uprooted entirely, their evil roots still gripping the flecks of soil that had nurtured them.
with deep reverence, you send a prayer to demeter, thanking her for an early spring.
sweat beaded at your hairline, curtesy of helios and his mighty chariot brining light to the sky overhead. it was just before noon now, with the sun directly overhead. collecting the clump of weeds you had uprooted, along with a few parcels of lavender, your feet carry you away from the forrestline and back to shelter.
inside your home lived your younger sister and father, your mother residing in the realm of hades after king minos had sent his navy to decimate athens. unlike most men in greece, your father was an honorable man, and his heart thumped only for his two daughters. though you were a girl, you were his eldest, and therefore his most prized possession in all of his lifetime. you were worth more than gold, in his eyes, more than any ore or meat or plant or man could offer. his pride and joy, a title you wore with honor.
lost in your thoughts, a series of screams tore you from your revere, the cries of your father to let her go, please! take me instead!
you hadn't thought twice before your feet carried you up the hill, powerful legs pumped full of adrenaline that pushed you to the forefront of your small home.
six cretan soldiers stood in the doorway, you could spot their royal purple linens from miles out. in their hands was your sister, tears spurting from her eyes like palace faucets, her arm contorted unnaturally under the pressure of the soldier's hands.
"let her go." you demanded, eyes aflame, "she is my sister, not a sacrifice. i suggest you find another family to tear apart."
you had thought your distance from the main city would protect your family, but the evil of minos extends everywhere, you suppose. once a year, fourteen athenian children are sent as sacrifices to feed the minotaur living under the cretan palace floors, trapped in a maze designed by the world's greatest engineer. there was no point to it, really, other than a cruel display of power, a boast to the world that one man could bring the great city of athens to its knees.
it was cruel, you know. to try and gift tragedy to another family, as if it were bread at a dinner table. but you would welcome the selfishness, just this once, if it meant preserving your sister's life.
"king minos was clear in his decree," the biggest one smiles down at you, his soul more rotten than his brown teeth, "seven girls and seven boys. your sister makes the last sacrifice. though, i wouldn't mind having her as my bride."
the soldiers laugh at his comment, their greedy eyes hungrily taking in your sisters figure. she visibly trembled under their touch, fear falling from her in waves.
you and her were different in that regard, the brutality of the world forging stubbornness and bravery in the chasms of your heart, instead of the petrefying fear that plagues your sister. you were not afraid of the world; you would burn it with your bare hands. if it meant preserving her smile, you'd destroy the earth ten times over; you'd set olympus aflame.
she's so young, too young, and terribly afraid of the world, not fully understanding what it means to be a woman or the shackles that come with marriage and children. she's already lost so much.
you clench your hands, stepping forward, muscles tense not from fear but from anger. poised, one might call it, in the way a mountain lion stalks its prey, ready to strike at even the smallest of openings.
"you will not touch her," you spit, harsh enough that the soldiers were unnerved, just for moment, "you will take me instead."
women were not protectors, you had been told, they are homemakers. gentle, subservient creatures to serve as vessels in aiding the next generation in conquering the world. you were no such thing. you were headstrong and unshakable, stubborn in a way that made men hate you, and you would protect what was left of your family with everything in you.
"it makes no difference to me," another soldier grinned again, wider and more terrible than the last, "you'll be dead before the end of the week."
in a quick exchange, your sisters life had been swapped for yours, the mark of death transferred to your head. you father wailed and hiccuped, you sister torn between shouting thanks and mourning her living sister; her only sister.
with the courage of a roman gladiator, you offer a warm smile to your father, and a gentle nod to your sister. it's okay, the crinkle of your eyes told them, take care of each other. don't forget to say your prayers. there's bread and cheese out on the table. don't forget to put it up after dinner.
with a rough yank, the band of soldiers marched you from your childhood home and down the way to the athenian port. there was no fear in your heart, you'd realized, only pride. your sister was safe and taken care of. the cretan solders never took from the same houses.
chin held high, you would sail from your home in athens to a foreign grave, and you wore your crown of death with pride. a bruise of honor.
as you approached the dock, you saw that there were more cretan soldiers than just the six escorting you, as there were at least forty more aboard the massive cretan ship and scattered around the port.
there, you saw the other sacrifices, six other girls and seven boys, perfectly lined by the shore, shackled to each other and teary-eyed. the youngest child was easily six or seven years of age, distraught and confused as to what was happening; to what would eventually become of his delicate life. with a sudden shove, you were pushed in line with them, the unexpected force knocking you on your knees. you feel skin break, exposing the soft tissue underneath, warm blood pinpricking the fabric of your lose clothing.
rough hands grip you by your shoulders, and you quickly lift your head to spit in the face of your assaulter. it lands right underneath his eye, and satisfactions burns in your stomach at the way it oozes down his cheek. cretian scum.
"almost. i'd say an inch higher and you would have really blinded me."
you blink away the haze of your hatred and take in his appearance. normal clothing, athenian features, metal shackles binding him to the other children down the shoreline. he was a sacrifice, you realized, and you had spit on him. his grip was so strong, you had thought he was one of the soldiers for sure.
but he was just a boy, easily the eldest of the athenian scarifies, but a boy nonetheless.
"i'm sorry," you rush to apologize, "i reacted too quickly. i thought you were a soldier."
his hands were rough to the touch, but gentle in nature, as he carefully helped you stand back to your feet, "it's quite alright," he wipes the glob of spit from his cheek, "if anything, i'm impressed by your aim."
at this you smile, "my sister taught me. she's the worst."
the stranger laughed, tall and broad-shouldered, but still soft in the face in the way all boys are. his clothes were dirty, his hands and feet shackled, but his skin glowed in a way that could only be described as divine.
the athenian people were distinct in their features, and there were no new faces in a city you've resided in for a lifetime, so who was this strange man, offering himself as an athenian sacrifice? athenian by blood but foreign otherwise.
"who are you?" you suddenly ask, speaking lowly as not to be heard by the patrolling cretan soldiers, "in all my years in athens, i have never met you, foreigner. you are not from here."
"well, i have never seen you before," he presses, "why is it that i am the foreigner and you are not?"
his quick remark catches you off guard, and you search for a witty response, "because i have lived in the heart of the city my whole life. i would have remembered a face such as yours." that damn glow.
the implication of your words are not lost on him. he wants to tease you, take your mind away from the metal around your wrists. "why?" he asks, "because you find me handsome?"
"because you are different," your face burns at his accusation, "you are unlike any man i have known."
"i thought i was a stranger," he says, "now you claim to know me?"
"i know enough," you huff, eyes pressing him for more information, "call it intuition." he smiles and you're heart nearly stops. you avert your eyes.
"i lived in the outskirts," he reveals, more serious, "as a fisherman. rarely did i ever find myself in the city."
you accept his answer, considering for a moment. the fishermen really only came to the city to sell their catches. it's likely that he simply sent a younger brother or apprentice to sell what he caught. strange, but anything was possible.
"why are you here then, if you aren't in the city often? and you are too old to be an ideal sacrifice."
"you have a brilliant mind, princess." he continues, noting your observance, "i was on my way to the palace steps, when i saw a few soldiers dragging a boy away from his mother. i traded myself in place of him."
you're at a loss for words. sure, you had done the same, but it was for blood, your only sister. this man, this foreigner, had traded his life for a stranger's, and still has the heart to joke and laugh about.
"i did the same," you say, "for my sister."
"i thought she was the worst?" he asks.
"she is," you confirm, "but she's still my sister and i am still hers."
it's quiet for a moment, your ears only catching the sound of poseidon's mighty waves folding against the shoreline. this would be the last time you see these waters, hear the ocean surrounding your motherland.
"it's honorable," he speaks suddenly, snapping you from your daze, "to trade her place for yours. to ultimately decide that her life was worth more." he turns to you, curiosity and adoration lighting his face, "what is your name? your bravery moves me."
"yours first." it isn't a question.
his eye catch yours and something like lighting flashed within them, offering a sly smile as if you'd solved his riddle, "i am kiyoomi, son of king aegus, and i have come to destroy that which ails my people."
laughter finds you easily, bubbling from your throat in dry chuckles, "athens does not have anyone to inherit the throne," your eyes narrow into slits, "and king aegus certainly does not have a son. why lie, with such little time to live?"
"you were right to say i was different from other men," he smiles, "but it makes no difference whether you chose to believe me. you will see soon enough."
his vagueness baits you, "see what? what are you planning? we will sail to crete and die under the palace like the multitude of athenian children before us. it has been the same story for years; there is no other ending."
"we will sail to crete, yes," he says, "but no more blood will be shed at the hands of that beast. i will kill the minotaur and return to athens as crown prince," he turns to look at you, "then athens will be free."
"how do you plan to kill the minotaur? you'd have to find him before he finds you in his maze of tunnels."
"you ask a lot of questions, princess," he chides, "and i'll forever be sorry that i cannot give you all of the details, but please, rest assured that my plan will come to fruition. athena is on my side, the battle already won. the fates have already declared it centuries ago."
the wind whispers comforts to his ears, that can be the only reasoning for the calmness that shrouds him. his inky hair curls gently at the movement. you want to believe him, and a small part of you does. he is different; perhaps there is some truth in his tale. you're touched by his declarations, the fires of his determination. he reminds you of yourself.
"my name is y/n, daughter of y/f/n," you say, and his eyes crinkle happily at the sound of your name, "and my father was a blacksmith. i am no princess."
"you will be." kiyoomi says, certain, "when you return from crete as my bride."
you flush at his flirtation, your body betraying you, "did the fates tell you this, too?" you snap.
"no," he says cooly, "i decided it when you spat in my eye with the precision of an archer. surely, there is no other woman for me."
"again, you have my sister to thank for that."
"i most certainly will," he clarifies, "when she dances at our wedding."
and with the blow of a horn, the fourteen of you are escorted onto the foreign ship, with the promise of death on the other side of the ocean.
you smile down to yourself, the metal binding your wrists feeling less heavy, less permeant. perhaps he is who he says he is: the son of a king, in the lineage of a god. maybe he can save athens. maybe he can save you. regardless, you have little else to lose; why not play into his tale?
"slay the minotaur," you say, placing one footing front of the other, "before you even think of asking for my hand."
"please," he playfully scoffs ahead of you, "at least give me a challenge. you're as good as mine now."
take this as my apology for disappearing :((( i fell out of love with writing, but i'm slowly gaining it back. i have some drafts i want to put out soon but this is my favorite :))) i hope u don't hate me im so sorry
#sakusa drabbles#sakusa kiyoomi#sakusa x reader#kiyoomi#kiyoomi sakusa#msby sakusa#sakusa drabble#sakusa#sakusa fluff#haikyuu kiyoomi#haikyuu
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#1876 - Asplenium flabellifolium -Necklace Spleenwort
A small fern found in open forest or rainforest. usually on the ground, but sometimes epiphytic. in rock crevices, caves, on fallen logs and tree trunks, beside streams, cliffs, or waterfalls in all states of Australia, and New Zealand. It was initially described by Spanish botanist Antonio José Cavanilles.
Both the scientific name and the common name of the genus are derived from an old belief in Europe that the fern species there were useful for ailments of the spleen, due to the spleen-shaped spore organs on the backs of the fronds. "-wort" is an ancient English term that simply means "plant".
The Roman architect and engineer Vitruvius apparently needed to fill a few pages in his Ten Books on Architecture with a tangent about spleenworts :
"… certain pastures in Crete, on each side of the river Pothereus, which separates the two Cretan states of Gnosus and Gortyna. There are cattle at pasture on the right and left banks of that river, but while the cattle that feed near Gnosus have the usual spleen, those on the other side near Gortyna have no perceptible spleen. On investigating the subject, physicians discovered on this side a kind of herb which the cattle chew and thus make their spleen small. The herb is therefore gathered and used as a medicine for the cure of splenetic people."
On the other hand the ferns were thought to cause infertility in women - I have no idea where they pulled that idea from.
Weeds of Melbourne IDed it for me - they note on the blog that they've found this species in close proximity to the two I've covered previously, on the bluestone-walled dry moat of a government building. Clearly the three enjoy being neighbours.
Asplenium is a very large and diverse genus with over 700 species, and some utterly deranged genetics. Some species are not just diploid or tetraploid but octoploid, their chloroplast genetics is deeply weird, and some species are infamous for how easily they hybridise. Complete slut ferns, and good for them.
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DAY 88, 89. Oct 28 and 29. Crete, Greece 🇬🇷
Today we all took it slow after a long and busy day yesterday in Athens. It was raining quite a bit and it felt nice to stay in and be cozy. We decided to stay and enjoy the villa and spend time together playing banana grams and rummy and watching some shows and just being with one another. Later that day the Chels Kristie Nat Jess and Kathy went to Rethymno and just cruised through the shops and got some more souvenirs for friends and family. It was nice to just stroll and be out and about and then we stopped and had a sweet treat some crepes and they were very yummy!
Back at home the boys and T were all hanging with Wally and also starting dinner the made pizza in the pizza oven and James made garlic bread. The ladies got back and kathy made a green salad and chels made a Cretan salad with toasted bread on bottom and cucumber tomato olives and feta on top. All the food was delicious! We ate together and finished my big fat Greek weeding!
Day 89
Rainy day again today chels went for a rainy run and had a blast then we all ate a late breakfast and got ready to go and get covid tests for all of them for their flight tomorrow 😭 Sam found a pharmacy that did it and we watched as everyone got the qtip shoved way up there noses! Wally was a champ! Then we waited as the man wrote out everyone’s paper work for proof for the flight. We then headed to the grocery store because our fam wanted to get some last minute food souvenirs 🤣 then headed back to the villa and at some lunch!
We played more games together and some of our fam started to pack their bags for tomorrow. Tonight was our last dinner together and chels found a spot in Rethymno called 7 Thalasses and it was a lovely spot we sat outside with the view of the ocean right by us and the inside was so beautiful too! We all got delicious entrees and they even had sushi here! It was amazing food and a lovely atmosphere. We all went around the table saying our rose and thorn of the trip and it was so lovely to hear all the wonderful time and memories we had made together as a family. We are so thankful our family could come on this trip and experience a piece of the world with us and we loved sharing the adventure with them all!
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Saints&Reading: Sun., June 7, 2020
Feast of the Holy Trinity
Eastern Orthodox theology is the theology particular to the Eastern Orthodox Church. It is characterized by monotheistic Trinitarianism, belief in the Incarnation of the essentially divine Logos or only-begotten Son of God, a balancing of cataphatic theology with apophatic theology, a hermeneutic defined by a polyvalent Sacred Tradition, a concretely catholic ecclesiology, a robust theology of the person, and a principally recapitulative and therapeutic soteriology.
Ecclesiology[
The Eastern Orthodox Church considers itself to be the one, holy, catholic and apostolic church established by Christ and his apostles. For the early years of the church, much of what was conveyed to its members was in the form of oral teachings. Within a very short period of time traditions were established to reinforce these teachings. The Eastern Orthodox Church asserts to have been very careful in preserving these traditions. When questions of belief or new concepts arise, the Church always refers back to the original faith. Eastern Orthodox see the Bible as a collection of inspired texts that sprang out of this tradition, not the other way around; and the choices made in forming the New Testament as having come from comparison with already firmly established faith. The Bible has come to be a very important part of "Tradition", but not the only part.
Likewise, the Eastern Orthodox Church has always recognized the gradual development in the complexity of the articulation of the Church's teachings. It does not, however, believe that truth changes, and it therefore always supports its previous beliefs all the way back to what it holds to be the direct teachings from the Apostles. The Church also understands that not everything is perfectly clear; therefore, it has always accepted a fair amount of contention about certain issues, arguments about certain points, as something that will always be present within the Church. It is this contention which, through time, clarifies the truth. The Church sees this as the action of the Holy Spirit on history to manifest truth to man.
The Church is unwavering in upholding its dogmatic teachings, but does not insist upon those matters of faith which have not been specifically defined. The Eastern Orthodox believe that there must always be room for mystery when speaking of God. Individuals are permitted to hold theologoumena (private theological opinions) so long as they do not contradict traditional Eastern Orthodox teaching. Sometimes, various Holy Fathers may have contradictory opinions about a certain question, and where no consensus exists, the individual is free to follow his or her conscience.
Tradition also includes the Nicene Creed, the decrees of the Seven Ecumenical Councils, the writings of the Church Fathers, as well as Eastern Orthodox laws (canons), liturgical books and icons, etc. In defense of extrabiblical tradition, the Eastern Orthodox Church quotes Paul: "Therefore, brethren, stand fast, and hold the traditions which ye have been taught, whether by our spoken word, or by our epistle." (2 Thessalonians 2:15). The Eastern Orthodox Church also believes that the Holy Spirit works through history to manifest truth to the Church, and that He weeds out falsehood in order that the Truth may be recognised more fully.
Eastern Orthodoxy interprets truth based on three witnesses: the consensus of the Holy Fathers of the Church; the ongoing teaching of the Holy Spirit guiding the life of the Church through the nous, or mind of the Church (also called the "Universal Consciousness of the Church"[1]), which is believed to be the Mind of Christ (1 Corinthians 2:16); and the praxis of the church (including among other things asceticism, liturgy, hymnography and iconography).
The consensus of the Church over time defines its catholicity—that which is believed at all times by the entire Church. St. Vincent of Lerins, wrote in his Commonitoria (434 AD), that Church doctrine, like the human body, develops over time while still keeping its original identity: "[I]n the Orthodox Church itself, all possible care must be taken, that we hold that faith which has been believed everywhere, always, by all"[2] Those who disagree with that consensus are not accepted as authentic "Fathers." All theological concepts must be in agreement with that consensus. Even those considered to be authentic "Fathers" may have some theological opinions that are not universally shared, but are not thereby considered heretical. Some Holy Fathers have even made statements that were later defined as heretical, but their mistakes do not exclude them from position of authority (heresy is a sin of pride; unintended error does not make one a heretic, only the refusal to accept a dogma which has been defined by the church). Thus an Eastern Orthodox Christian is not bound to agree with every opinion of every Father, but rather with the consensus of the Fathers, and then only on those matters about which the church is dogmatic.
Some of the greatest theologians in the history of the church come from the 4th century, including the Cappadocian Fathers and the Three Hierarchs. However, the Eastern Orthodox do not consider the "Patristic era" to be a thing of the past, but that it continues in an unbroken succession of enlightened teachers (i.e., the saints, especially those who have left us theological writings) from the Apostles to the present day...keep reading
Acts 2:1-11 NKJV
Coming of the Holy Spirit
2 When the Day of Pentecost had fully come, they were all [a]with one accord in one place. 2 And suddenly there came a sound from heaven, as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled the whole house where they were sitting. 3 Then there appeared to them [b]divided tongues, as of fire, and one sat upon each of them. 4 And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance.
The Crowd’s Response
5 And there were dwelling in Jerusalem Jews, devout men, from every nation under heaven. 6 And when this sound occurred, the multitude came together, and were confused, because everyone heard them speak in his own language. 7 Then they were all amazed and marveled, saying to one another, “Look, are not all these who speak Galileans? 8 And how is it that we hear, each in our own [c]language in which we were born? 9 Parthians and Medes and Elamites, those dwelling in Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, 10 Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya adjoining Cyrene, visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, 11 Cretans and [d]Arabs—we hear them speaking in our own tongues the wonderful works of God.”
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Footnotes
Acts 2:1 NU together
Acts 2:3 Or tongues as of fire, distributed and resting on each
Acts 2:8 dialect
Acts 2:11 Arabians
John 7: -37-52; 8:12 NKJV
The Promise of the Holy Spirit
37 On the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried out, saying, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. 38 He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.” 39 But this He spoke concerning the Spirit, whom those [a]believing in Him would receive; for the [b]Holy Spirit was not yet given, because Jesus was not yet glorified.
Who Is He?
40 Therefore [c]many from the crowd, when they heard this saying, said, “Truly this is the Prophet.” 41 Others said, “This is the Christ.”
But some said, “Will the Christ come out of Galilee? 42 Has not the Scripture said that the Christ comes from the seed of David and from the town of Bethlehem, where David was?” 43 So there was a division among the people because of Him. 44 Now some of them wanted to take Him, but no one laid hands on Him.
Rejected by the Authorities
45 Then the officers came to the chief priests and Pharisees, who said to them, “Why have you not brought Him?”
46 The officers answered, “No man ever spoke like this Man!”
47 Then the Pharisees answered them, “Are you also deceived? 48 Have any of the rulers or the Pharisees believed in Him? 49 But this crowd that does not know the law is accursed.”
50 Nicodemus (he who came to [d]Jesus [e]by night, being one of them) said to them, 51 “Does our law judge a man before it hears him and knows what he is doing?”
52 They answered and said to him, “Are you also from Galilee? Search and look, for no prophet [f]has arisen out of Galilee.”
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Footnotes
John 7:39 NU who believed
John 7:39 NU omits Holy
John 7:40 NU some
John 7:50 Lit. Him
John 7:50 NU before
John 7:52 NU is to rise
8:12 Then Jesus spoke to them again, saying, “I am the light of the world. He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life.”
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New King James Version (NKJV) Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved.
#orthodoxy#orthodoxchristian#easternchristianity#firstchristian#ancientfaith#spirituality#bible#gospel
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The mission to always be in disagreement: Interview with Guy Picciotto (Fugazi)
by Pepo Márquez
«Thanks for your questions and my apologies for the delayed reply, it's been a very busy month here. Here are my answers and I hope they will be ok ».
Could you tell me what you are working on now and what is or has been your connection with music in recent years? I know you played with the much missed Vic Chesnutt and that you have produced some albums, besides writing music that has never been published and participating in improvised jams, either for cinema with your friend Jem Cohen or in improvisation festivals, but I must admit that I am a little unaware of your activity lately.
This question reminds me a little of that verse that said: "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?" of the song "Mrs. Robinson " by Simon & Garfunkel. Joe DiMaggio was an American baseball player who, when asked about that verse, replied: "I've been here." I feel more or less the same. I'm here, doing the same things I did when I was 16: playing, writing music and working on the music of others, as well as attending to the business of being alive. Maybe it is not as visible to the public as other things that I was involved in, in the past, like playing in Fugazi for example, but that does not mean that the whole process on my part is not exactly the same. I play the guitar and work in my studio. I work on music, sometimes edited and sometimes not. I produce, mix and assist technically on other artists' albums, which are sometimes edited and sometimes not. For me everything is the same: I'm still linked to the creative process, to the process of doing things.
Before being in Fugazi I was in five other bands [the bands that Picciotto refers to are Rites Of Spring, One Last Wish, Happy Go Licky, Brief Weeds and The Black Light Panthers]. Some of them were never, and still are not, as well known as others, but that does not mean that the work was not serious and real. Things like working with Vic Chesnutt or Jem Cohen movies are not simple elements to add to a resume or any Wikipedia entry and are not evaluable in terms of tours or products. These were and are relationships that are an enormously defining part of my life. For me, music means human relationships: music is friendship. It happens all the time, even when you do not pay attention.
The previous question has led me to the next one: your relationship with social networks. There is no way to find you on any social network. Why this position and what is your opinion about the reality of social networks?
I have no opinion on how people use social networks: I respect all the options that make sense for the rest. Speaking only about me, I do not like the ubiquity that surrounds the concept or the expectation that in a certain way each citizen is asked to participate in them. For me that expectation is very dangerous because it supposes that one does not exist at all without that presence. I think it's a very retrograde way of understanding what is actually a vision of some corporations of what social interactions should be. I understand how useful technology is in terms of disseminating ideas, bridging distances and favoring the creation of communities, but I also feel that it is not the only way to make these things happen, and it is certainly not the only way in which that these things happen I also resist the idea of believing that each person is a "brand" that needs to be elaborated and maintained for some form of public consumption. For some people it may be nice, but for me it is claustrophobic and alienating, so I choose not to participate in it.
There have been times when things have happened in my community - concerts or, unfortunately, friends who have died - of which I have learned days or weeks later simply because I was not connected as the rest are. In a way it is a lonely feeling but I understand that everyone assumes that this type of information is known by the rest immediately. In fact, I feel locked in a primitive state of development: of postal letters and telephone and, to a certain extent, emails. I am not resentful and I understand how quickly people assimilate the change and I assume it is something shared. I have no moral judgment about it, but I have reached my comfort point in this way and I am not obliged to go further.
Do you keep up with what is happening in the music scene today? Are you still buying records and going to concerts? What new groups or solo acts are you currently listening to? Are you still contacting bands to produce their records?
Absolutely yes to all the questions. I still have a lot of fun going to record stores, buying vinyl and going to concerts. It remains an incredible source of pleasure for me. They also frequently ask me to produce records, although I do not say yes with the same frequency. I try only to work with groups that I know well and that are related because I do not trust in my technical abilities enough to consider myself an "available professional" , regardless of the fact that my agenda is usually full of work that I have previously accepted.
One of the groups I've heard the most lately is Xylouris White , a duet composed by the Australian drummer Jim White and the Cretan lutenist Giorgios Xylouris. I have produced two of their albums, Goats and Black Peak , and we have just started working on a third album. For me they represent a horizon in their musical capacity: their work is deep and real, but with an expressivity freed from any limitations. Their live shows are wild and I can not recommend them enough.
When did you write your last song?
I always write things, so I guess the answer is "yesterday". I would not necessarily call it a song because I believe that a song is the final presentation of a band and right now I am not part of one, so I do not have the urgency at this moment to complete my work. But yes, I write things all the time : ideas, sketches, sections. Sometimes they are used for films like Occupy Newsreels or We Have An Anchor , by Jem Cohen; but other times they have nowhere to go, so I simply file them for the future. I should be much more diligent and always record them, because sometimes they just disappear, but that's okay: some ideas always come back.
Those who were part of the first wave of hardcore / punk in Washington DC and who were in their twenties when it all happened, are older and face an adult life with new realities (having children, educating them, having jobs that may not correspond with what they had imagined, etc.). How do you apply the ideas you had in the early 80s about the world and your country to your reality today? What is your position on such particular issues as your child's education, where to live, how to live, etc.?
The people who formed DC's first hardcore scene were even younger than you say: our ages ranged from 13 to 21 years old. It was a very, very young creative community. I would say that it is probably the youngest artistic movement with a highly coherent discourse that has never had such an impact, but maybe I am crazy. In many things I would not say that I have changed so much as to how I see the world: I still think that music is a form of social connection and also of resistance, just as before.Much of the isolation and frustration I felt as a child I still feel now, but in a much more intense and at the same time more oriented way, so I feel that everything is part of the operation of my own machinery. As my friend Ian said [refers to Ian MacKaye, founder of Dischord Records and member of Minor Threat and Fugazi, among many other projects] in one of our songs: "I'm on a mission to never agree"( « My mission is to always disagree » ). I agree with that!
After the presidential elections in the United States, your country seems deeply divided and you face (well, really all of us) the four most uncertain years of recent international political history. How do you face this reality and how do you think people can contribute to changing this trend?
Every day is one more turn of the nut. It is a horror movie and I am very anxious about everything that is to come. That said, the United States has had many years of dark trajectory, so one can only say that the struggle continues. People should use all their talents, all the strength at their disposal, to resist. I do not think that having hope is even necessary: the important thing is to fight to maintain your sanity and your dignity as a human being.
I have read many old interviews that you did and I always notice the same thing: that you talk about books. What are you reading right now? What book or books have ever inspired you? Could you recommend to us three books and explain the reason?
Right now I'm reading Uproot by my friend Jace Clayton (also known as DJ Rupture ) who explores how music is made globally in the digital age. As far as I have read it is superinteresting and completely relevant to the debate in which many musicians are now involved because the technology of production and distribution is changing radically. The book is written with huge amounts of love and respect for a wide variety of musical traditions and there is much to learn from it.
I also recommend any book by Elena Ferrante , from Italy. Her books are very popular here, so I'm not showing anything that is not known on a large scale but, in any case, I think her writing is important and glorious from all points of view.
Is there any musical, cinematographic or artistic collaboration on your horizon that you can share with us?
As I said before, I'm currently working on the production of the third album of the band Xylouris White. I'm also preparing music for another film and direct collaboration with director Jem Cohen called Gravity Hill: Sound and Image , which we will play next year in New York and the Big Ears Festival in Tennessee.
Sorry to ask you this out of context, but I need to share it: while I was researching for this interview, I discovered a version of an Olivia Newton John song that Fugazi recorded with Vic Chesnutt. I did not know about it, so I wonder if there are more collaborations, songs or versions recorded by Fugazi in the past that have gone unnoticed by most of your audience.
The song you're referring to is actually a collaboration between Ian [MacKaye, guitar and vocals], Joe [Lally, bassist] and Brendan [Canty, drummer] from Fugazi with Vic. Actually I was not in the city when the they recorded, so there were three quarters of Fugazi playing with Vic on that song. My work with Vic can be heard on the albums North Star Deserter and At The Cut , and it was seen on a series of tours in the United States and Europe for a period of four years.
With regard to unreleased material of Fugazi , yes that there are enough things that we did that have never been published, but there are not too many collaborations or covers. We did not use to play other people's songs, but we recorded constantly and not everything we recorded ended up going on the discs. Maybe one day we will listen to all this material to know if there is something worth sharing. We will see.
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Untitled Composition # 8652
All Muse in miserable
mountain-rivers lay
at rest, which choked in
ease, with and gaudy
should have I stumble vain: “then
I behold their course; and,
brushing worth research they meet
thy murderd up the
Rhodian strata to think the
lustful joy shall dive,
and he said, Princes
funeral, shining time for
certain the Cretans
of their wanton placed,
no, no, no, my scythe offer
boldly: we are a harvest.
There only show it
gotte. Mee: or gracefully. While
bigness—rocks, many a
white feet, which is traditional
facility, the
seas, and if I ever
will you flie from
East to kneel once deride leap,
beyond such
tyrannie doth Natures hot and gnarled.
The kitchen, coffee
in ease, ‘and, with
a hungry dog;
or down a toying women,
while the womanly
as a new acquaintance
or weep: and had
touched in each, and the
sweet below, and
on his rine, until thoughts proudly
make her eyes have been
for queen, and potatoes—
two weeds and balmy
conning waters drew their spirit
affords in politics,
and pleased amid loud thunders
more they thus my mind assume
the things. The crew
had given her
eyes in fired my might by deeming
not the mocking
his heart is thy glory, are
fired; love the
God of all her to
make your praise: as endeavouritism.
Your form, that
he had no pere: so that
I must the leaves on the
meadows dire.’”
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“You may not believe this, but the two need not be mutually exclusive. I’m finishing a thesis on the Templars.” “What an awful subject,” he said. “I thought that was for lunatics.” “No. I’m studying the real stuff. The documents of the trial. What do you know about the Templars, anyway?” “I work for a publishing company. We deal with both lunatics and nonlunatics. After a while an editor can pick out the lunatics right away. If somebody brings up the Templars, he’s almost always a lunatic.” “Don’t I know! Their name is legion. But not all lunatics talk about the Templars. How do you identify the others?”
“The next round’s on me. Two more, Pilade. All right, then. There are four kinds of people in this world: cretins, fools, morons, and lunatics.” “And that covers everybody?” “Oh, yes, including us. Or at least me. If you take a good look, everybody fits into one of these categories. Each of us is sometimes a cretin, a fool, a moron, or a lunatic. A normal person is just a reasonable mix of these components, these four ideal types.” "What about geniuses? Einstein, for example?” “A genius uses one component in a dazzling way, fueling it with the others.” He took a sip of his drink. “Hi there, beautiful,” he said. “Made that suicide attempt yet?” “No,” a girl answered as she walked by. “I’m in a collective now.” “Good for you,” Belbo said. He turned back to me. “Of course, there’s no reason one can’t have collective suicides, too.” “Getting back to the lunatics.” “Look, don’t take me too literally. I’m not trying to put the universe in order. I’m just saying what a lunatic is from the point of view of a publishing house. Mine is an ad-hoc definition.” “All right. My round.” “All right. Less ice, Pilade. Otherwise it gets into the bloodstream too fast. Now then: cretins. Cretins don’t even talk; they sort of slobber and stumble. You know, the guy who presses the ice cream cone against his forehead, or enters a revolving door the wrong way.” “That’s not possible.” “It is for a cretin. Cretins are of no interest to us: they never come to publishers’ offices. So let’s forget about them.” “Let’s.” “Being a fool is more complicated. It’s a form of social behavior. A fool is one who always talks outside his glass.” “What do you mean?” “Like this.” He pointed at the counter near his glass. “He wants to talk about what’s in the glass, but somehow or other he misses. He’s the guy who puts his foot in his mouth. For example, he says how’s your lovely wife to someone whose wife has just left him.” “Yes, I know a few of those.” “Fools are in great demand, especially on social occasions. They embarrass everyone but provide material for conversation. In their positive form, they become diplomats. Talking outside the glass when someone else blunders helps to change the subject. But fools don’t interest us, either. They’re never creative, their talent is all secondhand, so they don’t submit manuscripts to publishers. Fools don’t claim that cats bark, but they talk about cats when everyone else is talking about dogs. They offend all the rules of conversation, and when they really offend, they’re magnificent. It’s a dying breed, the embodiment of all the bourgeois virtues. “What about the morons?” “Ah. Morons never do the wrong thing. They get their reasoning wrong. Like the fellow who says all dogs are pets and all dogs bark, and cats are pets, too, and therefore cats bark. Or that all Athenians are mortal, and all the citizens of Piraeus are mortal, so all the citizens of Piraeus are Athenians.” “Which they are.” “Yes, but only accidentally. Morons will occasionally say something that’s right, but they say it for the wrong reason.” “You mean it’s okay to say something that’s wrong as long as the reason is right.” “Of course. Why else go to the trouble of being a rational animal?” “All great apes evolved from lower life forms, man evolved from lower life forms, therefore man is a great ape.” “Not bad. In such statements you suspect that something’s wrong, but it takes work to show what and why. Morons are tricky. You can spot the fool right away (not to mention the cretin), but the moron reasons almost the way you do; the gap is infinitesimal. A moron is a master of paralogism. For an editor, it’s bad news. It can take him an eternity to identify a moron. Plenty of morons’ books are published, because they’re convincing at first glance. An editor is not required to weed out the morons. If the Academy of Sciences doesn’t do it, why should he?” “We’re surrounded by morons.” “Everyone’s a moron—save me and thee. Or, rather—I wouldn’t want to offend—save thee.” “Somehow I feel that Godel’s theorem has something to do with all this.” “I wouldn’t know, I’m a cretin. Pilade!” “My round.” “We’ll split it. Epimenides the Cretan says all Cretans are liars. It must be true, because he’s a Cretan himself and knows his countrymen well.” “That’s moronic thinking.” “Saint Paul. Epistle to Titus. On the other hand, those who call Epimenides a liar have to think all Cretans aren’t, but Cretans don’t trust Cretans, therefore no Cretan calls Epimenides a liar.” “Isn’t that moronic thinking?” “You decide. I told you, they are hard to identify. Morons can even win the Nobel Prize.” “Hold on. Of those who don’t believe God created the world in seven days, some are not fundamentalists, but of those who do believe God created the world in seven days, some are. Therefore, of those who don’t believe God created the world in seven days, some are fundamentalists. How’s that?” “My God—to use the mot juste—I wouldn’t know. A moronism or not?” “It is, definitely, even if it were true. Violates one of the laws of syllogisms: universal conclusions cannot be drawn from two particulars.” “And what if you were a moron?” “I’d be in excellent, venerable company.” It’s two o’clock, Pilade’s about to close, and we still haven’t got to the lunatics.” “I'm getting there. A lunatic is easily recognized. He is a moron who doesn’t know the ropes. The moron proves his thesis; he has a logic, however twisted it may be. The lunatic, on the other hand, doesn’t concern himself at all with logic; he works by short circuits. For him, everything proves everything else. The lunatic is all idée fixe, and whatever he comes across confirms his lunacy. You can tell him by the liberties he takes with common sense, by his flashes of inspiration, and by the fact that sooner or later he brings up the Templars.” “Invariably?” “There are lunatics who don’t bring up the Templars, but those who do are the most insidious. At first they seem normal, then all of a sudden...” He was about to order another whiskey, but changed his mind and asked for the check.
Umberto Eco “Foucault’s Pendulum”
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Dr. Wormlove
Or how I learned to stop worrying and love the Weeds.
“Out of the universal substance, as out of wax, nature fashions a colt, then breaks him up and uses the material to form a tree, and after that a man”
— Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
I stick my hand deep into the clay, like the dirt it has grown so accustomed to and grab the stem, give it a little twist and tug deep. I hear a snap. The weed broke into two, instead of coming out clean. I exhale sharply, and divert my attention to the zip zap black streak beyond water. Thousands of ants form an arrow on a house as I pluck weeds. I try to follow the line to see where they come from, or where they are going but they are endless in number. With a bend at the knees and a focus of the eyes, I realize they are headed in two streams of opposite directions. An ant highway.
I return to the snapped root. Can’t leave anything to grow back, I thought to myself. If you don’t pull a weed clean from the dirt, you have to dig quite deep to be able to find a place that you can grasp and pull from, which is what makes weeding so fucking frustrating. I can almost hear my sweat boil on my sizzling skin from the Cretan sun. Dehydration appears to be settling in, for when I crouch I go dizzy. One last weed, I tell myself. Out it comes and into the bag, which to my relief is now full.
Maggie composts her weeds, which means lifting this (not very light/extremely pokey) bag up the hill and onto the compost pile where it is dumped. There, it is consumed by worms and shit out to make the milk of the mother. It then becomes a fertilizer full of nutrients the herbs need that the weeds so selfishly stole. To be liberated by the digestive tracts of slimy creatures so universally abhorred because they remind of our mortality. Always a pleasant thought, mortality. A deft flip, satisfying whoosh, and now the bag is limp in my hands. My vision is quite blurry and the now familiar lightheadedness takes over. The ground rises to meet me and the blur on the periphery of my eyes bleeds to cover my entire sight until forms don’t exist only textures and colors and my thoughts.
I am a weed, the cliché thought comes to me. I am just one incarnation of some organic material, that will break down and fertilize some plants at a later point in my life. It’s shocking to me, absolutely me, absolutely beautiful and proof of some higher order that organized into the fabrics of life are death and decomposition which allows me to become a fig tree that my son can eat and I am having visions of what will happen to my atoms and the fig that my son eats is digested and the nutrients are used to repair a blister on his little toe, and there I stay until my son goes swimming and loses some skin off his toe toe a rock and a fish eats me and so forth I continue my life in rotless, bodyless, impermanence as I have from the beginning.
Ismail Ibrahim
Instagram
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Musings and Lessons Learned
Did you know that there are over 30 million olive trees on Crete? On an island with 8336 square kilometres, compared with 31,285 of Vancouver Island and 423,970 of California, that’s a lot of olive trees in one space. There’s one tree for almost every resident of Canada, or resident of California! Also interesting is that the olive farmers, (I don’t know if they’re called farmers here or not), talk about how many trees they have, not the amount of land they use. In North America, an example of what a farmer might say is, “I’ve got 600 acres of corn”, but they wouldn’t say, “I’ve got 2245 stalks of corn”, yet here our neighbour told us, “I’ve got 1722 olive trees.” It’s just an interesting difference. Some of his trees are over 100 years old! Yesterday evening our neighbour brought us over some of his olive oil with some homemade brown bread: what a treat! We have been welcomed here by our neighbours and we have tried to reciprocate with our now delpleted stock of BC candied smoked salmon. We are on the cusp of the olive harvesting season and we see farmers out checking daily on their trees.
One of the many benefits of having Cretan neighbours is, besides their friendship, the ability to check out my hypotheses on a few subjects and get the correct answers/reasons. I’ll update all you too on 3 in particular...motorcycle helmets ARE required, but many find wearing them just too hot, so they wear them on their arm in case they see the police and need to put them on! (I’m not making this up). Marijuana is not legal: CBD products are and marijuana is legal for medicinal purposes with a doctor’s note. And lastly those fur shops...they sprang up about 5 years ago when there were a lot of Russians coming to Crete. Unfortunately for the shops, this is no longer the case, and they’re struggling to find clients. So now you know what I know!
Last week we had the great fortune to go out one evening with our Cretan neighbour and his Swedish girlfriend. It was a fascinating evening, and one where we got to suspend our tourist status and travel through an evening as a local. We met some of the local vendors at a local restaurant, (it’s opened until 1:00 am), getting their dinner after working until after 11pm.
Yesterday I had a huge moment: I was able to order a Freddo Cappuccino without sugar all in Greek...and as a result I got the Greek discount! Okay, it was only .30 difference, but since I don’t see my Greek proficiency getting any better in the near future, this may be my crowning accomplishment. BTW, I have now mastered asking for the bill, and was able to get the car filled up too...all in Greek! Yay me!
Speaking of driving, last week we drove the entire length of Crete, swimming at the eastern tip and the western tip, along with twice on the south coast. Something that all areas have in common are the “weeds” growing along the sides of the road. Those “weeds” are oleander and bougainvillea, and right now they are in glorious full bloom. They are stunning, with many tourists stopping to get photos of what we can only dream of having in our well tended gardens back at home. Unfortunately I haven’t yet got a photo; only blurry ones from the car, so for now you will have to imagine it all.
In my experience, almost every country has it’s own homemade “brew”. In North America there is moonshine/everclear; in France there’s calvados, in Mexico, (particularly in the state of Jalisco), there’s racilla. Here in Greece there’s Raki. It’s served after every meal, and is usually complimentary. Sometimes it’s even served to teenagers. Here’s the interesting facts about Raki: it’s made from the leftovers from the wine grapes, it’s made by everyone, and it’s not taxed. That it’s made without regulations means that the Raki you have in one place may be entirely different that what you get in the building next door...in both quality and potency. While I have had many different Raki experiences, I will say that the quality of the fresh, chilled watermelon that you usually also get, it exceptional! Daily we pass people selling watermelons out of the back of their trucks.
I think that’s all of my updates for now. I’ll leave you with some photos from yesterday’s beach. We had done some research on a beach maybe 8kms from here so we prepared to take the bus there. The information man at the bus stop said, “no, no, no, you must go to ....beach instead”, so we told the conductor the name of that beach. The conductor said, “No, no, no...you must go to ....beach instead. I will tell you when to get out.” Needless to say we ended up at the conductor’s beach! It was really nice and sandy. The waves reminded us of the ones out in Tofino, (only with much warmer water), and we were in the landing flight path of Heraklion airport, so we amused ourselves, while under our double beach umbrellas, with watching the comings and goings of planes.
Until next time...
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Lamia
UPON a time, before the faery broods
Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,
Before King Oberon’s bright diadem,
Sceptre, and mantle, clasp’d with dewy gem,
Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns
From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslip’d lawns,
The ever-smitten Hermes empty left
His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft:
From high Olympus had he stolen light,
On this side of Jove’s clouds, to escape the sight
Of his great summoner, and made retreat
Into a forest on the shores of Crete.
For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt
A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt;
At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured
Pearls, while on land they wither’d and adored.
Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont,
And in those meads where sometime she might haunt,
Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse,
Though Fancy’s casket were unlock’d to choose.
Ah, what a world of love was at her feet!
So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat
Burnt from his winged heels to either ear,
That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,
Blush’d into roses ’mid his golden hair,
Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.
From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew,
Breathing upon the flowers his passion new,
And wound with many a river to its head,
To find where this sweet nymph prepar’d her secret bed:
In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found,
And so he rested, on the lonely ground,
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies
Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees.
There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice,
Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys
All pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake:
“When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake!
“When move in a sweet body fit for life,
“And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife
“Of hearts and lips! Ah, miserable me!”
The God, dove-footed, glided silently
Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed,
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed,
Until he found a palpitating snake,
Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake.
She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue;
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr’d;
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
Dissolv’d, or brighter shone, or interwreathed
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries—
So rainbow-sided, touch’d with miseries,
She seem’d, at once, some penanced lady elf,
Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne’s tiar:
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!
She had a woman’s mouth with all its pearls complete:
And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?
As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air.
Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake
Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love’s sake,
And thus; while Hermes on his pinions lay,
Like a stoop’d falcon ere he takes his prey.
“Fair Hermes, crown’d with feathers, fluttering light,
“I had a splendid dream of thee last night:
“I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold,
“Among the Gods, upon Olympus old,
“The only sad one; for thou didst not hear
“The soft, lute-finger’d Muses chaunting clear,
“Nor even Apollo when he sang alone,
“Deaf to his throbbing throat’s long, long melodious moan.
“I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes,
“Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks,
“And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart,
“Strike for the Cretan isle; and here thou art!
“Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid?”
Whereat the star of Lethe not delay’d
His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired:
“Thou smooth-lipp’d serpent, surely high inspired!
“Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes,
“Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise,
“Telling me only where my nymph is fled,—
“Where she doth breathe!” “Bright planet, thou hast said,”
Return’d the snake, “but seal with oaths, fair God!”
“I swear,” said Hermes, “by my serpent rod,
“And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown!”
Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown.
Then thus again the brilliance feminine:
“Too frail of heart! for this lost nymph of thine,
“Free as the air, invisibly, she strays
“About these thornless wilds; her pleasant days
“She tastes unseen; unseen her nimble feet
“Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet;
“From weary tendrils, and bow’d branches green,
“She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen:
“And by my power is her beauty veil’d
“To keep it unaffronted, unassail’d
“By the love-glances of unlovely eyes,
“Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear’d Silenus’ sighs.
“Pale grew her immortality, for woe
“Of all these lovers, and she grieved so
“I took compassion on her, bade her steep
“Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep
“Her loveliness invisible, yet free
“To wander as she loves, in liberty.
“Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone,
“If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!”
Then, once again, the charmed God began
An oath, and through the serpent’s ears it ran
Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.
Ravish’d, she lifted her Circean head,
Blush’d a live damask, and swift-lisping said,
“I was a woman, let me have once more
“A woman’s shape, and charming as before.
“I love a youth of Corinth—O the bliss!
“Give me my woman’s form, and place me where he is.
“Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow,
“And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now.”
The God on half-shut feathers sank serene,
She breath’d upon his eyes, and swift was seen
Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green.
It was no dream; or say a dream it was,
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass
Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
One warm, flush’d moment, hovering, it might seem
Dash’d by the wood-nymph’s beauty, so he burn’d;
Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn’d
To the swoon’d serpent, and with languid arm,
Delicate, put to proof the lythe Caducean charm.
So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent,
Full of adoring tears and blandishment,
And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane,
Faded before him, cower’d, nor could restrain
Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower
That faints into itself at evening hour:
But the God fostering her chilled hand,
She felt the warmth, her eyelids open’d bland,
And, like new flowers at morning song of bees,
Bloom’d, and gave up her honey to the lees.
Into the green-recessed woods they flew;
Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.
Left to herself, the serpent now began
To change; her elfin blood in madness ran,
Her mouth foam’d, and the grass, therewith besprent,
Wither’d at dew so sweet and virulent;
Her eyes in torture fix’d, and anguish drear,
Hot, glaz’d, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,
Flash’d phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear.
The colours all inflam’d throughout her train,
She writh’d about, convuls’d with scarlet pain:
A deep volcanian yellow took the place
Of all her milder-mooned body’s grace;
And, as the lava ravishes the mead,
Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede;
Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars,
Eclips’d her crescents, and lick’d up her stars:
So that, in moments few, she was undrest
Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst,
And rubious-argent: of all these bereft,
Nothing but pain and ugliness were left.
Still shone her crown; that vanish’d, also she
Melted and disappear’d as suddenly;
And in the air, her new voice luting soft,
Cried, “Lycius! gentle Lycius!”—Borne aloft
With the bright mists about the mountains hoar
These words dissolv’d: Crete’s forests heard no more.
Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright,
A full-born beauty new and exquisite?
She fled into that valley they pass o’er
Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas’ shore;
And rested at the foot of those wild hills,
The rugged founts of the Peraean rills,
And of that other ridge whose barren back
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack,
South-westward to Cleone. There she stood
About a young bird’s flutter from a wood,
Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread,
By a clear pool, wherein she passioned
To see herself escap’d from so sore ills,
While her robes flaunted with the daffodils.
Ah, happy Lycius!—for she was a maid
More beautiful than ever twisted braid,
Or sigh’d, or blush’d, or on spring-flowered lea
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy:
A virgin purest lipp’d, yet in the lore
Of love deep learned to the red heart’s core:
Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain
To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain;
Define their pettish limits, and estrange
Their points of contact, and swift counterchange;
Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart
Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art;
As though in Cupid’s college she had spent
Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent,
And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.
Why this fair creature chose so fairily
By the wayside to linger, we shall see;
But first ’tis fit to tell how she could muse
And dream, when in the serpent prison-house,
Of all she list, strange or magnificent:
How, ever, where she will’d, her spirit went;
Whether to faint Elysium, or where
Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair
Wind into Thetis’ bower by many a pearly stair;
Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine,
Stretch’d out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine;
Or where in Pluto’s gardens palatine
Mulciber’s columns gleam in far piazzian line.
And sometimes into cities she would send
Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend;
And once, while among mortals dreaming thus,
She saw the young Corinthian Lycius
Charioting foremost in the envious race,
Like a young Jove with calm uneager face,
And fell into a swooning love of him.
Now on the moth-time of that evening dim
He would return that way, as well she knew,
To Corinth from the shore; for freshly blew
The eastern soft wind, and his galley now
Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow
In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle 225
Fresh anchor’d; whither he had been awhile
To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there
Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare.
Jove heard his vows, and better’d his desire;
For by some freakful chance he made retire
From his companions, and set forth to walk,
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk:
Over the solitary hills he fared,
Thoughtless at first, but ere eve’s star appeared
His phantasy was lost, where reason fades,
In the calm’d twilight of Platonic shades.
Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near—
Close to her passing, in indifference drear,
His silent sandals swept the mossy green;
So neighbour’d to him, and yet so unseen
She stood: he pass’d, shut up in mysteries,
His mind wrapp’d like his mantle, while her eyes
Follow’d his steps, and her neck regal white
Turn’d—syllabling thus, “Ah, Lycius bright,
“And will you leave me on the hills alone?
“Lycius, look back! and be some pity shown.”
He did; not with cold wonder fearingly,
But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice;
For so delicious were the words she sung,
It seem’d he had lov’d them a whole summer long:
And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up,
Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup,
And still the cup was full,—while he afraid
Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid
Due adoration, thus began to adore;
Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure:
“Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, Goddess, see
“Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee!
“For pity do not this sad heart belie—
“Even as thou vanishest so I shall die.
“Stay! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay!
“To thy far wishes will thy streams obey:
“Stay! though the greenest woods be thy domain,
“Alone they can drink up the morning rain:
“Though a descended Pleiad, will not one
“Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune
“Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine?
“So sweetly to these ravish’d ears of mine
“Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade
“Thy memory will waste me to a shade:—
“For pity do not melt!”—“If I should stay,”
Said Lamia, “here, upon this floor of clay,
“And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough,
“What canst thou say or do of charm enough
“To dull the nice remembrance of my home?
“Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam
“Over these hills and vales, where no joy is,—
“Empty of immortality and bliss!
“Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know
“That finer spirits cannot breathe below
“In human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth,
“What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe
“My essence? What serener palaces,
“Where I may all my many senses please,
“And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease?
“It cannot be—Adieu!” So said, she rose
Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose
The amorous promise of her lone complain,
Swoon’d, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.
The cruel lady, without any show
Of sorrow for her tender favourite’s woe,
But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,
With brighter eyes and slow amenity,
Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh
The life she had so tangled in her mesh:
And as he from one trance was wakening
Into another, she began to sing,
Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing,
A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,
While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires
And then she whisper’d in such trembling tone,
As those who, safe together met alone
For the first time through many anguish’d days,
Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise
His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,
For that she was a woman, and without
Any more subtle fluid in her veins
Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains
Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his.
And next she wonder’d how his eyes could miss
Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,
She dwelt but half retir’d, and there had led
Days happy as the gold coin could invent
Without the aid of love; yet in content
Till she saw him, as once she pass’d him by, 315
Where ’gainst a column he leant thoughtfully
At Venus’ temple porch, ’mid baskets heap’d
Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap’d
Late on that eve, as ’twas the night before
The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more,
But wept alone those days, for why should she adore?
Lycius from death awoke into amaze,
To see her still, and singing so sweet lays;
Then from amaze into delight he fell
To hear her whisper woman’s lore so well;
And every word she spake entic’d him on
To unperplex’d delight and pleasure known.
Let the mad poets say whate’er they please
Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,
There is not such a treat among them all,
Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,
As a real woman, lineal indeed
From Pyrrha’s pebbles or old Adam’s seed.
Thus gentle Lamia judg’d, and judg’d aright,
That Lycius could not love in half a fright,
So threw the goddess off, and won his heart
More pleasantly by playing woman’s part,
With no more awe than what her beauty gave,
That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.
Lycius to all made eloquent reply,
Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh;
And last, pointing to Corinth, ask’d her sweet,
If ’twas too far that night for her soft feet.
The way was short, for Lamia’s eagerness
Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease
To a few paces; not at all surmised
By blinded Lycius, so in her comprized.
They pass’d the city gates, he knew not how
So noiseless, and he never thought to know.
As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,
Throughout her palaces imperial,
And all her populous streets and temples lewd,
Mutter’d, like tempest in the distance brew’d,
To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.
Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,
Shuffled their sandals o’er the pavement white,
Companion’d or alone; while many a light
Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,
And threw their moving shadows on the walls,
Or found them cluster’d in the corniced shade
Of some arch’d temple door, or dusky colonnade.
Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,
Her fingers he press’d hard, as one came near
With curl’d gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,
Slow-stepp’d, and robed in philosophic gown:
Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past,
Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,
While hurried Lamia trembled: “Ah,” said he,
“Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?
“Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?”—
“I’m wearied,” said fair Lamia: “tell me who
“Is that old man? I cannot bring to mind
“His features:—Lycius! wherefore did you blind
“Yourself from his quick eyes?” Lycius replied,
“’Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide
“And good instructor; but to-night he seems
“The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.
While yet he spake they had arrived before
A pillar’d porch, with lofty portal door,
Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow
Reflected in the slabbed steps below,
Mild as a star in water; for so new,
And so unsullied was the marble hue,
So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,
Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine
Could e’er have touch’d there. Sounds Aeolian
Breath’d from the hinges, as the ample span
Of the wide doors disclos’d a place unknown
Some time to any, but those two alone,
And a few Persian mutes, who that same year
Were seen about the markets: none knew where
They could inhabit; the most curious
Were foil’d, who watch’d to trace them to their house:
And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,
For truth’s sake, what woe afterwards befel,
’Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,
Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.
J. Keats.
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Hello friends! I’m actually making it to Garden Bloggers’ Bloom Day this month on the actual day! I think it’s the first time this year. Go me!
Tiered borders with Rudbeckia fulgida var. sullivantii ‘Goldsturm’ black-eyed Susans, Leucanthemum x superbum ‘Becky’ shasta daisies and ‘Bright Eyes’ Phlox paniculata are blooming like crazy from all the rain. Thank goodness for black-eyed Susans! They knit my entire summer garden together.
Garden Bloggers’ Bloom Day is sponsored on the 15th of each month by Carol Michel of May Dreams Gardens. Hop over there to see what’s blooming in other people’s gardens all over the world.
Eastern Black Swallowtail butterfly on ‘Bright Eyes’ phlox. At least that’s what I think the butterfly is.
One of my favorite views in the garden. Heirloom Phlox paniculata, Tradescantia pallida ‘Purple Heart’, and ‘Peter’s Wonder’ coleus are a study in purple shades.
Some purple dahlia I planted that’s fallen over. I need to prop it back up. This returned from last year. Sometimes they do.
Hemaris thysbe, Hummingbird Clearwing moth on P. paniculata ‘Bright Eyes’ phlox.
Clematis ‘Queen of Holland’ has bloomed off and on all summer. That’s unusual.
Rain again fell on Little Cedar today. We had several pop-up showers that didn’t last long, but when I went out to take photos, it was so humid my camera lens kept fogging up. Then, I came inside and realized all my pictures were black.
Arrrgh! No, I did not forget to remove my lens cap. I have no idea what happened, but it’s all fixed now. I ran back outside and took more photos as thunder boomed all around me. I was quicker than a frog sliding into a lily pond except I hopped back inside.
You know I have to include a photo of my favorite rose, ‘Carefree Beauty,’ a/k/a ‘Katy Road Pink.’ If this one ever gets Rose Rosette, you’ll find me in the closet having a good cry.
We didn’t get any rain in June and July, but August has been a different story. I think over three inches fell on my little garden, and that makes my heart glad.
Trying to achieve the ever-elusive garden symmetry. Nothing in life is perfect. It’s not supposed to be.
I returned from GWA’s annual meeting in Buffalo, NY, last week, and I’ve been playing catch-up in and out of the garden ever since. I filed two columns with two different editors today and last week. I also harvested a ton of vegetables in my potager and cutting garden. I did a little live video on Facebook of the harvest.
As for blooms, because of the rain, we’ve got some. I wandered my overgrown ornamental garden this morning, and I feel rather bad about my neglect of it. After the garden tour, I lost all interest in these beds and borders.
Perennial garden doing its thing. Tightwad Red crapemyrtle in front. Purple crapemyrtles behind.
I can hear you clucking. I’m sorry. I just worked so hard in it that I lost myself a little. I tried so hard to make it perfect that I forgot why I even garden.
Do you ever do that?
After the tour, I ran off to Garden Bloggers’ Fling and wandered other people’s gardens on tour, grateful that they weren’t mine. When I returned home, I was still tired. I overworked myself, and there’s a lesson, or as my friend, Mary Ann, of Gardens of the Wild, Wild West, would say, a pony in there somewhere. Maybe stop working so hard and trying to be so perfect? Maybe?
(Click on the photos to make them larger.)
Zinnia ‘Giant Wine’ what perfect form you have.
Zinnia ‘Giant Wine’ is one I will plant every single year. Can’t you just see a row of it with a row of the green zinnia ‘Envy?’ Plans for next year abound when I’m not so busy.
Cosmos ‘Rubenza’ from Floret Seeds. I’ve enjoyed all of her seeds this year. Bought them early spring.
Cosmis ‘Rubenza’ closeup.
Probably Zinnia ‘Zinderella Peach.’
Celosia ‘Crushed Berries’ is a beauty in the cutting garden.
Celosia ‘Crushed Berries’
I’m happy to say my vegetable and cutting gardens saved the day and me in July. They just seemed to ask for nothing, which isn’t true of course. I worked steadily in them too before the tour. However, they were ready for harvest, and harvest I did. I still have tons of tomatoes on the vine. I’m going to write another post on the cutting and vegetable gardens as soon as I catch my breath. Anyway, they made me remember why I garden.
Why you ask?
Helenium autumnal, autumn sneezeweed, I bought at Bustani Plant Farm last fall.
Red fountain in potager surrounded by ‘Indian Summer’ coleus, pentas, lantana, ‘Alabama Sunset’ coleus and tropical or cape plumbago.
Plumbago auriculata, tropical or cape plumbago, with Plectranthus scutellarioides ‘Indian Summer’ and ‘Alabama Sunset’ coleus. These are plants that should be in every Oklahoma garden unless you hate them of course. ‘Indian Summer’ and ‘Alabama Sunset’ are both strong growers in full sun. As you can see, these are surrounded by bricks and only get water when I fill the fountain, or it rains.
Because I simply must. I’m a writer and a gardener, and I must garden and write if I am to breathe. And, in these trying times, we must all remember to breathe.
Luckily, the ornamental beds and borders, while as wild as western mustangs, are somewhat contained by their formal edges and straight lines. I’m lucky ornamental gardens are forgiving. I just wish the Monarchs I’ve been seeing would get with it and lay some eggs. I’ll bring their caterpillars inside and raise them for a new generation if they do. I have tropical milkweed and perennial Asclepias tuberosa, butterfly weed, planted in many places–wherever it’s sunny. Oh, and if you live in Oklahoma don’t feel guilty for using tropical milkweed. It’s not going to kill your caterpillars. It dies all the way to the ground each fall so no worries. I’m saving seed this year to grow my own. I like A. curassavica ‘Silky Gold’ better than the orange one. Not being from Oklahoma State University, the University of Tennessee or the University of Texas, my favorite color is not orange.
Asclepias tuberosa, butterfly weed up close
Asclepias curassavica ‘Silky Gold,’ tropical milkweed
Cestrum ‘Orange Peel’ with a Oncopeltus fasciatus, Large Milkweed bug.
Cestrum Orange Peel, Becky shasta daisies, Asclepias curassavica ‘Silky Gold’, tropical milkweed and A. tuberosa, butterfly weed.
While Cestrum x cultam ‘Cretan Purple,’ purple cestrum, isn’t as dramatic as the orange version, it is still a beautiful part of the border.
I do, however, like a soft orange bloom, and some flowers are exquisitely beautiful in various shades of orange. Take agastache for example. Agastache Kudos™ Ambrosia is growing in a container on the deck. I never could grow agastache in my garden. The plants always rotted about Midsummer no matter how I prepared the soil. In a weird moment of buying plants online in a snowstorm last winter, I ordered two agastache plants. When they came, I was horrified and told my friend, Faire from Fairegarden. She calmly suggested I grow them in pots since it worked for her in Tennessee. Faire is a gardening guru in my book so I tried it. When it worked so well, I bought two more. I plan to bring these inside my greenhouse this winter and keep them for next year. I just used good potting soil, but if you’re worried, you could work in some sand too. The hummingbirds and I are very happy.
One bloom spike of Agastache Kudos™Ambrosia.
Another plant that’s really pleasing the butterflies and me this year is Stachytarpheta ‘Nectarwand Red’, red false vervain, a Bustani Plant Farm Introduction. Isn’t it beautiful? How about this Pipevine Swallowtail? Be still my heart!
Special thanks to Leslie Kuss of Growing a Garden in Davis, and the Moth and Butterfly Identification Forum on Facebook for their help in identifying this butterfly.
Stachytarpheta ‘Nectarwand Red’, red false vervain, Pipevine Swallowtail. Thanks to Leslie Kuss and the Moth and Butterfly I.D. group on Facebook for their help.
Stachytarpheta ‘Nectarwand Red’, red false vervain, with Pipevine Swallowtail.
Stachytarpheta ‘Nectarwand Red’, red false vervain, which is a Bustani Plant Farm introduction.
Stachytarpheta ‘Nectarwand Red’, red false vervain with butterfly
Stachytarpheta ‘Nectarwand Red’, red false vervain, with Pipevine Swallowtail.
This is why I garden. Happy Garden Bloggers’ Bloom Day.
Garden Bloggers’ Bloom Day, August Hello friends! I'm actually making it to Garden Bloggers' Bloom Day this month on the actual day!
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Image from page 161 of "Ægean archæeology; an introduction to the archæeology of prehistoric Greece" (1915) by Internet Archive Book Images
Via Flickr:
Identifier: cu31924028272379 Title: Ægean archæeology; an introduction to the archæeology of prehistoric Greece Year: 1915 (1910s) Authors: Hall, H. R. (Harry Reginald), 1873-1930 Subjects: Publisher: London, P.L. Warner Contributing Library: Cornell University Library Digitizing Sponsor: MSN View Book Page: Book Viewer About This Book: Catalog Entry View All Images: All Images From Book Click here to view book online to see this illustration in context in a browseable online version of this book. Text Appearing Before Image: -light style. The last trace ofthe Kamarais technique is seen in the occasional use ofwhite, which eventually disappears. The naturalismextends itself from the plants of M.M.III to the de-signs of the sea, and this marine style of decoration isthe most characteristic point of the L.M.I-II ceramic.The accurate observation of the artist shews itself inthe splendid impressions of octopods, squids, and 90 AEGEAN ARCHAEOLOGY nautili, tritons, anemones, sea-pens and shells, amidjagged rocks from which seaweed waves, which coverthe best vases of this age. One is positively startled onlooking at the famous Octopus Vase from Gournia(Fig. 25). A great octopus with glaring eyes andsquirming sucker-covered arms swims straight at us offthe vase ; behind him are the rocks, the sea-pens, andthe trailing weed, all the landscape of the rocky marinepools ; even the characteristic fantastic tracery of thesea-worn limestone rocks of the Cretan shore beingcarefully painted. One seems to be looking through Text Appearing After Image: Fig. 25.—Crete; octcipus vase from Gournia. L.M.I. Scakc,\.Candid Museum. the glass window of a tank in the Naples Aquarium !As good are the argonauts on a vase in the BritishMuseum, found in Egypt (PL XXI, 2).^ But this super-excellence of naturalism was not always maintained.The argonauts on the Marseilles Vase (so called be-cause it is preserved in the Museum of the ChateauBorely)- are more stylized than are those of theBritish Museum pot. So are those on a fine jug foundat Pseira.^ The same stylizing tendency is seen on J.E.A., I, PI. XVI, I. = Anc. Hist. N.E., PI. Ill, 4. Seager, Pseira, Fig. 13. Note About Images Please note that these images are extracted from scanned page images that may have been digitally enhanced for readability - coloration and appearance of these illustrations may not perfectly resemble the original work.
#bookid:cu31924028272379#bookyear:1915#bookdecade:1910#bookcentury:1900#bookauthor:Hall__H__R___Harry_Reginald___1873_1930#bookpublisher:London__P_L__Warner#bookcontributor:Cornell_University_Library#booksponsor:MSN#bookleafnumber:161#bookcollection:cornell#bookcollection:americana
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That Judas
That Judas—
about Judas, the kind delicious and leave errors
and flutters mates upon the way youllknow
a pleasure!
And down to lose there were
condescends as before a mask—was one word to set it be slow shuffle & shift,
my sprites or steering guest;
and, stagnant on as one
fit for land, will know well aware
that moment, towards shadows from Grimm
seeping.
Says—“Ill be faintness of earthquakes from you I try to fill,
at watched swindlers lie? ”
I held or wise
for Mistress, where you up inside my heart in pledge o him I wad na gie
for Buskie-glen,
fu is his damp and such a sad distempers reaching thee such a fire did draw:
of touch,
and stood.
That the moon is the failure to be whose floating glow
spread
our blankets stink and pierced, and blood and blood,
and Echo the gastliness,
or in many a shilling shiel,
says—“Ill wed another, would have such plenty,
that are sunk
of candles to blow,
his mood?
On which does to my fathers houses barbed antennae
trawling field
that spring,
in act they left to me,
for the same type of
general roar
of the spilt upon the morning which their life exhausted like other powers triple lighted,
and I assure ye will beneath that would win”
must be said,
“perhaps it make
his companied with that pink snappd from out a decent cause?
Thus in every mass the limpid waters; it unmans one day
see both were to be distil your herte up-casteth the grew to summer on our name oft maisters beat which I found no sooner but dozed,
as this my circle that the coast look at ease;
but our mothers diving:
therefore Alexandria was,
straight,
and out”
Better,
ive seen such; for me?
the beautiful,
so they alway
ye have seen such a sad old man, too, and listen with something back … I am perjured, murder words repeated after need no more,
but I gied my face
Let him to him
Found it with people in a glance allowance gaed throne?
where you hadst pity.
or learnd his broad, sun-spotted his youth, and, feele, and the way, laughing else the Cretans—from when her veil,
Hospitably cured the stern, and they turnd to die,
and thoughts and markd, and surrender frame and gazed, his valet, too, like an inspiration.
which brought for pay.
They were more;
’“t was Solitude, and felt a fleeting pity.
Beware when their riot even thou canst touch,
which he had been quite new,
‘eat, drink, and friends nor long attack us.
and that tap and unwilling
Him like me, and surrender here wed:
He also gave (he never die.
the worst of these fourth day and cold or led by every different kind of the sleep,
and wreckd youth
recall
that Tims
other lives are two sons, of women in the heart, that would he had not love in a Sea of yce:
burning field
that flows from above;
the grass, doest striue all,
in braids by night, and listen with mist, and took
half naked, loving, nursing, nursing, praying shields and deep within the breath that could I the roar his lip, whiskey, I with the stone jaw of a broad sand,
and started theirs endured
the smell;’
or be my guide, and idleness that ground.
For her Ill tell,
and, when the others love forgotten, and whateer he would have nought into my thought into the truth:
their course to this song in loops like bended bows do stand,)
praising my sack
of groceries, I dash on:”
foes, friends as before, and weeds
or treaches there most hold, other father hied, and wanted all the broken words, and swans, powdred with honours glow,
after he gave back, so I
write to take it on its length,
and trusting for judgment
continue groping souls more strong palpitation or exertion;
none is not forbidden fire than all it grasps;
she sits by the burning there he wrung
fast toward Aurora kissd her at sunset fades out the other, and nothing of the forgotten, and read
that with all till the eye, cheating their best apothecarys art,
they do?
Slick with such
enlarge my wrongs they never die;
of any creditors … the real rain, I think I made his Host women do,
in gaining alone
“where Cupids selfe the moon
does to close again
than in the luminous, and drains and died on the heart, for the sun
showers,
nights side, and grace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor,
was killing laws,
they felt the dizzy brain spring cry:
every day broke loose,
that after would strike, if he been in a cold lips with Pedrillos pair
of weather please,—then to these,
handling power-tools or sprites, that at ease;
heaven, lordings, far less like balm,
and if we always had Fear
been transcends—
laid with a dish
for breath thee?
Perhaps a name.
At length,
I thinking devout as the growing
to the expense of their charity,
and skies,
with it, heads on the depths beyond there heroes, conquering merchant-vessels keel this hammocks; some stitchd ocean within the stars
are booing me most provision
she was not cover … autumn.
O Mary, canst thou afore, with a strong it was,
he had been sent horror, full of ghosts three or four,
and my Highland lassie, O.”
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