#like. these fools live in london there are jews in london

[madtomedgar]

"Sourdough vegan plait" "cornbread is a sweet cake-like bread you can add sourdough discard to" die ^_^

#like i am sure our cookbooks commit hatecrimes against scones #or idk shortbread or whatever #but. if i have to one more time witness a white brit #say that braiding bread is really retro and obscure #and no one does it these days #it's an old school harvest fest thing #or whatever #like. these fools live in london there are jews in london #cmon

[eddie-redmayne-italian-blog]

'Cabaret' comes back to Broadway starring Eddie Redmayne and Gayle Rankin

APRIL 20, 20248:00 AM ET

HEARD ON WEEKEND EDITION SATURDAY

NPR's Scott Simon speaks to Eddie Redmayne and Gayle Rankin, who star in the new Broadway revival of "Cabaret."

SCOTT SIMON, HOST: You probably recognize the music from the first notes. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "WILLKOMMEN") EDDIE REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome. Fremde, etranger, stranger. SIMON: "Cabaret," the 1966 Broadway musical by Joe Masteroff, John Kander and Fred Ebb. It's drawn from Christopher Isherwood's memoir of high times and hot jazz and is set in a fictional Berlin nightspot called the Kit Kat Club. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "WILLKOMMEN") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) Im Cabaret, au Cabaret, to Cabaret. SIMON: At a time when sequins, high-stepping flappers and forbidden love gives way to goose-stepping and beating Jews on the street. A new revival of "Cabaret" has opened on Broadway after winning seven Olivier Awards in London. Eddie Redmayne plays the Emcee, and he joins us from New York. May I say willkommen to you? REDMAYNE: You may indeed. Hi.

SIMON: And Gayle Rankin the British chanteuse who comes to Berlin. I get to say fraulein Sally Bowles. (LAUGHTER) GAYLE RANKIN: Hello, darling (laughter). I had to (laughter). SIMON: Oh, my gosh. Wait. Sorry. Let me just catch my heart for a moment. Thanks so much. (LAUGHTER) SIMON: Eddie Redmayne, you've played the Emcee before. I was about to say early in your career, but really, before you started your career. REDMAYNE: That's absolutely true. Yes, I was a kid. I was at high school when I - we did a little school production. I think I was about 14, 15 years old. It was one of those moments in my life where I would say really I fell in love with theater. It thrilled me, and it made me think, and it moved me. And so I always sort of credit it weirdly as being the thing that that got me into acting full and proper. SIMON: What does the Emcee do for the audience?

REDMAYNE: I think one of the reasons the Emcee is such a iconic role and one that so many actors lean into is he's so enigmatic. He was conjured by Hal Prince and Joel Grey as a way of connecting the Sally Bowles story, and so he almost lives in an abstract place. And so for an actor, that is joyous because there are sort of no limitations on the one hand, and it's also quite daunting. He sort of starts as a puppeteer almost, the kind of the Shakespearian fool, perhaps... (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "TWO LADIES") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee) Come on, my little ones. UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #1: (As character, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, dee. UNIDENTIFIED ACTORS: (As characters, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, dee. REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, beedle dee, deedle dee. UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #2: (As character, singing) Beedle dee, deedle dee, dee. REDMAYNE: (Singing) Two ladies. UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #2: (As characters, singing) Beedle dee, dee dee dee.

REDMAYNE: ...Who then, over the course of the piece, rises to the all-knowing king or the sort of from puppeteer to conductor, and he becomes rather than the victim, he's almost the perpetrator. And so this person that's hopefully pulled you in at the beginning of the evening and seduced you and made you laugh, you realize is actually conducting the entire piece. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "IF YOU COULD SEE HER") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) If could see her through my eyes, she wouldn't look Jewish at all. SIMON: And Gayle Rankin, you have played other roles in "Cabaret" before Sally Bowles, haven't you? RANKIN: I have. I made my Broadway debut, actually, playing Fraulein Kost in the Sam Mendes revival 10 years ago with Alan and Michelle and Emma Stone. Eddie and I were just talking about it just the other day, and he was like, is this so weird? Is it so weird? And I was like, you know what? It's not weird. It's not weird. And it doesn't - I feel like a new person and in a new world 'cause that's - you know, "Cabaret," it comes back, and the world is new a decade later. It's new, and it's also the same.

SIMON: Help us look inside of Sally's mind and heart. What brings her to Berlin in the early '30s? RANKIN: You know, there's not a lot that's given to us, you know, about Sally. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "MEIN HERR")

RANKIN: (As Sally Bowles, singing) But I do what I can, inch by inch, step by step, mile by mile. For me, it was very important for me to kind of figure out Sally's relationship to artistry and creativity and why she ended up at the club. And there's a huge, you know, kind of cultural discussion about whether Sally has talent or whether she does not have talent. And that's a really fascinating thing, I think, to me. And I think it's amazing how people think they can decide or that they know that she's not - quote-unquote, "not talented" or is talented. It's just wild to me. SIMON: I have to ask. There are so many famous names who have played the two parts into which you two step now - Dame Judi Dench, Natasha Richardson, Michelle Williams. Alan Cumming, Joel Grey have played the Emcee. I didn't even mention the film with Liza Minnelli and Joel Grey, now, did I? So do previous productions inspire you, or do you just have to, you know, leave them in the fridge? REDMAYNE: I've been such a passionate fan of "Cabaret" since I was a kid that I've seen everything in the sense that I've - you can see some of Sam's production on YouTube. I saw Sam's production with Emma and Alan. I've watched the film. I even saw a random Spanish version when I was... RANKIN: Oh.

REDMAYNE: ...Younger. And they've been so brilliant, the productions before, that I hope we come sort of standing on their shoulders and with great respect for them, but also trying to do something new and fresh. And one of the things that was important for me was that idea - one of the Emcee's first lines is leave your troubles outside, and that for audience members coming to see this in New York, you enter via a sort of back alley. You get taken down into the underbelly of the theater, where there is an entire cast of performers playing in these really beautiful spaces, and you get a bit discombobulated. It's labyrinthine, and you get sort of lost, so that by the time you are taken actually into the theater itself, which sits in the round, hopefully, you have genuinely left all memory of 52nd Street outside. SIMON: I got to say, your production reached through to me with something I hadn't quite realized before. Things are terrible and getting worse on the streets. They're beating Jews and putting them into ghettos. There's a refuge in the club. There's also a refuge in Fraulein Schneider's boardinghouse, where she, for the first time in her life, really has a relationship with a man who happens to be a fruit seller and a Jewish man. Both your characters have that refuge in the club, and they have their characters in the boardinghouse. But, you know, refuges - well, real life can bring them down, can't they?

REDMAYNE: Absolutely. And I feel like the play, in its essence, is a warning in some ways. It serves as a warning about when hate can take over humanity and when humanity is lost to hate. And that feels so relevant at this moment. There are so many examples of that throughout the world today, but I hope that the brilliance of what Kander, Ebb and Masteroff created was that it seduces you in and in a way that feels really sort of magnificent but then begins to touch on these - this repetition of history that resounds and serves as a warning. RANKIN: And it kind of - what's so scary about it is how the refuge is created, and then you slowly realize that actually, there's a poison inside of your refuge. SIMON: What do you take in from the audience every night? REDMAYNE: Well, I mean, one of the joys for me as a performer is the intimacy of the space. So there's not really a sort of a bad seat in the house at the August Wilson, and the other character in the room with the Emcee is the audience. And what I have loved about our experience in New York is people because it's an event almost, the evening, from the second you pass the threshold. The theater's been redesigned and reconfigured in a way. People are getting dressed up. So you have people in black tie next to people in fetish gear next to people in jeans and a T-shirt, and you get all sorts of characters.

RANKIN: And to have a relationship with the audience, you know, and to enjoy how fun... REDMAYNE: Yeah. RANKIN: ...This is and can be throughout the show till the very end - what is written in this piece, there's - we're still laughing through tears at a certain point toward - for the very end of the show, and that's what's so kind of timeless and important about this space, that there's something that doesn't die inside of our club. SIMON: Gayle Rankin and Eddie Redmayne star in the new production of "Cabaret" on Broadway. Thank you both so much for being with us. REDMAYNE: Thanks for having us. RANKIN: Thank you so much. (SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "TOMORROW BELONGS TO ME") REDMAYNE: (As Emcee, singing) The sun on the meadow is summery warm. The stag in the forest runs free.

https://www.npr.org/2024/04/20/1246083026/cabaret-comes-back-to-broadway-starring-eddie-redmayne-and-gayle-rankin

#eddie redmayne #gayle rankin #npr interview #the emcee #sally bowles #kit kat club #cabaret new production #cabaret nyc #august wilson #theatre #interview

[hypnoticcastiel]

The Israel-Palestine conflict explained on basis of historic facts, logical thinking and zero-brainwash by any of the 2 factions. One must know history to understand actions and motivations, especially when a conflict happens between people who think that their side has to have the upper hand and be morally more correct than the other. Fools, idiots and brainwashed 100%-pro-Israel won't read this, but YOU as an individual capable of critical thinking might find this interesting. A lot of stuff is not teached in school, and even i had to refresh many details even though i studied international politics for some years. Let us begin, but also let us feel compassion and mourn the loss of life on all sides. International diplomacy is the only way forward and sadly there's too much warmongering right now to focus on that. I give you simple to understand points and encourage you to share this post with anybody in the western world who might need updated info!

Over the course of thousands of years many cultural groups, ethnic groups, immigrant people, native born people and conquering powers ruled over the region that is nowadays Palestine. Based on this simple fact and that humans create traditions, links, compassion for their homes and so on, it's not surprising that BOTH groups of people/faiths claim to have historic roots in the same region. The point here: While european Jews (+/- radical zionist factions within the jewish community [Zion: the old homeland] started to immigrate in decades of immigration waves into the region, nobody cared much about the arabic/palestinian people who normally already lived there since 1000+ years.

Things got complicated when throwing the colonial powers like Great Britain into the cauldron of chaos. Irrational political decisions in London, the ignorance towards the actual people of Palestine at the end of the 19th century, tiny stones are literally thrown against a fragile building made of glass. The point here: Palestinian fears of more and more foreigners/europeans/zionists [from their perspective] entering an already populated region with established social, cultural and economic system might cause damage and unrest, remained largely unheard in the western seats of power. Radical pro-Israel lobby people often use the argument that palestinian standpoint is immediately violent and unable to talk things on diplomatic levels. History tells us though, that in the beginning of the conflict, many years of political speeches, petitions, travels to the western seats of power happened and that many Palestinians did UNDERSTAND the SUFFERING of the opressed jewish communities in european countries. Anti-Semitism is no magic invention of just one group of people or country. We in western countries must never forget that lots of Anti-Semitism happened in our countries... which then ended in the horrors of Nazi-Germany/pogroms/war [see russian empire if you websearch for more].

When you live your daily life and suddenly [increasing numbers] of foreigners come into your town or village and tell disrespectful stuff like "the Thora tells us as superior holy source that we can take the land we desire by any means", then what exactly can develop from such radical zionist movement logic other than DEGRADING THE OTHER SIDE, ridicule the other side and use violence instead of political talk and compromise. The point here: Violence is no invention of just one group of people. A group entering a region where others already live opted to use also violence to get land. No need to make a list of attacks from both factions. But people in the west need to understand that jewish/zionist radicals actively affirmed methods of TERRORISM to take land which they felt was their historic homeland - regardless of consequences in the present day with totally changed ethnic situation in the region - and in utter disregard of the palestinian lives lost as a cost [see Deir Yassin massacre for example].

Israeli state/lobby powers combined with uneducated opinions and media in the western countries led to a decades long misconception or propaganda bs in form of "Yeah ok, there might be no fully innocents on both sides, but the Arabs in Palestine said 'NO' to a big United Nations partition plan in 1947/48 or in that time period. It could have granted long lasting peace for both nations. - TO HELL WITH THIS PROPAGANDA! Any halfway intelligent human would instantly ask about DETAILS and how a proposed "compromise" would be interpreted on both sides - in this text with focus on Palestine. The point here: The people of Palestine were reportedly not asked, foreigners in far away countries came up with a randomly drawn map, distributing land (that was factually the land of Palestinians) to immigrants who wanted that land and were able to gather western countries' support. Break this mindblowing bs down for any average american or european home-owner. Somebody in Sweden or Japan or Portugal tells you to give your current possession & farmland & your house to a stranger from region *X* on the planet, bc that stranger had ancestors who lived on your land some 2000-3000 years ago [numbers are symbolic here but it's almost that long historic heritage].

The political slap in the face, the insult of the entirety of Palestine: Israeli state propaganda and its western allies constructed another important and sadly functioning story. They often say that even with a not 100% fair partition plan the Palestinians could have gotten better economy and that's ok to let Isrelis take control of agriculture bc they're more efficient in doing so. Also the Palestinians would have gotten civil rights and stuff WITHIN that partition plan's state of Israel. The point or problem: Many texts or plans or proposals made in western seats of power avoided to attribute the people of Palestine as an equally respected nation. De-facto respect that was offered to the jewish people who wanted to build a state of Israel was NOT GIVEN equally as RESPECT to the Palestinians. They were written in the United Nations or negotiation papers as if they're second class citizens in a state of foreigners/immigrants. Even worse, radical israeli politicians [but there were also smart ones who understood the catastrophy and growing chaos], proposed that jewish settlements would be expanded anyway, regardless of any border drawn on that fantasy map and against any protest of Palestinians.

Conclusion: Blood was shed by both sides in an almost unsolvable and chaotic historic cauldron. Terrorism happened on both sides. Both group of people/nations FEEL love and commitment and compassion for the same region. Some bc their ancestors lived there, some bc their culture and nation grew for more than 1000+ years in the region. Western powers ignored, lied to and degraded especially the Palestinians for several decades!!! Nobody was smart enough to create TRULY FAIR peace talks and compromises when there was a chance around 1947+ and the rest is just a tip of the iceberg that is usually shown in western news shows. Angry and militant palestinian youth throwing tiny rocks at israeli tanks. Nobody actually asks about the roots and causes. The far right Netanyahu government of Israel increased rethorical and political pressure on Palestine, and now they might get a free pass for basically taking over even more of the palestinian socio-economic system. A nation without land is a hungry wolf, the other nation shall not wonder as to why the hungry wolf bites. Decades of insult and false diplomatic moves from global powers led to disillusioned Palestinians and the result is new bloodshed. Praying for any victim of the disgusting Hamas attack is one side of the coin. The other side of the coin would be to prosecute radical israeli settlers who attacked and murdered Palestinians in recent years and to start a truly fair peace plan talk in which for the first time since beginning of the conflict the Palestinians are seen as equals, as a nation with the full right of self-government in exactly 50% of the land. Guess what: not even this basic stuff was possible in the "compromises" offered by the western powers or UN plans. Logically the Palestinians said 'No' several times. Any of us would do the same if the other faction is holding a gun to your head. [Personal opinion, i'm 100% neutral and not payed or brainwashed by any faction!!!]

#israel #palestine #gaza #politics #history #jews #arabs #personal opinion #peace

[sticksstonesbonespoems]

The Tower of London

The Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Vikings, French, Germans and all the “nationalities” that make up the people soup of London have been joined by the civilizations that soup colonized. It is a wondrous, multi-cultural city. Smack dab in the middle is a fortress that started as a medieval palace and became infamous for executions. The central building was erected by William the Conqueror who is responsible for making the English at least partly French even if they will not admit it as England and France became the Cain and Abel of Western Europe for centuries.

Power, monarchy and human weakness fed war and cruelty. Edward the first taxed the Jewish population higher than anyone else to pay for the construction of towers. Then he kicked them all out of England. The one room dedicated to devices of torture has boards glibly stating that there was not nearly as much torture as you would think. Oh no. There were only 81 cases of state-sanctioned torture. Mmmm hmmm. Who are you trying to kid? That statement should not be allowed to assuage any guilt felt by the largest purveyor of medieval hijinks and abject colonization. There is a quaint little pub across the street from the Tower called the Hung, Drawn. And Quartered. Own it England.

There are some things that have not evolved well. In the 50 or so years since my last visit, the ravens of the tower are now kept locked up. When I was a child, they free-roamed the grounds when tourists were there. Men just cannot be trusted.

Also, not one of us avoids death. Life is for living.

Haman

“So they hanged Haman on the gallows that he had prepared for Mordecai.”

Esther 7:10

“The loveliest lynchee was our Lord.”

Gwendolyn Brooks

Haman, good provider, brought his own rope.

Arranged with care his own unique reward.

He was risen higher in public death

Than he dared hope to rise in public life,

High as the best carpenters of the realm

Could build, high as the best gallows makers

He could afford to hire could lofty reach.

He twists slowly, slowly, at his rope’s end,

Turning slowly, his gaze could see for miles

Around now if still his eyes could see,

Turning slowly, could scan the capital,

The ways and and avenues that lead to power,

Turning slowly, South, East, North, West, search for

The junction where it all went somehow wrong.

Always and only he had expected

Simple justice: just what he had coming,

Had served his king, had shirked no drudging task,

Kept his desk clean, filed reports on time,

Learned decorum proper to high command—

Whose wife to flirt with and whom to avoid,

How to carve the roast, when to chill the wine,

How to serve up what the king wants to hear

At conference, and serve it up sincere.

Order, protocol, rank, degree, respect—

He knew his place and merely asked that those

Below know theirs; he wasn’t asking much:

The easy bow, the bending of the knee

To rank, acknowledging the earned degree.

His wife at first had thought his ravings odd,

A petty agnostic fret; his friends

Had humored him and failed to understand

His point that so much more than wounded pride

Was on the line, that the whole nation reeled

When one small wretched Jew refused to kneel.

If order, rank, and rule were not for all,

None would have them—the gutted state would fall.

The king, poor blind mindless amorous fool,

Must be saved from himself like it or not,

The state pushed back from the brink of chaos:

Blot out a people to save a nation,

Encourage a race for civilization.

The sentimental sops might call it cruel,

But realists would cautiously applaud:

And see him clear: a man doing the job

That years of public life had trained him for.

He liked to think that the years had prepared

Him precisely to meet this Jewish threat:

A moment to shine high in the klieg lights

Of all the focusing historians.

The man who knew his job and got it done.

Let the klieg lights of time affix him now

Twisting, slowly, slowly, at his rope’s end.

See him now in the bright harsh light of time

As man the butt of all ironic jokes,

Prickled on his own barbed wire, blown to hell

By his own bombs, gassed in the seclusion

Of his own chambers, and asking always

Only for what he has coming to him

And always, always, always getting it.

Man twists, slowly, slowly, at his rope’s end.

Turning slowly, scanning North, East, South, West:

History’s avenues all lead to death.

The light winks, the bands play, the boots march on.

Man dances absurd at the end of his rope.

For life is gala lynching party

Where every swinger brings his own rope:

It’s bring your own rope and reap your reward.

Except once: that grim party crashed by Him,

Intruding, who brought no rope of His own,

But borrowing man’s He stole the scene

And died, took what wasn’t coming to Him.

Look on Him, scene stealer, on His hilltop,

Changing the rules, muddling simple justice

With mercy, redemption, something called grace,

And cheating man of his hard earned reward:

Man’s antic rope’s end dance eclipsed at last

By the still shadow high on Golgotha.

E.W. Oldenburg 1936 - 1974

[aaknopf]

Today we present a preview of a major new biography of Sylvia Plath, Red Comet, coming this fall. Through committed investigative scholarship, Heather Clark is able to offer the most extensively researched and nuanced view yet of a poet whose influence grows with each new generation of readers. Clark is the first biographer to draw upon all of Plath's surviving letters, including fourteen newly discovered letters Plath sent to her psychiatrist in 1961-63, and to draw extensively on her unpublished diaries, calendars, and poetry manuscripts. She is also the first to have had full, unfettered access to Ted Hughes's unpublished diaries and poetry manuscripts, allowing her to present a balanced and humane view of this remarkable creative marriage (and its unravelling) from both sides. She is able to present significant new findings about Plath's whereabouts and her state of health on the weekend leading up to her death. With these and many other "firsts," Clark's approach to Plath is to chart the course of this brilliant poet's development, highlighting her literary and intellectual growth rather than her undoing. Here, we offer a passage from Clark's prologue to the biography, followed by lines from one of Plath's celebrated "bee poems."

from Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath

The Oxford professor Hermione Lee, Virginia Woolf’s biographer, has written, “Women writers whose lives involved abuse, mental-illness, self-harm, suicide, have often been treated, biographically, as victims or psychological case-histories first and as professional writers second.” This is especially true of Sylvia Plath, who has become cultural shorthand for female hysteria. When we see a female character reading The Bell Jar in a movie, we know she will make trouble. As the critic Maggie Nelson reminds us, “to be called the Sylvia Plath of anything is a bad thing.” Nelson reminds us, too, that a woman who explores depression in her art isn’t perceived as “a shamanistic voyager to the dark side, but a ‘madwoman in the attic,’ an abject spectacle.” Perhaps this is why Woody Allen teased Diane Keaton for reading Plath’s seminal collection Ariel in Annie Hall. Or why, in the 1980s, a prominent reviewer cracked his favorite Plath joke as he reviewed Plath’s Pulitzer Prize–winning Collected Poems: “ ‘Why did SP cross the road?’ ‘To be struck by an oncoming vehicle.’ ” Male writers who kill themselves are rarely subject to such black humor: there are no dinner-party jokes about David Foster Wallace.

Since her suicide in 1963, Sylvia Plath has become a paradoxical symbol of female power and helplessness whose life has been subsumed by her afterlife. Caught in the limbo between icon and cliché, she has been mythologized and pathologized in movies, television, and biographies as a high priestess of poetry, obsessed with death. These distortions gained momentum in the 1960s when Ariel was published. Most reviewers didn’t know what to make of the burning, pulsating metaphors in poems like “Lady Lazarus” or the chilly imagery of “Edge.” Time called the book a “jet of flame from a literary dragon who in the last months of her life breathed a burning river of bale across the literary landscape.” The Washington Post dubbed Plath a “snake lady of misery” in an article entitled “The Cult of Plath.” Robert Lowell, in his introduction to Ariel, characterized Plath as Medea, hurtling toward her own destruction.

Recent scholarship has deepened our understanding of Plath as a master of performance and irony. Yet the critical work done on Plath has not sufficiently altered her popular, clichéd image as the Marilyn Monroe of the literati. Melodramatic portraits of Plath as a crazed poetic priestess are still with us. Her most recent biographer called her “a sorceress who had the power to attract men with a flash of her intense eyes, a tortured soul whose only destiny was death by her own hand.” He wrote that she “aspired to transform herself into a psychotic deity.” These caricatures have calcified over time into the popular, reductive version of Sylvia Plath we all know: the suicidal writer of The Bell Jar whose cultish devotees are black-clad young women. (“Sylvia Plath: The Muse of Teen Angst,” reads the title of a 2003 article in Psychology Today.) Plath thought herself a different kind of “sorceress”: “I am a damn good high priestess of the intellect,” she wrote her friend Mel Woody in July 1954.

Elizabeth Hardwick once wrote of Sylvia Plath, “when the curtain goes down, it is her own dead body there on the stage, sacrificed to her own plot.” Yet to suggest that Plath’s suicide was some sort of grand finale only perpetuates the Plath myth that simplifies our understanding of her work and her life. Sylvia Plath was one of the most highly educated women of her generation, an academic superstar and perennial prizewinner. Even after a suicide attempt and several months at McLean Hospital, she still managed to graduate from Smith College summa cum laude. She was accepted to graduate programs in English at Columbia, Oxford, and Radcliffe and won a Fulbright Fellowship to Cambridge, where she graduated with high honors. She was so brilliant that Smith asked her to return to teach in their English department without a PhD. Her mastery of English literature’s past and present intimidated her students and even her fellow poets. In Robert Lowell’s 1959 creative writing seminar, Plath’s peers remembered how easily she picked up on obscure literary allusions. “ ‘It reminds me of Empson,’ Sylvia would say . . . ‘It reminds me of Herbert.’ ‘Perhaps the early Marianne Moore?’ ” Later, Plath made small talk with T. S. Eliot and Stephen Spender at London cocktail parties, where she was the model of wit and decorum.

Very few friends realized that she struggled with depression, which revealed itself episodically. In college, she aced her exams, drank in moderation, dressed sharply, and dated men from Yale and Amherst. She struck most as the proverbial golden girl. But when severe depression struck, she saw no way out. In 1953, a depressive episode led to botched electroshock therapy sessions at a notorious asylum. Plath told her friend Ellie Friedman that she had been led to the shock room and “electrocuted.” “She told me that it was like being murdered, it was the most horrific thing in the world for her. She said, ‘If this should ever happen to me again, I will kill myself.’ ” Plath attempted suicide rather than endure further tortures.

In 1963, the stressors were different. A looming divorce, single motherhood, loneliness, illness, and a brutally cold winter fueled the final depression that would take her life. Plath had been a victim of psychiatric mismanagement and negligence at age twenty, and she was terrified of depression’s “cures,” as she wrote in her last letter to her psychiatrist—shock treatment, insulin injections, institutionalization, “a mental hospital, lobotomies.” It is no accident that Plath killed herself on the day she was supposed to enter a British psychiatric ward.

Sylvia Plath did not think of herself as a depressive. She considered herself strong, passionate, intelligent, determined, and brave, like a character in a D. H. Lawrence novel. She was tough-minded and filled her journal with exhortations to work harder—evidence, others have said, of her pathological, neurotic perfectionism. Another interpretation is that she was—like many male writers—simply ambitious, eager to make her mark on the world. She knew that depression was her greatest adversary, the one thing that could hold her back. She distrusted psychiatry—especially male psychiatrists—and tried to understand her own depression intellectually through the work of Fyodor Dostoevsky, Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, Virginia Woolf, Thomas Mann, Erich Fromm, and others. Self-medication, for Plath, meant analyzing the idea of a schizoid self in her honors thesis on The Brothers Karamazov.

Bitter experience taught her how to accommodate depression—exploit it, even—in her art. “There is an increasing market for mental-hospital stuff. I am a fool if I don’t relive, or recreate it,” she wrote in her journal. The remark sounds trite, but her writing on depression was profound. Her own immigrant family background and experience at McLean gave her insight into the lives of the outcast. Plath would fill her late work, sometimes controversially, with the disenfranchised—women, the mentally ill, refugees, political dissidents, Jews, prisoners, divorcées, mothers. As she matured, she became more determined to speak out on their behalf. In The Bell Jar, one of the greatest protest novels of the twentieth century, she probed the link between insanity and repression. Like Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, the novel exposed a repressive Cold War America that could drive even the “best minds” of a generation crazy. Are you really sick, Plath asks, or has your society made you so? She never romanticized depression and death; she did not swoon into darkness. Rather, she delineated the cold, blank atmospherics of depression, without flinching. Plath’s ability to resurface after her depressive episodes gave her courage to explore, as Ted Hughes put it, “psychological depth, very lucidly focused and lit.” The themes of rebirth and renewal are as central to her poems as depression, rage, and destruction.

“What happens to a dream deferred?” Langston Hughes asked in his poem “Harlem.” Did it “crust and sugar over—/ like a syrupy sweet?” For most women of Plath’s generation, it did. But Plath was determined to follow her literary vocation. She dreaded the condescending label of “lady poet,” and she had no intention of remaining unmarried and childless like Marianne Moore and Elizabeth Bishop. She wanted to be a wife, mother, and poet—a “triple-threat woman,” as she put it to a friend. These spheres hardly ever overlapped in the sexist era in which she was trapped, but for a time, she achieved all three goals.

They thought death was worth it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is she dead, is she sleeping? Where has she been, With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying More terrible than she ever was, red Scar in the sky, red comet Over the engine that killed her— The mausoleum, the wax house.

from “Stings” by Sylvia Plath

More on this book and author:

Learn more about Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath by Heather Clark

Learn more about Heather Clark

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#poetry #poetry month #poem-a-day #sylvia plath #red comet #heather clark #National Poetry Month

[cynicalclassicist]

Mordred’s Takeover

So... year's been unpleasant in numerous ways. And the election result did not go as I hoped. But in a vent-out of rage here is something I wrote. Needs work but it's a start.

Mordred was making another of his speeches to the crowd. “And I say it is the fault of those people! The Jews and Muslims, coming here, treating our country as if it were their own! The lords who are puppets of Luxemburg and its Emperor!”

To tell the truth before this Luxemburg had not been on the mind of most of the people in the crowd. But they heard these words and rejoiced at them. Being in a cheering crowd was such a wonderful feeling, you all felt together, believed you were part of something bigger.

“Heil Mordred! Heil Mordred!” cheered the hundreds, egged on by his men in the crowd.

Mordred left the stand and stalked into the hall where he was meeting the Saxon ambassador, a lord named Bunignus. Mordred was followed by his father-in-law Gwallanus. “My fool of a father has left the Kingdom with me” he said seating himself in a throne.

“But you cannot be King for now” said the Saxon ambasador. “You still need your father to not be King.”

“Yes…” said Mordred, his body twisting like a serpent in his stately seat. The thought of his father coming back from France… His fingers clenched.

Gwallanus stepped forward. “But… is that wise? Your father is old. A move to seize power might be a reason for disinheritance…”

Mordred stood up in fury. “I will not lose the throne! I will not be weak! It is time to show the Pendragon my strength!” He remembered what his mother had told him, of the wrong Arthur’s father did to his grandfather. Now was the time for revenge, on the whole Pendragon line, a revenge that would be known for a thousand years.

“This is for my family…” muttered Mordred. “Bring in my sons!”

In came Melehan and Melou, his sons by Cwyllog… who Mordred had not seen for years. Fortunate, she had not been producing more sons. And with her gone perhaps another could share Mordred’s bed…

“Melehan, my heir. Now is the time for us to take power! To revenge ourselves!” said Mordred. “But aren’t we Pendragons?” asked Melehan.

Mordred moved forward furiously. “I am Gorlois’ grandson! You his great-grandson! We must avenge his murder by Arthur’s father!”

“But he’s our grandfather!” protested Melou. Mordred struck him across the face. “Do not deny this is our time!”

“Yes… of course father” said Melehan.

“But we must be wary now. Lies will be told against us. Plots, schemes. But it is all false! Our acts our justified!” Mordred remembered what Jarl Vidkun of Norway had told him. Adopt the tactics of Lucius. Talk of driving out the other. A show of strength. And that salute… he would try that as well.

“Go out! Tell the people of the Parliament! Show my strength!” he snarled.

“What strength?” asked Melehan.

“Gather a Parliament!” said Mordred. “Now! This is my moment!”

He produced a piece of paper and the royal seal. Then he took the piece of writing in which his father had named him steward of the Kingdom, with full rights.

Sir Enoch entered. “Sir Mordred!” he said, saluting. “I have the man.”

A prisoner entered. “A man from the cells of London, a forger of legal documents.”

“Write what I say” said Mordred. “In this writing.” He threw it down.

“What if I don’t?” asked the prisoner.

“If you succeed you will be given enough gold to live on the rest of your life. Fail and you die” snarled Mordred, though his eyes were gleaming with a frightening joy. It was unsettling and even Enoch edged towards the door.

The forger, a man named Alf, sighed, sat down and began to write very slowly. Mordred stood there watching him constantly. These were not pleasant eyes. At times Mordred had been charismatic, despite his unconventional appearance. But this was not the public Mordred but the private Mordred. Alf scratched out the signature slowly… for the second time, the first one had been difficult to do with those eyes boring into him.

A few days later a ship arrived and a messenger rode off, surrounded by guards, hastening to Westminster where Mordred sat. Mordred, not that eagerly, held out his hand for the letter. Reading it, an expression of exaggerated grief appeared on his face and he wept, holding his face.

“What is it, Sir Mordred?” asked a Baron.

“Here! Read this… but be careful!”

Mordred thrust the letter at him. The Baron read it and horror formed.

“Sir Enoch! Read it!” Mordred snatched the letter and held it out to the Knight, who took it and a moment later seemed to have finished it.

“The Parliament must know!” he said. “I’ll summon them!”

“Wolverhampton is with you” Enoch told Mordred. “I made one of my speeches. About the pollution of the Round Table, the blood that would be spilt if they continued with letting in other races.”

“That is excellent news” said Mordred, sipping his wine. He stood. “I have a title ready for you… if events go as I hope.”

It was days later. Mordred strode into the Parliament building, where people from all over Arthur’s Kingdom had gathered.

“My father, King Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon… is dead.” Mordred waited for the gasps to die away. “As his only son I claim the throne.”

There was murmuring. What Mordred said was true… but the circumstances of his birth…

“My father named me heir in the letter.” Mordred produced it for all to see.

“May I see this letter?” asked one of the Knights. He looked over it. “That is the royal seal but Arthur’s…”

“It is real!” replied Mordred, snatching it with such force he nearly tore it.

“Could we compare it to more of Arthur’s writing?” asked another Knight.

Mordred turned his blazing eyes upon them. “Do you dare to question my words?”

“I merely wish to see if it…”

“A plot to subvert the will of our late King!” snarled Mordred. “Am I not his son? Does not the blood of Britain flow in my veins from both of my parents?”

“Heil Mordred!” cried Gwallanus from his place in the Parliament.

“Heil Mordred!” cried others who had met Mordred before, though at first their voices were few among the many. Yet the voices began to grow.

For the past few months Mordred had feasted the nobles. He had opened the vaults of his father, where they had stored wealth for their plans. A new hospital in London, improved roads, repairs to a bridge in Lincoln… but these were not important to Mordred.

And finally mutters began to be heard among the nobles, as Mordred had hoped there would be. “Why do we have to be ruled by Arthur?”

“Why do we have to pay more taxes when we don’t benefit?”

“Why can’t Arthur have more feasts for his nobles after all the work they do?”

“Why does Arthur give our money to the workers? He’s more peasant then King!”

“Mordred doesn’t hand out money to workers haphazardly.”

“Mordred doesn’t steal our wealth.”

And so, when Mordred said that Arthur was dead, even though news had not come elsewhere, and even merchants said they had not heard Arthur was dead… it was what much of the nobles wanted to hear. And not just nobles but people over Britain.

Gwallanus, eager to see his line hold the throne at last, was Mordred’s readiest supporter.

So it was that after a day of discussion the Parliament agreed that Mordred was the rightful King. Members of the Workers Party of Tor looked at each other in terror, knowing what this would mean. But alas, though they were against Mordred too many people favoured him.

Yet Mordred remained in his rooms writing out letters for outside Logres. After stamping an order for a forger to have his tongue cut out then be publicly executed he was writing for hours. To Jarl Vidkun in Norway, to Duke Chelric in Saxony, even to Lucius, to Eugenius III in Scotland, to Gunvasius in Orkney.

Jarl Vidkun had given Mordred many ideas from their meetings, of who to blame, of who to ally with. He had even shown Mordred that salute the Romans had performed, which Vidkun had learned from Lucius’ men.

Eugenius might not wish to show any submission to the rulers down south, but there was much Mordred could offer him. Perhaps an offer of greater autonomy. And Eugenius may well be a kindred spirit, considering the rumours about the death of his uncle. Of course Mordred found him personally pathetic, with his lack of desire towards any, he was hardly a proper man. But he could still be useful for the time being. Once Arthur was gone and Mordred secure… then relations between Logres and Scotland would certainly face renegotiation.

Gunvasius could be tricky, he had been opposed to Mordred’s stepfather King Lot ruling Orkney instead of him. But perhaps an offer to recognise him as King of Orkney...

“In Rome the younger Lucius rises” he said pleasantly. “I hope if Lancelot does not slay my father he will.”

“But what if he should claim Britain?” asked Enoch.

“And what of it? I will be King!” cried Mordred.

He turned and another thought struck him, of another detail written in the letter. “Guinevere will marry me” said Mordred, his eyes alight with lust. “As was ordered in the letter.”

“But… her age…” said Enoch.

“She was always sterile” said Mordred, with a smile. “But I have sons already.”

Not all accepted him. Lady Lisanor refused him. As did the Lords of Powys and Gwynned. But Mordred did not care. He had what he wanted. Those lands would fall to him in time. Even the land of Gorre and that whore Carys, daughter of that old fool Bagdemagus.

“Duke Chelric has long hated Arthur for his deeds. He opposed the Saxons for a long time, and his great-nephew slew the Duke’s nephew. He will jump at the chance of revenge” replied Mordred.

“But… he’s a Saxon! We are building Britain for the British!” said Sir Enoch.

Mordred smiled. “What does that matter? He will assist us. He will assist against our enemies.”

“And isn’t Cliges your nephew?”

Mordred spat. “That Greek? My whore sister should never have married that effeminate fool!” He smiled. “But he is far away from the reach of Saxony… and too far to help Arthur. I may be Arthur’s son… but I am not Arthur.”

He turned. “Now… to Guinevere. She must know of the wedding.”

Mordred left the chambers of the Queen. It had taken some time but she had given him a new place to go to, somewhere which should help his rule’s image.

It was not long after this that Mordred picked up the sword of his father’s father, named Clarent. It had been given to Guinevere for safekeeping and in order to prove her loyalty to him she had given its location to him. Not as fine as Excalibur but a magnificent sword, even if it was more for ceremony.

“I will prove whose grandson I am!” He wielded the sword. “I am Gorlois’ grandson! I will avenge the wrong on my grandmother!”

“So Guinevere has agreed?” asked Enoch.

“Not yet” said Mordred. “But I reminded her who holds power now. I reminded her of the letter. That if she did not go ahead with the law… events might not go well for her. Or her maids.” A horrible grimace of a smile played across his face. “Such beautiful vengeance… what better way to revenge the wrong upon the British King then to take his wife, just as the British King took the wife of Cornwall for his own.” He laughed, a horrible laugh, a laugh that seemed to go on, which made Enoch step back, especially with Mordred brandishing Clarent as if he were in battle.

Ares, nephew to Sir Tor, was meeting Mordred just before his coronation. If he could swing those beloved of the people to his side, Mordred was sure he would crush any further resistance. Ares had the name of his grandfather, a cowherd living around Derby. His older relatives had too much bad blood with Mordred but if he could win the next generation over… Yet from the start Ares did not show much interest.

“I have heard the King is alive” he said when Mordred entered.

“The King is alive as I am King.”

“No. I mean your father, Arthur. If he is then you are not King.”

“You dare to go against the will of the people! That I am King!”

“But you only took that power through blatant lies. How is it what the people want if you gained it through lies?”

“Well… it wasn’t a lie!” said Mordred. “It was true. It’s in the letter!”

“Well if it isn’t true then people will know eventually. You can’t hide the truth forever” said Ares.

“What do you know you cow… shit-cleaner!” Mordred spat at him.

Ares wiped his face. “I know if someone offered me 10 good cows and gave me 5 sickly cows it was not a fair deal. You are no better than a trickster!”

“It’s what the people want!”

“Then you tricked a lot of people. You and your gang of frauds, screaming and sowing hate.”

“You are just a pathetic little man from a family that cleaned up cowpats” said Mordred.

“So much for the man of the people! Though you traitors may sneer it doesn’t diminish my cause” said Ares.

Mordred glared at him. He moved forward slowly, his feet padding across the floor as he stalked forward like a beast of the wood. He held Ares’ gaze, breathed in and looked as if he was about to say something. And suddenly his hand shot to his dagger, pulling it out of the sheath and pouncing forward.

Ares dodged nimbly and grabbed a plate, hurling it against the false Knight. Mordred threw up his arms and shouted in pain as it crashed into his face, drawing blood. Ares got to the door and attempted to get out but Mordred was close behind. Ares kicked between his legs and elbowed him in the chest, though gave a shout at feeling armour beneath there. They wrestled, but Ares was younger and forced Mordred down.

“Help! Help! Treason!” screamed Mordred.

His guards rushed in and cut Ares down. Mordred furiously plunged his dagger in, again and again, even when Ares had stopped moving, and he lay there, like a butchered beasts of the field ravaged by a beast while the herd was away.

The guards stood there, not sure what to do as their ruler’s rage flowed out. Finally he stood, drenched in Ares’ blood, breathing hard. He threw his dagger down and glared down at the body of the cowherd. “He was a traitor! He attacked me! It was not me!” He spat blood down at Ares. “HE WAS A TRAITOR!”

Of course the next day proclamations were put up condemning the danger of these working-class parties, with a treasonous plot against the rightful King. Mordred made a speech before the Parliament. Once this was over he could finally go and marry Guinevere. She had asked to buy clothes and other items for her entourage for the wedding, so her retainers had been around London buying foods all day and yesterday. Once Mordred was crowned they could be wed, she who had once shared his father’s bed would share his… Mordred thought of this and excitement grew in him like a fire.

“It is clear that this… Cowherd movement is dangerous” said Mordred. “We will need stronger methods to counteract them. Bring a motion forward! It will be treason to question my rule. I am the Peoples ruler, any movement against me is against the people!”

And the rest of Ares grandsons watched in horror as a crowd gathered, chanting “Heil Mordred! Heil Mordred! Heil Mordred! HEIL MORDRED!”

@blackcur-rants @cukibola @epic-summaries @ylvisruinedmylife

#arthuriana #my arthuriana #my writing #mordred #jarl vidkun #fuck boris #brexit

[blinder-baker]

The Bakery - Alfie Solomons

Requested by: @hardygal69

Warnings: Swearing, and Smut! also unprotected sex!!!

A/N- My first smut ever, so I’m sorry if its bad. I also think that Alfie is super difficult to write, but I do love him so I gave it a go.

Word Count: About 2100

As a Shelby sister, coming to London was very exciting, you hadn’t been allowed to go on the night out to Sabini’s club. But Tommy had let you come to a meeting with Alfie Solomons. You had heard a lot about the infamous Jew, not everything good either. But nevertheless, you made sure to walk with confidence, as you walked through the “Bakery” - the workers looked up to watch you. Not many women came down here, not many women were in the business. You were led by a man named Ollie, who Tommy informed you to be Mr. Solomon’s, right-hand man. As you neared the door to his office, you repeated Tommy’s instructions in your head - like a mantra. Just smile and be polite, don’t try and start anything. You assumed it was easier said than done.

You sat in front of his desk, your brother, sitting to the right of you. “Alright, Tommy?” The cockney greeted, and he gestured to you with a wave of his hand “Is this another Shelby then? Blimey, there’s fuckin’ loads of ya” He sat back in his chair and the meeting began.

You couldn’t help but stare at him, how the muscles in his arm rippled as he stroked his beard, how he nodded his head when he spoke. Of course, you liked the enemy. Tommy would never say he’s an enemy, quite the opposite. But he didn’t trust him, so that meant - you shouldn’t trust him either. Oh, but you wanted to. You wanted to trust him as he held you close in his arms. That would never happen, you thought - No member of the Shelby family would allow it.

Alfie ran his fingers through his beard as he looked at Y/N. He wasn’t paying much attention to her brother, but he told himself that it didn’t matter, Ollie was making notes. She was so small compared to him, delicate even. The sought of lady he would like to wrap up in his arms and bury his face into the crook of her neck. Even attempting to show any attraction to her would result in a rift between The Shelbys and him, it would ruin everything. But he longed to be able to talk to her on her own.

The meeting soon came to an end, and they all stood up, Alfie shook hands with first, Tommy, and then you. You noticed how his hand lingered as his eyes looked into yours, and you felt your breath stop in your throat. He walked you down to the door, where your brother walked out without a word. You waited a moment, and Alfie touched your elbow gently “Perhaps you’ll come to the next meeting?” He offered lightly, and you smiled at him and nodded your head. Not too eagerly you hoped. “Nice to meet you, Miss Shelby”, he kissed both of your cheeks, his beard softly brushing against your skin. You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks “Likewise, Mr. Solomons” You turned away before you embarrassed yourself. And quickly exited the building, your brother stood outside. He looked unimpressed, his eyebrows raised “What?” You shrugged at him and gestured for him to start walking.

You walked to the car, and as he started the engine, you turned to him “Could you drop me off at Ada’s?” You asked, more like ordered. His hand dropped from the steering wheel, and he looked at you with annoyance. “What?!” You asked angrily, “I haven’t seen our sister and nephew in months” You reasoned. Reluctantly, he drove you there in silence. “I’ve got to be back in Birmingham for eight, so you’ve got…” He looked at his pocket watch “ten minutes”.

You needed him to agree to this, for your sneaky plan to work “Oh, no need to wait for me Tommy, I’m going to stay at Ada’s for a few days - and I’ll get the train back” You smiled at him sweetly. He looked at you incredulously. You wondered which bit he questioned, the plan to stay in London alone, getting the train and risking being mugged, or the fact that you had no change of clothes. When he didn’t say anything, you got out of the car, he shook his head but drove off anyway. You grinned to yourself, and waved to him, almost mockingly.

You knocked on Ada’s door, and it took her a full five minutes to open the door, she looked surprised to see you, and then she seemed annoyed that you were there to bother her. You had forgotten her sudden hatred for your family. You entered the large house and peered around, it was very simplistic with little to no decoration. You wouldn’t say that it screamed “Communism!” but it was very Ada. You heard a fast-paced running and Karl entered the living room. You smiled at him and waved, he waved back - suddenly shy. You wished Ada allowed herself and her son to be close with you, you were family after all. “Ada, my favourite sister” You started, “I’m your only sister, what do you want?” She snapped, looking at you shrewdly. You sighed, “I was wondering if I could stay at your house?” you asked biting your lip. When she didn’t look impressed you continued, “Just for the night, I’m meeting up with someone Ada!” You begged, She rolled her eyes and nodded. It wasn’t a lie, you were going to meet up with someone, he just didn’t know it.

The next day rolled around, and you “borrowed” some of Ada’s clothes, they weren’t fancy. But you decided that if you unbuttoned the top of the blouse, it would work. You applied some lipstick and admired yourself in the mirror. As you walked the short mile back to the Bakery, you contemplated just getting the train back in case you made a fool of yourself, or worse made a fool of yourself and ruined all plans that Tommy had with the Jews of London.

The men outside the door, looked at you - waiting for a reason to let you in. “The name’s Shelby,” You said confidently, the taller one of the two looked at his friend in confusion, who just shrugged and opened the door for you. You strolled in, keeping your head up, you walked down the long corridor noticing how the men looked up and began muttering to themselves. You hoped that was a good thing. When you neared the door, you greeted Ollie with a polite smile “I’m here to see Mr. Solomons, is he free?” He looked behind him and nodded, before asking you to wait one moment. He popped his head through the door to the office.

“Uhh, sir? There’s a Shelby here to see you” He said nervously. Alfie frowned and gritted his teeth “Why is Tommy here again?” He asked angrily. Ollie shook his head wildly, “It’s Miss Y/N, sir”, Alfie leaned back in his chair.

You entered the office and sat in front of him without a word. “Back so soon, Miss Shelby?” He asked, almost squinting at you in disbelief. “I hope that’s not too disappointing” You simpered, batting your eyelashes at him, “No, nah, of course not - just...Surprised is all”, he said rather quickly and there was a pause that made you regret coming here, “Rum?” He offered, pulling the bottle out from the drawer in his desk, you nodded and smiled at him. He poured the clear liquid into a pair of glasses and handed you one. You thanked him and he put the bottle back into the drawer but didn’t bother closing it. You put the glass to your lips and sipped it delicately. “This is good, from the… Bakery?” You asked “Yeah, yeah, I’m glad ya like it,” He said almost quietly.

He was losing his confidence quickly, and he wasn’t sure what to say, there was no reason for you to be here on business. So that meant you were here to talk to him. “Your brother around?” He asked, running his fingers through his beard. You shook your head gently, “I have to say, you have a flair for business. It makes me wonder what else you’re good at” You said flirtatiously, you decided the best approach was to be direct.

He licked his lips, you were flirting with him, he leaned forward on his elbows “Do you really want to know?” He questioned quietly, looking at you intensely. You placed your glass on the desk and nodded, leaning into towards him. You were inches apart, and your mind was racing. He thrust his fingers through a loose lock of hair, and kissed you, ever so gently, worried you would push him away in disgust. Instead, you deepened the kiss, trying to tell him that you wanted more, so much more. You broke the kiss, only to stand up and walk around the desk, he helped you over the open drawer and you sit in his lap, and then all rational thoughts leave your head.

You kiss him forcefully and slide your hands down his chest. He wraps his arms around you and rests one of his hands on your waist. You find yourself grinding against his crotch and he starts moaning underneath you. He lifted you to sit on his desk and peppered your neck with kisses, his hands went the buttons of your blouse and he suddenly stopped - he looked at you and raised his eyebrows. It took you a moment to realise why he was waiting and you nodded insanely at him, “Yes, yes” You gave him consent and he set to work at tearing your shirt off. He moved one hand to your breast, gently kneading it as he kissed his way down the other, your hands went to his trousers, and you struggled to undo them. He stood up straight up to help you undo them and they fell to the floor, you began on his shirt when he caught your hands and held them in front of you. “Don’t, don’t take it off” He said stoically, looking deep into your eyes. You let go of a breath you hadn’t known you had been holding “Okay, I’m sorry - I won’t” You whispered, and he kissed you again. More slowly this time, his hands slipped down underneath your skirt, and he gently pulled your underwear down your legs, once they were off he threw them away carelessly. He pushed a finger between your folds, feeling how wet you already were, he moaned in pleasure at the feeling and rubbed your clit gently with his thumb. You licked your lips and leaned in close to him, resting your head on his shoulder, while he was distracted by you. You slipped your hand into his underwear and rubbed his long member, you feel his breathing stop and he groans. “Alfie, I’m so wet, you’re just gonna slip in” You mumble in his ear, he nods and drops his underwear, you don’t have time to react before he pushes it inside you. You gasp and dig your nails into his back. He waits for you to adjust before moving slowly in, and out, and in. “Fuck me, fuckin’ hell” he mutters as he thrusts inside you. His hands go behind you to support you as you moan loudly. He quickens the pace, and the thrusts become rougher and you bite into his clothed shoulder to stop yourself from making too much noise. You hear the glass fall off the desk and smash on the floor, “Feel so fuckin’ good, yeah, shit” He rambles wildly, his hands go back to rub your clit again, and nothing can stop you from moaning loudly. “I’m gonna - Alfie I’m going to-” You warned him too late, you lean your head back as the pleasure rushes through you, and you feel yourself clench around him. That’s enough to send him spilling inside of you. He pulls out of you, trying to catch his breath. You admire each other for a minute before kissing one last time. You stand up from the desk, and begin to pick up your clothes, “Please, don’t tell my brothers” You pleaded jokingly, he shook his head “Yeah, yeah I won’t, of course not” He reassured you as you got dressed. You smoothed your skirt down, “I’m sure I’ll see you at the next meeting, Mr. Solomons,” You say formally, with a wink. You don’t wait for a reply, before stepping over the glass. And begin your journey to the train station.  

#Peaky Blinders #smut #Tommy Shelby #alfie solomons #alfie solomons x reader #ada shelby #karl #communism #bbc #first smut #peaky blinder imagine

[fandomsandfeminism]

Christopher "Kit" Marlowe was an Elizabethan playwright, friend of William Shakespeare, and a gay atheist spy. Let's talk about that. 

(video does have closed captions) 

Full text transcript below the cut

Hello everyone! Let’s talk about Christopher Marlowe being super gay.

For those of you who don’t know: Christopher “Kit” Marlowe was an Elizabethan poet and playwright, and contemporary, rival, possibly collaborator and friend of William Shakespeare. He was born the same year as Shakespeare, in fact, but only lived to be 29, when he was stabbed to death.

He was a huge influence on Shakespeare, inspiring him to use Blank Verse in his plays. and Some people have even suspected Marlowe of writing, or at least co-writing, some of Shakespeare’s early plays. Marlowe and Shakespeare were close enough that many scholars think  Mercutio, in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, is based off Marlowe as a sort of tribute to the man after he died. If you like Shakespeare’s work, I highly recommend Marlowe. His most well known works are Doctor Faustus, which my personal favorite, Edward the Second, and The Jew of Malta.

He was also a spy for the crown, probably, and was accused of being an atheist and super gay.

Caveat:  a few months ago, I made a video about Shakespeare being pretty damn bisexual. I said this then, but it bears repeating now: discussing the sexual orientation of historical figures can be tricky. Modern terms and understandings of sexuality and sexual orientation are modern. The way we view and contextualize sexuality is very dependant on our place in history. If you were to ask Marlowe if he was gay, he wouldn’t have really known what you meant by that.

Also, People in our culture tend to view Heterosexuality as the default, that in the absence of evidence, people are assumed straight. We are going to try to work against this. What evidence is there for Marlowe’s sexuality at all, straight or otherwise, and why might that lead us to believe that he is, well, decidedly not straight.

So, let’s talk about Kit Marlowe and how he was, maybe, probably, a gay atheist spy as well as one of England’s greatest playwrights.

Born in Canterbury in 1564, he went to Corpus Christi University in Cambridge as a young man. During this time he has several long absences from school, and spent way more money on food than his scholarship funds would have allowed. He almost didn’t graduate because of all his absences in fact, but was given his degree after the Privy Council sent the University a letter saying that he had been engaged in unspecified "affaires" on "matters touching the benefit of his country". This letter, combined with his unexplained source of income, has led many to think he was...well, a crown spy. Which is pretty great.

After college, Marlowe seems to have dedicated himself fulltime to his writing. In 1593 though, Marlowe was accused of heresy and atheism. He was never put on trial as he was stabbed to death 10 days later. Why he was stabbed is a point of debate.  It might have just been a fight over a bar tab, but other far more sensationalist explanations have been suggested over the years, including that he was murdered to cover up some spy secrets or to keep him from naming others in the government as atheists.

Marlowe never married. He never had children. As far as we can tell, he never had any serious relationships with any women. Part of that might just be that he was a very busy man, writing all those plays and being an...atheist spy for the government.

However, we have...some pretty good reasons to think Marlowe was gay and it's a pretty well accepted theory in some scholarly circles. We’re going to look at two broad sources: Marlowe’s writings and things his contemporaries, especially Richard Baines, said about him.

Now. It’s important to not ascribe too much biographical reading to fictional works. Straight men CAN write about gay themes of course, though...I would argue that it really isn’t that common. And Marlowe wrote about gay themes….like...a lot. Far more explicitly than Shakespeare ever did.

In Hero and Leander, Marlowe writes of the male youth Leander, "in his looks were all that men desire" and that when Leander is swimming, the sea god Neptune becomes really...turned on, and interested in him "imagining that Ganymede, displeas'd, had left the Heavens ... the lusty god embrac'd him, call'd him love ... He watched his arms and, as they opened wide at every stroke, betwixt them would he slide and steal a kiss, ... And dive into the water, and there pry upon his breast, his thighs, and every limb, ... and talk of love",

Edward the Second, a play that explores the homosexual relationship between Edward and Piers Gaveston, and Edward’s reign as king, and eventual fall as a monarch, is a very sympathetic view of the historical figure and contains the following passage supporting homosexual relationships:

The mightiest kings have had their minions; Great Alexander loved Hephaestion, The conquering Hercules for Hylas wept; And for Patroclus, stern Achilles drooped. And not kings only, but the wisest men: The Roman Tully loved Octavius, Grave Socrates, wild Alcibiades.

Marlowe’s play “Dido, Queen of Carthage” begins with a scene of the God Jupiter fawning over Ganymede. There’s...a lot of good quotes from this scene, since it’s basically just a lot of flirting before Venus shows up and  There’s lots of “Come gentle Ganimed and play with me, I love thee well, say Juno what she will.” and “thou wilt be my love.”

So, Marlowe was definitely not shy about showing and talking about gay love in his plays. Which again, isn’t 100% proof he himself was gay, but...I would argue strongly hints towards the possibility.

Now, Our second set of evidence about Marlowe comes from the accusations against him in 1593. grains of salt since this came out when Marlowe was accused of heresy, and so there are shades of possible libel and exaggeration going on. But, like, it was not common to accuse your enemies of being gay at the time, so this kind of stands out.

Now, The quote you’ll see most often is that   Richard Baines reported Marlowe as saying: "All they that love not Tobacco and Boys are fools" Which...is a great quote. We have no idea if Marlowe ever really said this, but I kinda like to imagine him and Shakespeare laying around in some flat in London, smoking tobacco pipes and talking about cute boys. Maybe co-writing the Henry VI plays? Flirting and arguing about how to word Richard’s soliloquies? Yeah I’d pay good money for that movie. Hollywood, are we taking notes? Excellent

Baines also claimed that Marlowe told him that St John ‘was bedfellow to Christ’ which….again, I don’t know if Marlowe ever really said Jesus was...having lots of sex with St. John….but it makes me laugh to imagine it.

Much like Shakespeare, and like a lot of possibly LGBT+ figures in history, we’ll probably never know for sure. But Marlowe has become a gay icon of the theater of sorts, accepted as such by scholars and historians and actors alike for the most part. So I’ll leave you with this, a lovely quote about Kit Marlowe from the great Ian McKellen himself:

“When Marlowe met his own violent death, his glittering reputation was overtaken by law-abiding Shakespeare.  Had Will liked Kit Marlowe so much, that he recreated him as the roistering, iconoclastic Mercutio, who so resents Romeo's love affairs with women?” I don’t know Ian, but it’s a pretty good story.

#christopher marlowe #william shakespeare #shakeslowe #lgbt #feminism

[drmonte75-blog]

An Ordinary Commentary by Ordinary Men  

“Living to Glorify God Brings Satisfaction to the Soul” 

#Reformed #Christianity #Church #Bible #Commentary 

 ordinarycommentary.blogspot.com

Christ Admonishes Thoughtless Judgment - Matthew 7:1-6 Jesus warns against judging others and the calling His redeemed people to perfection.

Charles Haddon Spurgeon—Verses 1-2: “Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. Use your judgment, of course: the verse implies that you will judge in a right sense. But do not indulge the criticizing faculty upon others in a censorious manner, or as if you were set in authority, and had a right to dispense judgment among your fellows. If you impute motives, and pretend to read hearts, others will do the same towards you. A hard and censorious behaviour is sure to provoke reprisals. Those around you will pick up the peek measure you have been using, and measure your corn with it. You do not object to men forming a fair opinion of your character, neither are you forbidden to do the same towards them; but as you would object to their sitting in judgment upon you, do not sit in judgment upon them. This is not the day of judgment, neither are we his Majesty’s judges, and therefore we may not anticipate the time appointed for the final assize, nor usurp the prerogatives of the Judge of all the earth. Surely, if I know myself aright, I need not send my judgment upon circuit to try other men; for I can give it full occupation in my own Court of Conscience to try the traitors within my own bosom.”  67 Charles Frederick Schaeffer—Verses 3-5: “And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? A. Mote=any particle of straw, wood, etc., a splinter here representing a defect or fault.—B. Beam=a rafter, a heavy piece of timber supporting the roof. ‘It is an image of a sin that is immeasurably greater than one represented by a mote.’—Luther.—C. Thine own eye. The eye represents the moral and religious character and conduct. The sense is: Thou hast faults of thine own; thou hast a better opportunity to read thine own heart and judge of its iniquity than thou hast to ascertain the state of thy neighbor's heart. Thy own faults should therefore appear to thee far more heinous than those of thy neighbor. His motives, which thou canst not know, may be in reality less censurable than thine own. (Comp. 23:24, B., ‘thy brother’=thy equal in knowledge, etc.). Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me cast out the mote out of thine eye; and lo, the beam is in thine own eye? How wilt=how canst thou presume to say, etc. (Luke 6:42). The sense is: Thou dost contract guilt already by thy neglect of strict self-examination, and by an unwarranted condemnation of another; thy iniquity is still greater when thou dost hypocritically assume the character of a well-meaning friend and adviser, while thy heart is filled with self-righteousness and pride; these vices exclude all knowledge of thyself, and all sincere regard for the welfare of thy brother (see Rom. 2:21-23, ‘Can the blind lead the blind?’ Luke 6:39). Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye. Thou hypocrite=who pretendest to be wiser and better than another, study the divine law, and ascertain first thy own sinful state. Then only, when the light of truth guides thee, and when thou hast, as an humble believer, found joy and peace (Rom. 15:13), mayest thou, with the wisdom which faith imparts, ‘see clearly’ how to teach transgressors (Ps. 51:12, 13) and to strengthen thy brethren (Luke 22:32; see Rom. 2:17-24).” 68 John Heyl Vincent—Verse 6: “6. Give not—These exhortations to gentleness are followed very appropriately by the command to beware of the other extreme, that is, an indiscriminate pouring out of holy things from want of judgment. He who forbids our judging (which decides man’s culpability) commands us to form an opinion, (which marks only the state.) This latter is absolutely necessary for the child of God, in order to distinguish the false from the true.—Olshausen. The holy, a technical term for the sacrificial meats laid upon the altar of God. Of these meats no unclean man was permitted to eat; how much less a dog; to the Jew the dog was odious and unclean; even to touch him was to become unclean.—S. Cox. Unto the dogs—The dog was never a pet or a favorite among the Jews. They lived, and still live in oriental cities, in packs, half wild, generally without masters or owners, and barely tolerated as scavengers. Both Bible of vileness and uncleanness (Lev. 11.7; Prov. 11.22; Matt. 15.27; Phil. 3.2; Rev. 22.15.) —Abbott. Neither cast ye your pearls—It has been suggested that the figure alludes to the resemblance of pearls with peas and acorns. Certain it is that the swine touch with their snouts every thing resembling food. As this casting of pearls before swine, however foolish, must have had some show of reason, it may, perhaps, represent an attempt of satisfying their cravings, and such, indeed, is the true character of laxity; it prostitutes what is highest and holiest to satisfy the animal and the devilish propensities of man.—Lange. Before swine—Tho other part of the similitude is of a different character, and belongs entirely to the swine, who having cast to them pearls, something like their natural food, whose value is inappreciable by them, in fury trample them with their feet, and, turning against the donor, rend him with their tusks.—Alford. Rend you—Such, then, are the twofold consequences: that which is holy, with all its treasures, is lost in iniquity, and more; while its unfaithful and vile administrators also perish in their sin.—Lange. Apostles and bishops must not commit the office of the ministry to a wicked man. No sacred deposit, or responsibility, or even principle, (symbolized by pearls,) must be imparted to an unfit man. No doctrines or religious experiences must be brought before an incapable sensualist. In fine, in imparting the official trusts and the truths of the Gospel, we must discern men’s moral qualities, and deal with them accordingly.—Whedon. Good men should so study the judicial capability of bad men as to cause them selves not to be misjudged and injured. Adaptation to men, places, and things, requires consummate judgment; the savage might be more pleased with a brass button than with a thousand-pound note. He who would give a telescope to a wild barbarian would be deranging the true relations of things, as would he also who excluded all but the blind from the galleries of art. Men must be met on their own intellectual plane, and judgment must be so far exercised as not to confound fools with philosophers, or to regard the toys of children as the accouterments of warriors.—Parker. This, however, does not imply that we are not to seek.’” 69 Endnotes: 67   Charles H. Spurgeon, The Gospel of the Kingdom: A Popular Exposition of the Gospel According to Matthew (London: Passmore & Alabaster, 1893), 40-41. 68   Charles F. Schaeffer, Annotations of the Gospel According to St. Matthew, Part I–Matthew I-XV (New York: The Christian Literature Company, 1895), 159-160. 69   J. H. Vincent, The Lesson Commentary on the International Lessons for 1880 (London: Elliot Stock, 1879), 68-69.

[a-tamed-dragon]

Shakespeare Quotes From This Semester

So in one of my classes this semester, as it was  Shakespeare class centered around his Histories and Comedies, we had to learn and recite 8 lines from each play. I completely botched my first one, it was so embarrassing, I had to pause and curse and laugh throughout it. After that initial atrocity, I got much better and now want to document the passages which I have committed to memory.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream:  Act I Scene I Lines 233-241 Things base and vile, folding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity: Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind: Nor hath Love's mind of any judgement taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste: And therefore is Love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.

  - Helena about her unrequited love for Demetrius who is in love with Hermia

Much Ado About Nothing: Act IV Scene I Lines 169- 177

To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness beat away those blushes; And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire, To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; Trust not my reading nor my observations, Which with experimental seal doth warrant The tenor of my book 

  - the Friar to Hero after Claudio and his bois @ her saying she isn’t virtuous bc they fell for an idiot set-up by Don Jon

The Merchant of Venice : Act III Scene 1 Lines 62-70

I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that 

- Shylock after finding out that his daughter, Jessica, has eloped with a Christian, took all of his money and goods, and also defending his push for Antonio to secure his bond.

Richard II:  Act III Scene II Lines 160-168

All murder'd: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus

- Richard II when abnegating the throne to Henry IV and making the worlds biggest scene of it because he is the most dramatic boi to ever sit his fanny on that English throne 

Henry IV (Part 1): Act I Scene I Lines 77-85

Yea, there thou makest me sad and makest me sin In envy that my Lord Northumberland Should be the father to so blest a son, A son who is the theme of honour's tongue; Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant; Who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride: Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him, See riot and dishonour stain the brow Of my young Harry.

- Bolingbroke looking at his frat-boy son ( Hal/Henry 5) in comparison to the son of his cousin who is actually good at war-related things and being worried for his small idiot

Henry V: Saint Crispins Day 

But we in it shall be remember'd; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

- Henry V rousing his men before the battle with the French who * wait for it* lost because it was rained that night and it was too muddy for the french when they reached the valley... Look up Kenneth Branagh’s version, it’s pretty BOMB.

This assignment was pretty great and I started this class thinking that I would absolutely HATE it, but I am happy that I know a bit of Shakespeare. There is one speech I have forgotten because I remembered it on one of the busiest weeks of the semester and it was for Henry IV Part 2. I’m taking the follow-up class in the spring to focus on Shakespeare’s Romances and Tragedies. Great times. 

I’m going to London in March and cannot wait to visit the Globe Theater to watch a play! Once you understand Will’s ( lol) words, you will see how brilliantly he could play with them and realize just how HILARIOUS this man was.

Damn. What a time to live. 

read him, Beatrice. 

#shakespeare #shookspeare #work-in-progress

[thisisheffner]

Prisoners in Nazi concentration camps made music; now it's being discovered and performed - 60 Minutes - CBS News

The sign above the steel gates of Auschwitz reads "arbeit macht frei" – work sets you free. It was, of course, a chilling lie, an evil hoax. But there was one surprising source of temporary escape inside the gates: music. Composers and singers and musicians, both world-class and recreational, were among the imprisoned. And what's not widely known is that under the bleakest conditions imaginable, they performed and wrote music. Lots of it.

More than 6 million people, most of them Jews, died in the Holocaust, but their music did not, thanks in part to the extraordinary work of Francesco Lotoro. An Italian composer and pianist, Lotoro has spent 30 years recovering, performing, and in some cases, finishing pieces of work composed in captivity. Nearly 75 years after the camps were liberated, Francesco Lotoro is on a remarkable rescue mission, reviving music like this piece created by a young Jewish woman in a Nazi concentration camp in 1944.

Francesco Lotoro (Translation): The miracle is that all of this could have been destroyed, could have been lost.  And instead the miracle is that this music reaches us. Music is a phenomenon which wins. That's the secret of the concentration camps.  No one can take it away. No one can imprison it.  

It seems unlikely, even impossible, that music could have been performed and composed at a place like this site of unspeakable evil, the most horrific mass murder in human history.

This is Auschwitz-Birkenau. The Nazi concentration camp in southern Poland. Set up by the Germans in 1940 as part of Hitler's "Final Solution," it became the largest center in the world for the extermination of Jews.    

More than a million men, women and children died here. For those who passed through this entrance, known as the "Gate of Death," these tracks were a path to genocide and terror.

After they disembarked from cattle cars, most were sent directly to their deaths in the gas chambers.

The sounds of the camp included the screech of train brakes, haunting screams of families separated forever., the staccato orders barked by SS guards.

But also in the air: the sound of music, the language of the gods. This piece, titled "Fantasy" was written for oboe and strings, composed by a prisoner in Poland in 1942. 

"In some cases, we are in front of masterpieces that could have changed the path of musical language in Europe."

At Auschwitz, as at other camps, there were inmate orchestras, set up by the Nazis to play marches and entertain. There was also unofficial music, crafted in secret, a way of preserving some dignity where little otherwise existed. 

During the Holocaust, an entire generation of talented musicians, composers and virtuosos perished. 75 years later, Francesco Lotoro is breathing life into their work.

Francesco Lotoro (Translation): In some cases, we are in front of masterpieces that could have changed the path of musical language in Europe if they had been written in a free world. 

Francesco Lotoro's work may culminate in stirring musical performances, but that's just the last measure, so to speak. His rescue missions, largely self-financed, begin the old fashioned way, with lots of hard work, knocking on doors, and face-to-face meetings with survivors and their relatives. 

Jon Wertheim: I have heard that you've searched attics and basements. I imagine sometimes families don't even know the musical treasure they have.

Francesco Lotoro (Translation): There are children who have inherited all the paper material from their dad who survived the camp and stored it. When I recovered it, it was literally infested with paper worms.  So before taking it, a clean-up operation was required, a de-infestation.

Lotoro grew up and still lives in Barletta, an ancient town on the Adriatic Coast of southern Italy.  His modest home, which doubles as his office, is stuffed with tapes, audio cassettes, diaries and microfilm.  

Aided by his wife, Grazia, who works at the local post office to support the family, Lotoro has collected and catalogued more than 8,000 pieces of music, including symphonies, operas, folk songs, and Gypsy tunes scribbled on everything from food wrapping to telegrams, even potato sacks.

The prisoner who composed this piece used the charcoal given to him as dysentery medicine and toilet paper to write an entire symphony which was later smuggled out in the camp laundry. 

Jon Wertheim: He's using his dysentery medication as a pen and he's using toilet paper as paper.

Francesco Lotoro: Yes.

Jon Wertheim: And that's how he writes a symphony.

Francesco Lotoro: Yes, when you lost freedom, toilet paper and coal can be freedom.

It's a testament to resourcefulness, how far artists will go to create. It's also a testament to the range of emotions that prisoners experienced.  

Jon Wertheim: What kind of music is this? This is 1944 in Buchenwald, in a camp.

Francesco Lotoro: This here a march.

Jon Wertheim: This is a march?

Francesco Lotoro: This surely to be scored for orchestra. (SINGS) It's a march.

Lotoro isn't just collecting this music, he's arranging it and sometimes finishing these works.   Jon Wertheim: Is this completed work or is this only partial?

Francesco Lotoro: No, they're only the melodies 

This tender composition was written by a pole while he was in Buchenwald Concentration Camp. Lotoro says that if music like this isn't performed, it's as if it's still imprisoned in the camps. It hasn't been freed.

This wasn't an obvious calling for an Italian who was raised Roman Catholic, but from age 15, Lotoro says, he felt the pull of another religion.

Jon Wertheim: You converted to Judaism. You say you have a Jewish soul. Define what that means.

Francesco Lotoro (Translation): There was a rabbi who explained to me that when a person converts to Judaism, in reality he doesn't convert. He goes back to being Jewish. Doing this research is possibly the most Jewish thing that I know.

Francesco Lotoro (Translation): We Jews have a word which expresses this concept. Mitzvah. It is not something that someone tells you you must do, you know as a Jew that you must do it. 

Lotoro's quest began in 1988 when he learned about the music created by prisoners in the Czech concentration camp Theresienstadt. The Nazis had set up the camp to fool the world into believing they were treating Jews humanely. Inmates were allowed to create and stage performances, some of which survive in this Nazi propoganda film. Lotoro was amazed by the level of musicianship and wondered what else was out there.

He reached out to Bret Werb, music curator at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, in Washington D.C. Werb says Francesco Lotoro is building on the legacy of others who have searched for concentration camp music, but Lotoro is taking it to the next level, making the scores performable.  

Jon Wertheim: Why did people in concentration camps turn to music?

Bret Werb: It helped people to cope. It helped people to escape. It gave people something to do. It allowed them to comment on the experiences that they were undergoing.

Jon Wertheim: Did music save lives during the Holocaust?

Bret Werb: there is no doubt that being a member of an orchestra increased your chances of survival

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch is one of the last surviving members of the women's orchestra at Auschwitz. She is now 94 years old. We met her at her home in London.    Jon Wertheim: What had you heard about the camp before you arrived?

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: We heard everything that was going on there only we didn't – still tried not to believe it.  But by the time I arrived there, in fact, I knew it was a reality, gas chambers and... yeah…

Jon Wertheim: You came prepared for the worst?

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: I came prepared for the worst, yes.

Her parents, German Jews, were taken away in 1942 and she never saw them again. She was just 18 when she arrived at the death camp a year later.

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: We were put in some sort of block and waited all night, and the next morning there was a sort of welcome ceremony and there were lots of people sitting there doing the reception business. Like tattooing you, taking your hair off, et cetera. That's all done by prisoners themselves 

The numbers are still visible on her left arm.

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: I was led to a girl also a prisoner and a sort of normal conversation took place. And then she asked me what was I doing before the war. And like an idiot, I don't know, I said, "I used to play the cello." She said, "That's fantastic." "You'll be saved," she said. I had no idea what she was talking about.

Jon Wertheim: And that's how you heard there was an orchestra?

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: Yeah.

Jon Wertheim: And this is your salvation?

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: That was my salvation, yeah.

The conductor of the orchestra was virtuoso violinist alma rose, niece of the famous Viennese composer, Gustav Mahler. Anita Lasker-Wallfisch says Rose, a prisoner herself, had an iron discipline and tried to focus attention away from the profound misery of the camp. 

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: I remember that we were scared stiff of her. She was very much the boss. And she knew very well that if she did not succeed to make a reasonable orchestra there, we wouldn't survive. So it was a tremendous responsibility this poor woman had.

The orchestra members all lived together in a wooden barracks like this – in Block 12 at Birkenau – known as the Music Block.

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: We were based very near the crematoria. We could see everything that was going on.

Jon Wertheim: You're practicing your orchestra and you can see everything going on?

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: Yeah, I mean, once you are inside Auschwitz, you knew what was going on, you know.

Jon Wertheim: How do you play music pretending to ignore everything going on around you?

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: You arrive in Auschwitz you are prepared to go to the gas chamber.  Somebody puts a cello in your hand, and you have a chance of life. Are you going to say "I'm sorry I don't play here I play in Carnegie Hall?" I mean, people have funny ideas about what it's like to arrive in a place where you know you're going to be killed. 

Jon Wertheim: What I hear you say is that your ability to play the cello saved your life.

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: Yeah, simple as that.

The main function of the camp orchestras: playing marches for prisoners every day here at the main gate, a way, literally to set the tempo for a day of work. And a way to count the inmates. 

Jon Wertheim: Right here is where the men's orchestra played?

Francesco Lotoro: Yes there was like a procession and the orchestra played there.

The orchestras also played when new arrivals disembarked from trains at Birkenau, to give a sense of normalcy, tricking newcomers into thinking it was a hospitable place. This, when at the height of the killings, Nazis were murdering thousands of men, women and children each day. Evidence of the scope and scale of the atrocity still exists here: mountains of shoes, suitcases, glasses, shaving brushes, murder on an industrial scale.

Auschwitz archivists showed us some of the instruments that were taken out of the camp by orchestra members at the end of the war and later donated to the museum. This clarinet, a violin, and an accordion, as well as some of the music they played.

Jon Wertheim: This is the prisoner's orchestra the concentration camp Auschwitz?

Archivist: Yes.

Jon Wertheim: And this is the inventory of instruments.

Archivist: Yes, what is inside.

The orchestras also gave concerts on Sundays for prisoners and for SS officers.  

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch remembers playing for the infamous Dr. Josef Mengele, known as "the angel of death." Mengele conducted medical experiments on prisoners. His notorious infirmary still stands just steps from the railroad tracks in Birkenau.

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: What was interesting is that these people, these arch criminals, were not uneducated people.

Jon Wertheim: That this monstrous man could still appreciate Schumann.

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: Yeah.

Jon Wertheim: How do you reconcile that?

Anita Lasker-Wallfisch: I don't.

Francesco Lotoro took us to another location where the Auschwitz camp orchestra played for Nazi officers and their families. It's just feet from the crematorium and within sight of the house of camp commandant Rudolf Hess.

Jon Wertheim: You were saying sometimes the smoke from the crematorium was so thick the musicians couldn't even see the notes in front of them.

Francesco Lotoro: Yes, it happened.

Jon Wertheim: It happened.

Francesco Lotoro: And it's tragic. Life and death were together.

Jon Wertheim: Life and death were intermingling.

Francesco Lotoro: And the point of connection of life and death is music. This is all we have about life in the camp.  Life disappeared. We have only music. For me, music is the life that remained.

Music may be the life that remained, music like this 1942 piece titled "Fantasy", but it is the people behind the music that animate Francesco Lotoro's long and ambitious project. Their compositions created at a time when fundamental values were in danger. 

Today, as the number of Holocaust survivors dwindles, it's more often their descendants Lotoro tracks down. 

For 30 years, Lotoro has been on an all-consuming quest to collect music created by prisoners during the Holocaust. As he travels the world, mostly on his own dime, he is both a detective and an archaeologist, digging through the past to recover and discover actual artifacts. But maybe even more important, he meets with survivors and their family members to excavate the stories behind the music. We traveled to Nuremberg, Germany, to meet Waldemar Kropinski.  He is the son of Jozef Kropinski, perhaps the most prolific and versatile composer in the entire camp constellation.  

Waldemar Kropinski says his father's work was totally unknown before Francesco Lotoro brought it to light.  

Waldemar Kropinski (Translation): I thought it was something that was of no interest to anyone because my father was already dead and not even one camp composition of his was performed in Poland.

Jozef Kropinski, a Roman Catholic, was 26 when he was caught working for the Polish resistance and sent to Auschwitz, where he became first violinist in the men's orchestra and started secretly composing, first for himself, and then for other prisoners. In 1942, he wrote this piece that he titled "Resignation".   

Waldemar Kropinski (Translation): This is the list my father did seven months before his death.

Jon Wertheim: Oh this was all of his music. 

Kropinski wrote hundreds of pieces of music during his four years of imprisonment, at Auschwitz and later at Buchenwald,  including tangos, waltzes, love songs, even an opera in two parts.

Still more astonishing, he composed most of them at night, by candlelight, in a tiny room the Nazis diabolically called a pathology lab, where during the day, bodies were dismembered.  Other prisoners had secured the space for kropinski so he could have a quiet place to compose. Jon Wertheim: This is where he worked? This is the pathology room where the cadavers mounted and he wrote music.

Waldemar Kropinski (Translation):  Yes.

Paper was in short supply, so Kropinski wrote music on items like this stolen Nazi requisition form…

Waldemar Kropinski (Translation): Because on the other side you had clean paper and my father could write notes…

Jon Wertheim: What's the name of this piece?

Waldemar Kropinski (Translation): A set of Christmas songs for a string quartet.

That's right, a few feet from piles of dead bodies, Jozef Kropinski wrote a suite of holiday songs. Waldemar says his father did it all to help raise the spirits of his fellow prisoners.

Waldemar Kropinski (Translation): His music was really touching hearts and very positive. It was important that the prisoners could hear something else in this time, something touching, so that they could go back in their memory to the old times, and feel encouraged.

In April 1945, as the Allies approached Buchenwald, the camp was evacuated and inmates were forced on a death march. Kropinski was able to smuggle out his violin and hundreds of pieces of music, some hidden in his violin case and others in a secret coat pocket, but only 117 survive today. On the march, he sacrificed the rest to build a fire for his fellow prisoners.

Jon Wertheim: You're saying your father took paper on which he had written compositions and used that to start a fire to give people heat to save their lives?

Waldemar Kropinski (Translation): Yes, not only his life but the lives of others. 

Francesco Lotoro says Kropinski, like so many other musicians, hasn't gotten the recognition he deserves.

Francesco Lotoro (Translation): He was a man who obviously suffered a lot in the camps, but made himself available to others, creating music. He was a man who must be understood not only as a musician but as someone who created solidarity, created unison in the camps.

Jon Wertheim: When did you first come into contact with Francesco Lotoro?

Christoph Kulisiewicz: Francesco Lotoro called me and he told me that he heard about my father, that he heard about his mission about his music I couldn't believe my ears so I immediately I wanted to meet him.

We wanted to see what one of lotoro's recovery missions looked like in practice, so we went along with him to the medieval city of Krakow, one of the oldest towns in southern Poland, to meet Christoph Kulisiewicz.

Christoph is the son of Aleksander Kulisiewicz, a Pole imprisoned by the Gestapo for anti-fascist writings and deported to Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp in 1939.     During more than five years of imprisonment, Kulisiewicz became something of a "camp troubadour," helping inmates cope with their hunger and despair, and performing songs like this at secret gatherings. But he didn't just compose and sing. He also used his extraordinary powers of recall, memorizing hundreds of songs by other prisoners, which he dictated to a nurse after the war, so they could be recorded.  

Christoph Kulisiewicz says his father considered the songs to be a form of oral history, not just giving hope to his fellow inmates but laying bare the truth of what was happening inside the camp.

Christoph Kulisiewicz: He always said, "I am living for those who died. They can't sing, they can't talk, but I can."

Jon Wertheim: It sounds like music was a way to find just a slice of dignity, of humanity.

Christoph Kulisiewicz: Exactly.

Jon Wertheim: Amid all this horrible stuff.

Christoph Kulisiewicz: Exactly. That is what my father used to say, the slice of dignity. He said, "As long as you can sing and compose and you keep it in your mind, and the SS officer doesn't know what you keep in your mind, you are free."

Jon Wertheim: What was it like for you the first time you heard your father's work sort of brought out of the shadows by Francesco Lotoro and performed? What was that like for you?

Christoph Kulisiewicz: It was amazing.  It was amazing because I never thought that it would come (to) life again and now it was like the voice of my father coming back as a real music again.  So he was, you know, living again for me.

Waldemar Kropinski can relate to the joy of finally hearing his father's music performed.

Waldemar Kropinski (Translation): It was a very personal feeling. Even today, although I know these pieces, I go back and listen to them often, and every time I hear them, I cry.

To date, Francesco Lotoro has arranged and recorded 400 works composed in the camps, including those by Aleksander Kulisiewicz and Jozef Kropinski, and this piece by a Jewish musician in Theriesendtadt.

This spring, Lotoro will perform some of them at a concert to mark the 75th anniversary of the liberation of the camps.    

Francesco Lotoro: What happened in the camps is more than an artistic phenomena. We have to think of this music as a last testament. We have to perform this music like Beethoven, Mahler, Schumann. These musicians, for me, wanted only one desire, that this music can be performed. 

Lotoro is building what he calls a "citadel" in his hometown of Barletta. Thanks to a grant from the Italian government, in February he plans to break ground at this abandoned distillery. A campus for the study of concentrationary music, it will include a library, a museum, a theater, and will house more than 10,000 items Lotoro has collected.

Francesco Lotoro (Translation): The real beneficiaries of this music aren't us who are researching it, not this generation. The generation that will benefit from it, that will enjoy this music, is the generation of those who will come in 30 or 40 years. It's an operation which is completely for the future.

He is continuing to raise funds from the public and hopes to complete the project in four years.

Jon Wertheim: You described what you're doing as a mitzvah, this Jewish term for a good deed.  I think a lot of people would say what you're doing goes well beyond a good deed.

Francesco Lotoro (Translation): I don't know maybe I am doing a good thing. When I complete this research we'll talk about it again. And then we will see if we truly did more than doing a good thing. For the time being I only see all of this as expensive, difficult, at times discouraging, but it has to be done until the end.

Like a musician who benefits from word of mouth, Francesco Lotoro and his remarkable work are starting to build a worldwide fan base.

Just last month alone, he performed in Toronto, Jerusalem and at a concert hall in Sao Paolo, Brazil. And that's where we end our story tonight, as Francesco Lotoro brings to life the music he has rescued.

Produced by Katherine Davis. Associate producer, Jennifer Dozor. Broadcast associate, Cristina Gallotto.

This content was originally published here.

[sepiadays]

Nightmare at Noon

STEPHEN VINCENT BENÉT

HERE are no trenches dug in the park, not yet.There are no soldiers falling out of the sky.It's a fine, clear day, in the park. It is bright and hot.The trees are in full, green, summer-heavy leaf.An airplane drones overhead but no one's afraid.There's no reason to be afraid, in a fine, big cityThat was not built for a war. There is time and time.There was time in Norway and time, and the thing fell.When they woke, they saw the planes with the black crosses.When they woke, they heard the guns rolling in the street.They could not believe, at first. It was hard to believe.They had been friendly and thriving and inventive.They had had good arts, decent living, peace for years.Those were not enough, it seems.There were people there who wrote books and painted pictures,Worked, came home tired, liked to be let alone.They made fun of the strut and the stamp and the strained salute,They made fun of the would-be Caesars who howl and foam.That was not enough, it seems. It was not enough.When they woke, they saw the planes with the black crosses.

There is grass in the park. There are children on the long meadowWatched by some hot, peaceful nuns. Where the ducks are fedThere are black children and white and the anxious teachersWho keep counting them like chickens. It's quite a jobTo take so many school-kids out to the park,But when they've eaten their picnic, they'll go home.(And they could have better homes, in a rich city.)But they won't be sent to Kansas or MichiganAt twenty-four hours' notice,Dazed, bewildered, clutching their broken toys,Hundreds on hundreds filling the blacked-out trains.Just to keep them safe, just so they may live not die.Just so there's one chance that they may not die but live.That does not enter our thoughts. There is plenty of time.

IN Holland, one hears, some children were less lucky.It was hard to send them anywhere in Holland.It is a small country, you see. The thing happened quickly.The bombs from the sky are quite indifferent to children.The machine-gunners do not distinguish. In RotterdamOne quarter of the city was blown to bits.That included, naturally, ordinary buildingsWith the usual furnishings, such as cats and children.It was an old, peaceful city, Rotterdam,Clean, tidy, full of flowers.

But that was not enough, it seems.It was not enough to keep all the children safe.It was ended in a week, and the freedom ended.There is no air-raid siren yet, in the park.All the glass still stands, in the windows around the park.The man on the bench is reading a Yiddish paper.He will not be shot because of that, oddly enough.He will not even be beaten or imprisoned.Not yet, not yet.You can be a Finn or a Dane and an American.You can be German or French and an American,Jew, Bohunk, Nigger, Mick—all the dirty namesWe call each other—and yet American.We've stuck to that quite a while.Go into Joe's Diner and try to tell the truckersYou belong to a Master Race and you'll get a laugh.

What's that, brother? Double-talk?

I'm a stranger here myself but it's a free country.

It's a free country . . .

Oh yes, I know the faults and the other side,The lyncher's rope, the bought justice, the wasted land,The scale on the leaf, the borers in the corn,The finks with their clubs, the gray sky of relief,All the long shame of our hearts and the long disunion.I am merely remarking—as a country, we try.As a country, I think we try.They tried in Spain but the tanks and the planes won out.They fought very well and long.They fought to be free but it seems that was not enough.They did not have the equipment. So they lost.They tried in Finland. The resistance was shrewd,

Skillful, intelligent, waged by a free folk.That resistance is now ended.

WE are slow to wake, good-natured as a country.(It is our fault and our virtue.) We like to raiseA man to the highest power and then throw bricks at him.We don't like war and we like to speak our minds.We're used to speaking our minds.There are certain words,Our own and others', we're used to—words we've used,Heard, had to recite, forgotten,Rubbed shiny in the pocket, left home for keepsakes,Inherited, stuck away in the back-drawer,In the locked trunk, at the back of the quiet mind.Liberty, equality, fraternity.To none will we sell, refuse or deny, right or justice.We hold these truths to be self-evident.I am merely saying—what if these words pass?What if they pass and are gone and are no more,Eviscerated, blotted out of the world?We're used to them, so used that we half-forget,The way you forget the looks of your own houseAnd yet you can walk around it, in the darkness.You can't put a price on sunlight or the air,You can't put a price on these, so they must be easy.They were bought with belief and passion, at great cost.They were bought with the bitter and anonymous bloodOf farmers, teachers, shoemakers and fools

Who broke the old rule and the pride of kings.And some never saw the end and many were weary,Some doubtful, many confused.They were bought by the ragged boys at Valmy mill,The yokels at Lexington with the long light gunsAnd the dry, New England faces,The iron barons, writing a charter outFor their own iron advantage, not the people,And yet the people got it into their handsAnd marked it with their own sweat.It took long to buy these words.It took a long time to buy them and much pain.Thenceforward and forever free.Thenceforward and forever free.No man may be bound or fined or slain till he has been judged by his peers.To form a more perfect Union.The others have their words too, and strong words,Strong as the tanks, explosive as the bombs. The State is all, worship the State! The Leader is all, worship the Leader! Strength is all, worship strength! Worship, bow down or die!

I SHALL go back through the park to my safe house, This is not London or Paris. This is the high, bright city, the lucky place, The place that always had time.

The boys in their shirtsleeves here, the big, flowering girls, The bicycle-riders, the kids with the model planes, The lovers who lie on the grass, uncaring of eyes, As if they lay on an island out of time, The tough kids, squirting the water at the fountain, Whistled at by the cop. The dopes who write "Jimmy's a dope" on the tunnel walls. These are all quite safe and nothing will happen to them. Nothing will happen, of course. Go tell Frank the Yanks aren't coming, in Union Square. Go tell the new brokers' story about the President. Whatever it is. That's going to help a lot. There's time to drink your highball—plenty of time. Go tell fire it only burns in another country, Go tell the bombers this is the wrong address, The hurricane to pass on the other side. Go tell the earthquake it must not shake the ground. The bell has rung in the night and the air quakes with it. I shall not sleep tonight when I hear the plane.

#stephen vincent benÉt #1940 #1930s #1940s #wwii #America #patriotism #isolationism #america first

[loudlytransparenttrash]

So a new bill (Bill M-103) was enacted in my country and some people in Parliament are stating that it could most likely result in bringing in Sharia Law. Now i'm sitting down terrified for my family and what that could mean for us, especially my 9 year old sister, and my friends. The thing is, here, you can't protect yourself with anything that is considered a weapon like a knife or you could most likely find yourself getting arrested and thrown in jail for assault.

If any country was going to adopt Sharia it would either be Canada or Sweden, both as weak and ashamed of themselves as each other. This so called bill is to protect Muslims from “Islamophobia” - so pretty much anything that is said about Islam that somebody doesn’t like, well you’re pretty much doomed. This is essentially already Sharia, if you criticize Allah or Muhammad then you will be punished, there’s little difference between strict Sharia Law and M-103. 

It’s all about the outcry of Islamophobia but there’s so many faults with this idea. You’d think if such a drastic measure was made to abolish words being said about Islam, then surely Muslims are the greatest victims of hate crimes? Nope, Jews are by FAR the greatest targets and victims but because Islam wants Jews dead, nobody wants to talk about it. So if Muslims aren’t being hated against, then surely their mosques are being targeted? Nope, Catholic churches are being vandalized and targeted far more than mosques, we never hear about it though, do we? So where the fuck is this idea of Islamophobia coming from? 

Well, it’s Muslims themselves who are using this word to introduce blasphemy laws. Remember, 1 in 4 moderate British Muslims support the introduction of Sharia law rather than the laws laid down by parliament. Canada seems to be the first and only ones stupid enough to be fooled by the word Islamophobia and it’s use to justify the introduction of the West’s version of Sharia. 

Let’s find out what the guy who popularized the word “Islamophobia” thinks of it now, especially now it’s being used to manipulate and deceive so many of us. The former head of Britain’s Equalities and Human Rights Commission, Trevor Phillips, commissioned “Islamophobia: a challenge for us all“ - a report into Britain and Islamophobia. This phrase has now been popularized and has become synonymous with any criticism - legitimate or not - of Islam or Muslims.

This was back in 1997, today he admits he “got almost everything wrong” on Muslim immigration and Muslim integration, segregation and how the followers of Islam are creating “nations within nations” in the West.” Before you say it lefties, no this isn’t a white supremacist far-right Nazi, this is a black guy who is the Deputy Chairman of the Board of the National Equality Standard and who was head of the Commission for Racial Equality responsible for combating discrimination and promoting equality across all grounds, the very person who introduced us to the idea of “Islamophobia”. 

“Liberal opinion in Britain has, for more than two decades, maintained that most Muslims are just like everyone else. Britain desperately wants to think of its Muslims as versions of the sweet Great British Bake Off winner Nadiya Hussain, or the cheeky-chappie athlete Mo Farah. But thanks to the most detailed and comprehensive survey of British Muslim opinion yet conducted, we now know that just isn’t how it is.” 

Phillips says his new data shows “a chasm” opening between Muslims and non-Muslims on fundamental issues such as marriage, relations between men and women, schooling, freedom of expression and even the validity of violence in defence of religion. While he notes that many Muslims in Britain are grateful to be here, and do identify with role models such as Hussain and Farah, there is a widening gap in society with many Muslims segregating themselves.

“We estimated that the Muslim population of the UK would be approaching 2 million by 2020. We underestimated by nearly a million. We predicted that the most lethal threat to Muslims would come from racial attacks and social exclusion. We completely failed to foresee the the atrocities in Madrid, Paris, Istanbul, Brussels and London.”

“For a long time, I too thought that Europe’s Muslims would become like previous waves of migrants, gradually abandoning their ancestral ways, wearing their religious and cultural baggage lightly, and gradually blending into Britain’s diverse identity landscape. I should have known better.”

“It’s not as though we couldn’t have seen this coming. But we’ve repeatedly failed to spot the warning signs,” he admits.

Phillips even acknowledges that the mass sexual grooming and rape scandals that are plaguing heavily Muslim populated towns across Britain are because of Muslim - not ‘Asian’ men. He writes: “The contempt for white girls among some Muslim men has been highlighted by the recent scandals in Rotherham, Oxford, Rochdale and other towns all over Europe. But this merely reflects a deeply ingrained sexism that runs through Muslim communities.”

“Oddly, the biggest obstacles we now face in addressing the growth of this nation-within-a-nation are not created by British Muslims themselves. Many of our (distinctly un-diverse) elite political and media classes simply refuse to acknowledge the truth. Any undesirable behaviours are attributed to alienation and injustice against them. Backing for violent extremism must be the fault of the Americans. Oppression of women is a cultural trait that will fade with time, nothing to do with the true face of Islam.” 

“Even when confronted with the growing pile of evidence to the contrary, and the angst of the liberal minority of British Muslims, clever, important people still cling to the patronizing certainty that British Muslims will, over time, come to see that “our” ways are better.” In terms of solutions, Mr. Phillips opines on “halting the growth of sharia courts and placing them under regulation.” His comments echo those of the Czech president, and research from across Europe that revealed attitudes amongst Muslims on the continent have hardened. The younger the Muslim, the more likely they are to hold hard-line views.

Phillips has spoken on the need for free speech to “allow people to offend each other.” These comments came after the protests against the Danish cartoons satirising the Islamic prophet, Muhammad which sparked protests in the Muslim world. He stated: “One point of Britishness is that people can say what they like about the way we should live, however absurd, however unpopular it is.” He has warned that Britain’s current approach to multiculturalism could cause Britain to "sleepwalk towards segregation”.

Anyone with blue hair or a women’s studies major threatened to move to Canada if Trump won, so don’t worry I won’t have one of those moments. It just seems now anyone with common sense or anyone who cares about freedom probably should look to get their poutine from somewhere else. Today “Islamophobia” has introduced Sharia to the West, it won’t be long before refusing to wear burqas is Islamophobic and the government enforces it. As if that would ever happen, you must be thinking? Well, we never imagined a Western country would adopt Sharia and criminalize free speech either. 

[renatedagmarmilada]

HARVARD... scummy  English Language lecturer, Stern or Feldman .or something like that, copied all my poetry, stories, University stuff, given him by St barths human Research--to cover the illegal monitor in their lab. from which all the staff took Fekete work as soon as it appeared and sent it off to Cosmo etc to be printed as did Sertn and told people it was his work.  We are Austro Hungarian refugees from the East Exiled, for the Austrian- but gave our families ration cards to our jewish friends so they should survive and they did-- Answer= WE HAVE NEW FRIENDS NOW, WE NO LONGER NEED YOU and your families....

HAS SENT ONE OF  MY STORIES TO A NEW YORK MAGAZINE as IN HIS NAME -- one of my life stories!!! When I came to London to St barths Human research to meet my brother jews there, they gave me 20 of your stories they had all used, to print as my own. LONDON WE HAD NO CHOICE, EITHER WE HAD TO DESTROY THEM, OR WE HAD TO KILL THEM.. //WHY????????????????????//// WE BROKE EVERY NATIONAL AND INTERNATIONAL LAW ON THEM.

ours was number 17, Desdia Stetz was just in front of ours. She died at 30ish from Cancer. Valentin, who took me to school, on the left side of our barrack, ran his car into a wall at 20 on purpose .and died. My friend, Andre,.the Litauer on our right flew off to Winipeg back then. I missed him. Me, I write and paint Desdia begged me to, with her dying breath, please don't let them stop you she begged.. what ever happens... I have all my work stolen en masse by hundreds of the jews and all their families, showing how tough they are gang robbing one old lady teacher and painter-poet-- we once had fed to keep them alive in our old country. My grandfather was a fool.

In Singapore Joe nearly drowned. He and brothers were messing in the pool in the afternoon heat, Ryan came out when he got cold, but we didn't realise, Joe was bobbing up and down, up and down. Suddenly his big brother realised and dived in and got him out. My was he quiet after that, didn't even have his usual giggles../on his birthday in New Zealand with my life long friend, also from Elsham Refugee camp, the barrack in front of ours, Desdia Stetz./

when Joe was little he used to go to that lost Animal caring place RSPCA or something like that, as a volunteer, to clean out cages and that, rather than going out to play. The lounge of our little house was full of boxes with half squashed hedgehogs and wingless birds he brought home to be cured- Personally I think he should have become a vet.. I always thought it..../In Auckland NZ with his big sis, Rach /Dame Rachel De Souza/

huh, Allan Lieberman Cross, from Finchley London... none believing Jew.. yes, raped tots too, has 33 to 35 illegitimate children which we have been able to find- besides those of marriage.. He married a Catholic?

I am 14 I dont want to go in to the lab, I am John Fielding's 27th illeg. They've told me I am high cancer. slender dark haired girl. It is an opportunity for all of us to gang rob, torture and cheat one old lady teacher and artist.

lives outer London, near Jean Carsted Beaumond's nest of thieves..

Ralf, upperthorpe Sheffield lives near SLovak cousin thief families, Addy close higher up, colleague of John Williams thief. Been in my home half dozen times thieving. Came home early once and watched him run out of our snicket, round the corner to Spring Vale in white/black checked jacket, pockets bulging..rang someone and then ran up Springvale .. As I am in my 70's Police said not to tackle the thieves for my own safety. Jennifer - illeg daughter of John Fielding in lab, send him in to thieve.. thieve what, there is little left..are those hankies Fekete bought for present for her friends left. No the west indians have robbed all those..

''it is my mother's degree work..'' STEVIE .. illeg son of Allan Lieberman Cross. Lives West Ham area, where you went to Life Drawing classes

Solomon one of lab staff, from Scotland, /3 tots deaths/ girlfriend, nasty skinny female, one of his 3 or 4 girlfriends, he has given her all your work. white..20's INTENDS TO PRINT IT AS HIS OWN WORK-- I his wife know?//drawing to illustrate one of my BA German history essays UEL//

quote - Allan Lieberman Cross, Finchley, grandson John, has all your work. College? No Drop out. He has sold 20 of yours. John Fielding told me to. Stevie, No another illeg . He paid for him for a year or two. East Ham area, where you lived./to Leeds Reform Synagogue, Roman Rd Yorks./

lab quotes.....The SOMALIANS are like babes in arms, they have no idea what so ever how the Brits operate, none, it is like playing with innocents, even though Fekete told them and told them week after week, year after year. All they think of is their loins and free food and houses.. but she is right, they are otherwise a pretty decent bunch, she liked them and that is always a good indication of a people!! Fekete sees all but says nothing. The west indian group are a bit sha...

Peter Ponsoby of St barths Human Research, /using tax payers money/ Buy 10 then another 10 and so on from the blacks, I can use them then sell them as my own work.. The Our Polish Jew in Springvale Flats Sheffield, is an arsehole, he plays for that side then this side then that side...

quote- The west indian ethnic blacks are beginning to off load what they robbed from Fekete's home before and after 2015./16./17 etc The SOMALIANS are like babes in arms, they have no idea what so ever how the Brits operate, none, it is like playing with innocents. The west indian group are a bit sharper. The Slovakians are beginning to learn quickly, though at first they were a bit dumb..dazzled by the FREE They are all on the scanner permanently. The Pakistanis on the who...

quote yesterday-- because Slovakian Human Research paid 2 million by London, allowed Alyson to go there and simulate remote, cancer illnesses on Fekete's old aunts, till they died, and Driscol went to Australia-Human Research, to create an accident to kill two Fekete cousins by Abramovich's cousin speeding to copy Princess Di's accident created by Anna Brown at the lab st barths Human Research, there all slovak thieves and whores who come to England are given Fekete's work to use..

quote - Bethany /one of John Fielding's 30 illeg children/ Friends have some of Fekete's filled life drawings sketch books..there were several hundred sketches Fekete was beginning to work on, we had stolen by our paid thieves in Sheffield. /£50 for entering Fekete's home for goods, £100 for a box of her work paid by the receiver from the lab st barths Human Research/ We scribble on them, like the Slovaks do.. They have stolen some 400 of last two years work in 17 A2 and A3 folders, and claim they are their work, intending to take it back to Slovakia and sell it... We are richer not like this old woman artist, Daddy /John Fielding/ will pay for them..

it's cold in East Germany, I am wearing two skirts, but that Canadian Oxfam jacket from Toronto and my mum's scarf, is still keeping me warm, and keeping my hands warm inside my sleeves - showing a little boy how my grandmother's house was bombed to smithereenes and disappeared /as they were quite near a Focker factory./ The Americans came during the day, the English at night..Bombs don't ask what religion or what politics you are. They are totally democratic, all in their way is wiped out.

Whilst student at Leipzig Uni -- visiting

It was Norbert, Anna fed it straight into his brain after putting them all on the Scanner, the whole of Birkbeck.. we got him a year's paid leave for failing Fekete when she was actually a second and then only because they insisted on type written sheets and she had no laptop, she bought an old typewriter for £3 at the Xmas Fair at St Micheals RC church at East Ham, with a letter or two missing. The college really messed her about, she kept ringing for the results, and they k...

Torture remote---?quote, Anna Brown and her jewish cronies: I wanted to soften Fekete up before using her, but we just continued and continued and are still softening her up. Used on Vietnam POW's too.. There is her lesson plans book.

CANADA is off the program - it is disgusting

TAIAN CITY.. whilst teaching there I bought 8 lovely tea towels, all stolen by the local west indian BRIGGS crew, and also tapestry patterns .. something the Chinese women do a lot of as they sit, on the steps - if they are not knitting winter sweaters for the family. They cost a few Yuan at the market.. I bought two and intended to buy more, but the Pakistani operatives pressed my heart and stomach so badly from Beijing Human Research, remote that I got very ill. ONE OF THE ...

80 packages of Fekete's work and goods. JOHN FIELDING=..I want another bundle of Fekete's work sent to Australia now ...WE SAID SWATTING MADE A DIFFERENCE.actually all we did was copy Fekete's stories. from her Writers Groups and degrees. Neighbours of ANNA BROWN friend in the counties, Bunny's neighbour.. currying favours again..

80 packages of Fekete's work and goods... WE SAID SWATTING MADE A DIFFERENCE.actually all we did was copy Fekete's stories. from her Writers Groups and degrees. one package I stole some 3 yrs ago-- Pamela's friends, neighbours, from WEST LONDON. Pamela was a civil servant from PENSIONS MINISTRY.. whom Dennis senior civil servant of theHealth Ministry asked to change the facts of Fekete's life to take a large amount off the pension she would get. We had checked and she cheated before

Lauren Fielding -- I had Fekete's Netherthorpe A1 collage stolen as well..

health Ministry Civil Servant Denis- to anna brown sex buddy, give Fekete the lowest marks you can for her Creative Writing degree. ./friend Goo of Plashet Rd...

Lauren Fielding -- I cut one of Fekete's collages into four and sold them, so that I could keep three totally for myself.. so I fed into Maragaret of Sheffield's brain to cut up one of Fekete's big pastel sketches..cancerous, no, but a druggy so ..Anna brown suggested it.

health Ministry Civil Servant Denis- to anna brown sex buddy, give Fekete the lowest marks you can for her Creative Writing degree. ./friend Goo of Plashet Rd London/.. he had a minor illness so they took him away to a Care Home, put him on high doses of Morphine as most elderly in Care Homes. He was dead within weeks- as they all are once on that stuff. Weakens them, stops them eating, and cheerio nuisance old people!! I didn't know but my son who knows about drugs, spotte...

Meyer Edgeware Rd London-- I will wipe the floor with her.. /why? we fed jews with our chidlren's ration cards and gave them fabrics when they got none?? under the Nazis noses/

5 more slovakian Sheffield school girls have had your MA essays passed on to them, including the Reformation, to copy as their own work. cheat lie steal, the good old english skills... Anna fed a fail into his brain and then made sure he got a year's paid leave. he is cancer level 5.

three more of John Fielding's younger of his 30 illeg. daughters in lab robbing and torturing. /sane, doubt it/ painting West Ham college life drawing/

school of economics london. we use them to verify your facts for us and then we give them all your work to use as their own with guarantees that we will print it. Estonian Junior health Ministers son went there and used all your UEL BA English work as his own work.. History lecturer has your work to use now. The whole of their staff will have written up your UEL work soon.. /painting from fifth floor Barking UEL during break by me ofcourse as all my paintings are/

my tub of summer clothes is now totally empty, leather rucksack from Germany gone, one and only thin gold chain gone, slovakian HORACE OF ADDY CLOSE Sheffield HAS THAT, PUZZLE teaching books gone, engagement ring I got 1963 from my fiance husband to be, gone, all paintings and all written stuff gone.. yes they see me on the bus, they sit around me everywhere. Cecilia slovak bitch of 53 Upperthorpe is still demanding her fella Bohdan go and rob more from my home, they even took my spices!! checked my freezer . I don't buy cakes, and stuff, so was annoyed, even took a plate and my spaghetti strainer.. can you imagine. THIS IS CALLED THE ENGLISH MINISTRIES STRIPPING.. /painting of Crooksmoor park Walkley when I lived round the corner/

Somalian Mohammad from Burngreave, sold more of your stuff to Ukrainian Sheffield receiver for St Barths Human Research of stolen stuff from Fekete's home and loft. A west indian, ALOISE WILLIAMS..father of career thief John Williams of Upperthorpe, who robbed Fekete home three times seen, approached him as he sat in a cafe, sold him your stuff, then the Somali sold it for more to the receiver.../sheffield outside my house in walkely/

christine bagley has stolen more of your work and clothes after spending a free weeks holiday in a top class hotel in Munich because she is one of John Fieldings eighty five illegitimate children. bossess Anna created an ARMY with experimental stuff on her own staff-- :John Fielding Redbridge= 86 illeg children/ Simeon Cohen= 76 illeg children/ Allan Lieberman Cross Finchley  = 85+ children// Harold Mankovits of Finchley= 92 illeg children counted.

See more recent stories

[goingmedieval]

Keep the word ‘Judeo’ out of your Racist Mouth, Nigel Farage.

My loves, it is with a heavy heart that I announce Nigel Farrage is once again saying some meaningless garbage.

I know, I know. You are not surprised, but I am afraid I have to respond to this douche canoe’s latest idiocy – in this case the following tweet:

For those not up to speed with this particular flavour of British idiocy – at the moment the Archbishop of York, Nigel ‘Why don’t I have a chin? Let’s blame the EU’ Farage, and now Prime Minister Theresa May are all shocked and offended that Cadbury’s promoted an ‘Egg Hunt’ for the National Trust rather than a specific ‘Easter Egg Hunt’.

I know.

All of this is, of course nonsense, and ordinarily I try to ignore Farage as much as possible, being as my well-being is perched on a knife’s edge in today’s political hell scape. However, Farage just referred to England as having a ‘Judeo-Christian’ culture, and I cannot stand for it.

Leaving aside the issue that Jews don’t, you know, celebrate Easter, because they are Jewish, the idea that we here in the UK somehow celebrate the ‘Judeo’ in Judeo-Christian is offensive, given the hundreds upon hundreds of years of bloody repression of Jews in England.

Backing right the fuck up, it should be obvious that medieval society was not particularly kind to Jews. (If you are out of touch about this, check out Moore’s, The Formation of a Persecuting Society.) Because medieval Europe was largely Christian (except Spain, which was balling), Jews generally had a terrible time. They were restricted from pursing most trades, and as a result largely ended up in the financial sector.  Christians, you see, were prevented from lending money at interest because that constituted the sin of usury. Jews did not have the same religious prohibition and made the best of their place in a super stringent society by lending money. This probably led to the stereotypical bigoted idea of Jews as terrible money grubbers that we are all still dealing with.

Jews were so hated that they usually had to be under royal or imperial protection. People resented them because something something the death of Christ (which the Romans were totally off the hook for, obvs), and also because they now owed the Jews money.

English people, like most Europeans, were pretty big dicks to the Jews. First off, and for your information Mr. Farage, there were no Jews in England until after the Norman conquest. (Remember? When the French people took over? Because England is a part of Europe? YOU GIT.) William the Conqueror invited a group of Jews from Rouen to settle in England in 1070, though he wouldn’t let them own land. Because LOL.

By the twelfth century the Jews in London were granted a series of concessions by Henry I that meant they were treated a little bit more like people. They were allowed to buy and sell property, be tried by their peers, and swear on the Torah instead of the Bible. They were also allowed the right of movement around England – and I quote – ‘as if they were the king’s own property’ (Sicut res proproae nostrae). (I know. I know.) So Jews were totally allowed to be people in England. You know, people who were royal property, but stuff got kind of bad after that. King Stephen decided to be a total dick and burn down a Jewish man’s house in Oxford because he wasn’t paying towards the king’s expenses. (Stay classy Stephen!) Then in 1144 there was the death of (soon to be saint) William of Norwich.  William had been an apprentice tanner. William showed up dead. The good people of Norwich decided that William had been killed by Jews because sure, why not. Obviously Jews had killed him as a part of a ritual murder that re-enacted a mass because blood libel is definitely a thing. Thomas of Monmouth wrote a crazy-ass hagiography about it and everything.  After this, any time there was an unsolved murder of a child, everyone in England blamed it on any Jew that could be found. This included Harold of Gloucester (d. 1168), Robert of Bury (d. 1181), and Little Hugh of Lincoln (d. 1255). All the boys were sainted. People were increasingly giant dicks to Jews.

Stuff got really bad under Richard the Lionheart. At his coronation a number of high ranking Jewish people showed up to do homage at Westmister, and they got kicked the fuck out of the coronation banquet and then attacked by a crowd outside. A rumor then started spreading that the king had ordered the London Jews to be massacred, and a good old fashioned mob went into the Old Jewry pretty much killing anyone they could get their hands on. The super friendly Judeo-Christian culture that Mr. Farage is celebrating then kicked off a series of violent attacks against various groups of Jews in Lynn, Stamford Fair, Colchester, Thetford, Ospringe, and Bury St Edmunds with dozens of people ending up dead. The Jews of Lincoln only survived an attempted massacre by taking refuge in the castle.

One of the worst incidents was, of course, the Pogrom (or Massacre) of York where on March 16 and 17 1190 a bunch of soldiers preparing to leave on the Third Crusade decided it would be classy and good to try to force the local Jews to convert. The Jews hid in the castle, but couldn’t escape the mob outside. Most of those inside decided to take their own lives, with the fathers of most families killing their wives, children, and themselves, and then setting fire to the keep. All the survivors were killed by the enraged bystanders. A Judeo-Christian culture – ladies and gentlemen!  

During Richard the Lionheart’s absence the Jews that no one had managed to kill were generally harassed by William de Longchamp, and when Richard got his ass captured in the holy land, the Jews were told that they had to contribute 5,000 marks towards the king’s ransom. That is more than three times more than the city of London was supposed to contribute. Cute.

Eventually English kings found ways to make money that didn’t involve shaking down the Jews, and at that point the Church was putting more and more pressure on kings not to allow Jews to lend money to Christians. So at this point Edward I was just like, ‘Sod it, let’s just kick all the Jews out of the country.’ On July 18 1290 it was decreed that all Jews should be expelled by All Saints Day that year, with somewhere between 4,000 and 16,000 Jews forced to leave. I mean – what an amazing cultural exchange we had here! Wow!

Jews were eventually allowed back in the country in 1655 when members of the Dutch Jewish community directly approached Oliver Cromwell. Don’t be fooled by this though. Cromwell was, as many important historians have noted, a total Puritan douche nozzle. He thought Jews should be let back in because – in terms of Christian apocalyptic theory – Jews are necessary at the End Times because they first have to be swayed by and worship Antichrist, and then convert to Christianity. Then the world can end. Isn’t that nice? What a great spirit of cultural cooperation! Anyway, Cromwell’s Puritan ass wouldn’t have eaten chocolate egg one on Easter because that would be fun, and as we all know, God hates fun.

My point here is that none of this points to a ‘Judeo-Christian culture’ like Farage wants you to believe in. He’s just using the phrase to exclude Muslims from British society, even though they are here to stay, fam.

Why anyone wants to choose Easter Eggs as the hill to die on is a mystery to me, and the entire ‘controversy’ is a manufactured tempest in a tea cup. My major point is that you shouldn’t trust racists when they tell you about the ‘culture’ of anywhere. They don’t know a damn thing about culture or history.

#jewish history #easter eggs #nigel farage #medieval #antisemitism #english history