#virtute creek | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zincbot · 3 months

Note

And sending this separate so the reply isn’t too beefy but like you can answer any of the ones you rly vibe with about yourself because fuck yeah tell us about yourself give us the hot goss

dhhdhdhhd okay sid just for u ilu. here's some hot goss abt me

7. earbuds or headphones?

headphones 100% of the time and when i say 100% i mean i bring headphones with me every time i leave the house and also around the house. and i've been doing this since middle school. What If I Want To Listen To Something?!? Okay??!

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day?

i mix it up a lot. today? blueberries + banana yogurt. yesterday? cinnamon chex. i usually stay in the breakfast foods umbrella. i have breakfast every day because if i don't i start killing people

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes?

black nike air monarchs. every single day. all season.

28. five songs to describe you?

hmmm in descending order of importance (the bottom like 3-4 change all the time i bet)

autoclave by the mountain goats

waves by hi i'm case

watch the world unfold by gaelynn lea

the boxer by simon and garfunkel

virtute at rest by john k samson

30. places that you find sacred?

water! flowing water specifically. old trees sometimes but they gotta be near at least a creek.

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie?

i'm the biggest lemon meringue pie fan in the world maybe. my stepmother just made a homemade one for my brother's birthday and it wasn't even set all the way but it was the best thing i've ever tasted

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket?

one of my go-to jackets is a leather jacket that says "god bless america" on the back. and i'm not even american its just funny. (my other standard jacket is a letterman) but i desperately desire a bomber as well waa

47. favorite type of cheese?

blue :]

53. what is the current state of your hands?

eczema finger ]:

95. favorite app on your phone?

discord. my friends are there!

96. desktop background?

it's from the game OneShot! (a game I love supremely. and had recently played when I decided I wanted a desktop bg for the first time in my adult life)

#ehee!

1 note · View note

tearofisha · 1 year

Text

Vivat Virtute.

Back again upon his nameless Paradise World, Rishaeron Wayfinder removed his boots at last.

Sitting upon the bed he carved months prior, he removed his cloak, helmet, rifle, dagger, pistol and pack with careful reverence until he was left only in his black undersuit with his long hair down at last. From his pack he removed trinkets, foodstuffs, crystal cores and writing implements before arranging them neatly on a table in the beside his bed. Finally he retrieved the Gyrinx from its pouch where it slept soundly after many days of yowling protestations and examined it closely.

The dishevelled blue little creature was a bag of bones, one ear badly chewed by some animal in its past and fur that was matted in places with oil and grease from the Underhive. Despite this, it was still a Gyrinx and a psychic energy emanated from the creature all the same.

Rishaeron left the Gyrinx on his bed and left to collect water from a nearby creek, revelling in splashing the clear liquid on his face hands before gathering a bucket full and returning.

Momentary panic struck the Ranger when he could not find the diminutive creature, but a sigh was released when he saw it cuddled up and sleeping on top of his folded cloak having knocked every other item haphazardly off in its clumsy wake.

"Come on." He said sympathetically. "You won't enjoy this either but you'll feel better when we do." Instantly the protest began again as he picked up the cat by the scruff of its neck and only grew in intensity when Rishaeron patiently bathed it. Bite marks and scratches later, it was clean at last and Rishaeron wrapped it up in his cloak to dry. To his infinite shock, it purred as he dried it.

"Come on then, what should I call you?" He asked in the patient tone of every fool ever pondering a cats name in history.

"Ash? It was them that helped me find you." The creature was apathetic to such a suggestion, gazing at reflected light on the wooden ceiling. "Eldrin? If you like tea and sitting that might be good." Again, no reaction beyond apathy. Rishaeron smiled, there was no rush for a name.

"Whatever it is you're stronger than you think." He offered his hand and let it sniff his fingers playfully. Then a phrase came to mind. Ancient Terran, the language of great Mediterranean empire builders. Something that he remembered as strength and character.

"Virtute?" He asked, absent mindedly. The Gyrinx meowed happily, seemingly satisfied with the word before it played roughly with the Rangers hand.

"Virtute it is, Rishaeron and Virtute." He smiled again as the Gyrinx purred affectionately, a man rebuilding his life and a companion to walk with him on those paths. What a team they would make.

#Rishaeron gets a cat #new muse i guess

6 notes · View notes

bioscaffolding · 4 years

Photo

mspaint removed the color replacement tool so microsoft is fake and GAY

but mspaint steps

#virtute has absolute himbo energies with that pose #che sinsonte #naim chase #virtute creek #kindred #this was going to be better until i learned that microsoft is intentionally antagonistic #sidestep #fhr #laviart

32 notes · View notes

interiorparamour · 6 years

Text

de rerum virtute (robinson jeffers)

here is the skull of a man: a man’s thoughts and emotions have moved under the thin bone vault like clouds under the blue one: love and desire and pain, thunderclouds of wrath and white gales of fear have hung inside here: and sometimes the curious desire of knowing values and purpose and the causes of things has coasted like a little observer air-plane over the images that filled this mind: it never discovered much, and now all’s empty, a bone bubble, a blown-out eggshell.

ii.

that’s what it’s like: for the egg too has a mind, doing what our able chemists will never do, building the body of a hatchling, choosing among the proteins: these for the young wing-muscles, these for the great crystalline eyes, these for the flighty nerves and brain: choosing and forming: a limited but superhuman intelligence, prophetic of the future and aware of the past: the hawk’s egg will make a hawk, and the serpent’s a gliding serpent: but each with a little difference from its ancestors—and slowly, if it works, the race forms a new race: that also is a part of the plan within the egg. i believe the first living cell had echoes of the future in it, and felt direction and the great animals, the deep green forest and whale’s-track sea; i believe this globed earth not all by chance and fortune brings forth her broods, but feels and chooses. and the galaxy, the firewheel on which we are pinned, the whirlwind of stars in which our sun is one dust-grain, one electron, this giant atom of the universe is not blind force, but fulfils its life and intends its courses. “all things are full of god. winter and summer, day and night, war and peace are god.”

iii.

thus the thing stands; the labor and the games go on— what for? what for? —am i a god that i should know? men live in peace and happiness; men live in horror and die howling. do you think the blithe sun is ignorant that black waste and beggarly blindness trail him like hounds, and will have him at last? he will be strangled among his dead satellites, remembering magnificence.

iv.

i stand on the cliff at sovranes creek-mouth. westward beyond the raging water and the bent shoulder of the world the bitter futile war in korea proceeds, like an idiot prophesying. it is too hot in mind for anyone, except god perhaps, to see beauty in it. indeed it is hard to see beauty in any of the acts of man: but that means the acts of a sick microbe on a satellite of a dust-grain twirled in a whirlwind in the world of stars .... something perhaps may come of him; in any event he can’t last long. —well: i am short of patience since my wife died ... and this era of spite and hate-filled half-worlds gets to the bone. i believe that man too is beautiful, but it is hard to see, and wrapped up in falsehoods. michelangelo and the greek sculptors— how they flattered the race! homer and shakespeare— how they flattered the race!

one light is left us: the beauty of things, not men; the immense beauty of the world, not the human world. look—and without imagination, desire nor dream—directly at the mountains and sea. are they not beautiful? these plunging promontories and flame-shaped peaks stopping the sombre stupendous glory, the storm-fed ocean? look at the lobos rocks off the shore, with foam flying at their flanks, and the long sea-lions couching on them. look at the gulls on the cliff wind, and the soaring hawk under the cloud-stream— but in the sage-brush desert, all one sun-stricken color of dust, or in the reeking tropical rain-forest, or in the intolerant north and high thrones of ice—is the earth not beautiful? nor the great skies over the earth? the beauty of things means virtue and value in them. it is in the beholder’s eye, not the world? certainly. it is the human mind’s translation of the transhuman intrinsic glory. it means that the world is sound, whatever the sick microbe does. but he too is part of it.

#robinson jeffers #poetry #lit

1 note · View note

ronleebrown · 6 years

Photo

Big Cottonwood Canyon #Utah. See more of my images for sale. www.ronbrown.photography #picoftheday #FallColors • • • • #Canyon #landscape #nature #outdoors #photography #recreation #ut #utah #landmark #artforsale #Itsinmynature #only.in.utah #beautifulutah #utahlife #fallcolors #iloveutah #virtute (at Big Cottonwood Creek)

#utahlife #fallcolors #beautifulutah #canyon #landscape #utah #photography #artforsale #ut #landmark #picoftheday #outdoors #itsinmynature #only #iloveutah #nature #virtute #recreation

0 notes

guarita · 7 years

Text

um poema do jack spicer sobre o robinson jeffers e um poema do robinson jeffers

Traduzindo Language, do Jack Spicer, dou de cara com um poema sem titulo, que mencionava um tal de Jeffers. Fui pesquisar. Achava eu que seria o nome de algum lugar litorâneo ou algo similar, mas era o nome de um poeta: Robinson Jeffers. Instantaneamente me interessei por ele, ao ver na barra de “pesquisas relacionadas” o nome de Walt Whitman, Marianne Moore, Williams Carlos Williams e Gary Snider. Procurei feito um maluco por alguns poemas dele e achei vários. Mas algumas poucas dezenas traduzidos para português. Então resolvi traduzir alguns poemas dele, e é o que estou fazendo. Abaixo o poema do Spicer que menciona o Jeffers, e um poema do Jeffers que foi quase uma porrada no meu coração: *** Uma floresta de sequoias não é invisível à noite. A penumbra cobre ela mas ela cobre a penumbra.

Se eles tivesse transformado o Jeffers em um estacionamento a morte teria sido eliminada, e o nascimento idem. Luzes brilham 24 horas por dia em um estacionamento.

A conservação de verdade é o esforço de um artista e de um homem privado de manter as coisas verdadeiras. As árvores e os penhascos em Big Sur respiram no escuro. Jeffers conhecia a dor da sua respiração e a dor era a morte da respiração do primogênito.

A morte não é derradeira. Somente os estacionamentos.

////////////// A redwood forest is not invisible at night. The blackness covers it but it covers the blackness.

If they had turned Jeffers into a parking lot death would have been eliminated and birth also. The lights shine 24 hours a day on a parking lot.

True conservation is the effort of the artist and the private man to keep things true. Trees and the cliffs in Big Sur breathe in the dark. Jeffers knew the pain of their breath and the pain was the death of a first-born baby breathing.

Death is not final. Only parking lots. ***

DE RERUM VIRTUTE

Eis aqui o crânio de um homem: os pensamentos e emoções de um homem Que foram para debaixo da fina abóbada craniana, como nuvens Sob o azul: amor e desejo e dor, Tempestuosas nuvens de cólera e brancas ventanias de medo Suspensas aqui dentro: e às vezes o curioso desejo de saber, Valores e propósitos e a causa das coisas, Costeavam como um pequeno aeroplano observado por sobre as imagens Que recheavam essa mente: Nunca chegou a descobrir muito, E agora está completamente vazia, uma bolha óssea, uma casca de ovo desabrochada.

II.

É assim que se parece: pois o ovo também tem uma mente, Fazendo o que nossa apta química nunca fará, Construindo o corpo de um ovíparo, escolhendo dentre as proteínas: Estas para os jovens músculos das asas, aquelas para os seus grandes Olhos cristalinos, estas para os nervos volúveis e o cérebro: Escolhendo e formando: uma inteligência limitada porém super-humana, Profética com o futuro e ciente do passado: O ovo do falcão fará um falcão, e o ovo da serpente, Uma serpente escorregadiça: mas cada um com uma pequena diferença De seus antepassados — e, se funcionar, lentamente aquela raça Irá formar uma nova raça: Isso também faz parte do plano Dentro do ovo. Acredito que a primeira célula viva Tinha ecos do futuro nela, e ela sentia Os rumos e os grandes animais, as florestas de verde profundo E os rastros da baleia no mar; acredito que esta terra global Não só por acaso e sorte levou suas crias adiante, Mas por sensações e escolhas. E a Galáxia, esta roda de fogo Em que estamos presos, o turbilhão de estrelas no qual nosso sol é um grão de areia, um elétron, esse gigantesco átomo do universo, Não é somente um força cega, mas algo que preenche sua vida e maquina seus rumos. “Todas as coisas estão repletas de Deus. O inverno e o verão, o dia e a noite, a guerra e a paz são Deus.”

III.

Assim a coisa se mantem; a labuta e os jogos continuam — Pelo que? Pelo que? — Eu sou o Deus que eu deveria conhecer? Homens vivem com paz e felicidade; homens vivem com horror E morrem uivando. Você acha que o caloroso sol É ignorante e que os resíduos negros e a cegueira indigente o seguem como cães de caça, E você o terá por último? Ele será estrangulado Entre seus satélites mortos, rememorando sua magnificência.

IV.

Estou sobre o penhasco na boca do rio de Sovranes. À oeste, para além das águas furiosas e do ombro curvo do mundo A amarga e fútil guerra na Coréia continua, como um idiota Profetizando. Está muito quente na mente De qualquer pessoa para ver beleza nisso, exceto talvez a de Deus. Na realidade é difícil ver beleza Em qualquer ato do homem: mas isso quer dizer que os atos de um micróbio doente Em um satélite de um grão de areia rodopiando em um turbilhão Em um mundo de estrelas... Algo talvez deva vir dele; em qualquer evento Ele não consegue durar em demasia — Bom: Eu ando sem paciência Desde que minha esposa morreu... e essa era de rancor e com meio mundo cheio de ódio Até o tutano. Acredito que o homem também é belo, Mas é difícil ver isso, ainda mais quando embrulhado em falsidades. Michelangelo e os escultores gregos— Como eles embelezaram o povo! Homero e Shakespeare— Como eles embelezaram o povo!

Uma luz nos resta: a beleza das coisas, não dos homens; A imensa beleza do mundo, não do mundo humano. Olhe — e sem imaginar, desejar ou sonhar — diretamente Para as montanhas e o mar. Elas não são bonitas? Esses cumes mergulhadores e pico com forma de labareda Parando a estupenda glória sombria, a tempestade que alimenta o oceano? Olhe para as Rochas de Lobos no litoral, Com escuma voando em seus flancos, e os compridos leões marinhos Caminhando sobre elas. Olhe para as gaivotas nos ventos das falésias, E o altivo falcão sob a correnteza das nuvens — Mas também no deserto de artemisias, todo um sol arrasado Da cor de poeira, ou na rançosa floresta tropical, Ou no intolerante norte e nos altos tronos de gelo — a terra não é bela? Nem mesmo os grandes céus sobre a terra? A beleza das coisas significam a virtude e o valor delas. Está nos olhos do espectador, e não no mundo? Com certeza. Está na tradução da mente humana da intrínseca glória Transumana. Isso quer dizer que o mundo é som, Seja lá o que o micróbio doente faça. Mas ele faz parte disso.

//////////////

De Rerum Virtute

Here is the skull of a man: a man’s thoughts and emotions Have moved under the thin bone vault like clouds Under the blue one: love and desire and pain, Thunderclouds of wrath and white gales of fear Have hung inside here: and sometimes the curious desire of knowing Values and purpose and the causes of things Has coasted like a little observer air-plane over the images That filled this mind: it never discovered much, And now all’s empty, a bone bubble, a blown-out eggshell.

II.

That’s what it’s like: for the egg too has a mind, Doing what our able chemists will never do, Building the body of a hatchling, choosing among the proteins: These for the young wing-muscles, these for the great Crystalline eyes, these for the flighty nerves and brain: Choosing and forming: a limited but superhuman intelligence, Prophetic of the future and aware of the past: The hawk’s egg will make a hawk, and the serpent’s A gliding serpent: but each with a little difference From its ancestors—and slowly, if it works, the race Forms a new race: that also is a part of the plan Within the egg. I believe the first living cell Had echoes of the future in it, and felt Direction and the great animals, the deep green forest And whale’s-track sea; I believe this globed earth Not all by chance and fortune brings forth her broods, But feels and chooses. And the Galaxy, the firewheel On which we are pinned, the whirlwind of stars in which our sun is one dust-grain, one electron, this giant atom of the universe Is not blind force, but fulfils its life and intends its courses. “All things are full of God. Winter and summer, day and night, war and peace are God.”

III.

Thus the thing stands; the labor and the games go on— What for? What for? —Am I a God that I should know? Men live in peace and happiness; men live in horror And die howling. Do you think the blithe sun Is ignorant that black waste and beggarly blindness trail him like hounds, And will have him at last? He will be strangled Among his dead satellites, remembering magnificence.

IV.

I stand on the cliff at Sovranes creek-mouth. Westward beyond the raging water and the bent shoulder of the world The bitter futile war in Korea proceeds, like an idiot Prophesying. It is too hot in mind For anyone, except God perhaps, to see beauty in it. Indeed it is hard to see beauty In any of the acts of man: but that means the acts of a sick microbe On a satellite of a dust-grain twirled in a whirlwind In the world of stars .... Something perhaps may come of him; in any event He can’t last long. —Well: I am short of patience Since my wife died ... and this era of spite and hate-filled half-worlds Gets to the bone. I believe that man too is beautiful, But it is hard to see, and wrapped up in falsehoods. Michael Angelo and the Greek sculptors— How they flattered the race! Homer and Shakespeare— How they flattered the race!

One light is left us: the beauty of things, not men; The immense beauty of the world, not the human world. Look—and without imagination, desire nor dream—directly At the mountains and sea. Are they not beautiful? These plunging promontories and flame-shaped peaks Stopping the sombre stupendous glory, the storm-fed ocean? Look at the Lobos Rocks off the shore, With foam flying at their flanks, and the long sea-lions Couching on them. Look at the gulls on the cliff wind, And the soaring hawk under the cloud-stream— But in the sage-brush desert, all one sun-stricken Color of dust, or in the reeking tropical rain-forest, Or in the intolerant north and high thrones of ice—is the earth not beautiful? Nor the great skies over the earth? The beauty of things means virtue and value in them. It is in the beholder’s eye, not the world? Certainly. It is the human mind’s translation of the transhuman Intrinsic glory. It means that the world is sound, Whatever the sick microbe does. But he too is part of it.

#tradução #robinson jeffers #jack spicer

0 notes