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[personal profile] dragonlady7
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Having reliable Internet again, I pushed an update in the Lost Kings series. 

Long-Distance Connection, in which Poe is very tiny and Shara and Kes get to speak, finally. 

“Oh,” Kes said, “don’t worry on my account, it was mostly a personal call.” He actually hadn’t made very many planet-to-planet holocalls like that, they were fantastically expensive, so he wasn’t sure what the actual terms and conditions usually were. 

And then he remembered an old grifter’s trick from one of the sodden messes of humanity he’d dormed with on some godforsaken spaceport, who had told a lot of entertaining stories. Overload them with personal information. He tugged the little holochip-viewer thingy he carried everywhere out of his inner shirt pocket, and beamed at them. “I was talking to my baby!” He toggled it on, and the holo they’d sent him of Poe came up, tiny and wrinkly and squinting and about two days old. It was the only thing on the holochip. He had no other identifying markings or documents– except for the chip the Shozer had just given him back, clearly so that she wouldn’t have it if they searched.

It worked. “Oh, uh, wow,” said one of the Stormtroopers– did they have babies? Was there parental leave for Stormtroopers? Did that mean they had sex lives?– backing up a little awkwardly. Kes was too distraught to let himself think more about it.
[personal profile] dragonlady7
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morethanonepage:

aimmyarrowshigh:

kes dameron, the captain america of space

Ok but this means: KES DAMERON ON A SPACE MOTORCYCLE.

!!!!!
sovay: (Haruspex: Autumn War)
[personal profile] sovay
I do not think after all that I have read Nicholas Stuart Gray's The Apple-Stone (1965); I think I have just read a lot of E. Nesbit, Mary Norton, and Edward Eager, all of whom are obviously in the DNA of a novel about five children—the English narrator and his two sisters plus their Scottish cousins who are known collectively as "the Clans"—who find a strange, ancient, sentient power that brings magic into their lives for about a week and then moves on, leaving mostly memories and just a few things changed for good.

"One touch from me animates the inanimate," boasts the Apple-Stone, the "small, bright, golden ball, about the size of a marble" that assisted in the birth of the universe and gave rise to the myth of the Golden Apples of the Sun; the children find it on the highest bough in the orchard, like a Sappho fragment come to life, and they make enlightening, foolish, dangerous, and kind use of it over the next twelve chapters until it returns to the earth to sleep and restore its power and find another apple tree to bloom from, decades or centuries hence. Most of their adventures have a comic slant, as when they animate the decrepit hearthrug to settle a bet over what kind of animal it came from and never find out because they spend the day having confused their "Lambie" with an actual escaped leopard prowling the moors, or have to play detectives for a lost glove weeping bitterly over being separated from its beloved right hand ("I'm deeply attached to it. I love it"), or create an intelligent, talkative, opera-loving sheep about twice the size of a Great Dane for reasons that make sense at the time. Sometimes the comedy turns spooky, as when they accidentally animate a feather boa and get Quetzalcoatl, who not unreasonably expects a sacrifice for incarnating when called, or an episode with a formerly model rocket triggers an international incident and science fiction, or the narrator discovers an unexpected and unwanted affinity for night flight on a witch's broom. An interlude with an effigy of a Crusader constitutes the kind of history lesson that would fit right into Kipling's Puck of Pook's Hill (1906), as some of the children have their romantic illusions punctured and some come away with an interest in astrology and medicinal plants. And the two weirdest, most numinous chapters are the reason I can't be one hundred percent sure that I didn't read this book a long, long time ago: the life and death of the Bonfire Night guy that is partly the sad, passionate ghost of Guy Fawkes and partly a pyromaniac patchwork of the five children whose castoffs and imagination gave it form (as it explains in one of its more lucid moments, "Everyone is a mixture, you know, and I'm more so than most") and the introduction of new magic when the weeping gargoyle off a nearby church turns out to be the stone-trapped form of a medieval demon named "Little Tom," a wild, ragged, not quite human child in tricksterish and forlorn search of a witch to be familiar to. Both of them gave me the same half-echo as Eleanor Farjeon's The Silver Curlew (1953), again without any of the language coming back to me. I might run it by my mother to see if she remembers bringing it home when I was small. On the other hand, it might just be that I know [personal profile] ashlyme and [personal profile] nineweaving.

The Apple-Stone is the second book I've read by Gray and The Seventh Swan (1962) almost doesn't count, since I know I read it in elementary school and all I can remember is that it upset me more than the original fairy tale, which I suspect means I should re-read it. I like this one a lot, non-magical parts included. We learn early on that the parents of the English family are the puppeteers behind the popular TV show Ben and Bet Bun and absolutely none of their children think once of bringing the Buns or the Foxies to life because they find the whole thing desperately embarrassing. (The Clans' parents are rocket scientists and the narrator envies them deeply. "We're fond of our Mum and Dad, and hope they may grow out of it in time.") The children as a group are a believable, likeable mix of traits and alliances, differentiated well beyond obvious tags like Jo's academic crazes or Nigel's artistic talent or Douglas' belligerence or Jemima's imperiousness or Jeremy's daydreaming. They fight almost constantly with one another—the Clans especially, being composed of one Campbell and one Macdonald, are engaged in the kind of dramatic ongoing feud that is half performance art and half really blowing off steam—but close ranks immediately against outsiders, even supernatural ones:

"But I must tell you straight, gentles, that I can't do much of the true Black Art," said the gargoyle. "I'm not one of the great ones. I was never aught but a very little 'un. Horrid tricks I can manage," it added, boastfully, "like makin' folks squint, or muddling their minds, or twisting their tongues so that they stammers and stutters—"

"I c-can do that without your help!" snapped Nigel, going red.

"And I'm muddleheaded enough for everyone," I said, quickly.

"No, you're not!" said Jo, fiercely. "And Nigel only stutters when he's away from his home." Then she turned on the gargoyle. "You'll do no horrid tricks, do you hear? We're not sorcerers. We brought you here to help you."

The creature was still changing during all of this . . . Its hair was long and black, and tangled. Its ears were still pointed, though not as huge and batlike as before. It gave us a scornful grin, and said, "Many sorcerers don't care to admit to it."


If you have not read this novel, you can probably tell by now if you're going to like it. The Nesbit it reminds me of most is The Enchanted Castle (1907), but it feels like itself and it feels like its own time, which is equally important. I am actively sad that the near-fine UK first edition I saw at Readercon cost sticker shock—the library copy I just finished reading is the American first edition and the illustrations really didn't work for me. (I'm sorry, Charles Keeping! Your work for Alan Garner, Mollie Hunter, and Rosemary Sutcliff was great!) Maybe sometime I'll get lucky at the Strand. In any case, the text is what matters most and that I recommend. It is good at the strangeness of things that are not human and it never risks making even the cute ones twee. It's good at children's priorities and the ways that not being an adult doesn't mean not seeing the world. I didn't quote much of a descriptive passage, but I like its language. Anyone with other favorite novels by Nicholas Stuart Gray, please let me know.

Everyone make their best dead faces

Jul. 24th, 2017 12:55 am
sovay: (Lord Peter Wimsey: passion)
[personal profile] sovay
I did not make it to the last day of Necon due to circumstances falling through, but fortunately [personal profile] handful_ofdust was flying back to Toronto from Boston, so I took the time-honored Sunday combination of very slow buses, trains, and shuttles out to Logan Airport and had a splendid time hanging out for two hours before her flight, even if I still miss being able to walk people to their gates and wave them off onto the plane. We had dinner and talked about everything from neurodiversity to Orson Krennic, Imperial Poseur; I came away richer by a binder of DVDs (through which [personal profile] spatch is happily poring as we speak: "We could watch Moana! You know you've also got Deathgasm? Ooh, Night of the Comet. Logan, that's good") and a Gemma-made necklace of amethyst, pearls, gold and amber glass beads, and a frosted-glass pendant that used to be an earring. Coming back, I foolishly thought it would be faster to cut over to the Orange Line at Downtown Crossing and that is how I spent forty-five minutes asleep in a sitting position on a bench at Sullivan Station because there were no buses and I was very tired. The air was cool and smelled like the sea. The cats came and curled up with me in the last of the sunlight when I got home. Worth it.
[personal profile] dragonlady7
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This is the end of the King of the Hill theme song, mid-"wa-hoo!"
Roger Clyne and Nick Scropos (foreground)
Opening band-- that's the bassist's hair. She had the least hair of any of them besides the drummer, background. I don't know what the singer is doing, she was out of my field of view except her arm.
Roger Clyne and Jim Dalton
intermission: everyone was on their phones. this is my dude's hand.
Clyne, lyricizing or expounding
a very psyched front row
opening band, hair in motion
Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, Canandaigua NY, 7/22/2017

Jocelyn and Chris Arndt were the opening band. Most of my photos of them were of their hair. They had a lot of hair. 

The opening-opening band was called the Lawbreakers, and it was actually… just the Peacemakers sans Roger Clyne. They were pretty good. The bassist read all his chord changes off an iPad propped on his mic stand; they’d lost their other opener three days previous so they’d pulled a set together for the hell of it, but apart from the iPad you wouldn’t really have known; Jim Dalton wrote all the songs and sang ‘em and they were pretty great. More straight-ahead country than the Peacemakers, but the kind of country that’s got titles like “I Love The Shit Out Of You” (a sappy love song) and “She Only Calls My Booty When She’s Drinkin’” (a less sappy love song), and a song about being the kind of friend who bails your pal out of jail every weekend and such. I dunno, is that Western as opposted to Country? Something like that.

 This was day 52 of them being on a national tour and they were all pretty punchy, but seemed to really enjoy this show. It helped that the venue was the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant with a great tequila selection, and the other sponsor was a brewing company with quite nice beer. 

I used my trusty D7100 and only bothered hauling in two lenses, a Sigma 17-50mm f/2.8 and a Nikkor 85mm f/1.8. For some reason my autofocus wouldn’t let me move the selected point in single-point mode, despite the relevant button working for other things. Late in the last set, the autofocus stopped working entirely, in any mode. I’d been manual-focusing the 85 most of the night, since single-point wasn’t working and auto-select always picks the closest thing and without fail gives you a tack-sharp mic stand and blurry band, but from then on I had to manual-focus the 17-50 too, and zoom lenses usually aren’t well designed for that, so I just switched back to the 85 and gave up on any wide-angle shots. 

I’m gonna have to get that camera looked at. The upside is, I work at the repair shop; the downside is, I work at the repair shop and it’s usually me doing the troubleshooting, so I already tried all my usual tricks which means I’m probably going to have to send it in, and Nikon’s repair department is a tire fire. So, not hopeful on that.

But, manual focus isn’t the worst thing in the world for concerts, I guess. I did okay. 
[personal profile] dragonlady7
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ok skin, it’s not cute, the eczema and the hives have extended into… tiny bumps? are these heat rash? why do i have them on my hands? also random patches of this on my legs showed up today and i have not gone outside so it is not the sun?

can i take Benadryl for this? It’s both arms, shoulder to fingers, patches on both thighs (but not where they’d rub together or anything, just random patches), and the back of my neck, and it’s not hives or eczema for the most part (hives on upper arms, eczema inside elbows), so i’ve lost track of what it could possibly even be and i don’t know.

at least it only itches in a couple of places. (That’s how I know which ones are hives.)

I hate this, I hate all of it, and I don’t know what to do about it. The primary care physician they assigned me can’t see me even for an emergency until November, I can’t go to Urgent Care or it won’t be covered, and the place I’m trying to get in with a primary care physician instead doesn’t have anyone doing scheduling stuff on a Sunday and they’re not going to be able to see me right away anyway either, nobody can. 

[timeline reminder: march is when i found out my health insurance had lapsed as of december. i completed my reapplication and was accepted, deemed eligible as of april, but not enrolled until june, and the insurance company waited until a couple weeks of june had passed to send me anything, and the first thing they sent me was a letter saying “since you didn’t pick one, we assigned you a random PCP who is the only person you can see and everything else needs a referral!” “Surprise she can’t see you either!” was the followup when I immediately called her.]

Ughhhhhh sorry I just had to vent. I have to wait for tomorrow and start calling around to see if anyone can take me in as a new patient and see me, like, this year. Before the hives actually kill me. Which they might.

… Remember when we had the luxury of complaining about the ACA? Because the fact that I have any coverage at all, any hope at all, is because of the ACA– my company couldn’t afford health insurance for its full-time employees anymore, premiums had gone up so steeply again and again and again, and it was getting to the point where there just weren’t any plans available. 

What we need is a full top-to-bottom reform of the healthcare system, and I worry because of course, it’s a huge industry and I have friends and family working in all areas of it. Transitioning it away from being a profit-focused behemoth monstrosity won’t be easy but I would have said it was the only choice, going forward. But no! No, apparently there’s always the choice of destroying the economy and casting millions of people into despair and possibly death, thanks GOP, I hadn’t actually seen that coming as a serious option.

Sigh. I mean, I’m just venting. I don’t know, maybe I’ll try Benadryl. What have I got to lose? In my uninsured days I did a lot of that, pick a medication that might knock you out so that you can hopefully sleep through the worst of whatever’s wrong with you, and either wake up healed or, I don’t know. It was not fun even then but it was cuter when I was in my 20s. 
[personal profile] dragonlady7
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bellygangstaboo:

There are some people who really seem to think the only true “heroism” is picking up a gun to defend your imperialist state.
[personal profile] dragonlady7
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welp. my queue’s gone empty again, so much for that. my ears are ringing a lil bit. but i’m safe at home! and we have new blinds at home, that’s really something. i’m ashamed to admit i noticed first that the whole room had been cleaned, and only after a moment’s shock did it strike me that it was because the blind installers came. and the blinds are lovely but now they’re like, nice, and literally nothing else in the room or house is nice at all, in like, a grown-up fashion, and so, uh, we probably ought to, uh, nice up the rest of the place a bit… well, baby steps. 

Anyhow. Drove back from Troy last night, and stopped off in Canandaigua, NY, which is a bit east of Rochester– about 75 miles east of Buffalo– to go to a concert. Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers is a band that, about 20 years ago, my dude’s and my mutual roommate introduced us both to, so there’s some deep cuts of history. We’re not like, superfans, but in the last 20 years, whenever we’ve noticed there’s a concert, we’ve gone, because they do a really good show. (I’ve nattered on about them here before, I’m sure, and I remember when they put out a live album earlier this year I gushed about it because it was a really great live album.) They played in Buffalo but it was on Tuesday, and that was when I was busy slaughtering chickens, so. 

This was a weird out-of-order stop for them, in a weird little city (pop 10k) off the normal routes for any national tours. But it turns out, the reason is that there’s a brewery in that town that’s named for them, and has a bunch of beers named after various of their songs, and so had asked them if they could come, and they obliged. I was wondering what on earth this was going to be like, since the venue was literally the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant– but it turns out, they fenced it off, put in a bunch of tents, and then literally hundreds of people showed up and it was an astonishingly good show. 

[I managed to get right up against the stage on one side, and a bunch of obnoxious-loud superfans came up next to me during the main thing, and I discovered that the best part of superfans is that they interact with the band, and so the band turns and looks right at you, so if you’re trying to take pictures, you get good ones. I gotta get my camera out and look at them, but there’s an ongoing saga of my serial numbers not working on my repaired computer, so I can’t edit photos, which is why I haven’t downloaded the ones from Canada a month ago yet either… anyway. I got some nice shots and had a great time taking them.]

The only downside? At 11pm sharp, half the town called the cops because I’m sure the noise was obnoxious, and a city official called the restaurant and said they had to shut down, and so the band couldn’t do the long encore they wanted to. They managed to play just one more song, on the police’s forbearance– as it happens, the song that a little boy in the crowd had been holding up a sign begging them to play, so– and Roger said, very earnestly, “This has been so much fun, and they’ve asked us to do it again, and you know what, next time we won’t fuck around so much and we’ll start earlier so we’ve got time for the long encore.” Which would be cool, and I’d make a point of attending, but it would especially be cool because 75 miles is a long way to drive starting at 11:30 pm. 

But we made it home in our separate cars, and my ears are only ringing a little bit. So I’m back in Buffalo for a week and my cat slept on my face this morning for a while, and all is good. 
sovay: (PJ Harvey: crow)
[personal profile] sovay
I don't know if I saw relatives of mine this afternoon.

My grandfather's father was born in Lodz. He was the eldest of six siblings, three sisters, three brothers; the family owned a textile mill in the city and the father was a Talmudic scholar of some repute. My great-grandfather was expected to continue in his father's religious footsteps; instead, after a stint in the Imperial Russian Army (from which he must have deserted, because he sure didn't serve twenty-five years), he became what my grandfather once memorably described as a "Zolaesque freethinker" and emigrated to America in 1912. One of his brothers followed him; though we're no longer in contact with them (a little thing about declaring my mother ritually dead when she married my father), his descendants live in Florida. Another brother is buried in Israel, though I'm not sure how or when he got there—his older children were born in Lodz, his later ones in Tel Aviv. None of the sisters made it out of Poland alive. The middle one I have almost no information about, except that Lodz is listed as her place of death. (Her children survived: they too turn up later in Israel.) The eldest and the youngest died—as far as I know, with their families—in Chełmno and Auschwitz. These are the cousins who feel like closer ghosts than they should, dying in 1942 and 1945, because their descendants would have been no farther from me in blood than [personal profile] gaudior. They are loose ends, like other family stories. I don't know what there is to be known of them anymore.

Because the exhibit is closing in a week, my mother and I went to the MFA this afternoon to see Memory Unearthed: The Lodz Ghetto Photographs of Henryk Ross. If you live in the Boston area, I don't say it's a light day out, but it's worth your time. Ross was one of the few survivors of the Lodz Ghetto, a staff photographer employed by the Judenrat. He was supposed to take the nice pictures of the ghetto, to document how productively and well the Jews were getting along under Nazi supervision; he used his license to take the ones that were not so nice, dead-carts instead of bread-carts, chain-link and barbed wire, the sick and the starving, the broken walls of a synagogue. He documented the resistance of living, which sometimes looked like defiance and sometimes like collaboration: the slight, quietly smiling man who rescued the Torah scroll from the smashed-brick ruins of the synagogue, the young wife and plump child of a Jewish policeman like the ones seen—perhaps he's among them—assisting a crowd of Jewish deportees aboard the boxcars that will take them to Auschwitz. Pale Jude stars are so omnipresent in this black-and-white world that even a scarecrow wears one, as if to remind it to confine its trade to non-Aryan fields. Ross took about six thousand photographs total; in the fall of 1944, as the ghetto was being liquidated, he buried the negatives as a kind of time capsule, not expecting to survive himself to recover them. He was still alive and still taking pictures of the depopulated ghost town the ghetto had become when the Red Army liberated it in January 1945. His face cannot be seen in the photograph of him reclaiming his archive because he's the figure at the center of the grinning group, the one bending to lift a crusted box from the dug-up earth. Groundwater had rendered about half the negatives unsalvageable, but rest could be developed, warped, nicked, bubbled, and sometimes perfectly clear, their damaged emulsion showing scars and survival. He published some in his lifetime. He never arranged the complete series to his satisfaction. My mother would have seen him on television in 1961 when he testified against Eichmann. The MFA has a clip of an interview with him and his wife Stefania née Schoenberg—his collaborator and another of the ghetto's 877 Jewish survivors—eighteen years later in Israel, describing how he took his covert photographs hiding his camera inside his long coat, how just once he snuck into the railway station at Radogoszcz to record the last stages of a deportation, the freight train to the "frying pan" of Auschwitz itself. He died in 1991. It is said that he never took a picture again.

(I know there are philosophical questions about photographs of atrocity: how they should be looked at, what emotions they may have been intended to evoke, to what degree it is or is not appropriate to judge them as art. I'm not very abstract here. They were taken to remember. You look at them to make sure you do. What you feel is your own business; what you do with the knowledge of the history had damn well better concern other people.)

My great-grandfather's sisters would have been deported from the Lodz Ghetto. Their death dates even match the major waves of deportation to their respective camps. I have no idea what either of them looked like. I have seen maybe two photos each of my grandfather's parents: aunts and uncles, nothing. I'm not saying the photos don't exist. My grandfather had a sister; she may have inherited a better pictorial record. But I haven't seen it. And looking for people who look like my grandfather is no help; Henry Kissinger went through a period of looking like my grandfather and that was awkward for everybody. Any older woman might have been either one of them, any older man one of their husbands, any young people their children, any children their grandchildren. None of them might have been my family. Maybe theirs were among the images destroyed by the winter of 1944, as unrecoverable as their bodies. Maybe they were never captured on film at all. I wouldn't know. I don't know. I pored over faces and thought how beautiful so many of these people were (not beautiful because of their suffering: bone and expression, the kinds of faces that are beautiful to me), how many of them looked like both sides of my mother's family. Almost no one was identified by name. Maybe no one knows these people by name anymore. I hope that's not true.

You can look through the contents of Henryk Ross' archive yourself. They are, like most photographs, historical and modern prints both, better in person. We left the museum and had dinner at Bronwyn both because we lucked out parking two blocks from the restaurant in the middle of a street fair and because it was Eastern European food and it felt symbolic that we were here to eat it, even if I am pretty sure that a Hungarian-inflected chorizo dog is food of my people only in the sense that I personally would order it again because it tasted great. I did some badly overdue grocery shopping and caught the closing performance of the PMRP's Murders and Scandals: Poe and Doyle and spent nearly the entire cast party upstairs reading the scripts for the second through the fourth seasons of Babylon 5 (1993–98) and as much of the fifth season as doesn't suck. Autolycus fell asleep on my lap almost as soon as I sat down at my computer and I haven't been able to move from this chair for hours. I can't imagine what the world looks like in which I have so many more cousins of the degree of Gaudior, although I know that I am tired of fictional versions in which neither of us would even be here (the same goes for other atrocities, imagined worse for purposes of entertainment). Maybe in that other world, we have more family photographs. Maybe we're not in contact with them, either. Maybe I still don't have faces to go with the names. It doesn't matter if they were all strangers, though, the people from this afternoon and more than seventy years ago: they were alive. They are worth remembering. Especially now, they are worth remembering why.

[personal profile] dragonlady7
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A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Jul 22, 2017 at 7:59pm PDT

My favorite part of my favorite power ballad. Believe it or not this is one of the standby lullabies for Farmbaby. (at Rio Tomatlan)
[personal profile] dragonlady7
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A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Jul 22, 2017 at 7:18pm PDT

The shot of the crowd didn’t come out but this place is jammed. This is a huge show. Who knew, Canandaigua?! (at Rio Tomatlan)
[personal profile] dragonlady7
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theamazingchickenman:

twocatstailoring:

unabletofindname:

teacherbach:

sociallychallengednerd:

why do people say chicken as a term for coward? Have you ever meet a chicken? Cause those things will fuck you up man

@theamazingchickenman

“Get some.”
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A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Jul 21, 2017 at 3:57pm PDT

Turkey poults react to bright colors. Apparently this includes fingernail polish. (at Laughing Earth)

Flower harvest. (at Laughing Earth)

Jul. 21st, 2017 09:19 pm
[personal profile] dragonlady7
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Flower harvest. (at Laughing Earth)
sovay: (Claude Rains)
[personal profile] sovay
A Facebook friend asked: "For my film-loving friends: what are films you hope to see in the Criterion Collection someday? Not just films you love, but films that fit the aesthetic and would make sense as Criterion films." So I posted the following textbrick in reply and figured I might as well reproduce it here, now with (occasionally really old) links:

The complete Derek Jarman, Super 8 shorts and music videos included. Herzog's Fitzcarraldo (1982), because it has always confused me that you can get the documentary from Criterion but not the film itself. Anything by Ulrike Ottinger, but especially Johanna d'Arc of Mongolia (1989) and Taiga (1992), which one could and should pair. Some kind of box set of Dennis Potter, making sure not to leave out the long-banned original TV version of Brimstone and Treacle (1976). Wayne Wang and Paul Auster's Smoke (1995). Some reasonable amount of Peter Greenaway, but The Pillow Book (1996) and Prospero's Books (1991) in their proper aspect ratio should head the list. Fred Zinnemann's Act of Violence (1948), a knockout noir about memory and atrocity with far less of a reputation than it deserves. Max Ophüls' The Reckless Moment (1949), one of the most devastating—and feminist—noirs I've ever seen. John Ford's The Long Voyage Home (1940), Eugene O'Neill's favorite film realization of any of his plays. Ben Wheatley's A Field in England (2013). And while I'm dreaming of ponies, The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T (1953).

—There are other movies I'd like to see from Criterion, of course. Robin Hardy's The Wicker Man (1973), especially considering the plethora of versions that have existed over the years (and may still be buried under the M4). I don't know if they'd go for Roy Ward Baker's The October Man (1947) unless it was part of a set of British noir, but seriously, how bad would that be? If they can announce an upcoming release of Agnieszka Smoczyńska's The Lure (2015)—the day after my birthday, I appreciate it—surely they could provide me with a nice edition of Marcin Wrona's Demon (2015). I'm sort of confused they've never done anything by Dorothy Arzner. I'm really confused they haven't already done the Wachowskis' Bound (1996). And so on. Some of it is the definitive home release idea, but a lot of these movies I would just like to be able to show people more easily than 35 mm or unpredictable flybys on TCM.
[personal profile] dragonlady7
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starrynight-over-thepast:

spoutziki-art:

laclefdescoeurs:

Nāve (Death), 1897, Janis Rozentāls

This is one of the most disturbing paintings that I have ever come across. And I have seen A LOT of paintings.  

“The name of the image I chose is ‘Nāve’ (‘Death’), 1897 produced by Latvian painter Janis Rozentāls. The painting was produced in a time when most of the people lived ordinary lives as peasants. The author was mostly painting people’s daily life but sometimes reflecting mythology and religion. This image is one of those paintings – something between daily life and mythology. […]

‘The functions of the image are those that have, throughout history, been the functions of all human production: they aim to establish a relation to the world’. If we look at the image we can see a representation of death from Latvian mythology as a woman standing in white. There is also an angry woman, sitting on the rock at the edge of the forest, holding her dead child. Around the main characters of the painting we can see woods, a small path and the beginning of a meadow. Judging by the nature and colours, it could be summer […]

For those familiar with Latvian mythology it is clear that the child is dead and ‘The Mother of Death’ (that is how death is usually referred) is taking him with her. Of course, death is ‘an abstract referent, because it is something that is formed in the mind and is thus not demonstrable’. 

Death is one of the goddesses in Latvian mythology and she is always wearing white. Also the dead child is wearing white. In Latvian mythology the white colour indicates death, rebirth, the world of the dead, and everything else related to death. Also, death is holding a sickle in her hands, because a sickle, the same as the scythe in the Western image of death, is symbolically used to cut life short. Death leans over the child and her facial expression (she sneers) shows that she is happy to take the child. Death also has bare feet, because she is in very close relationship with nature. She comes from nature. The path death stands on belongs to her and she comes out of the woods to take the child. Thus, the mother of the child was waiting for the goddess.

The woman, who is holding the child, has a very simple outfit and hairstyle, and Latvian traditional footwear. It shows that she is from the peasant class. Her facial expression shows that she does not want to give away her child. She is angry and is looking straight at death but leaning back from her.

If a Latvian would see this painting, he or she would know that it is about death. People from other cultures may not recognise the symbolism within this image and not realise what it is about. For many people in the West, the woman wearing white would represent something good. Yet the woman holding her baby is angry. Another thing to note is that it is summer, because the nature all around is green and the mother is lightly dressed. Nature is a key feature for the goddess death. Both lighting and colour are important to this image, which is drawn in the Art Nouveau technique, making the viewer drawn to the women in the front of the image.

All in all, the painting is harmonious and every colour has its own place. Therefore we can imagine ‘Mother of Nature’ becomes ‘Mother of Death’ and death then becomes part of the cycle of nature; or death is part of the cycle of life.”(Commentary by Diana Spoge)

separate hobbies

Jul. 21st, 2017 06:47 pm
mizkit: (Default)
[personal profile] mizkit

I saw a thing yesterday that said “Buying fabric and sewing fabric are TWO SEPARATE HOBBIES.”

I actually feel that I understand so much more about the world now.

I’m now up to 6 artist’s figurines (I need to write more reviews) and I was unable (or unwilling) to resist a set of 14 archival color pens, plus all the stuff I already own, but do I actually draw? No, hardly ever. (That said, I’ve done more this year than in many years.)

Anyway, point is I’m back to that “I want to draw some silly little story like Questionable Content only about, IDK, fat 40somethings instead of hipster robots” thing. Except I really don’t want to draw a story about fat 40somethings because ugh life. I want to do something cute and funny that I don’t have the skill set for but who cares I’ll do it anyway because it doesn’t matter. Or something. And I want just enough pressure to help me do maybe half an hour of art a day without having any real expectations.

Which of course is not much like my personality at all, because yes, I have met me. :p

Moop.

(x-posted from The Essential Kit)

[personal profile] dragonlady7
via http://ift.tt/2gPN4yr:
balticmythology:

Baltic mythology: Kaupolė and Rasa

Kaupolė - goddess of wild flowers, verdure efflorescence and the growing strength of vegetation. Her name is connected to the phrase su kaupu which means ‘abundantly’ and refers to the abundant growth of the verdure.

During Rasos (Lithuanian summer solstice) people pick herbs called Kaupolės žolynai (herbs of Kaupolė) of which flower crowns are made. These herbs bring health, luck and protect from maladies. In various myths Kaupolės žolynai are portrayed magical. According to one, there was a three-branched plant. Its branches bloomed like sun, moon and stars respectively.

Kaupolė’s daughter Rasa (dew) or Rasytė - goddess of dew, the deity of summer flowers. Her duty is to water the thirsty plants so she is her mother’s helper. Together they walk around the meadows and look after the greenery. Rasa is portrayed making flower crowns and giving them to young girls.

Kaupolė also has a husband Kaupolis who rides on a horse and kidnaps young girls. He looks after the verdure as well but his role is not as important as Kaupolė’s or their daughter’s.

Lithuanians believe that Rasos’ morning dew has healing powers and brings beauty. That is why people roll around dewy meadows and rye fields on Rasos’ morning. It is also believed that the heavier the dew on a rye field the better the harvest.

During Rasos rites are performed for Kaupolės žolynai, water and fire. Some erotic rites are dedicated to the marital life. One of the most important moments is burning of a female idol made of hay which portrays Kaupolė. Through fire her power is released and helps nature to flourish. 
[personal profile] dragonlady7
via http://ift.tt/2uhkkBH:
The sun came up and chased me out of the zinnia patch but I managed a pretty full bucket of pink ones first. (I get hives from sun exposure, which is not pretty, and if it’s not the sun then it’s heat rash from the heat, so I guess I’m crepuscular now.) (at Laughing Earth)

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