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March 10th, 2010 at 2:30 am
(High Germany, Norse, Odin, Other, Poetry, The King of Terrors)
THY rest was deep at the slumberer’s hour
If thou didst not hear the blast
Of the savage horn, from the mountain-tower,
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d,
And the roar of the stormy chase went by,
Through the dark unquiet sky !
The stag sprung up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crash’d to his antler’d head
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soar’d from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night !
The banner shook on its ancient hold,
And the pine in its desert-place,
As the cloud and tempest onward roll’d
With the din of the trampling race;
And the glens were fill’d with the laugh and shout,
And the bugle, ringing out !
From the chieftain’s hand the wine-cup fell,
At the castle’s festive board,
And a sudden pause came o’er the swell
Of the harp’s triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger’s thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.
The convent’s chanted rite was stay’d,
And the hermit dropp’d his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-bells peal’d to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d.
The storm hath swept with the chase away,
There is stillness in the sky,
But the mother looks on her son to-day,
With a troubled heart and eye,
And the maiden’s brow hath a shade of care
Midst the gleam of her golden hair !
The Rhine flows bright, but its waves ere long
Must hear a voice of war,
And a clash of spears our hills among,
And a trumpet from afar;
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie,
For the Huntsman hath gone by !
Felicia Hemans : The Wild Huntsman
It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war. He is supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle of Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted that the sound of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke of Baden before the commencement of the last war in Germany.
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March 7th, 2010 at 7:00 pm
(Melancholy, Music, Self, Videos)
Long ago, and the which I never saw, there was an English TV sitcom called It Ain’t Half Hot, Mum — which title may go a way to explain why the snobbish might avoid it — dealing with a troop of conscripts in Burma during WWII. No-one I’ve met has ever averred that people there had a ‘Good War‘…
However, two of the cast, Mr. Don Estelle the singer, and Mr. Windsor Davies who played a Welsh Sergeant, collaborated on this rendition of Whispering Grass.
Horo of Spice & Wolf being one of the traditional search-terms for this blog, here’s a little cosplayer cosplaying Horo
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March 3rd, 2010 at 6:00 pm
(Charles I, Correctitude, Other, Royalism, Spengler, Stuarts)
If all these things aforesaid were indeed performed, as we haue shewed them in words, you should haue a perfect Orchard in nature and substance, begunne to your hand; And yet are all these things nothing, if you want that skill to keepe and dresse your trees. Such is the condition of all earthly things, whereby a man receiueth profit or pleasure, that they degenerate presently without good ordering. Man himselfe left to himselfe, growes from his heauenly and spirituall generation, and becommeth beastly, yea deuillish to his owne kind, vnlesse he be regenerate No maruell then, if Trees make their shootes, and put their spraies disorderly. And truly ( if I were worthy to iudge ) there is not a mischiefe that breedeth greater and more generall harme to all the Orchard ( especially if they be of any continuance ) that euer I saw, ( I will not except three ) then the want of the skilfull dressing of trees. It is a common and vnskilfull opinion, and saying. Let all grow, and they will beare more fruit: and if you lop away superfluous boughes, they say, what a pitty is this ? How many apples would these haue borne? not considering there may arise hurt to your Orchard, as well ( nay rather ) by abundance, as by want of wood. Sound and thriuing plants in a good soile, will euer yeeld too much wood, and disorderly, but neuer too little. So that a skilfull and painfull Arborist, need neuer want matter to effect a plentifull and well drest Orchard: for it is an easie matter to take away superfluous boughes ( if your Gardner haue skill to know them ) whereof your plants will yeeld abundance, and skill will leaue sufficient well ordered. All ages both by rule and experience doe consent to a pruining and lopping of trees: yet haue not any that I know described vnto vs ( except in darke and generall words ) what or which are those superfluous boughes, which we must take away, and that is the chiefe and most needfull point to be knowne in lopping. And we may well assure our selues, ( as in all other Arts, so in this ) there is a vantage and dexterity, by skill, and an habite by practise out of experience, in the performance hereof for the profit of mankind; yet doe I not know ( let me speake it with the patience of our cunning Arborists ) any thing within the compasse of humane affaires so necessary, and so little regarded, not onely in Orchards, but also in all other timber trees, where or whatsoeuer.
Of the right dressing of trees
William Lawson — A New Orchard And Garden : Or, The best way for planting, grafting, and to make any ground good, for a Rich Orchard: Particularly in the North and generally for the whole kingdome of England, as in nature, reason, situation, and all probabilitie, may and doth appeare. 1631
Charles West Cope — Attempted Arrest of Five Members of the House of Commons by Charles I
A. Al these squares must bee set with trees, the Gardens and other ornaments must stand in spaces betwixt the trees, & in the borders & fences.
B. Trees 20. yards asunder.
C. Garden Knots.
D. Kitchen garden.
E. Bridge.
F. Conduit.
G. Staires.
H. Walkes set with great wood thicke.
I. Walkes set with great wood round about your Orchard.
K. The out fence.
L. The out fence set with stone-fruite.
M. Mount. To force earth for a mount, or such like set it round with quicke, and lay boughes of trees strangely intermingled tops inward, with the earth in the midle.
N. Still-house.
O. Good standing for Bees, if you haue an house.
P. If the riuer run by your doore, & vnder your mount, it will be pleasant.
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March 1st, 2010 at 2:00 am
(Correctitude, Manners not Morals, Melancholy, Other, Spengler, The King of Terrors)
Her father swallowed something.
“You shock me sometimes, Jean,” he said, a statement which amused her.
“You’re such a half‑and half man,” she said with a note of contempt in her voice. “You were quite willing to benefit by Jim Meredith’s death; you killed him as cold‑bloodedly as you killed poor little Bulford, and yet you must whine and snivel whenever your deeds are put into plain language. What does it matter if Lydia dies now or in fifty years, time ?” she asked. “It would be different if she were immortal. You people attach so much importance to human life — the ancients, and the Japanese amongst the modern, are the only people who have the matter in true perspective. It is no more cruel to kill a human being than it is to cut the throat of a pig to provide you with bacon. There’s hardly a dish at your table which doesn’t represent wilful murder, and yet you never think of it, but because the man animal can talk and dresses himself or herself in queer animal and vegetable fabrics, and decorates the body with bits of metal and pieces of glittering quartz, you give its life a value which you deny to the cattle within your gates ! Killing is a matter of expediency. Permissable if you call it war, terrible if you call it murder. To me it is just killing. If you are caught in the act of killing they kill you, and people say it is right to do so. The sacredness of human life is a slogan invented by cowards who fear death — as you do.”
Edgar Wallace : The Angel of Terror [1922]
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February 21st, 2010 at 8:15 pm
(Correctitude, High Germany, Manners not Morals, Other, Royalism)
I have never attached another value to words than that of the expression of correct concepts, to theories never the value of deeds, and I have always regarded preconceived systems as the product of leisured heads or the outburst of emotional minds.
Not in the struggle of society towards progress, but rather in progression towards the true goods: towards freedom as the inevitable yield of order; towards equality in its only applicable degree of that before the law; towards prosperity, inconceivable without the foundation of moral and material peace; towards credit, which can rest only on the basis of trust — in all that I have recognised the duty of government and the true salvation for the governed.
I have looked upon despotism of every kind as a symptom of weakness. Where it appears, it is a self-punitive evil, most intolerable when it poses behind the mask of promoting the cause of freedom.
The concept of the balancing of powers ( proposed by Montesquieu ) has always appeared to me only as a conceptual error of the English constitution, impractical in its application, because the concept of such a balancing is rooted in the assumption of an eternal struggle, instead of in that of peace, the first necessity for the life and prosperity of states.
The care for the inner life of states has always had for me the worth of the most important task for governments.
As the foundations for politics I recognise the concepts of right and equity and not the sole calculations of use, whilst I look upon capricious politics as an ever self-punitive confusion of the spirit.
My conduct is a prosaic and not a poetical one. I am a man of right, and reject in all things appearance where it divides as such from truth, thereupon deprived as the foundation of right, where it must inevitably dissolve into error.
For me the word “freedom” has not the value of a starting-point, but rather that of an actual point of arrival. The word “order” denotes the starting-point. Only on the concept of order can that of freedom rest. Without the foundation of order, the call for freedom is nothing more than the striving of some party after an envisaged end. In its actual use, the call inevitably expresses itself as tyranny. Whilst I have at all times and in all situations ever been a man of order, my striving was addressed to true and not deceptive freedom. In my eyes, tyranny of any kind has only the value of absolute nonsense. As a means to an end, I mark it as the most vapid that time and circumstance is able to place at the disposal of rulers.
The concept of order in view of legislation — the foundation of order — is, in consequence of the conditions under which states live, capable of the most varied application. Considered as constitution, it will prove itself best for any state that answers to the demands of both the material conditions and those moral conditions peculiar to the national character. There is no universal recipe for constitutions, just as little as there is some universal means for the boosting of health.
I did not govern the empire. Therein the powers at every level were not just strictly administered and directed to their competences, but rather in this regard were even relinquished to trepidation, which brought hesitancy to the course of affairs. The principle of government of the Emperor Francis was set forth in the motto “Justitia regnorum fundamentum”, not only as it lay in his spirit and character, but also as it served him as strict guide in all governmental affairs. He agreed with my observation that the axiom, correct in its point of origin, could be abrogated in the excessive practice of particular cases, but he usually added: “I was born and through my status appointed for the execution of justice; the inevitable hardness in particular cases is better than the slackening of rule through too many exceptions.” My motto is “Strength in Right”. Both sayings run together in meaning, except that the imperial motto has an abstractly judicial significance, whereas mine has a significance more grounded in state law. In this regard, the motto “Recta tueri”, suggested by me to Emperor Ferdinand upon his most supreme accession, bids a further nuance.
Excerpts from The Political Testament of Klemens Wenzel Nepomuk Lothar, Fürst von Metternich-Winneburg zu Beilstein, as translated by Deoholwulf, Keeper of The Joy of Curmudgeonry
Full text here.
The Spirit of Eternal Justice Succouring the Stricken State
Actually, Kathleen Wallis Coales — Cock Robin and the Flower Fairy
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February 18th, 2010 at 9:00 am
(Melancholy, Other, Poetry, The King of Terrors)
Here by the moorway you returned,
And saw the borough lights ahead
That lit your face — all undiscerned
To be in a week the face of the dead,
And you told of the charm of that haloed view
That never again would beam on you.
And on your left you passed the spot
Where eight days later you were to lie,
And be spoken of as one who was not;
Beholding it with a heedless eye
As alien from you, though under its tree
You soon would halt everlastingly.
I drove not with you. . . . Yet had I sat
At your side that eve I should not have seen
That the countenance I was glancing at
Had a last-time look in the flickering sheen,
Nor have read the writing upon your face,
“I go hence soon to my resting-place;
“You may miss me then. But I shall not know
How many times you visit me there,
Or what your thoughts are, or if you go
There never at all. And I shall not care.
Should you censure me I shall take no heed
And even your praises no more shall need.”
True: never you’ll know. And you will not mind.
But shall I then slight you because of such ?
Dear ghost, in the past did you ever find
The thought “What profit”, move me much ?
Yet abides the fact, indeed, the same, —
You are past love, praise, indifference, blame.
Thomas Hardy : Your Last Drive
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February 15th, 2010 at 10:00 pm
(Correctitude, Self, The King of Terrors)
“I Conjure and Call upon you ye Strong and Holy Angels Good and Powerfull in a Strong Name of Fear and Praise, Ja, Adonay, Elohim, Saday, Saday, Saday;
Eie, Eie, Eie;
Asamie, Asamie;
and in the Name of Adonay the God of Israel who hath made the Two Great Lights and Distinguished Day from Night for the benefit of his creatures and by the names of all the Discerning Angels Governing Openly in the Second House, before the great angel Tetra, Strong and Powerfull, and by the name of his star which is called Mercury and by the name of his Seal which is that of a Powerfull and Honoured God;
and I call upon thee Raphael and by the names ( abovementioned ) thou Great Angel who presidest over the Fourth Day and by the Holy Name which is written in the front of Aaron created the Most High Priest and by the names of all the Angels who are constant in the Grace of Christ and by the name of Ammalium that you assist me in my labours.
The General Conjuration of Wednesday
From Cunning Murrell’s “The Book of Magic and Conjurations.” —unpublished.
Cunning Murrell was perhaps the greatest local conjurer or wiseman of the 19th century. Born in Rochford, Essex in 1780, James Murrell, the seventh son of a seventh son, he died — having predicted the moment of passing — in 1860, having passed most of his life in Hadleigh, Essex. Consulted by thousands, some from as far as London, which was further afield than now to our ancestors, he was memorialised by Arthur Morrison, the once famous writer of short stories around the ’90s, and could counter baneful witchcraft in many of it’s attacks, including in the case of Sarah Mott one so afflicted that she ran upsidedown upon ceilings ‘like a bluebottle‘.
Apart from his astronomical learning — he could point to a star and name her — and rough medical practise with both humans and other animals, he had a meagre education and lived in a tiny cottage, and his success was obviously more due, after his fairly unique psychic gifts, to force of will.
A cunningman has no connection with witchcraft in it’s myriad forms; some witchcraft can be good and much of it is bad and barren, but wisemen and wisewomen utilized their powers to shield the unwary from the terrors it inflicted upon the minds of the guileless.
A Good Witch
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February 15th, 2010 at 12:00 am
(Animals, Correctitude, Self)
One gets soon bored with people arguing that milk and poultry farming pose no harm to animals; as a vegan I’ve neither objection to straight vegetarianism nor any wish to convert people to the straiter gate: but, whilst I once made the finest omelettes imaginable, I do so no more.
From Mercy for Animals comes this video, Tiniest Victims, which was further reproduced on Google-Youtube.
Thrown, dropped, mutilated, and ground-up alive. This is the shocking reality faced by hundreds of thousands of chicks each day at the world’s largest egg-laying breed hatchery – Hy-Line International in Spencer, Iowa.
New hidden camera footage obtained at this facility during a Mercy For Animals undercover investigation gives a disturbing glimpse into the cruel and industrialized reality of modern hatcheries.
The warm, comforting, and protective wings of these newly hatched chicks’ mothers have been replaced with massive machines, quickly moving conveyor belts, harsh handling, and distressing noise. These young animals are sorted, discarded, and handled like mere cogs in a machine.
For the nearly 150,000 male chicks who hatch every 24 hours at this Hy-Line facility, their lives begin and end the same day. Grabbed by their fragile wings by workers known as “sexers,” who separate males from females, these young animals are callously thrown into chutes and hauled away to their deaths. They are destined to die on day one because they cannot produce eggs and do not grow large or fast enough to be raised profitably for meat. Their lives are cut short when they are dropped into a grinding machine – tossed around by a spinning auger before being torn to pieces by a high-pressure macerator.
Over 30 million male chicks meet their fate this way each year at this facility.
For the surviving females, this is the beginning of a life of cruelty and confinement at the hands of the egg industry. Before even leaving the hatchery they will be snapped by their heads into a spinning debeaker – a portion of their sensitive beaks removed by a laser. Workers toss and rummage through them before they are placed 100 per crowded box and shipped across the country.
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January 6th, 2010 at 2:30 pm
(Melancholy, Other, Poetry)
I troubled in my dream. I knew
The silent gates and walls.
Around me out of shadow grew
The steady waterfalls.
Afar the raven spot-like flew
Where nothing wakes or calls.
I fell on deeper trance. I was
Where all the dead are hid.
They dreamed. They did not sleep, because
They saw with lifted lid.
They worked with neither word nor pause:
I knew not what they did.
I stood there with the dead in hell
Dreaming, and heard no moan.
The light died, and the darkness fell
About me like a stone.
I woke upon the midnight bell
In God’s dream here alone.
Charles Weekes : Dreams
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January 5th, 2010 at 7:01 pm
(Animals, Correctitude, Self)
Further to the last, let us consider the squirrels…
In the dying days of the Bushie Reich, the old buster omitted either to spend half of the income on covering the USA with concrete, presumably feeling this was redundant, or more pertinently, to shoot his fool head off — then again he never had a traditionalist bone in his body — but did find time to take West Virginian Flying Squirrels off the Endangered Species List.
We can only hope that Obama, despite coming not to destroy the Bush Law or the Neocon Prophets, but to fulfil, will rectify both the plight of the squirrels and the leaving of the White House in the approved manner. If only he could be persuaded to regard them as furry little bankers, wisely hoarding their nuts for the benefit of all… bankers.
However, disreputable little shysters are not really this post’s remit; but rather to mention that I have lived my entire life without knowing that Sugar Gliders existed — then again, on mentioning this to some New Zealanders, neither had they; despite the Gliders’ habitat being down under.
These noble little creatures are very similar to their cousins, Flying Squirrels, other than being marsupial. I came across them by accident whilst looking up Geothermal and finding this charming page of pets. Neither look very like regular squirrels, who both Red and Grey are adorable enough.
This slightly compensated for finding out in the search for Geothermal Installations that American business, true to that old Yankee shrewdness of yore, when they spent great time and effort in creating wooden nutmegs for sale to others, when it would have probably have been just easier to grow the damn nutmegs, have once again managed their time-honoured tradition of bait n’ switch by producing a different — not necessarily inferior, but usually so — technology and calling it by the same name the rest of the world applies to the original. When we think of geothermal installs the futuristic example of Iceland is to the fore ( admittedly this is helped by certain geological features, but it’s not as if the Western USA is stranger to earthquake, ex-volcanoes or geysers [ an Icelandic word ] ), yet according to a post on TerraPass…
True geothermal energy which is used as a prime energy source uses an underground heat source, such as hot water/geysers often heat by volcanic activity. This is what is common in Iceland. The heat may be used to heat a building or converted into electricity for other uses.
Ground-source heat pumps uses the earth as a semi-infinite heat exchanger/heat sink in order the greatly increase the efficiency of a refrigeration system, but still required outside energy input. This should not be considered ‘renewable energy’ – this would be akin to calling the atmosphere an energy source for a traditional refrigeration system. Unfortunately, in North America this system is also frequently referred to as ‘geothermal’.
This type of confusion has helped bring Google searches to the value they now possess…
Flying Squirrel
Sugar Glider
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January 1st, 2010 at 6:00 am
(Generalia)
Squirrel Nut Zippers — The Ghost of Stephen Foster
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December 25th, 2009 at 5:00 pm
(High Germany, Music, Self)
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Emmerich Kalman — Czardas Medley
The Johann Strauss Orchestra of, and conducted by, André Rieu
Never let us forget that to each’s infinite credit, the usurper Hitler, delighting in his awesome melodic prowess, offered Kalman Honorary Aryanship and that Kalman refused it.
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June 9th, 2009 at 12:00 pm
(Melancholy, Music, Self)
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Robbers on High Street – Guard At Your Heel
Linda Bergkvist
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April 21st, 2009 at 12:00 pm
(Art, Correctitude, Other)
And in like manner, if cottages are ever to be wisely built again, the peasant must enjoy his cottage, and be himself its artist, as a bird is. Shall cock-robins and yellow-hammers have wit enough to make themselves comfortable, and bullfinches peck a gothic tracery out of dead clematis, — and your English yeoman be fitted by his landlord with four dead walls and a drainpipe ? That is the result of your spending 300,000l. a year at Kensington in science and art then ? You have made beautiful machines, too, wherewith you save the peasant the trouble of ploughing and reaping, and threshing; and after being saved all that time and toil, and getting, one would think, leisure enough for his education, you have to lodge him also, as you drop a puppet into a deal box, and you lose money in doing it ! and two hundred years ago, without steam, without electricity, almost without books, and altogether without help from “Cassell’s Educator” or the morning newspapers, the Swiss shepherd could build himself a châlet, daintily carved, and with flourished inscriptions, and with red and blue and white ηοικιλία ; and the burgess of Strasburg could build himself a house like this I showed you, and a spire such as all men know; and keep a precious book or two in his public library, and praise God for all: while we, — what are we good for, but to damage the spire, knock down half the houses, and burn the library, — and declare there is no God but Chemistry ?
What are we good for ? Are even our engines of destruction useful to us ? Do they give us real power ? Once, indeed, not like halcyons, but like sea-eagles, we had our homes upon the sea; fearless alike of storm or enemy, winged like the wave petrel; and as Arabs of an indeed pathless desert, we dwelt in the presence of all our brethren. Our pride is fallen; no reed shaken with the wind, near the little singing halcyon’s nest is more tremulous than we are now; though we have built iron nests on the sea, with walls impregnable. We have lost our pride — but have we gained peace ? Do we even care to seek it, how much less strive to make it ?
John Ruskin : The Eagle’s Nest
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April 1st, 2009 at 3:00 am
(Animals, Melancholy, Music, Videos)
Hello Saferide — Annika Norlin
Lyrics
Leaving You Behind
Last Bitter Song
Middleclass
Also, My latest OpenSUSE wallpaper…
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January 12th, 2009 at 1:00 am
(Melancholy, Other, Poetry)
A herd of hawks hover in ten thousand li of high altitude
A lonely horse is buried in Qin Sichuan’s soil
At this night, the cold wind is blowing the tears of the moon
Wails to come at a distance, that is a cuckoo of the insomnia on the tree.
Wenze : Give my regards to Lu Yao
Poem was written in the 10th anniversary of Lu Yao’s death in 1992.
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January 10th, 2009 at 3:00 am
(Melancholy, Other, Spengler)
In all the immense literature about the 1939-1945 war, one may observe a legend in process of being shaped. Gradually, authentic memories of the war — of its boredom, its futility, the sense it gave of being part of a process of decomposition — fade in favor of the legendary version, embodied in Churchill’s rhetoric and all the other narratives by field marshals, air marshals and admirals, creating the same impression of a titanic and forever memorable struggle in defense of civilization. In fact, of course, the war’s ostensible aims — the defense of a defunct Empire, a spent Revolution, and bogus Freedoms — were meaningless in the context of the times. They will probably rate in the end no more than a footnote on the last page of the last chapter of the story of our civilization.
Malcolm Muggeridge – Esquire, February 1968.
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January 9th, 2009 at 1:00 am
(Animals, Art, Videos)
Parody being one of the major arts, here is a satire of French art-school filmmaking. Unknown auteur.
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January 6th, 2009 at 9:00 pm
(Melancholy, Other, Poetry, The King of Terrors)
A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.
William Butler Yeats : A Man Young And Old: III. The Mermaid
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January 6th, 2009 at 2:00 am
(Animals, Correctitude, Melancholy, Other, The King of Terrors)
In the daies of Tiberius the Emperor, there was a yong Raven hatched in a neast upon the church of Castor and Pollux, which, to make a triall how he could flie, took his first flight into a shoomakers shop just overagainst the said church. The maister of the shop was well ynough content to receive this bird, as commended to him from so sacred a place, and in that regard set great store by it. This Raven in short time being acquainted to mans speech, began to speak, & every morning would fly up to the top of the Rostra or publicke pulpit for Orations, where, turning to the open Forum and market place, he would salute and bid Good morrow to Tiberius Cæsar, and after him, to Germanicus and Drusus the yong princes, both Cæsars, every one by their names: and anon the people of Rome also that passed by. And when hee had so done, afterwards would flie againe to the shoomakers shop aforesaid. This duty practised he and continued for many years together, to the great wonder and admiration of all men. Now it fell out so, that another shoomaker, who had taken the next corviners shop unto him, either upon a malicious envie that hee occupied so neere him, or some suddaine splene and passion of choller (as he would seeme to plead for his excuse) for that the Raven chaunced to meute a little, and set some spot upon a paire of his shoes, killed the said Raven. Whereat the people tooke such indignation, that they rising in an uprore, first drove him out of that street, and made that quarter of the city too hote for him: and not long after murdered him for it. But contrariwise, the carkasse of the dead Raven was solemnely enterred, and the funerals performed with all ceremoniall obsequies that could bee devised. For the corps of this bird was bestowed in a coffin, couch, or bed, and the same bedecked with chaplets and guirlands of fresh floures of all sorts, carried upon the shoulders of two blacke Mores, with minstrels before, sounding the haut-boies, and playing on the fife, as farre as to the funerall fire; which was piled and made in the right hand of the causey Appia, two miles without the cittie, in a certain plaine or open field called Rediculi. So highly reputed the people of Rome that readie wit and apt disposition in a bird, as they thought it a sufficient cause to ordaine a sumptuous buriall therefore: yea, and to revenge the death thereof, by murdering a cittizen of Rome in that citie, wherein many a brave man and noble person died, and no man ever solemnized their funerals: in that citie I say which affoorded not one man to revenge the unworthie death of that renowned Scipio Æmylianus, after he had woon both Carthage and Numantia. This happened the fifth day before the Calends of Aprill, in the yeare when M. Servilius and C. Cestius were Consuls of Rome.
C. Plinius Secundus — The Historie of the World trans: Philemon Holland
[ Scipio Aemilianus being the despicable liberal Optimate, of course, and not the brilliant Africanus: so why should any honest man care about the death of the enemy of Africanus's grandsons, the admirable Gracchi ? ]
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January 1st, 2009 at 6:59 pm
(Melancholy, Music, Videos)
The hiatus continues…
Still, I was rather under the impression that I had already included this Final Fantasy / Connie Francis mix regarding Squall and his Rinoa; but it was probably placed elsewhere; so it really should find a home here.
Final Fantasy VIII Forever !
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October 3rd, 2008 at 2:00 am
(Correctitude, Music, Self)
Had I slaves — the moral issue of ownership discarded, it being the natural state of mankind: the majority of my, your, and even the Kings of this earth’s, ancestors having been slaves in one form or another [ we do our best not to boast of those producing for us from the poorest to the wealthiest in 15 hours a day Chinese factories or coffee plantations under the beneficent order of free-trade, yet they too exist in the peripheral view of our consciousness ] — I should be a damn fine owner and probably only have them work two hours a day, and in the same conditions of life as I do; ideally, I would prefer neither slaves nor servants, merely utterly faithful retainers who fawned a lot and nodded acquiescently whenever I gave out a pithy gnomic utterance fitted to their state of understanding; however, no matter how ideal their lives and how well-protected I should keep them from harm, illness or education, under no circumstance would I ever swap places for a day with them, even in so limited a fashion as was minimally performed by the ancients. I not only have a tedious sense of propriety, but it’s imperative never to give them ideas; so rather cheerful Yule, or happy Solstice than the orgy of Saturnalia… Still, all three undoubtedly included one tradition that has carried over into our modern Christmas, which is some depressing guest wondering aloud how many of those present will see the next. In that spirit I offer a foretaste of Christmas, with many ingredients I should undoubtedly overlook were I to wait a few months for the real thing. Even supposing we were all alive then.
Firstly, two contrasting Swedish renditions of O Holy Night ( O Helga Natt ), by Jussi Bjorling and Sissel ( not together ). [ No video. ]
A lone Swedish girl offered her love to the world last Christmas:
Whilst some others briefly sang the by no means Christmasful, but undoubtedly perfect, song: Mein Hut der hat Drei Ecken [ Full Lyrics: Mein Hut, der hat drei Ecken, drei Ecken hat mein Hut. Und hätt' er nicht drei Ecken, so wär' er nicht mein Hut ! ]
Santa Lucia Day
Then, flying on a goose’s back straight from Rumsfeld’s Old Norse Europe to the raw energy of the New, one can see the immediate contrast from the decadence of ruins with ‘Hannah Montana’s’ vibrant Rocking’ Around The Christmas Tree; not only has American civilisation the pure innocence of vacuity, and an awesome instantaneous sharing of screaming community — along with godknowswhatthosecreaturesare; but it appears to be set in summer’s lease.
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September 25th, 2008 at 11:30 am
(Melancholy, Self, Spengler, The Enemy)
Back to the nearest memories of humankind, 1980, when the fatuous figures of Reagan and Madame Thatcher were stalking the globe as twin pestilences, Hordes of the Things made it’s first appearance on Radio Four ( BBC ). The links should be read after listening, since they naturally are spoilers. Radio, apart from it’s life-preserving, as in rescue, or life-destroying, as in war, — though British military radio from the late Balkan Wars to Iraq in the form of the aging Clansman system was wretched enough for the soldiery to opt for using their mobiles instead if possible — services has little to commend it’s survival now; yet for the prior half of the 20th century it was more important for popular cultural enrichment than TV as a later phenomenon: fortunately, both are being obviated by the internet. Still, radio humour — as variable in quality as any other medium ( viz: mostly crap ) — supplied a need in those less advanced years; and Hordes of the Things was fairly good. However rarely repeated, the combination of actors well-known in their day, and seasoned comedic writers produced from four short episodes phrases that live in the mind. The occasional mock-shakespearian rhapsody and the underlying menace of beauty from Wagner’s finest didn’t hurt a Tolkienesque burlesque with Dragons, Eagles and Spiders. Still, ‘We are trained to be patient in the Brotherhood of Night.’ kind of haunts the mind even of those of us who are severely lacking in patience of any kind.
Quite other than it’s being comedy, there is a satire implicit upon the very worst and most despicable Liberal. The utterly sincere, and really morally pure, harmonising, well-meaning, honest idiot who horridly sees good in all and tries so hard to reconcile, that his weakness destroys himself and all that he is obligated to protect. Who genuinely thinks that competing cultures must be greeted with complacent self-destruction. Combining self-satisfied fellow-travelling, dumb moral relativism and a disgustingly feeble-minded belief in the value of all, and their good intentions, together with total disdain for those who prefer reality, makes them so worthless as to be more dangerous than a frank villain such as Bush or Clinton.
Still, as I was saying, though the contemporary in-jokes have reached the inevitable fate of all such trifles, many of the finely delivered lines resonate so as to be almost unforgettable [ Bearing in mind that everything is ultimately forgot here below... ]. Thanks to a friendly torrent this aged comedy is available here.; but also proffered as a downloadable zip which is recommended for home use.
FOOOOOOLLLL ! Now I can seeee yoou !
Name not that name within these walls, Master..
Loathsome Brothers !
Just a, a minute. There’s something strange here.
Majesteh ?
Why are there so many more wenches than hags in the village ?
The men had marched a long way, Majesteh.
Oh. Ah… yes… I see…
Beware, Agar, son of Yulfric; for no power on earth is granted without a price.
You take the counsel of that cannibal and sentence your own son to grisly death ?
Right, what is this ?
Just a mirror.
It looks like the All-Seeing Mirror of Ganst, whose power lies by reflecting deep into the souls of the fallen…
Reproduction.
And all these axes here, magic helms and articles of torture ?
Collector’s Items.
I don’t doubt it Yulfric, but what sort of collector ?
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The First Chronicle
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The Second Chronicle
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The Third Chronicle
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The Fourth Chronicle
Zip file – 111 MB
Friedrich Gauermann — Jager Vor Einer
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September 20th, 2008 at 4:30 pm
(Animals, Other, Poetry)
Dear God,
give us a flood of water.
Let it rain tomorrow and always.
Give us plenty of little slugs
and other luscious things to eat.
Protect all folk who quack
and everyone who knows how to swim.
Amen.
Carmen Bernos de Gasztold : The Prayer of the Little Ducks
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September 18th, 2008 at 6:00 am
(Animals, Correctitude, Manners not Morals, Melancholy, Music, Self)
Depression came early this autumn. Sufficiently accounting for going AWOL; yet viewers would be correct to strongly demand a notification such as this, yet ennui waits for no man
Glancing through one of those not unamusing collections of fake-medieval detective stories, and was so struck by this beginning sentence by a Mr. Paul Harding, I fast checked the reference online, yet could not find any such thing in the work quoted.
‘I was reading Bartholomew the Englishman’s The Nature of Things in which he describes the planet Saturn as cold as ice, dark as night and malignant as Satan.’
A quick check astrological showed the ruling house of the hour i was born to be Saturn : not believing in this discipline in the least, this was previously unknown to me, it just seemed kinda inevitable…
[ Why I disbelieve may be shown, not only by the unlikelihood of vast symbols influencing our self-wrought nature, but by the interpretation given:
This astrological combination indicates a headstrong individual with a fiercely passionate nature. Your likes and dislikes are intense, and you tend to impose your will and taste upon others. You will rise to positions of leadership, for you display unusual courage and independence. Your nature is practical, and your goals are very much tied to matters of this world. You are stubborn in your views and you are ardently jealous of your possessions and values. Although you conduct your own affairs in semi-secrecy, you have to probe into the life of your love partner. Much about you is deep. You store away your emotions, hide your resentments, bury away knowledge. The key to a more harmonious self lies in cultivating humility and greater self-control of your one-directional, assertive personality.
Apart from the fact I can't recognise any of this; I love the sheer unsubtility of the gross flattery astrologers offer: no wonder they were so popular in braver times. And I've already got enough humility. ]
[ Possibly the first image I ever had on my first computer aons back ]
***
Neanderthal Days and Neanderthal Ways
And of Ice, I read up on Afrocentric ‘history’ just for a laugh, and came across some work by a Michael Bradley referenced, popular in the Farrakhan School, The Iceman Inheritance : Prehistoric Sources of Western Man’s Racism, Sexism and Aggression, which promulgated that white people descended partly from those crazy red-haired neanderthals, and that modern pathologies particular to western civilisations are caused by sexual dysfunction of cold neanderthal hearts — my lack of faith in psychosexual therapy, really all therapies, indicates that i am quite sure that it is as fully successful in analysis conducted at a range of 40,000 years as in the immediate present — still, I was slightly pleased, since if we are all different species rather than merely different races, then all our white ’sins’ are both natural and indeed, ineluctable.
Apparently the book proffered the additional delight that the jews are the purest form of neanderthals; amusingly referenced here in a resigned list of things certain peoples believe about the jews. Just remember that every believer is entitled to their vote under any democracy, and marvel that anyone is truly stupid enough to believe in democracy.
I took a few online sociopathy tests for fun, which results varied as wildly as astrology, although all gratifyingly scored around the higher marks. Although I can scarcely doubt being an amoral sociopath, honour and the vagaries of luck forbid the more volatile expressing of such tendencies; the trouble is that I really couldn’t care enough about people to want to kill them; even minute non-violent injury such as blowing up their empty car seems to mark being over-passionately engaged in the mundane world [ as does noticing they live, of course ], unless they offer really serious provocation, natüralich. As with all other animals, each gets individual respect, and should not be killed or injured in the slightest unless they threaten — if a bear is likely to harm one, then murdering it is justified: old lunatics like this fellow who shot a nursing bear eating birdseed really ought at least to receive enough punishment to send them to Hell. P’raps being fastened to a steering wheel and blown up with plastique as happened to the fellow in Ambler’s Send No More Roses, or something of that order ? [ Actually, I knew until fairly recently a chap who claimed to have invented plastique, or some form of it at least. Very useful stuff. ] Hopefully he would not protest unbecomingly. Being cold I always abhore unnecessary suffering: but even more the suffering inflicted by victims’ lack of pride. One of the most horrific and repulsive acts of modern cinema was the notorious, ‘Look into your heart‘ scene from Miller’s Crossing: Just kill the disgusting little fucker already…
***
And They Fight Like Girls…
I also took the Inner Dragon Psych test…
First, tell me which breath-weapon you’d most like to control:
Lightning / Storms ~ ZOT! he he he he…
Okay, what size do you feel like inside ?
Size? Who cares? I’m the baddest dragon on this planet
Next, where would you prefer to live ?
Secluded mountain valleys, away from everything.
Which statement best describes how you feel about humans ?
They look funny. They talk funny. They act funny. They taste funny. And they fight like girls.
Select the sentence that best describes how you feel about other dragons:
Nah, that whole community thing isn’t for me.
And how do you view yourself as a dragon ?
I am the shadow, the mist, and the wind. My intentions are hidden and my reasons are my own.
What’s your most likely course of action if threatened ?
Just pass on by and hope they’re not dumb enough to try anything – for their sake.
Given the chance, would you use magic or spells ?
Yes (including “yeah, sure, whatever”, “because they might make pretty colors”, etc.)
How much treasure would you hoard if you could have all you wanted ?
You cross me and I’ll take what you’ve got. Otherwise, not much.
Lastly, which genre of music do you prefer ?
Classical, Marches, Instrumentals.
I turned out to be a White Dragon.
The Blackbird Whistling
Other news being that I converted to Blackbird as primary music player, if solely because I love the fat little fellow. It works perfectly, even on Windows 2000 for which it is not designed; I had hoped to add one of these permanent links here, yet apart from being paralysed by choice of these charming images, they are transparent pngs, and may not come out well on this darker theme…
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