I Just Wanna Be Back Where I Belong
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The Color of Crime
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An electrifying performance by 18-yr-old Sofie Alvén at Tivoli in Copenhagen in 2008.
I only found out about the recent General Election in Britain, as with the Olympics, and other sporting events, after the fact — having made a conscious decision to avoid mind-corrupting trash — however, after suddenly choosing to hear this song again, expecting the usual performance by an elder capable of appearing a grizzled old con, and being enchanted by this, I found that apparently that song is being used to signal the Tory/Lib-Dem Alliance. Yellow being the colour of Liberals, whilst Conservatives can always produce jail-fodder. One old joke when Lady Thatcher’s mob were in office went: ‘Which cabinet ministers are in prison ?‘ — ‘Not enough.’.
In British politics Blue is the colour of Conservatives; Red of Labour, Old or New; and Yellow for Liberals. Which leaves Green for the Greens.
T’was not always thus: Dark Blue, Red or Scarlet and Blue for 18th century Tories and Orange or Buff and [ Light ] Blue for the Whigs ( both being equally ancestral to the present Conservative Party ).
Still, on the wider world stage excluding the hues of regal families or national flags, colours go:
White : Royalist
Black : Fascist ( or Roman Church parties )
Blue : Conservative
Red : Communist
Pink : Socialist
Yellow : Liberal
Brown : Nazi
Green : Green or Islamist
Wiki endearingly says: ‘Symbols can be very important when the overall electorate is illiterate.’ Which mixed message says a lot about the sort of people who believe in democracy.
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And All Your Bodies Drown In The Salt Sea
From St. Petersburg, the Scottish Tribute Ballad to Andrew Barton…
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Yesterday’s Sunshine Has Turned Into Rain
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Filicides
One of the many rare distinctions appertaining to being a jacobite is the fact that — without overtly disliking, yet not over-valuing, people except insofar as they adhere to creeds of filthy republicanism — one is able to loathe all parties concerned in Northern Ireland without distinction.
Famously, after the last battle, at Stow-on-the-Wold, Jacob Astley, Major-General of the King’s Infantry, contemptuously predicted to his conquerors: “Now Boys, ye may now sit down and play, for you have done all your Worke, if you fall not out among yourselves.”
Quite apart from egregious terrorism and racketeering, which form a link with the established political movements which support and sponsor them and their ideals, the multi-splintered groups forming the twin ideals of Irish Republicanism and Unionist Loyalism are further joined by their infamous beliefs in democracy and religion: each partaking of the ancient liberal evil which rejected the Stuarts and Divine Right Royalism. As are also heirs — of course — the government forces of the pseudo-monarchical Great Britain — serving the ultimate beneficiaries of the murder of Charles the First and the expulsion of his progeny: foul old parliament and it’s hireling Windsor puppets squatting on a usurped throne — and dreary little Eire, which puts all these gangs of parricidal and fratricidal sentimental bastards beyond the pale.
Ulster’s ‘Troubles’ is merely one part of the aftermath of the defeat of Royalism whereby the republican scum fell out amongst themselves.
However, like most movements each can play a jolly tune — outside the province and some parts of Scotland religio-political parades are sufficiently rare — and here is one group of protties, the Ravenshill Flute Band, on Black Saturday 2006, playing Hello ! Hello ! Who’s Your Lady Friend ? — one of the Edwardian era’s most spectacular songs.
It was written by the half-French Fragson, murdered by his own father.
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I Will Not Have Gossip In This Jungle
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.
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Why I Don’t Eat Eggs
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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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At The Hotel Paradise
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Refined Nordic Gloom
Hello Saferide — Annika Norlin
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Also, My latest OpenSUSE wallpaper…
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A Non-Flock Of Non-Scarlet Pigeons
Parody being one of the major arts, here is a satire of French art-school filmmaking. Unknown auteur.
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If It Takes Forever
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.
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To Combat With The Moore
Puppetry over here was mainly confined to the rather dismal exploits of Punch and Judy. Over in Sicily though it was, and is, rather more swagger. A richer cultural life despite the poverty, and a stern tradition of memorising friends and neighbours for deathworthy offence, together with evergreen recollections of one of the major cultural enemies of Christendom — the Barbary states kept this alive until fairly recently by frequently removing Sicilians, and others as far as Ireland and points north, to become slaves in what was, mainly, all things considered, mainly a vast slave plantation just called Islam — made their pupi quite resplendent.
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Mors Et Vita Redoubled
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“UNDER the roots of the roses,
Down in the dark, rich mould,
The dust of my dear one reposes
Like a spark which night incloses
When the ashes of day are cold.”
“Under the awful wings
Which brood over land and sea,
And whose shadows nor lift nor flee, —
This is the order of things,
And hath been from of old:
First production,
And last destruction;
So the pendulum swings,
While cradles are rocked and bells are tolled.”
“Not under the roots of the roses,
But under the luminous wings
Of the King of kings
The soul of my love reposes,
With the light of morn in her eyes,
Where the Vision of Life discloses
Life that sleeps not nor dies.”
“Under or over the skies
What is it that never dies ?
Spirit — if such there be —
Whom no one hath seen nor heard,
We do not acknowledge thee;
For, spoken or written word,
Thou art but a dream, a breath;
Certain is nothing but Death !”
Richard Henry Stoddard : Mors et Vita
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Dark Ambient
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Hi Miss Alice.
With glass eyes
What kind of a dream
Are you able to have ?
Are you entranced by ?
Again for me
My heart tears apart
And flows out
Memories
Pierce into
The mended crevice
Hi Miss Alice.
With a fruitful mouth
To whom are you
Throwing love at ?
Grieving love at ?
I’m already
Spinning words
The warmth of my tongue
Completely cools
And I can’t sing
The song that I adore
Still, you do not answer.
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What Lives In Vegas, Dies Out of Vegas
One thing the world admires in Americans is that, despite the mistrust and fearfulness innate on a personal level, they retain a basic confidence in the group and retain an idealism in all matters of faith. As a realist I could scarcely maintain that most ideals are barely removed from derangement, but they make people happy — and it is definitely preferable to be surrounded by optimists rather than equally delusional pessimists.
One aspect, faith in science and faith in government — during the twentieth century these were so interwined as to become indistinguishable — was exemplified by those so avid for entertainment and [ very ] momentary pleasure that they flocked from around the continent to ever-welcoming Las Vegas to stare at the mushroom clouds that blossomed in the 1950s. While this might seem to more critical minds the nadir of stupidity, I honestly have to confess that considering the loathliness of most activities that the city so famously offers it does seem an alternative — if only for a blink of an eye.
The late Mr. Carlin, who performed last there just 12 days back, happened to describe it as “… the most dispiriting, soul-deadening city on earth.” and a few years back expounded to the patrons watching his act there, “People who go to Las Vegas, you’ve got to question their fucking intellect to start with. Traveling hundreds and thousands of miles to essentially give your money to a large corporation is kind of fucking moronic. That’s what I’m always getting here is these kind of fucking people with very limited intellects.” which seems fair enough — and almost sedulous in avoiding empty flattery. Yet, although personally oblivious to the pleasure of gambling for money, the faded rat-pack type entertainment seems yet more repellent. Essentially this demonstrates one problem with absolute freedom and happiness: with all you will ever need, how does one use that freedom to maintain happiness ? We may futurely discover that in any of the heavens promised by various faith: on earth it appears to involve sitting in exquisitely awful hotels, listening to Cool singers, and regularly giving even larger sums than most religions demand in blind faith that it will be returned a thousandfold.
This is quite an interesting site, Essays On Deep Las Vegas Culture; and although my liking for Elvis is nearly as tepid as my liking for the city, I find the song ok for it’s remarkable vigour and structure — written naturally by someone who had not been there, and lived in poverty; unlike the criminals who built the place — and the fountain is tremendously pretty.
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The God That Knows How To Dance
The Poem of Ecstasy is the Joy of Liberated Action. The Cosmos, i.e., Spirit, is Eternal Creation without External Motivation, a Divine Play of Worlds. The Creative Spirit, i.e., the Universe at Play, is not conscious of the Absoluteness of its creativeness, having subordinated itself to a Finality and made creativity a means toward an end. The stronger the pulse beat of life and the more rapid the precipitation of rhythms, the more clearly the awareness comes to the Spirit that it is consubstantial with creativity itself. When the Spirit has attained the supreme culmination of its activity and has been torn away from the embraces of teleology and relativity, when it has exhausted completely its substance and its liberated active energy, the Time of Ecstasy shall arrive.
Alexsandr Scriabin on his symphony Le Poème de l’extase
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The End Of Faustian Man
The doom of our culture was already well upon it’s way by the time of the Second World War — or War of the Republics as I would prefer it to be known, since this was conducted entirely betwixt differing republican systems, all equally loathsome. Possibly not Japan, I guess, since it was at least nominally a monarchy, although cursory search indicates it was more of a constitutional monarchy. WWII may be summarized as that the nazis were detestable; the western allies despicable; and the communists disgusting.
The Russians had reverted to becoming savages by 1945: the Americans maintained their customary anthropological status as barbarians. Their especially barbaric political system of representative democracy had grave consequence as victors… The very first moralistic theatre was the judicial murder of General Anton Dostler, of which may be read here, written by the son of his American defense counsel. Essentially, 15 American soldiers were captured disguised as Italian civilians, and the — non-nazi — General referred the case to Kesselring, who ordered them to be executed. Admittedly Smiling Albert had enough to occupy his mind right then without giving this a great deal of thought, but under the laws of war this was a done deal anyway. It is pointless to object or blame soldiers for disguising; it is equally pointless to object to the consequence — which procedure is actually there to protect civilians. Thus although guiltless — neither prosecutor nor defence expected anything except acquittal — General Dostler was then sentenced to death after new instructions were handed down from Washington in response to the revelation that the prosecution would fail, that is that henceforth in these trials hearsay evidence would be admissible. This was to satisfy the voting constituents. Democracy is awesomely repellent not merely in practice, but still more so in idealist theory…
‘Hope to God we never lose a war.’ said the prosecutor.
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Another version, shorter, but with a few more frames
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Incidentally, this trial caused the innocent prosecutor to lose his faith in the Rule of Law forever…
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“Art Knows No Borders !”
Temporary ill-health precludes any capacity for thought greater than that which lesser beings need for the selection for their choice of president ( something which in any case is more decided on the grossest sentiment rather than pure reason, of course: otherwise the leading Democrat candidates might not have the appearance of sinister liars, and the leading Republicans — as they were — that of shifty dolts ), therefore a short mélange of diverse items stored in draft without any unifying theme….
Thoughts Too Deep For Words Dept.:
A comment recently dropped on a computing blog:
I think christina aggulara is like more of the new version of veronica lake.She is realy insanely beautiful and i myself are doing a biography of Veronica lake.
Let Them Eat Cake:
Wedding Cake of the Gothic Crows
Eng Lit:
A blog with an amusing satire, Hometown
Music:
From the wiki on Turbo-Folk, that relentless mystical musical experience which expresses the yearning for the ideal life as perceived by the ordinary man:
However, turbo-folk was equally popular amongst the South Slavic nations during the brutal wars of the 1990s, reflecting perhaps the common cultural sentiments of the warring sides. When a Muslim market seller in Sarajevo was asked why in the midst of a Serb shelling of the city he illegally sold CDs by turbo-folk superstar Ceca, a wife of the notorious Serbian warlord Arkan, he offered a laconic retort: “Art knows no borders!”
Two by Atomik Harmonik — for frailer spirits, less is more is something particularly applicable to hearty polkas, but they go nuts on this in the Balkans.
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Finally, to combat near delirium, amongst other discoveries of things unknown, I read up on Neodymium Magnets: which are very powerful for their size, and can disrupt floppy disks ( who the hell still uses floppy disks ? ), computer monitors, fingers, credit cards, and heart pacemakers. Jamie is conducting experiments with just one of these listed in unwitting conjunction with an elderly grouch of a neighbour.
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To Say Hello
Spice and Wolf is a pleasant contrast to the run of anime, being set in a semi-mediaeval mittel-european world — think from Northern Italy going northwards, eg: the old Reich — although the mercantile element* leaves me a trifle cold; yet what more excellent girlfriend could the heart desire than a redhead who is in her spare time a wolf-goddess ?
From here, someone has transcribed the lyrics to the English sung end-song ( ED — opening songs are OPs )
The pronunciation of this ED is realy terriable. This is what I tried my best find out from the ED:
Seven apples on the witch’s tree
Seven seeds to plant inside of me
In spring time I grew a magic song
Thus keeping along
I sang the song to everyone
I looked up the world through apple eyes
And cut myself as slice of sunshine pie
I dance with the peanuts for the flies
Hear time when the town ring
To say hello forever goodbye
Songs and sugar’s ball
I’ll put them in the jar
And the wish around the world
All wish around the world
I’m a little lucida girl
You say: I’m off I’ve grown from June to May
Oh wish around the world
Makes wish around the world
Instead of any obligatory remark on Japanese ultra-weirdness, I’d prefer to offer that this is either a/ spirited satire on the average lyric-writer, or b/ some profound meanings are non-apparent to the cursory reader, but which reveal unearthly insights to anyone who has combined the right drugs; maybe a winsome combination of lsd and crack.
The 11 episodes of Spice and Wolf numbered 1 – 12 ( 7 is unavailable ) can be found here for now. Select the English Subtitled ones for greater clarity.
I have to say that Horo’s brilliant tail looks rather more like a fox to me, as do the ears: possibly something to do with the longstanding love-affair betwixt Japan and Fox-Fairies long predating anime, or manga, or furries.
*This thread has some details; and includes a fine youtube of Bird and Fortune ripping apart the pretensions of the Masters of the Universes responsible for the sub-prime latest debacle.
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Makes My Life Worthwhile
The title of my desultory novel is, as is apparent, To Know, Know, Know Him, and is equally apparently, taken from the song here by the Teddy Bears, To Know Him Is To Love Him. Written by the engaging Phil Spector, the guitarist here on the original — who went on to create the Wall of Sound and much more — the title having been suggested by his father’s gravestone. Although grievously abused by many in the music world, he always struck me as a straight-shooting kind of guy.
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To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
And I do
I’ll be good to him, I’ll bring love to him
Everyone says there’ll come a day when I’ll walk alongside of him
Yes, just to know him is to love, love, love him
And I do
Why can’t he see, how blind can he be
Someday he’ll see that he was meant for me
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
And I do
Why can’t he see, how blind can he be
Someday he’ll see that he was meant for me
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
And I do
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
And I do
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“You Are Beautiful, My Manufactured Love, But It Is Only Svengali Talking To Himself…”
With the Fall of Stage6 the honours of providing elderly films through a much more cumbersome model fall to Veoh for the time being. [ Five minute previews are given, but to see all, the Veoh software has to be installed and then one either clicks to watch immediately via the application or downloads the video to watch later : this application makes it extremely easy to lose whatever one is viewing, enabling one to have to start over from the beginning and re-enjoy anything one had not missed --- besides which, .avis really are no match for .divx... ]
I have fairly strong feelings on the House of Barrymore, despite the fact they were/are undoubtedly perfectly pleasant people in private life; yet John of that Ilk is here far more restrained and more thoughtful than in his usual performances.. And indeed, more than any of his extended family.
Trilby has been underrated since the reaction to Victorianism in the 1920s — Michael Sadleir’s strictures in his preface to Murger’s Vie de la Boheme being particularly scathing — but it was of it’s slightly interesting time — mid-nineteenth century France — and it can be read simply as a tragedy for each individual fulfilling their destiny. There are wide differences between the book and film of course: in the first, it is Svengali actually singing through Trilby, and his love for her, although probable, is scarcely manifest; in the film he rather unlocks her singing through the same uncanny genius and loves her inordinately — yet vainly since she is merely his creation. Further in the novel, his death prostrates her to mortal illness, the psychic link of control having been shattered; whereas in this film, she merely passes as soon as humanly possible.
Having been privileged to read the especial UNEXPURGATED version, like all du Maurier’s work wistful tristeness is the overlaying key, which as a melancholic he carried out with exemplary zeal, I should say it’s rather like once popular music played on a barrel organ in a minor key in a pretty courtyard with flowers fading as autumn comes.
Actually, the word UNEXPURGATED was undoubtedly purposed to catch the eager unwary into hopes that it would be imbecile to imagine du Maurier could or would ever satisfy > it just meant that his rancorous portrayal of Jimmy Whistler as a youth was included.
Some immensely varying, and in a way disturbingly so, visualisations of Marian Marsh’s interpretation of Trilby:
“Ich habe Geliebt und Gelebet ! *
***
Here are a couple of Tod Slaughters thrown in both with very poor quality:
The Face at the Window
Sweeney Todd : The Demon Barber of Fleet Street the sound is peculiarly misaligned, but with awful video and agonizing sound it still beats listening to Sondheim… Then again, what does not ?
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And This She Did By Her Singing Fair
A notable instance of the futility of human judgement would be to blame Lorelei of the golden hair: she is how she is made, and her pitiless effects — if unfortunate — indicate no absence of a soul, nor malice; but rather the workings of mechanical fate and her inability to feel deeply. Of course, the forlorn sailors are equally blame-free — except perhaps for not suppressing feeling enough.
The first two are of the Heine text; the third is not.
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When first playing this last be careful not to view the video. In order to appreciate the complex splendour of the song it is imperative that it be not overly associated with the singers; whom excellent as they were in song, had, uh, vibrant and life-affirming tastes in costume and dance. After the song is absorbed and appreciated, then it may be safe to proceed to viewing.
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Love Was Too Plebeian
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Tuckin’ Down The Track
It is merely a truism, commonly repeated — as frequently as the claim that we need more Gothic Lolitas on the streets — that One Way Ticket* has never been rendered with the relentless vigour and powerful delivery it demands, least of all by Eruption; however, this Hungarian version by Kati Kovács, with some terrifying dancing by — I think, the ever redoubtable Neoton Family — has some punch. It ends a trifle abruptly though…
Not to mention, how often do you see someone dancing with two astounded baby white rabbits ?
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* Not to be confused with the two similarly titled, but appalling, songs by The Darkness and LeAnn Rimes.
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Bouguereau, Wagner & Elsa
Following on from the Bouguereau in our last, the author of this video has merged Richard’s music with William-Adolphe’s paintings…
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