pallas_athena: (tarot)
Over the past few weeks, I have seen several online acquaintances-- witty, intelligent, talented, funny people-- voice opinions on the current Gaza conflict which, coming from them, have startled me. Among these, the biggest fallacy is the one which characterises any criticism of the Israeli military action as anti-Semitism.

To speak clearly, I condemn anti-Semitism; I believe all reasonable people should condemn examples of religious and ethnic hatred wherever they find it. I believe that among these forms of hatred, anti-Semitism deserves special consideration due to the atrocities of the Holocaust, committed within living memory. I believe the State of Israel has a right to exist and to keep its own peace. However, I disagree with many of the policies of the current coalition government led by Benjamin Netanyahu, and I don't believe that it is anti-Semitic to voice this disagreement.

Here is why: )
pallas_athena: (tarot)
Through gilded trellises
Edith Sitwell, Façade

Through gilded trellises
Of the heat, Dolores,
Inez, Manuccia,
Isabel, Lucia,
Mock Time that flies.
"Lovely bird, will you stay and sing,
Flirting your sheened wing,-
Peck with your beak, and cling
To our balconies?"
They flirt their fans, flaunting
"O silence enchanting
As music!" Then slanting
Their eyes,
Like gilded or emerald grapes,
They make mantillas, capes,
Hiding their simian shapes.
Sighs
Each lady, "Our spadille
Is done."..."Dance the quadrille
from Hell's towers to Seville;
Surprise
Their siesta," Dolores
Said. Through gilded trellises
Of the heat, spangles
Pelt down through the tangles
Of bell flowers; each dangles
Her castanets, shutters
Fall while the heat mutters,
With sounds like a mandoline
Or tinkled tambourine...
Ladies,
Time dies!
pallas_athena: (tarot)
Whispers of Immortality
TS Eliot, 1920

WEBSTER was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate,
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
pallas_athena: (tarot)
"This morning came home my fine Camlett cloak, with gold buttons, and a silk suit, which cost me much money, and I pray God to make me able to pay for it."


Don't we all know the feeling, Pepys.
pallas_athena: (tarot)
For the huge full moon tonight, I thought I would collect all the moon-similes from the first bit of Oscar Wilde's Salomé.

***************

THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
Look at the moon. How strange the moon seems! She is like a woman rising from a tomb. She is like a dead woman. One might fancy she was looking for dead things.


THE YOUNG SYRIAN
She has a strange look. She is like a little princess who wears a yellow veil, and whose feet are of silver. She is like a princess who has little white doves for feet. One might fancy she was dancing.

*************

SALOME
How good to see the moon! She is like a little piece of money, a little silver flower. She is cold and chaste. I am sure she is a virgin. She has the beauty of a virgin. Yes, she is a virgin. She has never defiled herself. She has never abandoned herself to men, like the other goddesses.

************

THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
Oh! How strange the moon looks. Like the hand of a dead woman who is seeking to cover herself with a shroud.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN
The moon has a strange look! She is like a little princess, whose eyes are eyes of amber. Through the clouds of muslin she is smiling like a little princess.

************

HEROD

The moon has a strange look to-night. Has she not a strange look? She is like a mad woman, a mad woman who is seeking everywhere for lovers. She is naked too. She is quite naked. The clouds are seeking to clothe her nakedness, but she will not let them. She reels through the clouds like a drunken woman. ... I am sure she is looking for lovers. . . . Does she not reel like a drunken woman? She is like a mad woman, is she not?

HERODIAS

No. The moon is like the moon, that is all.

*****************
pallas_athena: (tarot)
A Ballade of Theatricals
G. K. Chesterton

Though all the critics' canons grow--
Far seedier than the actors' own--
Although the cottage-door's too low--
Although the fairy's twenty stone--
Although, just like the telephone,
She comes by wire and not by wings,
Though all the mechanism's known--
Believe me, there are real things.

Yes, real people--even so--
Even in a theatre, truth is known,
Though the agnostic will not know,
And though the gnostic will not own,
There is a thing called skin and bone,
And many a man that struts and sings
Has been as stony-broke as stone . . .
Believe me, there are real things.

There is an hour when all men go;
An hour when man is all alone.
When idle minstrels in a row
Went down with all the bugles blown--
When brass and hymn and drum went down,
Down in death's throat with thunderings--
Ah, though the unreal things have grown,
Believe me, there are real things.

ENVOY.

Prince, though your hair is not your own
And half your face held on by strings,
And if you sat, you'd smash your throne--
--Believe me, there are real things.
pallas_athena: (tarot)
Today I would like to talk about my friend Liana, an artist who goes by the name Playful Eye. I've known her since 2006, when a random conversation at 4AM turned into a lasting friendship.

You may remember her work from various things I've done, like this poster:

Poster photo WIPflute.jpg
More beautiful images beneath the cut )
The thing about Liana is: She is currently using her resources of wit, spirit and bravery to fight off a particularly invasive cancer (esthesioneuroblastoma). In the USA, this is also a potentially financially ruinous situation, even with insurance. Recently, she posted this:

"My friends, I need your help.
I have been hospitalized with growing tumors all throughout my body. I cannot walk without assistance. My left arm is completely useless. I am being overwhelmed with too many medical bills and an insurance that is not moving quickly enough to settle my finances, and I come to you with most humility to ask for whatever monetary contribution you can give."


There's a donation website up at http://www.gofundme.com/helpliana . If you can spare a beer token or two, then please, please do go and give whatever you can. As well as being a wonderful artist, Liana is truly one of the most loveable people you could ever hope to meet, and I wish her well with all my heart.

More beauty resides over at her Flickr page.
pallas_athena: (tarot)
My good friend, author and singer [livejournal.com profile] simonsatori, has posted some intriguing thoughts on atheism, which has given rise to some thoughts on my part.

You should go read his post, first of all, which ends thus:

If god doesn’t exist [...] then I will not just ‘… go and enjoy my life’. I will suddenly live in a meaningless universe. Not only will there be no hope or chance of any higher power guiding or interacting with us but I will have the sure knowledge that there never was and never will be and the infinite universe becomes a smaller and finite one. This is not my definition of enjoyment.


I agree with many of Simon's fundamental points, including that Richard Dawkins is a bit of an arse and that smug evangelical atheists are just as annoying as smug evangelical anything else.

Here's where I differ, though: a universe devoid of deities would not, to me, be meaningless. It would still contain wonders aplenty, and it would still beckon us to search industriously for any theories or systems underlying it all. It would still be expanding, challenging us to understand that. It would still contain the light and radio waves emanating from distant stars, quasars, pulsars and all their relations. It would still contain billions of other planets and their satellites, of which (even within our own solar system) we have sent probes to the surfaces of only two (plus two moons and two asteroids.) It would still contain whales, elephants, great apes and other social animals whose ways of communication and interrelation are largely unknown to us. It would still contain rocks whose crystalline structure the human eye finds elegant, and water droplets whose prismatic refraction the human brain finds beautiful. It would still contain us and our insanely complex biology, about which a hell of a lot still remains to be discovered. It would still contain the silky black cat with white feet currently attempting interspecies communication by arranging herself on my lap and purring. It would still contain the human affection I feel towards the aforementioned black cat, as well as the urges which would prompt other humans to kick her, or kill and eat her. And my desire to punch them in the face.

In short, a definitely-godless universe would still contain all the things previously thought to be evidence for the hand of an omniscient creator, only now they would be evidence that the universe is an amazing, fucking awe-inspiring place. Perhaps, in the absence of gods, we would begin to personify that universe which reveals its secrets so slowly and dangles its veiled areas so tantalisingly before us, daring us to discover it and cheering us on as we do. Within a generation or two, humans might not even miss the concept of God-- or might have redefined it along the foregoing lines.
Further thoughts below )
pallas_athena: (tarot)
There are many more urgent things I should be doing right now than writing about how much I love Saga. But Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples have reached in and grabbed my cerebellum in one hand and my heart in the other and twisted until telling the Universe of my fierce passion for Saga is all I can do right now.

First things first: Saga is not safe for work, children, or those easily offended by nudity, sexual content, gore, foul language, and so on. Saga has all these things in abundance (and the nudity is fairly evenly spread across genders and species.)

There are very few comics I buy in single issues; usually, no matter how great the story, I'm happy to wait for the collections to come out. Saga is different. This series has given me such a burning, visceral desire to know what happens next that I may as well cable-tie myself to the rack in my local comics emporium till the next one comes out.

The heart of the premise is simple: Alana and Marko, members of two perpetually warring species, have run off to get married, quitting their respective armies. Now both sides have agents in hot pursuit of the two deserters and their newborn daughter.

The creative team do a particularly good job of depicting what happens when two cultures have been at war for a time stretching past living memory. Cynicism and black humour among the forces on the ground are matched by the callous, calculated ruthlessness of those in power. No side is portrayed as 'right'; nobody on either side believes their own propaganda any more. Both armies are composed of draftees who'd rather be anywhere but here.

In addition, we have aliens speaking Esperanto; an assassin with the torso of the Venus de Milo and the abdomen of a giant spider; a rocket ship that's really a tree (or possibly vice versa); a friendly teenage ghost who floats around trailing intestines; and a large hairless cat who can tell when you're lying. In Saga the beautiful and the disgusting lie cheek-by-jowl from the very first panel, and the story they combine to tell is believable and utterly human.

So: if this sounds like something you're up for, then go buy the first collection and await further instructions from Vaughan, Staples, Alana, Marko, The Will, The Stalk, Izabel, Lying Cat and company. Issue 9 is out in two days, so you know where I'll be cable-tied to. Bring scissors, will you?
pallas_athena: (tarot)
Music I am working on right now:

Erda's aria from Das Rheingold
A whole bunch of Handel
Schubert's Winterreise
Mahler's "Du bist der Welt abhanden gekommen"

...and today my singing teacher asked to hear Eboli's Veil Song from Don Carlo. Surprising. I remembered the words, but forgot the cadenza. Eeesh. Thankfully, the top As no longer present a problem.

Confusingly, I'm getting the Veil Song ready to audition for Amneris, because Amneris has no arias. It may well be the only audition at which I ever perform the Veil Song, since Eboli herself is sadly out of my reach (seriously, if I ever tried to sing O Don Fatale I'd end up splattered over the orchestra pit).

There are few things I love better than singing music with long, sustained phrases. To me, it feels like the vocal equivalent of speaking in complete sentences. Also-- I don't know if this is oxygen deprivation talking or what-- but there are times when those phrases make me feel this sort of expansive, wing-spreading euphoria, as if borne aloft on a tide of fire. It's a good feeling, and a salutary reminder of why I do this.

It has been a sad, barren year in terms of finding work, and the most high-profile job I had was in extremely difficult circumstances. I coped, because I am a warrior, and because the alternative was nothing-- but the end product was nowhere near as good as it could have been, had I been cast six weeks from opening night and not two.

It's hard to keep faith during the lean times. I mean, it's easy when one's mood is positive-- those times of "Rrrraaah! I am Elizabeth Oakenpiano, sole heir to the Kingdom Beneath The Stave! Fear my semiquavers!" I have learnt to recognise the negative moods and try not to introspect overmuch during them, or make any permanent decision while feeling lousy.

But in the practice room, things are going well. Whenever an opportunity comes onto the radar, I trust to be able to meet it halfway.
pallas_athena: (Default)
Time, I think, for another webcomic roundup. (Last one's here.)

Widdershins by Kate Ashwin explores several interlinked tales set in a city where magic exists cheek-by-jowl with myriad other legal and illegal ways of making a living. Harriet Barber and her magic-detecting dog are on the case, along with half a dozen other engaging characters.

Al'Rashad by Chris "Mightygodking" Bird and Davinder Brar is the slightly more serious saga of what happens when the heir to a Northern kingdom becomes lost in a huge, sprawling quasi-Middle-Eastern city with its own seriously entangled politics. Swashes are buckled, witticisms are exchanged and an intriguing world is gradually revealed to the reader.

There's also some quality worldbuilding going on in Der-Shing Helmer's The Meek. Three different peoples are forced to share too little land-- could the strange green-haired girl be the key to everyone's salvation? She's off climbing trees naked, so who knows. (There is nudity in this story, but it's amusing cartoon nudity rather than exploitative nudity. Nevertheless, your boss might not catch the distinction, so NSFW.)

O Human Star by Blue Delliquanti is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Our protagonist awakens one day, surprised because the last thing he remembers is his own death. He finds that his body is now artificial and identical to his former, organic one. Now to find the love of his life, with whom he did such pioneering work in robotics all those years ago...

Where O Human Star is romantic and futuristic, Chester 5000 XYV is retro and splendidly pornographic. NSFW, obviously. Drawn with decorative Art Nouveau splendour, this wordless comic effortlessly conveys humour, drama, genius and a truly vast amount of robot sex.

Speaking of sex, if you're not religiously reading Oglaf, you're missing out. And by "religiously" I mean ON YOUR KNEES, COMICS SLAVE.

Till next time, true believers!
pallas_athena: (Default)
A whole month since I last posted. LJ is such a ghost town these days.

(What is it with people who apologise for not having posted? Does any response exist other than "That's OK, there's a whole sparkly internet out there that I was reading instead"?

In the interim I have:

--done an avant-garde thing involving a Bach chorale

--started putting a set together with some excellent alternative-musician friends

--had the hideous cold that seems to be going around

--taught, sewn and not done enough practice.

Also, I saw some opera and some theatre. Every director who wants to be all edgy and relevant is inserting a Pussy Riot reference into their show. Obviously freeing Pussy Riot would be a very good and desirable thing, but in the meantime, the performer-with-bag-over-their-head meme is becoming a little tired.
Thoughts on ENO's Julius Caesar )
pallas_athena: (Default)
US-siders already know about this, but I thought it might prove interesting to the UK contingent. Here's the background:

After a years-long fight, same-sex marriage was finally legalised in Maryland this year. However, opponents of the new law managed to get enough signatures to put it to a referendum on this November's election ballot: a final chance for them to strike down the law before it is due to take effect on 1 January 2013. The campaign is heating up on both sides.

Brendon Ayanbadejo, a football player for the Baltimore Ravens, has been vocal in his support for marriage equality, even offering a pair of game tickets as a fundraising incentive. This has provoked the ire of one Emmett C. Burns Jr., a local politician and church leader who called on the team "to inhibit such expressions from your employee." (Single-page pdf of letter here.)

The team, of course, is rallying behind Ayanbadejo. But the real cherry on the sundae is an open letter written to Burns by another NFL player, Chris Kluwe. With Olympian eloquence, Kluwe writes:

I can assure you that gay people getting married will have zero effect on your life. They won't come into your house and steal your children. They won't magically turn you into a lustful cockmonster. They won't even overthrow the government in an orgy of hedonistic debauchery because all of a sudden they have the same legal rights as the other 90 percent of our population [...] You know what having these rights will make gays? Full-fledged American citizens just like everyone else, with the freedom to pursue happiness and all that entails.


That's just one abridged paragraph from a truly glorious panegyric, the full text of which is available here. I heartily advise clicking, though the text does contain language that may offend any prudes reading over your shoulder at the workplace.

I take away from this incident a certain optimism: it seems NFL football culture has come a long way since I was a kid. Polls show that a narrow majority of Marylanders support same-sex marriage in principle, which makes this primarily a fight for turnout. I very much hope that the state on my doorstep will show itself an enlightened place come November.
pallas_athena: (Default)
In DC. Sitting at my old bedroom window, looking out at the view I grew up with: roof, trees and sky.

Last night, when [livejournal.com profile] orkamedies asked about the significance of Labor Day in the US, the following exchange took place:

[livejournal.com profile] speedlime: Nobody in this country gives a shit about labor any more. Labor Day is just the official end of summer, that's its purpose.

Me: Argh, stop. This could finally be the year summer doesn't end and just goes on forever. Every year I...

Speedy: SHUT UP. I want the weather to be cool and comfortable. I do not want to be sweaty and overheated and cranky all the time! Roll on fall and winter.

Everyone else: *catatonic apathy*


I'm grateful for scoring a few extra days' worth of summer in DC: a moment more for sandals and cotton sundresses and warm nights full of the singing of crickets and cicadas. It's butterfly season, and any flowering shrub will be full of monarchs orange as embers and tiger swallowtails as big as your outstretched hand. The leaves outside my window are green and glossy; if I look down I can see a crepe myrtle in flower.

In a week I'll come back to cold, rainy, autumnal London with the year darkening towards the equinox. I have six scant days of summer left, to be spent among good friends in my beloved hometown, and I'm doing my best to make these days count.

Or, as Kurt Weill put it:

pallas_athena: (Default)
The Clipped Stater
by Robert Graves
(To Aircraftsman 338171, T.E. Shaw)


King Alexander had been deified
By loud applause of the Macedonian phalanx,
By sullen groans of the wide worlds lately conquered.
Who but a god could so have engulphed their pride?

He did not take a goddess to the throne
In the elder style, remembering what disasters
Juno's invidious eye brought on her Consort.
Thais was fair; but he must hold his own.

Nor would he rank himself a common god
In fellowship with those of Ind or Egypt
Whom he had shamed; even to Jove his father
Paid scant respect (as Jove stole Saturn's nod).

Now meditates: 'No land of all known lands
Has offered me resistance, none denied me
Infinite power, infinite thought and knowledge;
What yet awaits the assurance of my hands?'
Continued below )
pallas_athena: (Default)
Photobucket

Alas: after nine years, the Pepysdiary blog has come to its abrupt end. On 31 May 1669, Pepys did some business, kissed a former mistress and lamented the lack of time to do more, and went for a walk in the park with his wife and some friends. Then he writes:
And thus ends all that I doubt I shall ever be able to do with my own eyes in the keeping of my journal, I being not able to do it any longer, having done now so long as to undo my eyes almost every time that I take a pen in my hand; and, therefore, whatever comes of it, I must forbear: and, therefore, resolve, from this time forward, to have it kept by my people in long-hand, and must therefore be contented to set down no more than is fit for them and all the world to know; or, if there be any thing, which cannot be much, now my amours to Deb. are past, and my eyes hindering me in almost all other pleasures, I must endeavour to keep a margin in my book open, to add, here and there, a note in short-hand with my own hand.

And so I betake myself to that course, which is almost as much as to see myself go into my grave: for which, and all the discomforts that will accompany my being blind, the good God prepare me!


With that, his history passes into the hands of others.
Dickery and PEPYSPERANTO below )
It only remains to convey heartfelt thanks to Phil Gyford for creating and maintaining the Pepysdiary site for so many years. Thank you, Phil, for letting so many people lay their manos upon tu cosa, which you did suffer with tant de freedom. Gracias!
pallas_athena: (Default)
The Madman's Song
from The Duchess Of Malfi, IV, ii
by John Webster


Oh, let us howl some heavy note,
Some deadly-doggéd howl,
Sounding as from the threatening throat
Of beasts and fatal fowl.
As ravens, screech-owls, bulls, and bears,
We'll bell, and bawl our parts,
Till irksome noise have cloyed your ears
And corrosived your hearts.
At last, whenas our quire wants breath,
Our bodies being blest,
We'll sing like swans to welcome death,
And die in love and rest.
pallas_athena: (Default)
Corinna's Going a-Maying
Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
       See how Aurora throws her fair
       Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
       Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
       The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east
Above an hour since: yet you not dress'd;
       Nay! not so much as out of bed?
       When all the birds have matins said
       And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
       Nay, profanation to keep in,
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
       And sweet as Flora.  Take no care
       For jewels for your gown or hair:
       Fear not; the leaves will strew
       Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept;
       Come and receive them while the light
       Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
       And Titan on the eastern hill
       Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth.   Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
       Made green and trimm'd with trees: see how
       Devotion gives each house a bough
       Or branch: each porch, each door ere this
       An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
       Can such delights be in the street
       And open fields and we not see't?
       Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
       The proclamation made for May:
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
       A deal of youth, ere this, is come
       Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
       Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream
       Before that we have left to dream:
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
       Many a green-gown has been given;
       Many a kiss, both odd and even:
       Many a glance too has been sent
       From out the eye, love's firmament;
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us go while we are in our prime;
And take the harmless folly of the time.
       We shall grow old apace, and die
       Before we know our liberty.
       Our life is short, and our days run
       As fast away as does the sun;
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
       So when or you or I are made
       A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
       All love, all liking, all delight
       Lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
pallas_athena: (Default)
Part of the track listing from Pro Cantione Antiqua's Purcell In The Ale House:
Yonder comes

Since time so kind

I cannot come every day

Once, twice, thrice

Tomorrow the fox will come

Canst thou love?

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