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5/30/11

Henry Valentine Miller Mashup Monday

-I have never been able to look upon America as young and vital but rather as prematurely old, as a fruit which rotted before it had a chance to ripen.



-I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.



-To be joyous is to be a madman in a world of sad ghosts


-Do not be duped by little duties. Do not be a chore man all your days.



5/29/11

Sonny Boy Williamson - Nine below zero

Congratulations!

A nice heap of nightmare fodder, plus some etymology

From the Wiki http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mare_%28folklore%29:

A mare or nightmare is a spirit or goblin in Germanic folklore which rides on people's chests while they sleep, bringing on bad dreams. The mare is attested as early as in the Norse Ynglinga saga from the 13th century, but the belief itself is likely to be considerably older. As in English, the name appears in the word for "nightmare" in the Nordic languages (e.g. the Swedish word "mardröm" literally meaning mara-dream, the Norwegian word "mareritt" literally meaning mare-ridden or the Icelandic word "martröð" meaning mara-dreaming repeatedly). The mare is often similar to the mythical creatures succubus and incubus. . .The word "mare" comes (through Middle English mare) from Old English mære, mare, or mere, all feminine nouns. These in turn come from Common Germanic marōn. . . the -mar in French cauchemar ("nightmare") is borrowed from the Germanic through Old French mare. The word can ultimately be traced back to the reconstructed Indo-European root mer-, "to rub away" or "to harm".









5/9/11

Wherein the nurse did payeth a visit to a grocer, and didst lay her eye upon the labels of various foodstuffs



A poem by William Butler Yeats

THE SONG OF THE HAPPY SHEPHERD


      HE woods of Arcady are dead,
      And over is their antique joy;
      Of old the world on dreaming fed;
      Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
      Yet still she turns her restless head:
      But O, sick children of the world,
      Of all the many changing things
      In dreary dancing past us whirled,
      To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
      Words alone are certain good.
      Where are now the warring kings,
      Word be-mockers? -- By the Rood,
      Where are now the warring kings?
      An idle word is now their glory,
      By the stammering schoolboy said,
      Reading some entangled story:
      The kings of the old time are dead;
      The wandering earth herself may be
      Only a sudden flaming word,
      In clanging space a moment heard,
      Troubling the endless reverie.
       
      Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
      Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
      To hunger fiercely after truth,
      Lest all thy toiling only breeds
      New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
      Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
      No learning from the starry men,
      Who follow with the optic glass
      The whirling ways of stars that pass--
      Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
      No word of theirs--the cold star-bane
      Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
      And dead is all their human truth.
      Go gather by the humming sea
      Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,
      And to its lips thy story tell,
      And they thy comforters will be,
      Rewording in melodious guile
      Thy fretful words a little while,
      Till they shall singing fade in ruth
      And die a pearly brotherhood;
      For words alone are certain good:
      Sing, then, for this is also sooth.
       
      I must be gone: there is a grave
      Where daffodil and lily wave,
      And I would please the hapless faun,
      Buried under the sleepy ground,
      With mirthful songs before the dawn.
      His shouting days with mirth were crowned;
      And still I dream he treads the lawn,
      Walking ghostly in the dew,
      Pierced by my glad singing through,
      My songs of old earth's dreamy youth:
      But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!
      For fair are poppies on the brow:
      Dream, dream, for this is also sooth. 
       
       
       
       

Seu Jorge

A picture by Golden Age illustrator Arthur Rackham

Oh Waken, waken, Burd Isobel, 1919

5/7/11

St. Vitus' Dance. What it is, what the song sounds like

Sydenham's chorea or Chorea minor (historically referred to as Saint Vitus' Dance) is a disease characterized by rapid, uncoordinated jerking movements affecting primarily the face, feet and hands. .  . It is named for British physician Thomas Sydenham, (1624–1689).The alternate eponym, Saint Vitus' dance, is in reference to Saint Vitus, a Christian saint who was persecuted by Roman emperors and died as a martyr in AD 303. Saint Vitus is considered to be the patron saint of dancers, with the eponym given as homage to the manic dancing that historically took place in front of his statue during the feast of Saint Vitus in Germanic and Latvian cultures. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sydenham%27s_chorea