On this day: January 1, 42 BCE
Julius Caesar was formally deified as Divus Iulius by the Roman Senate.

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@aciesinstructa
On this day: January 1, 42 BCE
Julius Caesar was formally deified as Divus Iulius by the Roman Senate.
I kissed you
the moment the lightning
struck.
I wanted to know,
with bright certainty,
that for the rest
of your life
every time you heard
thunder,
you would taste
my lips.
Tyler Knott Gregson, Typewriter Series #812
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
E E Cummings
Evening Solace
THE human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;–
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.
But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back–a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress–
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.
- Charlotte Brontë, as Currer Bell
One Art
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
- Elizabeth Bishop
Advent Time of Modern Madonnas // special thanks to adamosgood
BUY PRINTS
What I’ve learnt from GoT
Dany: You’re doomed to be like your parents. Even if you never knew them. If they were terrible people, you’ll be as well. There’s no rising above this, there is no other way. Jaime: There’s no escaping horrible relationships, and there’s no bettering yourself. You’re doomed to go back to what you used to be, no matter how far you came. Theon: As a trauma survivor, you’ve got no place in this world. It doesn’t matter if you were able to rebuild yourself from nothing, that after all the trauma you went through, you managed to find yourself. They might mourn you when you die, but there’s no place among people for you.
Sansa: The only way to be strong is to become like your abusers. Having ideals and principles makes you stupid, growth is not learning to see see reality for what it is while deciding to stay true to yourself, it’s throwing away every shred of your personality and becoming exactly what you used to hate. Sandor: You can’t heal. You can’t decide to leave your abuser behind. You have to have your hate and revenge, even if it kills you. (No, his self-awareness and what he told Arya don’t make it any better.)
Tyrion: It’s not worth it to believe in anything or anyone. Better stay a drunk cynic - you had it right from the beginning.
Grey Worm: In the end, you become what they tried to make you, a killing machine without mercy for innocents. There’s no escape.
Missandei: Once they’ve got you in chains, you will die in chains. They’re someone else’s chains than your first masters’, but they’re chains nonetheless.
Jon: Decent people are stupid and wilfully ignorant. Wanting peace is naivety, wanting people to try and work together is the height of ridiculous.
Probably forgot a hell of a lot of characters and ‘lessons’, but I think I’ve got enough for now. I’m just so tired of ‘grimdark’ stuff, and idk what narrative purpose any of this serves other than ‘everything’s futile and the world is a shit place’.
thinking about youth and loss and crushed flowers
roses are red, violets are blue
To Jane: The Invitation
Best and brightest, come away!
Fairer far than this fair Day,
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle on the brake.
The Brightest hour of unborn Spring,
Through the winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn
To hoar February born.
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
It kissed the forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free,
And waked to music all their fountains,
And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
And like a prophetess of May
Strewed flowers upon the barren way,
Making the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs—
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find
An echo in another’s mind.
While the touch of Nature’s art
Harmonizes heart to heart.
I leave this notice on my door
For each accustomed visitor:—
“I am gone into the fields
To take what this sweet hour yields;—
Reflection, you may come tomorrow,
Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.—
You with the unpaid bill, Despair,—
You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,—
I will pay you in the grave,—
Death will listen to your stave.
Expectation too, be off!
Today is for itself enough;
Hope, in pity mock not Woe
With smiles, nor follow where I go;
Long having lived on thy sweet food,
At length I find one moment’s good
After long pain—with all your love,
This you never told me of.”
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! And come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
And the pools where winter rains
Image all their roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green, and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun:
Where the lawns and pastures be,
And the sandhills of the sea:—
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets,
And wind-flowers, and violets,
Which yet join not scent to hue,
Crown the pale year weak and new;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dun and blind,
And the blue noon is over us,
And the multitudinous
Billows murmur at our feet,
Where the earth and ocean meet,
And all things seem only one
In the universal sun.
- Percy Bysshe Shelley
a compilation in honour of our first christmas without vine.
WHY ARE YOU RUNNIG
~ Apollo Sauroktonos (“Lisard-killer”).
Date: Roman copy after a bronze original ca. 350 B.C. by Praxiteles
Provenance: Rome, Vatican Museums, Pius-Clementine Museum, Gallery of statues, 62 (Musei Vaticani, Museo Pio-Clementino, Galleria delle statue)
ladies if he:
never responds to your texts
abuses our patience
eludes us with his madness
boasts himself about with unbridled audacity
lives even though the senate and the consul see what plans he has taken up
not just lives, but comes into the senate, is a participant in the public council, and marks out each and every one of us for slaughter with his eyes
he’s not your man. he’s lucius sergius catilina