https://www.radiomuseum.org/zz/radios_for_children.html
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Not today Justin
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Keni

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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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blake kathryn
Sade Olutola
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
we're not kids anymore.

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tannertan36

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@likeniobe
https://www.radiomuseum.org/zz/radios_for_children.html
sentence from the john culshaw autobiography that's killing me. pg 16. "For some unaccountable reason my parents first sent me to kindergarten for girls."
Throughout my life I have been blessed with good health. In the Fleet Air Arm days I had never missed a flight, nor in the Decca days a sesion, through illness. I can function with surprisingly little sleep, althought getting out of bed has always seemed to be one of life's minor miseries. [...] But the strains of Tristan day after day began to take their toll. I became emotionally and physically exhausted, but managed for a while at any rate to keep up the pretence that all was well. One particular disadvantage was that I had never fainted, or even felt dizzy, so I had no idea what those experiences might be like; but on September 28th I did not think I would get through the penultimate session of Tristan. That nobody else seemed to notice was a help, for I think I would have folded up at the first sign of concern. When the session was through I asked Gordon to find me a doctor, but only on certain conditions. I did not need a doctor to tell me that I needed or should take a rest immediately; and I did not want a sermon about 'over-doing' things. What I wanted was a shot to give me a night's sleep, and another to get me through the next day; beyond that, I didn't give a damn. The doctor sent round some kind of sleeping pill for that evening, and appeared the next morning with the largest hypodermic syringe I have ever seen. He said that it contained his 'cocktail', which he would administer twice: once then, and again just before the final session. To this day I have no idea what was in it, but it worked. Tristan was finished, and the artists were in the mood for a party, which, after such intensive work, was more than understandable: it was essential. But I took to my bed at once, and stayed there for over two weeks. Yet even there I could not escape from Tristan, for the crew had to vacate the recording rooms downstairs because of some political convention in the hall itself, which meant that the editing equipment was moved into the flat. I lay in bed for hours on end while Erik went over the tapes in detail, time and time again. Yet at no time did I feel like crying out 'Enough!' Whatever kind of exhaustion had been brought on by so much exposure to Tristan was, in a strange way, also being healed by the same music.
John Culshaw on the recording of Tristan und Isolde in 1960 in Putting the Record Straight: The Autobiography of John Culshaw (1982)
Some of E. Kh. Nasibulin’s illustrations to Eugene Onegin (1983).
they should have put donald mcintyre in fishnets
so why is loge in the patrice chereau rheingold riff raff from rocky horror
Silvan Tomkins, Shame and its sisters, ed. Eve Kosofksy Sedgwick (1995)
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clarice lispector
John Culshaw passes Birgit Nilsson the Sofiensaal cat in The Golden Ring (1965)
John Culshaw, Ring Resounding (1967)
Close-up of the studio cat mascot on John Culshaw's recording booth mic, and the mascot in situ, in The Golden Ring
me on january 2 in vienna looking beleaguered after making us all go to the sofiensaal (location of the recording of the decca ring cycle) but there kind of isn't anything to look at so we were there for maybe 3 minutes and then turned around. also me on january 6 at the wagners todeshaus in venice
using my mind powers to get peter jackson to do get back but for the 1965 tv documentary "the golden ring" about the recording sessions for the solti gotterdammerung...
friendly reminder
jessye norman obliterates gary lakes with laserbeam A5
Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Henry II tomb effigies, Fontevraud Abbey, Loire Valley, France
Katharine Hepburn as Eleanor of Aquitaine and Peter O'Toole as Henry II on the set of The Lion in Winter
This ‘purity’ continues in the best parts of the Muses Elizium. Nothing more Golden had ever been produced. They teach nothing, assert nothing, depict almost nothing; or, if anything, Scaliger’s and Sidney’s naturam alteram. Their methods are those of Pastoral, but the last links with real shepherd life have been severed. But not the last images from actual nature. There is an exquisite mingling of impossible beauties with things really observed, ‘either other sweetly gracing’. Thus on the one hand all seasons are blended so that the fruits hang ‘Some ripening, ready some to fall, Some blossom’d, some to bloome’; the eyes of Lirope turn pebbles to diamond and tempest to calm; it is not beyond hope To swerue up one of Cynthias beames And there to bath thee in the streames Discover’d in the Moone, or that all the pearls of all the seas and either India should dissolve into a lake, Thou therein bathing and I by to take Pleasure to see thee clearer than the Waue. But then, on the other hand, the reflection of a girl’s yellow hair upon the lily wreath that surrounds it casts a light ‘like the sunnes vpon the snow’; the ‘west winde stroakes the violet leaues’: an early morning sky is ‘chequerd’ with ‘thin clouds like scarfs of Cobweb lawne’; bees stagger homeward ‘vp in hony rould More than their thighes can hould’. The power of this Elizian poetry to transform its material is perhaps best seen in the first ‘Nimphall’. Taken in itself the subject of that poem is scarcely tolerable. Each nymph praises the other’s beauty by preferring it to her own. The perversity of the original Greek models survives only in the fact that this preference is dissociated from all idea of envy or even of regret: we are left with two inhuman, inexplicable voices uttering their passion for beauty and, save for that, passionless. It is thus that real fairies (not the bric-à-brac of Nimphidia) would speak if they existed. It is the ultimate refinement of Golden poetry, Gold ‘to ayery thinnesse beate’, without weight, ready to leave the earth.
C. S. Lewis on Michael Drayton's Muses Elizium (1630) in "Verse in the 'Golden' Period," English Literature in the Sixteenth Century (1953)