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ghazal:

unravel your sweater into a skein, i gag on the yarn so warmth can stay in the missing of you.

a squatter in the house of delight: folded like a secret in my keeping of you.

to have is to hold, my wanting becomes calloused the gods of abandon have grown bold in their doting on you.

i am sold on a rebirth, some biblical rising but mold has long crept over the image of you.

take comfort, this ends in grace— a prayer: in my next life i am paroled from you.

#air by air we soften #return to the gutters after curfew #crawling and steeped in the stench of you #bylrised

artbyblastweave

Now obviously the hard part of launching a land invasion of Heaven will figuring out where they hid the hole. Finding the miniscule aperture, the hole in physical reality to which all souls are translocated at the moment of death, and then jamming something sturdy in there, getting it in reallll good and working it around until it's big enough to fit some guys with guns through. But the nice part is that the nature of Heaven means that, one, not many people get in in the first place, and two, none of them are good at fighting, because people who're good at fighting mostly don't go to heaven. Except us, when we find the hole. The point is that once we're in there's not much they're gonna be able to do. Pretty much we'll have free run of the place

artbyblastweave

Update! So we forgot about God

#I think I remember when this happens in Paradise Lost #do you think dante forced open the aperture of hell like this too

throwupgirl-deactivated20240906

in terms of more sex scenes in classic book adaptations where it makes sense, anna karenina would've been fine she did actually get pregnant from her affair with vronsky

bill-blake-fans-anonymous

Sometimes I really, really hate Nabokov for how good he is. It's one thing to make joke annotations into a gripping novel (Pale Fire), but quite another to make real scholarly and linguistic annotations for an authentic great poem (Eugene Onegin) so informative and amusing that one can read enjoyably straight through them. And he seems to have read everyone who ever wrote between 1700 and 1900 in French, English, or Russian. Damn him.

bill-blake-fans-anonymous

He even manages to turn his implacable hatred of Pierre Corneille into an honest-to-god running gag

bittersweetswan

Photography by Michaela Meadow, 2015

lrised

Klimt's Danaë, 1907

journoeil

what bothers me most about Fennell’s adaptation of Wuthering Heights is the discourse that continues to be propagated (often by women themselves!) that because it was written by a woman, the novel must reflect the kind of relationship the author secretly dreamed of, that she was quirky, dark, perhaps secretly romantic in a morbid way. if it had been written by a man, everyone would say: “oh, the author is analyzing toxic relationships through these characters. he’s criticizing them.” it always bothered me that Brontë was immediately branded as a weird lovelorn woman, when in reality there is not much in her biography to attest to that. she was just a very intelligent writer who thought about a very intelligent subject like any of her male counterparts.

the canon always sees men as universal observers and geniuses who undertake social studies, but when it comes to women, they are reduced to being mere subjective chroniclers of interiority, supposedly recording their personal romantic fantasies.

many novels contain a romantic thread. among other things, Wuthering Heights opens with one. but most of the book is about revenge, cruelty, trauma, inheritance, generational damage etc. and yet, because it was written by a woman, only the love story is treated as significant.

if Wuthering Heights had been written by, say, F. Scott Fitzgerald, critics would likely praise the ruthless anatomy of obsession. I am just so sick of this. I sure would love to see the day when The Great Gatsby is marketed as the greatest love story ever told, overflowing with loose erotic scenes, rather than the highbrow social critique it’s usually presented as. the idea that women write “from emotion” while men write “from intellect” is still too deeply sedimented in how we talk about art.

journoeil

I can say with certainty that I have never felt more rage towards a modern project that has appeared on the scene in recent years. it seems to me more like a clear statement of hostility against those who have a sincere passion for humanities, a declaration coming from the wealthiest and most privileged, who are effectively telling us that they can transform any narrative into their own fantasy project and thus detourn any socio-critical theme that is inconvenient for their self-indulgence. the casting really does not seem to be a mere blunder in this regard.

neovie

penguin edition russian lit in oil

cr: @lottateale on ig

doloneia

the most unrealistic part of the iliad & odyssey is actually every single time they talk about a hecatomb of cattle like its nothing. 100 cows? in this collapsing late bronze age economy? Where Are You Getting These. Who’s Your Cow Dealer. Can I Have Their Address

bill-blake-fans-anonymous

Via @finelythreadedsky

trucyisright

my mother is playing pikmin and yelling at them in the exact tone of voice she uses for me and my siblings so we go into fight or flight every time. we thought initially that this meant she regarded the pikmin as akin to her children, but I now fear she’s always viewed us as pikmin

goldensunset

hi your post reads like a poem to me

crimsolyn

I think the purest form of love is just wanting someone to notice life with you. "taste this. look at that. hear this song." again and again. until you can't imagine noticing life without them.

petaltexturedskies

It is words that are to blame. They are the wildest, freest, most irresponsible, most unteachable of all things. Of course, you can catch them and sort them and place them in alphabetical order in dictionaries. But words do not live in dictionaries; they live in the mind. If you want proof of this, consider how often in moments of emotion when we most need words we find none. Yet there is the dictionary; there at our disposal are some half-a-million words all in alphabetical order.

But can we use them? No, because words do not live in dictionaries, they live in the mind. Look again at the dictionary. There beyond a doubt lie plays more splendid than Antony and Cleopatra; poems more lovely than the Ode to a Nightingale; novels beside which Pride and Prejudice or David Copperfield are the crude bunglings of amateurs. It is only a question of finding the right words and putting them in the right order. But we cannot do it because they do not live in dictionaries; they live in the mind.

from a recording of Virginia Woolf’s talk ‘On Craftsmanship’, a BBC radio broadcast aired on 29 April 1937

witchblade

humiliated in death

bill-blake-fans-anonymous

#someone help me workshop this John Donne joke - via @deadpanwalking

Did you leave this out as a trap specifically for little old pastiche-mad me? Because! it worked.

The Flea

Mark but this flea, and mark in this How choice and foppified the insect is. It gorged on blood; now, being dead A blood-red stone is balanced on its head. Thou know'st that it is mockery To make a jeweled harlot of a flea— Yet this is lustrous garnet that it wears, And pampered, seems to put on regal airs, Its black eye-lenses lit with kingly glares.

Oh stay, oh spare this little prince From those fair pincer-fingers ripe to pince. This flea's distinguished—fancy-flea! Consign him not, with other fleas, to be Another naked corpse, adorned With nothing! Then would be a princeling scorned, And, truth to tell, you'd fall in my esteem If from his head you plucked that rubious gleam. Why wake him from so glittering a dream?

What's that? He's dead, and he's a flea, And thus he has no glittering dreams? I see. You flick the garnet off his pate, And crush the tiny corpse beneath the weight Of one firm finger. Well, that blows. Just now, I thought that I'd perhaps compose Some kind of amorous flea-poem to delight you— But now you'll never know what I might write you, Or better yet, I'll write you this, to spite you.

lionofchaeronea

Title: Penelope Unraveling Her Work at Night Artist: Dora Wheeler Keith (American, 1856-1940) Date: 1886 Genre: mythological art Medium: silk embroidered with silk thread Dimensions: 114.3 cm (45 in) high x 172.7 cm (68 in) wide Location: Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, NY, USA

taibhsearachd

This large-scale embroidery is thought to be the sole remaining example of what Candace Wheeler (1827-1923) called "needlewoven tapestry." As early as 1880, she and her associates were producing these subtly embroidered works that were as carefully modulated as paintings. In 1882, Candace Wheeler had patented the technique, in which stitches are passed in and out of the web of a loosely woven silk canvas (also patented by Wheeler), giving the appearance of a traditionally woven tapestry. Candace's daughter, Dora, created this design of Odysseus' faithful wife Penelope while studying painting in Paris and designed numerous other needlewoven tapestries depicting female figures from literature; most of them, however, have completely disintegrated. Although this piece has substantially faded and the fibers have begun to break, the essential image remains intact.

Okay I'm just going to spend the rest of my night grieving a beautiful kind of art that simply doesn't exist anymore. Like.... I will blame Candace Wheeler for patenting an ARTISTIC TECHNIQUE, apparently, I don't think that's reasonable....

I'm also very happy that if there were to be a single piece preserved of this artistic style... it couldn't be more appropriate for it to be Penelope unraveling her work. The decay of the piece, poorly cared for, gives the impression that she is unraveling the work she exists in. If anything was going to exist of this art style, I'm glad it's this one.... but also we'll never know what other works of art existed. Art in a format that is firmly women's work is so powerful, and it's devastating that a whole style of art that uses women's work existed and died within a relatively short span of years.

bill-blake-fans-anonymous

This is just a hunch on my part, but I wonder whether the condition of the piece is due to something other than neglect. The wording of the Met's description is intriguing: "most of [the needlewoven tapestries] have completely disintegrated." That, to me, implies that this is a problem with the crafting of the needlewoven tapestries more generally. Plus, looking at the image itself, those strange rifts and gashes in the fabric are really unusual--that doesn't look to me like ordinary wear and tear, or the kind of fabric degradation you see even in medieval tapestries.

I could be wrong, but my guess here is that the needlewoven tapestry method was an experimental technique that produced a visually stunning but highly unstable product. I found a blog post where the patent is quoted; I don't know much about textiles, but the description makes me think the base fabric, two interlocked weaves of differing tensions, might be apt to shred itself over time.

In other words, I think this piece might be literally Penelopian, actively in the process of undoing itself.