#coughingkate

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for the drawing- “sexy” marc antony?

super cheating, but w/e

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top three spices?

eternally: 

cinnamon 

rosemary (i know it's not a spice, but) 

thyme 

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favorite hour of the day?

I like mid to early evening - when the light is golden and warm and slow. Or else the promise of 6 am, especially the kind of 6 am where you are actually waking up from a decent amount of sleep, and the sky is pearly gray with some threads of pink.

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clearly a pettiness of classicists

idk, a conjugation of classicists  

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edna st vincent millay in spaaaace?

unfortunately 1. I don't really know her well enough and 2. purely lyrical poetry doesn't, um, translate well - writing about your feelings in space is much the same as writing about your feelings on earth. 

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coughingkate replied to your post: terpsikeraunos replied to your post: ...

only through the greek having suffered can one truly translate the suffering of the Greeks

nemo qui Linguam Graecorum passus non est passionum Graecorum interpretari posset 

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top six trees (fictional, real, family, etc)

1. mallorn 

2. oak 

3. the monarchs of england from alfred to elizabeth i

4. beech

5. birch

6. ash

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(poem/story title) creature of habit

eyyyyyy i don't really have anything better than the mediocre Depression Sestina I wrote yesterday: 

A Nun, Fretting at her Narrow Convent's Room

I don't want the open road, or walls that change each day, or transience: I too am a creature of habit. And yet: these walls oppress me. My clouded eyes look out from their cellsof bone to see the same thing each day,and there is no change of light or life.

I can imagine no other kind of life. I wouldn't like to shed my skin, to change;I don't even allow the light of day to flood this room I crouch in, a creature of twilight, bleached by darkness in all my cells; and yet I want to shine, for the world to see me.

Could my room change, even subtly, around me? the walls shift their shades, the books take life? I see monks sitting content in their rocky cellsand wonder if they ever prayed for change: to become a page from a bestiary, a creature of light and flame, a phoenix, brilliant as the day.

There is no difference here, day by endless day. I wake. I rise. I wash. I dress. I leave. And me, that elusive core of me, is hiding like a creature that fears the hunter's horn, that loves its little life.Open the curtains! Bring light and wind! Change me, change me, in mind and body, in all my cells.

I cannot cease from hoping. Down to my cells, the organelles, I hope that this, that this day will bring the wind to sweep the walls with change: I will find a rampart to stand on, so it can find me. But I return to the beginning: what other life could I possibly have? I am a thing, a creature

helpless to be anything more than a creature. Free me from my confines, these dark cells that I have made, in which I live my life. There will, I think, come a certain dayWhen I will say with a certain heart "this is me:"and need not nor desire any change.

I am a creature of an uncertain day: I create the cells that imprison me; My life is, as it must be, mine to change.