3rd September 2002
with the entrails of the last priest
Yoga "too spiritual", explains Church of England representative.
this month's subway map: Tokyo
First of an occasional series.
When he had overtaken the damosel, anon she said, What dost thou here? Thou stinkest all of the kitchen, thy clothes be bawdy of the grease and tallow that thou gainest in King Arthur's kitchen; weenest thou, said she, that I allow thee, for yonder knight that thou killest. Nay truly, for thou slewest him unhappily and cowardly; therefore turn again, bawdy kitchen page, I know thee well, for Sir Kay named thee Beaumains. What art thou but a lusk and a turner of broaches and a ladle-washer?
from Malory's Morte D'Arthur, transl. Caxton
Flitting to the OED, we find the following:
Lusk n. Obs.
OK, so we go with the second of these . . .
Ween Obs. exc. arch.
After that intro, Sir Walter, not really.
que hora son, mi corazon
Sometimes the lust for an object overtakes me, and today it's for one of these clocks. Clocks often figure in my imagination in this way - there was the period when I seriously wanted a large wooden clock of the sort found in railway station waiting rooms: preferably about three feet across, with a booming portentous tick once a minute as the hand shivers into its new position. Alas, this sort of thing almost never comes up on ebay, at least not in my price bracket.
dude, where's my pod?
This is the picture that started it all off, back in 1970: that nagging feeling that if we aren't living on the moon, why aren't we? I've been feeling this for the past thirty or so years, and the whole thing still makes me quiver with the sense of lost opportunity: OK, so maybe it would be like living on a dirty beach, but think of the fun and frolics you could have.
Staying in the arena of interplanetary imaginings, Mitsu posted a great Giordano Bruno quote, spoken with impressive certainty and no doubt the kind of thing that led to his execution on 17th February 1600 (also the birthday of Doc in Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday, as pointed out by his eccentric PhD assessor Old Jingleballicks).
Strange sight while cycling in Richmond Park this morning: in a half mile or so of sandy path, about two dozen slugs, all large, chocolate brown, about 4 or 5 inches long, all heading due north. Were they migrating for the winter? Heading from one lush patch of grass to the equally lush patches on the other side of the path? Following a humidity gradient? Certainly they were all very definite about where they were going, and what time they needed to get there.
das ist kein wald; das ist kein pfeil
In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,
Famous for oranges and women - he
Who has not seen it will be much to pity,
So says the proverb - and I quite agree;
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,
Cadiz perhaps - but that you soon may see;
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river,
A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir.
from Byron's Don Juan, Canto I
The wind swept down the Euxine*, and the wave
ibid., Canto V
* The Black Sea.
September 19th, 1858.
Hear a chewink's* chewink. But how ineffectual is the note of a bird now! We hear it as if we heard it not, and forget it immediately. In spring it makes its due impression, and for a long time will not have done echoing, as it were, through our minds. It is even as if the atmosphere were in an unfavorable condition for this kind of music. Every musician knows how much depends on this.
Certainly this spring I was strongly affected by birdsong, whereas now I hardly notice it . . .
Also on this day in 1783, the Montgolfier brothers demonstrated their hot air balloon to the royal court at Versailles: in the presence of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette they placed a sheep, a chicken and a duck in the basket and sent it aloft (the first manned flight was a month later - this one was to test oxygen levels in the upper atmosphere). The balloon descended after a few minutes, and at first it appeared that the travellers had escaped unscathed, until it was found that the sheep had trodden on one of the birds in its excitement and broken its wing.
* The Towhee.
don't waist your time
Ah, Mrs Demaio (you know her already, for her international reputation precedes her) - she'll solve all your problems, but just don't ask her to help with your proofreading.
you want hair, marry a monkey
A spammer writes:
I have been from Russian and for a man like you have I been lookink.
Following the link, I'm disappointed to find that instead of the riproaring 'Fiddler on the Roof' fan page I'm all agog for, it's a mail-order brides site, which I am not requirink.
made one think of rosy chocolate and gilt umbrellas
The view from Europe's largest sand dune, the Dune de Pylat, nr Arcachon, Bordeaux.
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