Saturday, January 21, 2017
Friday, January 20, 2017
Here's how to mix one:
Pres. Beeblebrox suggests no more than two Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters at one sitting- but he never faced four years of a Donald Trump administration! We recommend mixing your first one at noon EST today and carry on from there.
- Take the juice from one bottle of Ol' Janx Spirit.
- Pour into it one measure of water from the seas of Santraginus V — Oh, that Santraginean seawater! Oh, those Santraginean fish!
- Allow three cubes of Arcturan Mega-gin to melt into the mixture (it must be properly iced or the benzene is lost).
- Allow four litres of Fallian marsh gas to bubble through it, in memory of all those happy hikers who have died of pleasure in the Marshes of Fallia.
- Over the back of a silver spoon float a measure of Qualactin Hypermint extract, redolent of all the heady odours of the dark Qualactin Zones, subtle, sweet and mystic.
- Drop in the tooth of an Algolian Suntiger. Watch it dissolve, spreading the fires of the Algolian Suns deep into the heart of the drink.
- Sprinkle Zamphuor.
- Add an olive.
- Drink... but... very carefully...
Posted by Catreona at 1:00:00 AM
Thursday, January 19, 2017
The Passing of Arthur
Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron (1809–92)From “Idylls of the King”
THEN saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms,
Black-stol’d, black-hooded, like a dream—by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose
A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur’d Arthur, “Place me in the barge.”
So to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loos’d the shatter’d casque, and chaf’d his hands,
And call’d him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against a brow
Strip’d with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colorless, and like the wither’d moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the dais-throne—were parch’d with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter’d column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
“Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole Round Table is dissolv’d
Which was an image of the mighty world,
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”
And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge:
“The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have liv’d my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst—if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Mov’d from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.
Posted by Catreona at 1:00:00 AM
Monday, January 16, 2017
Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.
Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.
I look to a day when people will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.
I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.
We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools.
Sunday, January 15, 2017
The article linked below draws a direct connection between Dr. King's work and the struggles of today, particularly Black Lives Matter. But it makes as I see it a distinction without a difference when speaking of the "peace and love" King as distinct from and inferior to the "radical" King. Love and forgiveness is a pretty radical concept. So is nonviolent resistance. All the boycotts and protests and hard, physical work in the world can't bring about social justice without the spirit of love, forgiveness, peace and nonviolence. As we move forward into what bids fair to be one of the most unsettled, vicious and divisive periods in American history, let us embrace both parts of Dr. King's legacy.