|Sep. 12th, 2006 09:44 am Death izth Betht|
| You scored as XIII: Death. Death is probably the most well known Tarot card - and also the most misunderstood. Most Tarot novices would consider Death to be a bad card, especially given its connection with the number thirteen. In fact this card rarely indicates literal death.Without "death" there can be no change, only eventual stagnation. The "death" of the child allows for the "birth" of the adult. This change is not always easy. The appearance of Death in a Tarot reading can indicate pain and short term loss, however it also represents hope for a new future.|
II - The High Priestess
I - Magician
0 - The Fool
XV: The Devil
IV - The Emperor
III - The Empress
VI: The Lovers
VIII - Strength
XVI: The Tower
XIX: The Sun
X - Wheel of Fortune
Which Major Arcana Tarot Card Are You?
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|Aug. 16th, 2006 11:46 pm The Unexpected, Part 2, by CPG|
II. It is but two months' time from then; I have been married a fortnight. The first week was heaven--and the second was hell! O my God! my wife! That young Diana to be but--! I have borne it a week. I have feared and despised myself. I have suspected and hated myself. I have discovered and cursed myself. Aye and cursed her, and him, whom this day I shall kill!Leave a comment
It is now three o'clock. I cannot kill him until four, for he comes not till then.
I am very comfortable in this room opposite—very comfortable; and I can wait and think and remember.
Let me think.
First, to kill him. That is simple and easily settled.
Shall I kill her?
If she lived, could I ever see her again? Ever touch that hand—those lips—that, within two weeks of marriage--? No, she shall die!
And if she lived, what would be before her but more shame, and more, till she felt it herself?
Far better that she die!
Could I live to forget her? To carry always in my heart a black stone across that door? To rise and rise, and do great work—alone?
Never! I cannot forget her!
Better die with her, even now.
Hark! Is that a step on the stair? Not yet.
My money is well bestowed. Antoine is a better artist than I, and a better man, and the money will widen and lighten a noble life in his hands.
And little Georgette is provided for. How long ago, how faint and weak, that seems! But Georgette loved me, I believe, at least for a time—longer than a week.
To wait—until four o’clock!
To think—I have thought; it is all arranged!
These pistols, that she admired but day before yesterday, that we practised with together, both loaded full. What a shot she is! I believe she can do everything!
To wait—to think—to remember.
Let me remember.
I knew her a week, wooed her a month, have been married a fortnight.
She always said I didn’t know her. She was always on the point of telling me something, and I would not let her. She seemed half repentant, half in jest—I preferred to trust her. Those clear, brown eyes—clear and bright, like brook water with the sun through it! And she would smile so! ‘Tis not that I must remember.
Am I sure? Sure! I laugh at myself.
What would you call it, you—any man? A young woman steals from her house, alone, every day, and comes privately, cloaked and veiled, to this place, this den of Bohemians, this building of New York studios! Painters? I know them—I am a painter myself.
She goes to this room, day after day, and tells me nothing.
I say to her gently: “What do you do with your days, my love?”
“Oh, many things,” she answers; :I am studying art—to please you!”
That was ingenious. She knew she might be watched.
I say, “Cannot I teach you?” and she says, “I have a teacher I used to study with. I must finish. I want to surprise you!” So she would soothe me—to appearance.
But I watch and follow, I take this little room. I wait, and I see.
Lessons? Oh, perjured one! There is no tenant of that room but yourself, and to it he comes each day.
Is that a step? Not yet. I watch and wait. This is America, I say, not France. This is my wife. I will trust her. But the man comes every day. He is young. He is handsome—handsome as a fiend.
I cannot bear it. I go to the door. I knock. There is no response. I try the door. It is locked. I stoop and look through the keyhole. What do I see? Ah, God! The hat and cloak of that man upon a chair, and then only a tall screen. Behind that screen, low voices!
I did not go home last night. I am here today—with these!
That is a step. Yes! Softly, now. He has gone in. I heard her speak. She said, “You are late, Guillame!”
Let me give them a little time.
Now, softly, I come, friends—I am not late!
|Aug. 15th, 2006 11:56 am CPG|
I.“Il est l'inattendu qui se produit,” says the French proverb. I like the proverb, because it is true – and because it is French.
Edouard Charpentier is my name.
I am an American by birth, but that is all. From infancy, when I had a French nurse; in childhood, when I had a French governess; through youth, passed in a French school; to manhood, devoted to French art, I have been French by sympathy and education.
France—modern France—and French art—modern French art—I adore!
My school is “the pleine-aire,” and my master, could I but find him, is M Duchesne. M Duchesne has had pictures in the Salon for three years, and pictures elsewhere, eagerly bought, and yet Paris knows not M Duchesne. We know his house, his horse, his carriage, his servants and his garden-wall, but he sees no-one, speaks to no-one; indeed, he has left
Paris for a time, and we worship afar off.
I have a sketch by this master which I treasure jealously—a pencil sketch of a great picture yet to come. I await it.
M Duchesne paints from the model, and I paint from the model, exclusively. It is the only way to be firm, accurate, true. Without the model, we may have German fantasy or English domesticity, but no modern French art.
It is hard, too, to get models continually when one is but a student after five years’ work, and one’s pictures bring francs, indeed, but not dollars.
Still, there is Georgette!
There, also, were Emilie and Pauline. But now it is Georgette, and she is adorable!
‘Tis true, she has not much soul; but, then, she has a charming body, and ‘tis that I copy.
Georgette and I get on together to admiration. How much better is this than matrimony for an artist! How wise is M Daudet!
Antoine is my dearest friend. I paint with him, and we are happy. Georgette is my dearest model. I paint from her, and we are happy.
Into this peaceful scene comes a letter from America, bringing much emotion.
It appears I had a great-uncle there, in some north-eastern corner of New England. Maine? No; Vermont.
And it appears, strangely enough, that this northeastern great-uncle was seized in his old age with a passion for French art; at least I know not how else to account for his hunting me up through a lawyer and leaving me some quarter of a million when he died.
An admirable great-uncle!
But I must go home and settle the property; that is imperative. I must leave Paris, I must leave Antoine, I must leave Georgette!
Could anything be further from Paris than a town in Vermont? No, not the Andaman Islands.
And could anything be further from Antoine and Georgette than the family of great-cousins I find myself among?
But one of them, ah, Heaven! Some forty-seventh cousin who is so beautiful that I forget she is an American, I forget Paris, I forget Antoine—yes, and even Georgette! Pauvre Georgette! But this is fate.
This cousin is not like the other cousins. I pursue, I inquire, I ascertain.
Her name is Mary D. Greenleaf. I shall call her Marie.
And she comes from Boston.
But, beyond the name, how can I describe her? I have seen beauty, yes, much beauty, in maid, matron and model, but I never saw anything to equal this country girl. What a figure!
No, not a “figure”—the word shames her. She has a body, the body of a young Diana, and a body and a figure are two very different things. I am an artist, and I have lived in Paris, and I know the difference.
The lawyers in Boston can settle the property, I find.
The air is delightful in northern Vermont in March. There are mountains, clouds, trees. I will paint here a while. Ah, yes; and I will assist this shy young soul!
“Cousin Marie,” say I, “come, let me teach you to paint!”
“It would be too difficult for you, Mr. Carpenter—it would take too long!”
“Call me Edouard!” I cry. “Are we not cousins? Cousin Edouard, I beg of you! And nothing is too difficult when you are with me, Marie—nothing can be too long at your side!”
“Thanks, cousin Edward, but I think I will not impose on your good nature. Besides, I shall not stay here. I go back to Boston, to my aunt.”
I find the air of Boston is good in March, and there are places of interest there, and rising American artists who deserve encouragement. I will stay in Boston a while to assist the lawyers in settling my property; it is necessary.
I visit Marie continually. Am I not a cousin?
I talk to her of life, of art, of Paris, of M Duchesne. I show her my precious sketch.
“But,” says she, “I am not wholly a wood nymph, as you seem fondly to imagine. I have been to Paris myself—with my uncle—years since.”
“Fairest cousin,” say I, “If you had not been even to Boston, I should still love you! Come and see Paris again—with me!” And then she would laugh at me and send me away. Ah, yes! I had come even to marriage, you see!
I soon found she had the usual woman’s faith in those conventions. I gave her “Artists’ Wives.” She said she had read it. She laughed at Daudet and me!
I talked to her of ruined geniuses I had known myself, but she said a ruined genius was no worse than a ruined woman! One cannot reason with young girls!
Do not believe I succumbed without a struggle. I even tore myself away and went to New York. It was not far enough, I fear. I soon came back.
She lived with an aunt—my adorable little precisian!—with a horrible strong-minded aunt, and such a life as I led between them for a whole month!
I call continually. I bury her in flowers. I take her to the theatre, aunt and all. And at this the aunt seemed greatly surprised, but I disapprove of American familiarities. No, my wife—and wife she must be—shall be treated with punctilious respect.
Never was I so laughed at and argued with in my life as was I laughed at by that dreadful beauty, and argued with by that dreadful aunt.
The only rest was in pictures. Marie would look at pictures always, and seemed to have a real appreciation of them, almost an understanding, of a sort. So that I began to hope—dimly and faintly to hope—that she might grow to care for mine. To have a wife who would care for one’s art, who would come to one’s studio—but, then, the models! I paint from the model almost entirely, as I said, and I know what women are about models, without Daudet to tell me!
And this prudish New England girl! Well, she might come to the studio on stated days, and perhaps in time I might lead her gently to understand.
That I should ever live to commit matrimony!
But Fate rules all men.
I think that girl refused me nine times. She always put me off with absurd excuses and reasons: said I didn’t know her yet; said we should never agree; said I was French and she was American; said I cared more for art than I did for her! At that I earnestly assured her that I would become and organ-grinder or bank-clerk rather than lose her—and then she seemed downright angry, and sent me away again.
Women are strangely inconsistent!
She always sent me away, but I always came back.
After about a month of this torture, I chanced to find her, one soft May twilight, sitting by a window in the fragrant dusk.
She had flowers in her hand—flowers I had sent her—and sat looking down at them, her strong, pure profile clear against the saffron sky.
I came in quietly, and stood watching, in a rapture of hope and admiration. And while I watched I saw a great pearl roll down among my violets.
That was enough.
I sprang forward, I knelt beside her, I caught her hands in mine, I cried, exultantly: “You love me! And I—ah, God! how I love you!”
Even then she would have put me from her. She insisted that I did not know her yet, that she ought to tell me—but I held her close and kissed away her words, and said: “You love me, perfect one, and I love you. The rest will be right.”
Then she laid her white hands on my shoulders, and looked deep into my eyes.
“I believe that is true,” said she; “and I will marry you, Edward.”
She dropped her face on my shoulder then—that face of fire and roses—and we were still.
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|Mar. 9th, 2006 11:22 pm The Wax iz Whack! So allay, alack, and smack this in your crack!|
Inspired by a fortuitous meeting with Owen and Tisa, and without further ado...4 comments - Leave a comment
Well, mebbe a little more...use this moment of repose to consider with horror that the Other Brown Secretion may be why you've turned to Livejournal or MySpace or any number of other mediums that rely upon dumb, mute communication. Go on, stick a Q-tip in there. That rrringing in your ears isn't tinnitis; it's your eardrum, crying, as you beat it about the hammer-and-anvil bones, and the Wax, laughing.
Let's smoke them brownies out.
Announcing a slightly better idea than setting something else on fire this weekend: The Ear Candling Party! Not all have bubbeleh's to watch over them and their overtreated (or wispy, doily-like, case may be) hair's safety while the candle works its thermodynamic magic, so get together and do it in shifts! And you thought the buddy system didn't work.
If you can't do the legwork (perhaps because of that vertigo that may be more than just the incurable hangover), I will. Beeswax costs $2.75 and paraffins're two-fitty, Foodfront prices. There's a signup and an informative guide posted at the Dollhouse, and while advert dogma tells me it's faolish to give space to the competition, these are your darling, genius heads we're talking about here; you might know someone with a horror story about candling. Listen to them, pitch a grain, and come anyway, because this is some strange human behavior, at the very least. And it will be fun! Hors d'oeuvres will be served. The date and place (options already narrowed) will be set in a week.
Dig it! Until then...
|Mar. 9th, 2006 11:01 am snow!|
"Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!"Leave a comment
|Feb. 14th, 2006 10:43 am Toot Ruth's Andale|
Every fucking time. Ah, well.
Anyway, this is even better than the classic sleepover game. It should be "Two Dreams and a Reality We Dare Not Comprehend." Or "Two Things I Wish to G_wd Happened, and One Thing You Should Never Do." Some of you already know the answer to this one; sit back, count your "be mine"'s and enjoy yer fat winter lovin'.
1. Everyone I have ever attended an institution of learning with crowds an Oregon beach with their heavy coats and goodhearted desperation. Everyone is aged appropriately. Everyone looks like hell. A few have made out well, yet the imperturbable thrust of this meeting is obviously orientation; snap impressions, preparation for the parochial. I regard this politely roiling mass, which occupies no more and occasionally happily less than sixty seven degrees of incidence to my view, from a pier which rises three times my height from the grey, precambrian sandpack. Only after I stop leaning on the nearest log, an unfashioned railing, do I notice you. What edificiary might possibly admit us both? None worth attending, I say! You are spilling with the other polyps from underneath the pier, and our eyes meet. "This is an unflattering angle.", I say to no one in particular, after wrenching my eyes from you to scan the horizon for some improbable aperture of escape. I immediately regret my nomenclature, and resolve the two additional cuts necessary to remove this shame by moving the shadow, not thinking. None of this is audible and, in fact, I have not stopped oguleering you since your arrival, nor have the polite crowd of shoulders and carefully sprung backs already convulsing and wrinkling the tweedy biomass stomping this beach into the Pacific. It isn't until you sit and notice this attention that you stop eyefucking me and gamely turn to conversations more interesting than ours. We are never closer than a dozen heel-toes, and it isn't until it's over that I notice how without judgement we were.
Secretarial position. Pfft.
2. You're (same you) creased around my head like a safety pin in a house we never loved in, though similar windows swab Mandelbrot sets of Vermeer gold to the horizon lines of your hipbones and ribs.
We konversate truthfully and, needless to say, it is painful, though I know no iodine burn I am so grateful for as this moment.
3. I am enjoying a morning constitutional in Sellwood. It is perfectly still and so I begin to suspect the fog that has afflicted us all and I in particular lay in wait. The traffic from Milwaukee and Clackamas has not yet clogged Tacoma street, and I relax just long enough to imagine this is one of the sleepy, black plateau stations of my birthplace, or perhaps the Himalayas. One fog washed away by another, is it any wonder I mistake her for a sherpa at first? Perhaps it was the hat-poncho-drawstring pants combo what fooled me. It were very silly. It is not until we pass the first time that I notice strange symmetries about her: eyebrows which begin delicately spaced, do not end at the temples, but cling to the head past the peripheral before exploding into gorgeous arabesques above eyes too lizard-warm to be mistaken, as I so often do, for bulletholes; a face not so much foreshortened and restrained as stoic and entirely open; massive but discrete slippered feet, clinging and springing with ev'ry seeming trudge; or...wait! There is a way out of this imminent obsession! Turn, thou fool! There is a crosswalk and no traffic!
We can never know. That is what I thought as unforeseen geometries even then conspired against me, though it is as likely they had conspired long ago and were now out to lunch and solitary spiring. I still do not know how she came to stand in front of me, nor do I know how her hand, crabbed and callused as a boxer's brow, came to rest on my chest, paralyzing my legs and heart but expanding my consciousness and akimboizing my arms. The hand was attached to a shoulder as square as the rhomboids which cluster around a belly, nay, a stomach as flat as a washboard, which is to say, not flat at all, but rippled and immutable, like watered steel, as square as the topknotted head of the little papoose which even then peeked out from under poncho and sports-bra clad boob to grimace dolefully at my lolling mouth, quivering now as surely as then or when this becomes a letter to Penthouse. This woman (and cub) can be seen under waterfalls, the heading "rare phenotypes" and G_wd alone. I do not know but believe for the sake of the efficacy of my ears that it was her lips that imparted the following message and not the twin Swiss guard jutting out of her pantline.
"Do you know what time it is? I am looking for a yoga class."
This is the part where you find out what not to do.
If a Himalayan hippie goddess (and I know from my Tibetans) approaches you and requests your aid, do most things but:
Look at your wrist, intend to say "Oh, my, isn't this a peach. I think I just broke this the other day. I don't even know why I'm wearing it. As you can see, it's pretty screwed up. I think it's about six thirty. There is a New Seasons supermarket around the corner. Care to split a cranberry honey lemonade three ways?", but actually crack out, "...ehhh, this is so screwed up. It's almost, uh, three way." (accompanied flailing, caving of the chest where touched, unnecessary, inappropriate and arcane gesticulating until she goes away).
Every fucking time. Ah, well.
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|Dec. 26th, 2005 01:29 am|
...4 comments - Leave a comment
A hollow visage gazed, or, I should say, oriented on my eyeline at those precise coordinates that lively, jumbled eyes might be, socketed deep in a weathered and shapeless face animated solely with a singular, nay, cyclopean irrespect of decorum, and I do mean that. Gnarled, Olympian shapes spilled out of his gory, black mouth. "Care to pick?", a strange, tremulous voice timorously cried out, scratching the record in my sinuses, though I heard not so much as felt that voice and the message it communicated in the form of uncontrollable shivers and fits, vestigial tail-swats that cramped deep.
A long time later, I grew dissatisfied that our relationship had not progressed as I had expected. "I am a transitive state," the kingly gums intoned. "I have achieved transcendence, or rather, that blessed state prior, where one can turn back. We will not speak again."
"As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport, and you do pick very well.", I lamely replied, always too quick and redundant. He left some time after that, and the shuddering abated.
|Dec. 26th, 2005 12:25 am ...and Hannukah rolls on|
It's Christmastime fier the Jews at http://comedian.blogspot.com/2005/12/for-reasons-to-do-with-my-wifes.html
Super Direct Link Asshole Number One!
Number two, it's true. We see movies with a loved one, providing. Anyone up for Jesus is Magic? Chiksas with boyfriends need not apply (you know who you are).
An' a man can't make a dollar, but for his immortal soul.
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|Nov. 28th, 2005 03:59 pm ...Would mean certain death.|
| You scored as Mermaid. Mermaid: Mermaids are also known as Sirens. These creatures were beautiful women who tricked sailors into becoming completely entranced by their haunting voices and found death soon after. Not all stories of Mermaids are about gentle loving sea people. They are mystical, magical, and extremely dangerous. They have a way about them that brings anyone they are around to seem enchanted. They are very mysterious creatures and to meet one... Would mean certain Death. Let the song of the Sea fill your soul, for you are a Mermaid.|
What Mythological Creature are you? (Cool Pics!)
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