Like many epicurians, Welles was born under the sign of Taurus, the same sign as William Randolph Hearst, the media mogul who was the inspiration for Welles' epic film Citizen Kane.

Here's what's interesting. Many astrology Web sites, including Astrotheme of France, show Welles being born at 7 a.m. on May 6, 1915 in Kenosha, Wis.

That's not the time that Callow reports. According to the Welles biographer, journalists were constantly asking to see Welles' birth certificate because they wanted to prove that he was 5 to 10 years older than the wunderkind said he was.

Says Callow: "His mother later told him that because it was six o'clock in the morning -- the time Kenosha's many factories started work -- whistles and bells had all started blowing at once, as if to herald him; a perfectly appropriate beginning, since most of the rest of his life was accompanied by fanfares of one sort or another."

This reminds me of inventor Nikola Tesla, who was reportedly born at midnight as lightning struck outside.

My goal in writing this post is to point out that the time of birth floating around the blogosphere for Welles is most likely wrong. I intend to write more about the prodigy, who had a creative Venus/Mars conjunction in pioneering Aries, after I finish the book and complete my research into Welles' Depression-era production of The Cradle Will Rock.

Like another O.W. (Oscar Wilde), Welles was born with a conjunction between revolutionary Uranus and the public-oriented North Node.

Wilde had Moon square his Uranus/Node conjunction; Welles had the Moon in the middle of his Uranus/Node combo. According to Reinhold Ebertin's The Combination of Stellar Influences, this picture results in "an excitable disposition in the presence of other persons."

Here's a natal chart for Welles with a 6 a.m. time of birth, courtesy of Astrodienst.

Of course, reading a biography is not as foolproof as seeing a birth certificate for Welles. But back in those days birth times were often not recorded. As I like to point out, biographies are a treasure trove of data for the astrological student.

I've got one word for you: Rosebud.

A House of Pomegranates by    Oscar Wilde:

[caption id="attachment_420" align="alignleft" width="121" caption="four fairy tales that weave magical stories"][/caption]

... and listened, listening till the sea-mists crept round him, and the wandering moon stained his brown limbs with silver.
And one evening he called to her, and said: 'Little Mermaid, little Mermaid, I love thee. Take me for thy bridegroom, for I love thee.'
But the Mermaid shook her head. 'Thou hast a human soul,' she answered. 'If only thou wouldst send away thy soul, then could I love thee.'
And the young Fisherman said to himself, 'Of what use is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it. Surely I will send it away from me, and much gladness shall be

http://www.alibris.com

But secretly, deep down inside - I wish myself "tsom kal".

I wasn't that hungry towards the end of the fast. But I was exhausted. The lack of energy, and the headache. The hammering headache. Every single yom kippur. Is it lack of fluids because I'm not drinking, or is it lack of caffeine? I broke my fast with a pita bread, a glass of water and a cup of coffee. After an hour I had a full meal. I'll take another cup of coffee soon to get my caffeine balance on track. My wife's headache was worse. She even had to break the fast because of it. I really hope this will work. I sent her a question about it. Maybe it'll go better next year?

If we had no kids we would be able to stay in bed reading the Bible the entire day. No work, no dishes (since we don't eat), just rest and be together and with God. But we have kids to entertain. We were actually very tired today. Not because lack of sleep (as usual) but rather because of too much sleep. We actually went to sleep yesterday evening at 18:30 and slept the whole night until 06:00! Eleven and a half hour of sleep! Man, we needed that. But it made us tired. And we had sore backs.

The idea also struck me that if the leaders of the country would use this time of the year to apologize to their people for any mistakes they have done - wouldn't that be awesome? Every leader would be required to apologize for something, as we all make mistakes. Olmert would have a lot to say... but I guess he is a bit busy now, drilling holes.

Anyway. I have been talking to the kids about yom kippur and what it's all about. Bringing up the story of Jonah and the regret of the people of Nineveh, as usually on Yom Kippur. And then I read them the beautiful story about the selfish giant by Oscar Wilde. I really really like it, and it's so perfect for Yom Kippur. How Jesus came and took away the selfishness from his heart, and how everything became good again. And after that he kept looking for Jesus, not knowing it was him, finding him only on the day of his death, when Jesus came to take him to heaven. I always have tears in my eyes when I reach the end of that story. The kids really liked it too.
The Selfish Giant

Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.
    It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. 'How happy we are here!' they cried to each other.
    One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.
    'What are you doing here?' he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.
    'My own garden is my own garden,' said the Giant; 'any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.' So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.

    TRESPASSERS
    WILL BE
    PROSECUTED

    He was a very selfish Giant.

    The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside.
    'How happy we were there,' they said to each other.
    Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still Winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. 'Spring has forgotten this garden,' they cried, 'so we will live here all the year round.' The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. 'This is a delightful spot,' he said, 'we must ask the Hail on a visit.' So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.
    'I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,' said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; 'I hope there will be a change in the weather.'
    But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. 'He is too selfish,' she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.

    One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. 'I believe the Spring has come at last,' said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.
    What did he see?
    He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still Winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. 'Climb up! little boy,' said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the little boy was too tiny.
    And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. 'How selfish I have been!' he said; 'now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever.' He was really very sorry for what he had done.

    So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became Winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he died not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. 'It is your garden now, little children,' said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were gong to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
    All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.
    'But where is your little companion?' he said: 'the boy I put into the tree.' The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
    'We don't know,' answered the children; 'he has gone away.'
    'You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,' said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.
    Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. 'How I would like to see him!' he used to say.
    Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. 'I have many beautiful flowers,' he said; 'but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.'

    One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
    Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.
    Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, 'Who hath dared to wound thee?' For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
    'Who hath dared to wound thee?' cried the Giant; 'tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.'
    'Nay!' answered the child; 'but these are the wounds of Love.'
    'Who art thou?' said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.
    And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, 'You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.'
    And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

(Taken from http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/SelGia.shtml and it's hopefully the true original)

”Vi skal gjennombore dens metaforer, avkle dens strukturer og på den måten komme frem til dens mening. Som med alle store verk skal vi lese den forsiktig og med respekt.” Ordene ovenfor er lagt i munnen på Jack The Ripper, som høsten 1888 myrdet fem prostituerte i Whitechapel-slummen i London. Han snakker om London, men sitatet kunne like gjerne handle om From Hell – den vel 600 sider lange tegneserien om Ripper-drapene.

Serien er også blitt film med Johnny Depp i hovedrollen, men filmen når ikke opp til anklene til tegneserien og dens ambisjonsnivå, bredde og dybde. Der filmen er en tradisjonell mørk thriller, dissekerer Moore selve Historien og vårt syn på den.

”Dersom du kutter dypt, presist, iherdig og metodisk nok, kommer du ikke bare frem til hvordan noe fungerer, men også meningen bak det. From Hell er en obduksjon av en historisk hendelse, der jeg bruker fiksjon som skalpell”, skrev Moore da serien startet som føljetong i antologien Taboo i 1989. Og historien om Ripper-mordene er et av den moderne tids virkelige store mysterier, ”en sump av halvsannheter, rykter og løgn”, som Moore selv formulerer det.

Vi vet fortsatt ikke hvem Jack The Ripper var, og ”ripperologene” har lansert flere teorier. Moore tar utgangspunkt i Stephen Knights bok The Final Solution, der Knight hevder drapene ble iverksatt av det britiske kongehuset for å forhindre en kongelig skandale.

Men selv om Moore briljerer med sterke skildringer av både frimurerernes tildekking av saken og dagliglivet i slummen i London, er ikke dette det viktigste. ”Både innen politikk, teknologi, kunst og filosofi finner vi frøene til det 20. århundret på 1880-tallet. Tiåret utgjør essensen av 1900-tallet, og Ripper-drapene utgjør for meg essensen av 1880-tallet”, skriver Moore i det 42 sider lange tillegget med fotnoter.

Moore trekker linjene helt tilbake til pre-historisk tid og drar inn feministisk teori som Robert Graves’ The White Goddess og Marilyn Frenchs Beyond Power – to verk som hevder samfunnet tidligere var matriarkalsk – kvinnestyrt. For Moore utgjør Ripper-drapene en kulminasjon av patriarkalsk undertrykkelse – intet mindre.

I en annen nøkkelscene, det bestialske drapet på Mary Kelly, irrettesetter Jack The Ripper dagens samfunn i en hallusinasjon: ”Fortiden deres er smerte og jern. Kjenn dere selv. Dere kan ikke verne dere mot historien, dens svarte røtter hjelper dere. Jeg er alltid med dere!” Kjenn historien, er kjernen i Moores budskap.

Og From Hell kryr av historiske bifigurer: John Merrick (Elefantmannen), Buffalo Bill, W.B. Yeats, Aleister Crowley og Oscar Wilde dukker alle opp. Den største svakheten med From Hell er da også Moores store ønske om å få med mest mulig. Til tider blir symbolismen og sammentreffene overdrevne – som da Moore gjør et poeng ut av at Adolf Hitler ble unnfanget samtidig som drapene i Whitechapel tok til.

From Hell er ikke lett lesestoff, og Eddie Campbells grove svart/hvitt-tegninger kan også være en barriere.  Streken grenser opp mot avistegninger fra 1880-tallet, og virker uvant sammenlignet med dagens mer ”flashy” stil. Men From Hell er en serie du ikke kommer umerket fra om du tør å kaste deg ut på dypt vann.

PS! Som en lett dessert anbefales The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen av Alan Moore og Kevin O’Neill – en munter guttebokhyllest fra Victoria-tiden og et lyst speilbilde av den mørke og tunge From Hell. For ikke å glemme Lost Girls med Melinda Gebbie, der Moore tar det endelige oppgjøret med viktoriatiden.

Alan Moore og Eddie Campbell
From Hell
Faraos Cigarer 2008
6/6

Anmeldelsen er basert på den engelske utgaven, og sto opprinnelig på trykk i Bergens Tidende.

Dette har eg gjort i det siste: Arbeidd i kaffibutikken, studert, nytta tid på den intellektuelle spjotspissen i målrørsla (aka Mål og makt), trent, freista å vera sosial... Ikkje so mykje spanande, med andre ord.

Men! For å auka oppdateringsfrekvensen min, tenkte eg eg skulle gjera eit eksperiment: Kvar dag denne veka, skal eg skriva fem til ti setningar om eit emne som interesserer meg. Det kan vera kva som helst, og det er ikkje sikkert at du som les dette kjem til å synast det er so spanande, men kanskje lærer du noko nytt, og då er det jo verd det.

Er du klar? Då køyrer me i gang!

Måndag: Oscar Wilde og The Picture of Dorian Gray

Eg har inntrykk av at Oscar Wilde er i vinden for tida. Sjølv har eg vore ein slags fan av mannen heilt sidan eg las forteljinga om Canterville-skrømtet, som vert særs frustert då den amerikanske familien som vitjar slottet han bur på, nektar å lata seg skræma. The Picture of Dorian Gray, derimot, har eg eit noko meir ambivalent tilhøve til - romanen er litt vel melodramatisk og svulstig for min smak - men det er ei veldig fascinerande bok.

Tittelkarakteren vert portrettert av målaren Basil, som introduserer han for den dekadente Lord Henry, som hevdar at venleik og njoting er det einaste viktige i livet. Dorian vert særs fascinert av denne tankegangen, og snart er han i gang med å eksperimentera med alle slags lovlege og ulovlege aktivitetar. Han mislikar tanken på at han ein gong skal verta gamal og stygg, og seier difor på eit tidspunkt at han skulle ynskja måleriet til Basil kunne eldast i staden for han sjølv. Før han veit ordet av det, har han fått ynsket sitt oppfylt.

Dorian Gray er influert av den franske romanen À rebours, som handlar om ein adelsmann som trekkjer seg attende til eit einsamt slott for å gjera sære eksperiment (som til dømes å dyrka fram stygge, giftige blomar). Mellom anna får Dorian ei ikkje namngjeven fransk bok i gåve av Lord Henry, og det er denne "giftige" romanen som verkeleg set i gang prosessen der Dorian kvittar seg med dei moralske skruplane sine, ein etter ein.

Jammen vart det ikkje fem til ti setningar, gitt.

Per vederlo, basta cliccare qui

"PsychoSALOME'" (video-teatro, 2008)

con:

Andrea Rossetti (Giovanni Battista-Salomè);

Ivana Fukalot (Salomè);

Due Degenti Sottotitolati;

Rosamaria Caputi (voci femminili);

sceneggiatura:

Andrea Rossetti;

fotografia:

Vincent D'Onofrio;

montaggio:

Alberto Gemmi & Mirco Marmiroli;

musica:

Julien Boulier;

Pornophonique;

C. Filipe Alves;

regia:

Andrea Rossetti.

I wasn't loving True Blood, as I've said. The vampires aren't sexy. They're pasty, bald, downright nasty. Their teeth extend in a penile way that's stomach-churning. There's this possessive rape-ish energy like in a high school romance. That's not a good thing. If you think it is then you're probably still in high school. Poor baby. Turn off that cell phone, spend time with friends, get real.  True Blood's creator, Alan Ball, is bloody brilliant so I could practically taste the clever insanity. As fresh as a virgin's plasma. Literary, intellectual, imaginative. If you've been around for 400 years, I would think you'd be smarter than the average redneck. I would imagine you'd have a weighty presence and an unsettling charisma. I don't have a vampire fetish so it's not enough that they have fangs and drink blood, big deal. I want my vampires to have something more, something extra. Beyond their raging unbearable hard-ons.

Maybe if the hero (not pictured above) were more like Vincent from TV's Beauty & The Beast. Now there was a mythical creature that was, well, mythic.  And creaturely. The Beast took up space, his presence was palpable. Beast's underground NYC home was crowded with books, easels, paints & other talismans. Vincent was sexy as a sulking, skulking Lion-Man. A gentle freak with depth of heart and psyche. I loved the Beast (and always knew that when I was a grown-up beauty the Beast would love me too.)  The show aired on CBS in the 80's. It starred Linda Hamilton as Beauty & Ron Perlman as Beast. Ron Perlman has recently returned to weekly TV as the sociopath patriarch of a SoCal biker gang  on FX's "Sons of Anarchy."*  Once a beast, now a BEAST.  Perlman is great as Hamlet's despot Step-Pop & mortorcycle madman. Too great. It's hard; I hurt.  Perlman will always be my wise and loving Beastie. I want to scream at the TV "You Scum-Bag A-Hole, what have you done with Vincent?"

Vincent was a dreamy character who had a profoud effect on me. I haven't seen the show since I was a little girl but I still make romantic choices based on beasty-ness. People who know me are now ticking back through my history, all the way back to that high school romance, and going yep yep yep. I've loved one magical beastie boy after another.

True Blood could've been the new cable version of Beauty & the Beast. Gorgeous, with a wicked taboo tickle and a hero so smart that he can like lick your brain.  Or make you tremble with just his juiced-up brain waves.  (It's true, I've met a man like that. I don't call him RobotBoyLoverMan for nothin!) I'm talking so smart, it's torture.  With a dandy's style and a philosopher's smile. A cross between Oscar Wilde and Bukowski. Jesse James meets William James. Yum yum. This here nugget offers just a nibble of hope when, two minutes in, there is 60 beautiful seconds that evoke the early moments in a new flirtation and hint at an older intellect.

OK, yea, that was pretty delish. His smile after she says "I'm serious" and he says "As am I," well, for a second I looked past the bad acting and the pasty pastiche. And Puns! Vampires love puns? Hmmm. I did not know that. Maybe I'm a vampire. I do love velvet (paired with black satin cigarette pants & beaded platforms) and I have been known to take the occasional love bite. Except not so occasional and not so loving. Mortals often admire my moonglow skin and fawn over my pitch black ringlets. They gush over my "old soul" and want to raid my closet. But like the stupid short-lives they are, they poo-poo my puns.

• "Fangtasia?"
• "You have to remember that most Vampires are very old. Puns used to be the highest form of humor."

Not only is Fangtasia a fangtastic name for a vampire bar but it was a great change of scenery for characters and viewers both. The visit made for vibrant visuals and the go-go dancing vamps had moves that mere mortals couldn't bust.

• "This one, she wanted to die. Everyone who comes here does, in their own way. That's what we are. Death."

When they're running out of the bar to escape the cops and John whisks Sookie into his arms, yea, that was kinda cool. As a feminist, I'm loathe to admit it; but as a dorky romantic who once was held rapt by TV's Beauty & the Beast, who crushed on brave lion-browed Vincent, ah, my heart skipped a beat. Goof help me. True Blood's bloodsucker may seduce me yet. 

• "This feels a little like what a vampire bar would be like if it were a ride at Disney World."
• "Well don't get too comfortable. It tends to get more authentic as the night wears on."

Maybe True Blood is Fangtasia. Maybe if we hang in there it will get more entertaining. Maybe the hero will read a few (thousand) books and bulk up his vocab. Maybe the actor who plays him (Stephen Moyer) will sharpen his acting chops. In order for "True Blood" to satisfy, I need a hero who makes me heady and flushed. Hell, he arouses Anna Paquin's Sookie so much that she masturbates on his porch and all I want is some fangscination. Make me wanna suck blood. Fill me with craving.

Alphabetfiend is Dia VanGunten -- Poetess & vampire punster living in the deep south (west). Working on a review of Ron Perlman's new FX show "Sons of Anarchy" so be on the look out.

Vremea iubirilor din ploi ...

Timpul este moneda vieţii tale. Este singura monedă pe care o ai şi numai tu poţi hotărî cum o vei cheltui. Fii atent ca nu cumva să-i laşi pe alţii s-o cheltuie pentru tine.  ( Carl Sandburg )

Adevăratul timp este un punct care se numeşte "acum", înţepat de o infinitate de drepte care se numesc alegeri în viaţă.  ( Ioan Gyuri Pascu )

Timpul este distanţa dintre chemarea lui Dumnezeu şi răspunsul tău.  ( Părintele Dumitru Stăniloae )

Oliver Mandic i Ceca Raznatovic - Vreme za ljubav REMIX ´08 :

Vremea iubirilor ...

vremea iubirilor din ploi ...

cad chihlimbarele mirării peste noi,

şi ne uităm tăcerile-n-napoi,

ne desfătăm din şoaptele ce curg şuvoi,

secătuiţi de, multe, însă noi ...

e vremea arămiului sărut,

surâs din firele ţesute mai demult,

pe buze ce nicicând s-au cunoscut,

se regăsesc ca focul, apa vie-n lut,

alint ulciorului deloc tăcut ...

Sibilla Poesis

Secretul fericirii constă în a ceda tentaţiilor.  ( Oscar Wilde )

Femeile sunt creaturi menite să fie iubite, nu înţelese.  ( Oscar Wilde )

Tinereţea zâmbeşte fără pricină. Este unul din farmecele ei de căpetenie.  ( Oscar Wilde )

Metoda experimentală este singura metodă prin care se poate ajunge la o analiză ştiinţifică a pasiunilor.  ( Oscar Wilde )

Povara acestei lumi e mult prea grea pentru ca un om să o poată purta, iar suferinţa Universului e mult prea mare pentru o singură inima.  ( Oscar Wilde )

Al Dino - Odlazis :

Nu ne-am atins ...

mă doare tâmpla ta tăcută,

mi-e lacrima fior de ciută,

tresar din frunze veştede surâs,

obrazul tău şi mâna mea,ce vis ...

nu ne-am atins ... nu ne-am atins ...

Sibilla Poesis

Sufletul e o realitate cutremurătoare. Nu poate fi cumpărat, nu poate fi vândut şi scos la mezat. Poate fi însă otrăvit sau adus la desăvârşire. Există un suflet în fiecare dintre noi.  ( Oscar Wilde )

Tocmai atunci când zeii vor să ne pedepsească, ei ne aud rugăciunile.  ( Oscar Wilde )

S-au scurs şi-au secat şi iarăşi s-au prelins, milioane de tresăriri pe fruntea inimii mele-nrourate de focul viu, tainei baladă ... au murit, neliniştile uimirilor din chihlimbar şi-au înviat mirările trezite de pocalele trăznite-n clinchet dulce-amar ... între zâmbetul Cerului şi surâsul pământului, am rămas agăţată ofrandă, dar, eu, numai EU, atât ... şi uite, toamna mea zmintită, mi-a-mbrăţişat aripa gândului, ce gând ...

( Sibilla )

Sibilla Poesis

citate preluate de pe www.citapedia.ro

imagini preluate de pe google.ro

muzika srpska preluată de pe youtube : www.susjed.com

I vampiri di cui parlo? No! Non sono neanche quelli di Anne Rice, Lestat (che detto tra noi è molto più affascinante nei libri), Louis, e Armand (che detto tra noi Antonio Banderas è molto più affascinante di un libro).

Ma allora quali saranno questi vampiri? Gli impiegati dell'Avis il giorno della donazione del sangue? NOOO! Anche se devo ammettere di aver avuto un paio d'incontri ravvicinati piuttosto inquietanti con i collaboratori Avis i vampiri di cui parlo sono quelli "classici e tradizionalisti" insomma i Dracula con le varie concubine di Bram Stoker!

Allora che ci azzecca Dublino? Dovevi forse scrivere Romania o Transilvania e ti sei sbagliata avendo sempre avuto un rapporto conflittuale con la tastiera?

Eh no! Perchè uno dei posti che mi è piaciuto di più a Dublino è il Writer's Museum... vabbè forse mi piaceva anche quello che ci lavorava, ma questo non vi riguarda... e visto che una bella saletta era dedicata a Bram Stoker, creatore del più sexy maniaco omicida della letteratura, sorbitevi questo post! Tratto da una storia vera (non la parte riguardante i pipistrelli e i canini e i nonmorti... spero) la storia di Drak l'impalatore è stata trasformata nel bel librone dell'orrore aggiungendovi alcuni elementi del Beowulf (non quello con Angelina Jolie e Russel Crowe... quello vero!) dove uno  dei nemici di Beowulf si chiamava Drak...

Comunque dopo essermi assicurata di non aver succhiotti del collo... con un certo rammarico, decisi di affogare il mio dolore nella "Guiness"!!! E quindi mi iscrissi al Pub Crawl... chi non è stato in Irlanda non saprà cos'è il Pub Crawl... e solo i più alcolizzati di quelli che sono andati in Inghilterra ne avranno sentito parlare... Il pub Crawl è una specie di "gioco"...  ci si organizza in gruppo e si entra ed esce da tutti i Pub, con l'obbligo di bersi qualcosina in ogni bar nel quale si entra! Penserete... più che gioco ci sembra "una sbronza ambulante" di gruppo! In realtà il gioco c'è: tutti i pub devono avere un "tema comune" e chi ti guida attraverso questi pub ti fa domande sull'argomento... se sbagli... paghi tu il giro nel pub davanti al quale sei stato interrogato!

L'argomento nel mio caso erano i libri e la "gente di dublino" ossia gli autori famosi... quali Wilde... Shaw... Beckett (ahahah a me è capitata proprio una domanda su di lui e capirete che non potevo sbagliarla! O non mi sarei fatta chiamare Godot!)... etc. etc.

Comunque dopo aver bevuto tanto... ma tanto... e per fortuna non aver pagato nulla... me ne tornai al mio alloggio per farmi le mie tre buone ore di sonno! Solo tre ore di sonno?! Sì perchè il giorno dopo avevo tutta l'intenzione di andare a caccia degli U2 (senza fucile o carabina) solo con un indirizzo... quello del loro studio di registrazione! Ovviamente loro non erano neanche in Irlanda... ma mi ricordo ancora quella sensazione... la sensazione di vedere quel palazzone così da vicino e pensare... mbè ma è tutto qui? Mi scuserete ma all'epoca ero ancora giovane e senza un tappeto rosso e le maniglie del portone in oro 18kt non mi sembrava un posto degno di nota!

Qualche anno dopo ci sono tornata... e mi è piaciuta sempre tanto Dublino... però non sono andata più a caccia di Bono Vox e compari... al Pub Crawl ci sono tornata... argomento... Fantasmi e Vampiri (ancora!) e ancora una volta non ho pagato neanche una birra! Non è che io sia spilorcia ma, con le pensioni che ci aspettano, mi sto allenando per andare a passare la vecchiaia ai Quiz Televisivi!

Oscar Wilde

Es una pena que dispusiese de un tiempo muy limitado, para visitar tan famoso y gran museo de antigüedades –no quedaba más remedio que repartir los escasos minutos pasados en tierra infiel- La inmensidad de sus más de siete millones de piezas requerirían semanas de dedicación, aunque muchas de ellas no estén ni siquiera expuestas y permanezcan en los subterráneos sin ver la luz. No sabes si dar las gracias a las gentes que hicieron posible esta magna exposición, o abominarlos ya que sin duda la mayoría de las piezas cargan detrás de su ser, con una larga y penosa historia de saqueo y expolio, bien es verdad que sin ese contratiempo nunca nos hubiera sido dado contemplar a esos millones de gentes, que anualmente se pierden por estas salas, tantas maravillas. Ya lo dice el refrán: no hay mal que por bien no venga, o algo así.

Dicen que se fue nutriendo la colección con compras y donaciones, dando un salto de calidad hace más de un par de siglos, cuando aumentó de forma significativa la colección de antigüedades, por la compra por parte del Estado de las obras y objetos de Sir William Hamilton –seguramente un considerado ancestro del rival de Alonso- embajador británico en Nápoles, que incluían numerosas piezas de Grecia y Roma, que se había encargado previamente de afanar.

En el centro del Gran Atrio está ubicada la sala de lectura, que antes formaba parte de la Biblioteca Británica. Muchos de los volúmenes de la sala, pasaron por las manos y fueron consultados por grandes personalidades a lo largo de su historia, como Karl Marx, Oscar Wilde, Mohandas Gandhi, Rudyard Kipling, George Bernard Shaw, Vladimir Lenin o H. G. Wells. Esta amplia y majestuosa sala de lectura está abierta para cualquier persona que lo desee, durante todo el año ¡y gratis! debe ser de las pocas cosas que salen valde ya que te cobran hasta por respirar, las libras te marchan solas, es una ciudad carísima.

Hay varios países que tienen contencioso con los dueños del establecimiento, ya que se consideran expoliados, han pedido en repetidas ocasiones -por activa y por pasiva- la devolución de ciertas obras por parte de las autoridades británicas, que responden diciendo que ellos como buenos descendientes de sus antepasados piratas, se atienen a una ley promulgada por el Parlamento en el año 1753 –cuando eran los gallos del orbe- que prohíbe la salida del país de cualquier pieza a no ser que sea un duplicado, para preservar tan rica colección. Además argumentan convincentemente que se pueden dar con un canto en los dientes, ya que gracias a que ellos apandaron en su día con esas obras y las guardan celosamente bajo su custodia, todavía existen, ya que sabe dios en que perversas manos hubiesen seguramente acabado, además que están convencidos que no podrían haber sido conservadas adecuadamente en sus países de origen, lo que les carga de razones para no devolver ni una sola pieza.

El libro de hoy pertenece al escritor argentino Rodolfo Walsh asesinado en su día por la criminal dictadura de los milicos.

Rodolfo Walsh Operación masacre

[caption id="attachment_2899" align="aligncenter" width="900" caption="Fresco de una tumba de Tebas"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_2898" align="aligncenter" width="900" caption="Acuarela de Durero"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_2897" align="aligncenter" width="900" caption="Capa de oro de la Edad del bronce"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_2896" align="aligncenter" width="900" caption="Atrio"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_2895" align="aligncenter" width="900" caption="Sala de lectura"][/caption]

]]> http://lifesuccessleslie.wordpress.com/?p=50 Fri, 03 Oct 2008 15:38:57 +0000 lifesuccessleslie http://lifesuccessleslie.sv.wordpress.com/2008/10/03/leaders-flex-their-perception/ Stuck in your own point of view? Not sure?

You find yourself disagreeing with others over who is right and who is wrong. Subject doesn't matter. Location doesn't matter -- you are driven to be right! You are sure you are right! Why don't people 'get' that you are really, really sure that you are right? Why, you would even bet a week's salary that you are right! I was there myself ... quite some time ago. Until I learned that being right or wrong is meaningless. Well it might be meaningful to me, but it is meaningless to others.

This type of interaction is the lowest level of awareness. When you are caught up in who is right and who is wrong, nothing of value is accomplished. There is no moving forward or synergy of ideas. Raising awareness opens up idea generation and leaders know this.

Each of us has our own point of view. We have our system of judgments and evaluations of how things ought to be. No two are the same and all are equally accurate. When you begin to see that each point of view is accurate for that person, you can move forward to create something worthwhile, and discard the notion that being right or wrong has any value.

Would it be selfish to ask everyone to adopt my own points of view? I use them and they work very well for me. I love this quote from Oscar Wilde. He puts it nicely.

"Living as we want to live is not selfishness … asking others to live as you want to live is selfishness."

Leaders practice exercising their perception by not being reactive, but responsive. They already know that we are all attached to our point of view. Leaders will set aside theirs to listen to yours.

Leaders give up having to be right. They are more interested in a higher level of awareness. They don't waste time arguing about right and wrong. That does not serve anyone and does not further the conversation.

When you feel an argument developing and notice that you are really attached to your point of view, stop a second ... just long enough to consider that the other person feels the same as you do and that they are as attached as you are. Time to lighten up, step back, generously listen to the other person and amazing things will happen.

Lifeline Theatre has proven once again, “bigger is not always better.” Their small theatre has truly captured the essence of Oscar Wilde’s play with creativity, wonderful acting, and a skillfully used two-tier set that is amazing. Through the help of Basil Hailworth, Lord Henry Wotton, Alan Campbell, and the beautiful, Sibyl Vane, the play begins with all sharing their amorous feelings for the handsomely young Dorian Gray, convincingly played by Nick Vidal.

Following the introductions, we see Basil Hailworth presenting the finished picture to Dorian who, after viewing it, falls in love with his own image. Dorian vows to sell his soul for eternal youth if only his picture would not age himself. The role of Dorian Gray might have been a daunting task for Nick Vidal and very one-dimensional, but under the great direction of Kevin Theis, you see the evil that is beginning to spew and creep out of Dorian’s face and behavior.

The ten-cast ensemble is excellent. By taking chances, the ensemble shares and entertains us with great fortitude. Don Bender, as the elder Basil, is strong and yet - when Dorian is present - converts into the shy, rambling and insecure young Basil, played by Aaron Snook. The work of these two agile performers is truly amazing. Unlike Basil, the young Lord Henry, played by Paul S. Holmquist, manipulates his way into Dorian’s life by teasing him with his biting sense of humor. The young Lord Henry is self-assured, funny, and not ashamed to voice his opinion. As the years pass, the influence of Dorian Gray seeps in, and the elder Lord Henry, played by Sean Sinitski, becomes a darker, more demure, and his biting sense of humor seems to fade. One must not forget the Sibyl Vane played by the beautiful Melissa Nedell: she commands the stage and charms our hearts with the love she holds for Dorian Gray. We see Kyle A. Gibson and John Ferrick as the younger and elder Alan Campbell. Mr. Campbell's love never changes and he never stops wishing that one day Dorian would feel the same. We find out later that there is nothing Alan will not do for Dorian Gray. Adam Breske and David Skvaria as James Vane, younger and elder brother of Sibyl Vane, are equally scary and fantastic to watch. Whenever on stage, you can feel their anger. The entire cast and their secondary roles are truly brilliant, working as a fine-tuned machine.

Twists and turns are abundant in Robert Kauzlaric's adaptation of Portrait of Dorian Gray - and they will keep you focused on the action throughout.  Indeed, one scene even scared me! (and I don't scare easy - though my grandkids might say otherwise!). Unfortunately I am not going to let you know what this scene is - you'll have to see it for yourself!

But there is a haunting line in the show that I will share, “Love is truly mankind’s greatest tragedy.” What do you think? Go to the show and find out.

As a side note - I had the pleasure of speaking to a retired woman in the audience named Ms. Phyllis Trowbridge, who was friendly yet quirky, much like the gentrifying Rogers Park neighborhood surrounding the theatre.  Phyllis relayed to me that she had gone to a number of shows at Lifeline and, to quote her, “ I have not seen any bad shows here.”  I certainly must agree with Phyllis, and encourage all to support this theatrical treasure.

If you enjoy reading the works of Oscar Wilde (and even if you don't) then this is the play for you. The Picture of Dorian Gray, showing at the Lifeline Theatre, runs through November 2nd.

Rating: ««««

Here's something from my Inbox that will tickle your funny bones:

ARTISTRY OF INSULTS
When Insults Had Class (no 4-letter words!!) These glorious insults are from an era when cleverness with words was still valued, before a great portion of the English language got boiled down to 4-letter words, not to mention waving middle fingers.

The exchange between Churchill & Lady Astor: She said, "If you were my husband I'd give you poison," and he said, "If you were my wife, I'd drink it."

A Member of Parliament to Disraeli: "Sir, you will either die on the gallows or of some unspeakable disease." "That depends, Sir," said Disraeli, "whether I embrace your policies or your mistress."

"He had delusions of adequacy." - Walter Kerr

"He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire." - Winston Churchill

"A modest little person, with much to be modest about." - Winston Churchill

"I have never killed a man, but I have read many obituaries with great pleasure." Clarence Darrow

"He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary." - William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway).

"Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?" - Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)

"Thank you for sending me a copy of your book; I'll waste no time reading it." - Moses Hadas

"He can compress the most words into the smallest idea of any man I know." - Abraham Lincoln

"I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it." - Mark Twain

"He has no enemies, but is intensely disliked by his friends." - Oscar Wilde

"I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play; bring a friend.... if you have one." - George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill

"Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second... if there is one." - Winston Churchill, in response.

"I feel so miserable without you; it's almost like having you here." - Stephen Bishop

"He is a self-made man and worships his creator." - John Bright

"I've just learned about his illness. Let's hope it's nothing trivial." - Irvin S. Cobb

"He is not only dull himself, he is the cause of dullness in others." - Samuel Johnson

"He is simply a shiver looking for a spine to run up." - Paul Keating

"There's nothing wrong with you that reincarnation won't cure." Jack E. Leonard

"He has the attention span of a lightning bolt." - Robert Redford

"They never open their mouths without subtracting from the sum of human knowledge." - Thomas Brackett Reed

"In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily." - Charles, Count Talleyrand

"He loves nature in spite of what it did to him." - Forrest Tucker

"Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?" - Mark Twain

"His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork." - Mae West

"Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go." - Oscar Wilde

"He uses statistics as a drunken man uses lamp-posts... for support rather than illumination." - Andrew Lang (1844-1912)

"He has Van Gogh's ear for music." - Billy Wilder

"I've had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn't it." - Groucho Marx

The vicar, who had helped himself to some brandy, was thinking back to when he had first arrived in this strange village. The previous vicar had passed away just a week before. He had been stealing opium from the local pharmacy at midnight, as was his habit. His wife being notoriously ugly, nobody in the village begrudged him this small eccentricity. On the night in question, he suddenly had a divine revelation that was strangely similar in nature to his opium hallucinations. The distinction was all the more difficult to discern due to the unusually large amount of opium he had consumed. It was as if some higher power had spoken directly to him and he suddenly knew what he must do.

Divesting himself of his clothes, he set out across the fields towards Twistlefox Manor where he somehow gained entrance to the servants' quarters. Once inside, he awakened the household by ringing the dinner gong and declaring at the top of his voice that he was a lost African tribe and demanded one thousand acres of good grazing land for his herd, lest he stoke high the flames of rebellion and discontent throughout the Great Plains. The butler, who was in the habit of sleeping in the upstairs maids' quarters, and whose disapproval of nocturnal visits from lost African tribes was legendary, promptly shot the old vicar and declared the tribe to be extinct.

As the vicar reminisced on the exploits of his predecessor, he remembered how nervous he had been when ghe first took up his new post. It was, in truth, a rather daunting task. Not many men would take upon themselves the work of a whole tribe without a few qualms. On the other hand, he wasn't overly worried
about the shoes he had to fill as, at the time, very few African tribes wore shoes. If he was careful, he could save a great deal on leather. As he was thus reminiscing, the bell rang for dinner, and Lady Twistlefox, inviting him to dine, put down the goblet, not without a twinge of regret. She would never admit this publicly, but she had grown attached to it.

At dinner that evening, the conversation revolved around Lady Twistlefox's prize-winning cucumber sandwiches. Even her husband, Lord Twistlefox, whose moods were usually either sullen and quiet, or violent and roaring drunk, had a noticeable gleam of pride in his eyes, although this could have been
attributable to the fact that he was halfway through his third bottle of port. The young Misses Twistlefox- twins who resembled their father in everything but looks and personality, in these they quite favoured the
Commander- gibbered away nonsensically, as young maids of seventeen are wont to do. Lord Twistlefox smiled indulgently, only occasionally restraining their youthful exuberance with a well-placed lash from the riding crop that was his constant companion. Indeed, so fond of the hunt was he that he rarely ever dismounted, even taking many of his meals from the saddle. In fact he usually only dismounted in order to sleep and to use the bathroom. His horse always seemed particularly enamoured of the sunset.

'I'm sure I have no idea how you do it my dear Constance.' said Lady Bloatedcorpse, Lord Twistlefox's cousin, and wife of the Secretary for Interdepartmental Anecdotes. She was a woman who was used to being listened to, both because of her position in society and the fact that her voice was so shrill that she regularly spooked the horses. It need hardly be mentioned that she was notoriously ugly. 'That's the fifth year running that you've won the cucumber sandwich festival. You must share your secret.'

'Mmmm!' replied Lady Twistlefox noncommittally. She would burn in the everlasting flames of Hades before she would reveal the secret of her sandwiches to Lady Bloatedcorpse or to anybody else. What they didn't know was that she had managed to refine the product of the cocoa plant, cocaine, separating it from its hydrochloride base producing something that she, with her subtle sense of humour, liked to call 'freebase'. She had also found a method of injecting this substance into her cucumbers in such a way as to provide maximum effect with minimum taste. She had first tried it on Gobsheen, the Irish gardener, who immediately proclaimed 'Now this is what I call havin' the craic!'

Gobsheen, to the everlasting torment of his wife, developed an unappeasable appetite for Lady Twistlefox's cucumber sandwiches, forsaking the bacon, cabbage and potatoes on which generations of Gobsheens had been raised. Even his love of ale, carefully nurtured from the age of six, had taken second place to 'Her Ladyship's tasty sangiches'. His drinking companions in the Throttled Toad noticed that of late he had but little interest in getting drunk and rowdy. He was a changed man, his heritage forgotten. His family, being rather dim-witted, could only remember vaguely and with nostalgia the good times, when he used to stagger in from the tavern and beat them for hours with nothing but his bare fists and the butt of his pistol, before settling down to a tremendous meal of bacon, cabbage and potatoes. For them, the simple pleasures of family life were no more. He took to secretly raiding the pantry after dark in order to procure more sandwiches, thus forcing the butler to shoot him.

Lord Twistlefox, learning of this, and knowing that Gobsheen's family would henceforth suffer financially, rode over to their hovel and, setting the thatched roof alight, shot them as they emerged. It was an act of kindness that did not go unrewarded, for, while tearing down the cottage, he discovered that the stones from which it was made would be perfect for the renovation of his stables.

Oscar Wilde

Welcome to Author Spot! This blog will carry news, events and general witterings about the book world.

It won't carry reviews or opportunities to buy but will let you know about signings, major launches and other points of interest to the bookworms among you.

As for me, I am not a publisher, bookseller or author. In fact I am a journalism student who did English as part of her undergrad degree so, to mangle Oscar Wilde, "I have nothing to declare except my blog"