The sky is high. The Czar is far.
I have serious work to do today, but before I bury myself beneath it (which is a little bit less appealing than burying oneself beneath, say, a Spartan’s sweaty body… or the nearest equivalent of) – here’s a quick tea-break and an update: new banner! Woo!
I said Venere was never coming down, but I lied.
Oh, and it is me up there now, in case you’re wondering.
“Who knew taking it up the butt was the path to eternal salvation?” – via someone named Angry, whom I don’t know very well, but like very much already.
“The weather whispers – borrow some money and go get high.”
(Погода шепчет – займи и уколись)
This morning, though, the weather is whispering something more like – “Take some time off and stay the bloody hell at home.”
I think that hardly anyone is going to show up for work today (apparently, we’re getting an entire inch of snow, which, naturally, throws the entire city into an apocalyptic fever), and as I sit here, in my bitter loneliness, I warm the frozen cockles of my heart with stills from “300”:
Happiness is a warm Spartan, ooooh yeah.
Some movies you anticipate as though you’re back at sixteen years of age, anticipating a life of collegiate debauchery. I mean, seriously. I mean, for real. I mean, holy fucking shit, “Spaaartaaans!”
A lot of my contemporaries are weary of these kinds of films. They deconstruct the gleaming outcroppings of abdominal muscle on the sword-waving/spear-throwing male heroes – they purse their lips at the sexual splendour of females adorned with vaguely “ethnic” jewelry and billowing veils/skirts.
I couldn’t live like that. I don’t consider myself a mindless twat for this – although perhaps others would. That’s OK. The movie might still end up sucking – but I will nevertheless have this glorious period of wishin’ and hopin’ – and no one can take it away from me.
Ooh, 19th Century Russian Orientalism!
Where the sea forever splashes
By a desolate rocky shore,
Where the moon more warmly glimmers
O’er the mellow twilight hours,
Where the Muslim in his harem
Spends his days in revelry,
There, a sorceress caressed me,
Handed me a talisman.
OK, no, seriously, this is not one of my favourites by Pushkin even though it’s delicious… I guess just couldn’t resist that vision of the harem and the “revelry.”
*cough*
Here’s the poem I really want you to read:
The Prophet
Tormented by a spiritual thirst,
I stumbled through a gloomy waste,
And there a six-winged seraph
Appeared before me at the crossroad.
With touch as light as slumber,
He laid his fingers on my eyes,
Which opened wide in prophecy
Just as a startled eagle’s might.
Upon my ears his touch then fell,
And they were filled with noise and clangs:
I heard the heavens shift on high,
The whispering of angels’ wings,
Sea monsters moving in the deep,
The growing grapevines in the vales.
And then he bent down towards my mouth,
My sinful tongue he ripped right out-
Its slander and its idle lies-
And with his bloody hand inserted
Between my still and lifeless lips
A cunning serpent’s forked tongue.
And with his sword he cleaved my breast
Removed my shaking heart,
And then he seized a blazing coal,
And placed it in my gaping breast.
Corpse-like I lay upon the sand
And then God’s voice called out to me:
“Arise, O Prophet, watch and hark,
Fulfill all my commands:
Go forth now over land and sea,
And with your word ignite men’s hearts.
No, not that Prophet… Or maybe yes… Or maybe… Oh never mind…
What a good translation though, right? I wish I could tell you I did this, but I would be a liar. The translator does not appear to be listed – and that’s a shame.
Natalia A. 