EN: “Days flies terribly fast, and thirty years have already passed…”
Nouvelle broderie… 🍊📒✏️
Je l'ai faite pendant le confinement, quand le calme mêlé à l'incertitude remplissait mes journées.
(Contactez moi pour connaître son prix si vous êtes intéressé.e ✉️ email@example.com)
🙂 🙂 🙂
Last day of my 20s. Feeling flirty. Definitely thriving.
#Blog #Bloggerstribe #AllGoodThings…
10th June 2020
Hello, Chaps and Chapettes,
When I started to do these challenges, I was very clear that the point was to sit for thirty minutes with no distractions, just my keyboard attached of course to a computer and a screen, and maybe a cuppa. Then, whether I sat staring blankly at the white page for thirty minutes or wrote a small essay, I would let what would be, become, and would not be, not come…
That last bit sounded smarter in my head but my idea with these is to make corrections, not rewrites.
Therefore, tonight’s challenge is to write something when nothing is springing to mind. In several of the past few blogs, I’ve had at least one topic I’ve had rattling about in my head that I’ve wanted to cover. This time, I’ve had nothing– Wait, no, that’s a lie, I have a LOT of things that I want to cover but I don’t want to use up all my ammo in one go. It’s easier to hold some pennies back for another day than to spend them all at once and be penniless. See what I’m saying?
I think this was probably my first homemade birthday cake in all my 31 years, made by my amazing fiancé (as a kid, my mom always said “I’ll leave the baking to the professionals” 😂)
I thought a quarantine birthday would be a wash, but it was probably the most special one I’ve had that I’ll never forget ❤️
The Municipal Gallery Revisited
by William Butler Yeats
Around me the images of thirty years:
An ambush; pilgrims at the water-side;
Casement upon trial, half hidden by the bars,
Guarded; Griffith staring in hysterical pride;
Kevin O'Higgins’ countenance that wears
A gentle questioning look that cannot hide
A soul incapable of remorse or rest;
A revolutionary soldier kneeling to be blessed;
An Abbot or Archbishop with an upraised hand
Blessing the Tricolour. ‘This is not,’ I say,
'The dead Ireland of my youth, but an Ireland
The poets have imagined, terrible and gay.’
Before a woman’s portrait suddenly I stand,
Beautiful and gentle in her Venetian way.
I met her all but fifty years ago
For twenty minutes in some studio.
Heart-smitten with emotion I Sink down,
My heart recovering with covered eyes;
Wherever I had looked I had looked upon
My permanent or impermanent images:
Augusta Gregory’s son; her sister’s son,
Hugh Lane, 'onlie begetter’ of all these;
Hazel Lavery living and dying, that tale
As though some ballad-singer had sung it all;
Mancini’s portrait of Augusta Gregory,
'Greatest since Rembrandt,’ according to John Synge;
A great ebullient portrait certainly;
But where is the brush that could show anything
Of all that pride and that humility?
And I am in despair that time may bring
Approved patterns of women or of men
But not that selfsame excellence again.
My mediaeval knees lack health until they bend,
But in that woman, in that household where
Honour had lived so long, all lacking found.
Childless I thought, 'My children may find here
Deep-rooted things,’ but never foresaw its end,
And now that end has come I have not wept;
No fox can foul the lair the badger swept -
(An image out of Spenser and the common tongue).
John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought
All that we did, all that we said or sang
Must come from contact with the soil, from that
Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.
We three alone in modern times had brought
Everything down to that sole test again,
Dream of the noble and the beggar-man.
And here’s John Synge himself, that rooted man,
'Forgetting human words,’ a grave deep face.
You that would judge me, do not judge alone
This book or that, come to this hallowed place
Where my friends’ portraits hang and look thereon;
Ireland’s history in their lineaments trace;
Think where man’s glory most begins and ends,
And say my glory was I had such friends.
James McDougal Hart 1876 Among Friends, oil on canvas, PC
🖤 ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴛʜᴜʀsᴅᴀʏ 🖤
ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ɢᴏʀɢᴇᴏᴜs ᴘɪᴄᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏғ ᴀ ɢᴏʀɢᴇᴏᴜs ᴅʀᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ!
ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴀɴᴛ ᴅᴀʏ!☀️
Ⓒ to the owner🤗
u know how some shows u love to death but cant in good conscience recommend to a friend? anyways thats me w mdzs.
“I don’t have a house, I have a mansion” i love Rossi so much
I don’t mean to be self pitying but god damn the paranoia is starting to set it.
Vivien Leigh Jan 1935
Cary Grant & Randolph Scott Paramount, 1935
Dresses for a wedding, by Victor Stiebel, taken from on top of a taxi in Eaton Terrace 1938
12th June 1937: A group of bathers enjoy a quiet game of cards whilst basking in the sunshine
Y'all I don’t know what’s gotten into me the past month but im literally over here looking into adoption and options and stuff
Like I see a baby and think “gotta get me one of those”