#(even though there seem to be a few variations based on the theatre it was in)

[lenievi]

kinda obsessed with Czech lyrics for these (from Confrontation):

Monsieur le Maire / You'll wear a different chain

you wanted to stand above / you wanted to be my master

--

You must think me mad / I've hunted you across the years / Men like you can never change / A man such as you

That had to be a joke! / You'd escape me for a hundred miles again / Neither of us has changed / Valjean nor I

--

I am warning you Javert / I'm a stronger man by far / There is power in me yet / My race is not yet run

May Javert beware / why ask for trouble / I have more than enough power / I'm a grizzly so I beg your pardon

---

"I'm a grizzly" <3 :D

[ballet-symphonie]

VBA Questions

Do you think tsiskaridze made a casting mistake this year's grad performance??? Or do you think they were suitable to their given role??? thanks

Yes and no? I think his casting does the actual graduating class a disservice by refusing to cast them in leading roles. This show is for the grads to get jobs, the underclassmen have PLENTY of exposure already. If the graduate class isn't strong enough to do so...then that's a whole separate issue. The decline of the male talent is also very evident and I'm not sure Raymonda's grand pas de deux was a wise choice.

But mostly, I think the girls he picked were suitable for the roles even though I would have liked to see others highlighted. I would have liked to see Kuprina get a shot at "Queen of the Night" but I understand why she didn't.

Honestly, it's pretty simple, Kuprina stepped up to the plate at Moscow IBC and Valiullina didn't. Based on their performances at the competition, it's pretty clear that Fateyev viewed Kuprina as more prepared for a traineeship and chose her instead.

seems like vba grad concert at kremlin was a success. what do you think about it?

The 2022 grad class were essentially wall flowers, the poaching of underutilized MT boys to dance roles solves neither VBA's male training issues or MT's refusal to give more young guys chances, and the repertoire selection was perhaps not the best.

That being said, the 2023 class danced very well, on the whole.

In previous ask, you talk about Karamysheva doesn’t have the ideal body proportions. Can you explain why, I’m not a ballerina so I don’t know. Because for me she have similar body type with Sofia Valiulina but shorter. Anna Sharova doesn’t post much about ballet. She’s most prob the shortest between the 5 of them, might be taller than Maria Koshkaryova but Koshkaryova is lithe. Sharova and Karamysheva always seem to be the shortest in their class even when they were in the documentary.

Talking about their documentary, I found it weird we never saw of Maria Koshkaryova and Sofia Valiulina when they are in the same year. But Valiulina did appear in the other documentary with Renata Shakirova. Sharova and Valiulina both talks about playing little Masha in their docu respectively. But Kosharyova also has videos of her dancing little Masha.

It's not so much her height that's the issue but more her proportions. The ratio of her legs compared to her torso isn't 'ideal.' Theaters and especially Russian ones are currently favoring dancers with longer legs because the current aesthetic and glorification of the ideal body line favor dancers with longer extremities. Valiulina is a bit lankier and she also appears taller to me, both factors that will likely give her an edge in major Russian theatres.

Honestly, I wouldn't put much stock on who we saw in that documentary. They were so young, I imagine the teachers chose girls who could speak well on camera at that age in addition to their place in the classes/ nutcracker roles. Also Koshkaryova could have been filmed but was cut by the editing team for cohesion/clarity. Additionally, those who are doing well at the start aren't always those who do well at the end. Eleonora Sevenard is a great example, she has talked about how she was barely scraping by in her first few years and it was only later that she started to apply herself and got featured more.

what do you think of sofya valiullina as raymonda?

Better performance than anything she gave at the competition, especially in the upper body but still shaky in the legs in the variation. I wonder how much time she spent preparing for this versus all those variations, the difference in preparation seems to benefit her confidence greatly. Even though her legs weren't always correct and her pointe work still got a bit untidy, she was still selling it from the waist up. That didn't happen in Moscow.

russian audience doesnt seem to like valiullina so much compared to koshkareva whose got endless praises while the former gets so much hate. like why????

Koshkaryova's stability and reliability have gained her fans, she's hard to dislike because she's met or exceeded all expectations placed on her. Valiullina has not met expectations, failed to place in the competition, and has unfortunately made herself a target for negativity.

not gonn lie i think ive enjoyed sofia's raymonda way better than Xoreva's stony expression at her debut. lmfao im sorry, ok i know the latter is technically flawless but the former's raymonda got more character???

I complimented Valiullina's improved presence above. However, I don't think that Valiullina dancing a grand pas de deux for about 10 minutes is comparable to Khoreva dancing the full-length Raymonda for over two hours.

yaroslavna kuprina has become a trainee of MT. so happy for her! but, well, valiullina is not fateev's choice? or MT is not her choice?

Honestly, it's pretty simple, Kuprina stepped up to the plate at Moscow IBC and Valiullina didn't. Based on their performances at the competition, it's pretty clear that Fateyev viewed Kuprina as more prepared for a traineeship and chose her instead.

Ive read an article that while Valiullina isnt as technically great as Koshkaryova but the former has charisma while she performs.

Valiullina's definitely not as stable or as confident in her abilities as Koshkaryova. Yet she does have this natural, effortless elegance and carriage throughout her upper that makes her look really mature and sophisticated. Honestly, it reminds me a bit of young Olga Smirnova, but Valiullina has a bit more warmth.

Maria Koshkareva got an intership with the mariinsky... What roles do you think they will/should give her?

I figure she'll get most of the standard starting roles for hyped grads, like Swan Lake PD3, Shades PD3, Corsaire PD3, maybe a Sleeping Beauty fairy or trio as well.

Asking the VBA wizard about Anna Sharova. She seems to fall behind a lot compared to other girls in her year. Did she not enjoy ballet anymore considering her ig have removed anything about ballet? Also is she too short for VBA/Mariinsky standard?

Leaving this one for the VBA Wizard if they see it! I don't know her exact height but it has been speculated that she might be.

Hi Ale! Do you know why Yana Cherepanova didn't continue to study at Vaganova and what is she doing now?

She doesn't study at VBA because she didn't pass her exam for her 3rd or 4th year, I can't remember which. She is now studying at the Dolgushin School of Ballet in St Petersburg.

[donotexterminateupgradepudding]

Black Sails - update on Captain Flint’s reading list - quick thoughts

I’ve been working my way through what I’m calling Captain Flint’s reading list - or the key books he either owned or were key to the plot of the show.  To keep things fresh I have been reading more than one book at a time.

A few books were hard to find as e-books or based on the original formatting that has been maintained for the copies, I chose to purchase the hard copy.

After getting my Covid booster shot, I popped into a bookstore and got a hard copy of Meditations.  I’d been getting tired of the free ebook with rather over the top language.  This copy is hailed as the first translation in a generation from 2003 by Gregory Hays.  I’ve been taking my time with it and find this translation to be more direct in its intentions.  It still keeps the true feelings of the text, but it does shy away from the more dramatic:

- You should be like a rocky promontory, against which the restless surf continuously pounds.  It stands fast while the churning sea is lulled to sleep at its feet.

which is what Miranda reads to Richard Guthrie as her favorite selection.

The Hays translation instead goes with:

- To be like the rock that the waves keep crashing over.  It stands unmoved and the raging of the sea falls still around it.

The ebook version has this variation from a translation by Casaubon, which is edited by someone who isn’t credited in the document.  It is clear though that Casaubon took liberties with the translation - including paraphrasing things for the current reader of 1634 or 1635:

I have a feeling that some of these 17th and 18th century translations seem to have taken a rather loose interpretation of the text for their contemporary readers.  I’m now personally curious to go digging around for the original Latin text and see if I can clear out the cobwebs of my own Latin skills which have gone unused for over twenty years.   All in all, I’m starting to favor Hays’ translation which has that more exact vibe I recall from translating prose myself many moons ago.  Latin is always so clear what is going on with its over the top number of verb tenses and noun declensions, but damn, they do tell you exactly what it going on.

Leviathan - by Hobbes.  This is one that I’m still reading the ebook version since it would be pretty thick. Honestly, this was likely not the best -or- maybe the best choice to read around Midterm elections.  I could just absorb the Hobbes-ness of it and feel smug as the political theatre was turned up to 11.

I love the transcriber’s notes on the text in the second paragraph - ‘and sometimes, it seems, just because.’  I can wholeheartedly agree with that statement. 

My favorite parts so far are the oft quoted ‘of accidents of bread and cheese’ and his refusal to use consistent spelling of ‘we’ or ‘wee’ for ‘we’; sometimes using both spellings in the same paragraph!  Lastly, his spelling of corn as ‘corne’.

Joking aside, it is a very interesting read.  The first part goes about defining what is man, common sense, human nature, fighting against that human nature which would be a state of war and general crappiness.  The idea that people suck and will sink to their lowest level = conflict/war is pretty obvious.  It ties on the idea that uncivilized places would be in this state of war while a civilized commonwealth would not.  But anyone watching Black Sails knows that the longer the series goes on the more and more you wonder what is a civilization? What makes a civil society?  When is it justified to fight for your rights and wage war against an oppressive force?  The pirates of Nassau both wage war upon merchants (and each other) yet have democratic crews voting on leaders and choices and giving leadership to someone with their consent which is a great transition into part two.

The commonwealth where people put aside those natural instincts and surrender their rights to the commonwealth to maintain order and stability.  This commonwealth is led/cemented by the sovereign, who can drive all policies even if the people feel they are incorrect or flawed.  What reading the text really highlighted for me how loosely the concept of the social contract and the role of the sovereign are communicated in passing.  Multiple times Hobbes is quite clear that the ‘sovereign’ can be a single individual or can be an elected government of a collection of individuals.  Furthermore, if it is a single individual, he’s staunchly opposed to the idea of that power being hereditary since it would just make him a king.

Are we as viewers to see the juxtaposition between England being civilization where the people of the commonwealth put up with the government to manage them while the pirates exist in a more primitive state of nature?  Or is it through the process of removing oneself from the colonial naval complex where one is ruled by fear and punishment (that state of war/conflict) and by breaking free of this and forms a commonwealth where a crew democratically elects a captain and quartermaster, thus creating a social contract in a state of ‘lawlessness’?

Does Flint’s knowledge of Leviathan both feed into his belief that most men are dumb and would revert to that state of nature? E.g. Flint to Silver - “If left up to their own devices they’d eat it raw.” However, is it by joining his crew and his commonwealth, they escape that state of nature by forming a social contract with him?

I’m currently stuck in part three where he discusses the Christian commonwealth b/c well, he sort of has to address the geopolitical elements of the time and the power of the Church and the Church of England.  It is a rather dry part of the text but there is no way it would have been published without the religious element.  I’m not as excited by a man using Biblical text to back up his thesis that a commonwealth lead by a sovereign is key to advancing society and government. La Galatea - by Cervantes (Gyll translation).  I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed this book.  It is stated to be a pastoral romance - an excuse to have lots of poems in homage to the man who really solidified the genre - Virgil.  The idea that it is a single romance is misleading - it is all sorts of romances between shepherds and shepherdesses as well as a few cavilers and more noble ladies.  The book introduces the famed Galatea, a beautiful shepherdess who has two men very much into her, Elicio and Erasto who happen to be best friends.  I found some of the more exciting stories of Timbrio and his horrible luck in all of his travels. 

The worst part is that the book ends with Elicio going forth to try to “rescue” Galatea from an arranged marriage by her father.  And then Cervantes ends it with a statement that if the book is received well and his patrons give him some money, he’ll write book two.  However, there is no book two!  We’ll never know what happens.

For Black Sails, this means that James gave Miranda a book where the two boys never get the one girl!  The prose is interesting and the poems are pretty much entirely about all sorts of romances/love/rejection/lust but there is no way to know how this ends.  I have to admit, I wanted to know what happened! However, if Flint read the beginning where it describes Elicio as the more sophisticated shepherd and Erastro as the overly educated and eloquent but of the proletariat with a lovely lady who has their attention. . . . Well, he likely saw it as representing Thomas and himself.  Two very different men (strange pairs in Thomas’s words) with a single woman between them, Miranda.  Or are we to feel terrible that Miranda was given a book which didn’t reveal what happened thus her stuck with her ultimate fate while James and Thomas remain?

After talking with a friend, I was told to give Don Quixote another try.  She’d also complained she struggled with it previously, and that I should seek out the Edith Grossman translation.  I’ll see if I go down that path in the near future. Lastly, I’ve started Hugo Grotius’ De Jure Belli ac Pacis - with a harder to find edition of the second English translation by William Evats.  I’d originally gotten a version from a right wing publisher in Indiana which annoyingly split each book up into an individual version as a part of their ‘Natural Law and Enlightenment Classics’ and references a 1738 version of the translation after the end of the series.  I found the Evats’ translation from a law book publisher which dates back to 1682 and completely replicates the original text, odd printing format and all.  Plus, it includes all three books in one volume.  The language is quite similar to reading Hobbes with the need to define what is right, war, nature etc.  But that makes sense since it was published in 1625 and Leviathan in 1651.

This will likely become more interesting as I get further into the book as it defines when war is justified, if the law applies in war and all sorts of other issues that are always swirling around in the series.  The index references piracy several times where it concludes that robbers and pyrates do not = a civil society despite their equity among themselves.  I was a little eager to see what Mr. Grotius had to say on the issue and I’ll see how it fits into the context of the greater work soon-ish, when I get to book III.

[balletroyale]

Asked and Answered

Thoughts on Catherine Hurlin? I saw her as Odette and I was really pleased

It’s hard to make a determination based on so little footage, especially rehearsal footage. But I thought her rehearsal of Swan Lake that you see on Instagram was compelling and I would be interested to see the final product. 

hello there, glad you're back. have you seen this performance of kokoreva in aurora's act 3 variation and if you have, what did you think about it?

I’ve always liked her and this debut is included. She definitely has the energy down. Of course, it needs maturing, but it will come with time. 

Could you give your thoughts on the RB's newest promoted female principals (Kaneko, Magri, O'Sullivan) and their skills? I'm new to the world of ballet and definitely have a soft spot for Kaneko but would love a more experienced look at them all!

Kaneko: I think she’s a pretty dancer but I find her characterization a bit boring. I don’t feel compelled to watch her and I’m not sure she would be successful at anything that’s not sweet. 

Magri: She frustrates me. She’s a good actress and tackles roles uniquely, but her arms make it impossible to enjoy her dancing overall. 

O’Sullivan: I don’t really enjoy her dancing. 

Hey sorry if this is a stupid question (english isn’t my first language and i’m not good with grammar), are you american or do you like american ballet?

sorry again if this is just me not being able to read well

I am American though I don’t live in America. American ballet is definitely not my favorite style, though I enjoy watching the NYCB do Balanchine and Robbins. 

Anastasia Smirnova is listed in the corps on the Mariinsky website.

I thought she would at least join as a coryphee, given her prior position as a soloist, but I’m sure she’ll go far. Do you think it was the right choice for her to move to Mariinsky?

so.. anastasia smirnova is listed in the corps de ballet of the mariinsky. is it true? i was hoping she was going to join in as a soloist (even considering she was at this rank at the mikhailovsky), so i really hope is just some website adjustments

I don’t think she is a corps dancer or if she is, I suspect she has a contract to be promoted within the next few months. The same thing happened with Khoreva. Smirnova is already slated in a soloist role so I suspect there is a similar arrangement with her. They just don’t make new grads soloists in the beginning anymore. 

I mean I personally don’t understand why you would leave being a big fish in a smaller pond to being a medium fish in a pond chock full of other medium fish. Of course the Mariinsky is the more prestigious theatre, but why would you regress from dancing exclusively leading roles? I guess Kovaleva just really wanted her back at the Mariinsky. And she seems to have quite a hold over her. 

[hannibal-obsessed]

30 REASONS WHY THE LAMBS ARE STILL SCREAMING!!!

- Celebrating 30 years of The Silence of the Lambs Movie -

The Silence of the Lambs is a pop culture phenomenon, who’s influence is still being felt today. It is considered one of the best horror/terror/thriller movies of all time!

Released in 1991 on February 14th, The Silence of the Lambs evoked a blood curdling Valentine’s Day scream!

Happy Valentine’s Day

1991-2021

Author – Harris worked the cop beat for a Texas newspaper and had an interest in the macabre, often freelancing for Men’s Magazines (Argosy, True), writing about some of the most gruesome stories.

1. Thomas Harris – As the author of The Silence of the Lambs and creator of Hannibal Lecter, none of this would be possible without Harris. He’s an impeccable researcher, studying the cases of the most notorious serial killers at the time. Harris was seen at parts of Ted Bundy’s Chi Omega trial taking notes.

Actors

2. Jodie Foster – Foster’s portrayal of rookie FBI in training agent Clarice Starling, is a spot on performance. Foster shows Starling’s vulnerability and how her abandonment issues and need to advance in the FBI, bring her under Lecter’s spell.

3. Anthony Hopkins – Hopkins portrayal of Hannibal Lecter left an indelible mark that still haunts us 30 years later. Thomas Harris wrote Lecter...Hopkins brought him to life. The duality of Lecter, which Hopkins plays to perfection, leads you into a false sense of security...that perhaps he’s not that bad...until he lets loose on the police officers during his escape from custody.

4. Scott Glenn – Glenn plays the head of the Behavioural Science Unit at Quantico, Jack Crawford aka the Guru by his agents. Crawford uses his father like status to entice Starling to interview Lecter thus hopefully gaining access, which Lecter had denied other agents.

5. Ted Levine – Levine‘s portrayal of Buffalo Bill has a creep factor that is impossible to put out of your mind, especially when the song Goodbye Horses by Q Lazzarus plays...and he dances...

6. Anthony Heald – Heald’s portrayal of Dr. Frederick Chilton oozes contempt and arrogance, which doesn’t make you feel a bit sorry him when he becomes Lecter’s meal.

7. Brooke Smith – The all American girl who’s kidnapped by Buffalo Bill and held in a pit for the harvesting of her skin. Catherine Martin is a clever one though and hatches a plan to escape using Precious the dog as a hostage.

8. Frankie Faison – The only actor to appear in 4 of the 5 Hannibal Lecter movies. Barney Matthews survives Lecter with his politeness as Lecter abhors rudeness. Lecter believes whenever feasible, one should eat the rude.

Art/Symbols/Theme

9. Basements – The basement is an underlying theme in The Silence of the Lambs: The BSU of the FBI work out of the basement at Quantico; Hannibal Lecter is kept in the basement of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane and Buffalo Bill’s sanctuary is the basement of the former Mrs. Lippman's house.

10. Death Head Hawk Moth/Transformation – The theme throughout The Silence of the Lambs is transformation. The Moth represents Buffalo Bill’s transformation from a pupae/chrysalis/cocoon into a beautiful butterfly.

11. Salvador Dali/Philippe Halsman – In Voluptas Mors/Voluptuous Death (1951), the most scandalous photo of it’s time was the brainchild of Dali and Halsman. Dali arranged seven naked women into a macabre skull. This skull is used as the marking for the Death Head Hawk Moth on the poster for The Silence of the Lambs, which has become synonymous with the movie.

12. Cannibalism – Lecter doesn’t keep trophies in the usual sense, he eats his victims ensuring they will be part of him forever and leaving no evidence behind.

13. Sketches – Hannibal Lecter is a gifted artist and uses his talent to escape the confining basement walls of The Baltimore State Hospital with sketches of the Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo as seen from the Belvedere in Florence.

14. Music – Hannibal Lecter has an appreciation for the finer things in life like classical music in particular Goldberg’s Variations Aria. Catherine Martin rocks out to Tom Petty’s American Girl and Buffalo Bill dances to Goodbye Horses by Q Lazzarus.

Behavioural Science Unit – It was a new age of criminal behaviour which needed a new type of agent...a profiler.

15. FBI – The Federal Bureau Of Investigation was formed to combat the criminal Mob element by J. Edgar Hoover. It was only upon Hoover’s death that the FBI started exploring other avenues to catch a new type of killer, the serial killer. After Hoover’s death the FBI would start to hire female agents, which would spur Harris to write a story about an up and coming female agent in training.

16. John E. Douglas – Douglas is the real Jack Crawford, an agent who helped in the development of Behavioural Sciences to catch the newly ordained serial killer. Douglas was a consultant for The Silence of the Lambs movie and is an author of many serial killer/profiling books.

17. Robert Ressler – Crawford is also based on Ressler who was in charge of developing the BSU and was instrumental in the creation of profiling serial killers by interviewing them behind bars. Ressler is responsible for writing some of the best profiling books.

Production

18. Jonathan Demme – It’s Demme’s vision as Director of The Silence of the Lambs which is the magic that has cemented The Silence of the Lambs in the minds of all who watch and re-watch and re-watch...

19. Orion Pictures – The little studio that took a big chance. Unfortunately The Silence of the Lambs wouldn’t save Orion from bankruptcy and they’d be bought out by MGM, who would acquire their movie catalogue.

20. Ted Tally – The man who would turn Harris’ novel into a great screenplay, hitting all the major marks. Tally would pass on the Hannibal screenplay; being lured back for the Red Dragon screenplay.

21. Dino De Laurentiis – If not for De Laurentiis passing on the movie rights to Harris’ novel, The Silence of the Lambs, after the bad box office return of Manhunter, and for allowing Demme to use Hannibal Lecter, we wouldn’t even be discussing this 30 years later.

Quotes – The Silence of the Lambs gave us a few extremely recognizable quotes!

22. Chianti and Fava Beans – “I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

- Hannibal Lecter

23. Lotion – “It rubs the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again.”

- Buffalo Bill

24. Friendship – “I’m having an old friend for dinner.”

- Hannibal Lecter

Serial Killers – Harris based Lecter and Buffalo Bill on some very real killers...

25. Ed Gein – Buffalo Bill is part Gein for without the crimes of Ed Gein, Buffalo Bill wouldn’t exist. It was Gein’s skinning of corpses and his two murder victims that would inspire Buffalo Bill...

26. Gary Heideck – If Buffalo Bill is part Gein, he’s also part Heideck, who’d kidnap women and then tortured them in a pit in his basement.

27. Ted Bundy – Buffalo is also part Ted Bundy, who would lure his victims with injuries like an arm in a cast; he would seem vulnerable seeking help with books or a canoe and in Buffalo Bill’s case a chair.

28. Ed Kemper – What do Hannibal Lecter and Ed Kemper have in common? A high IQ., a fondness of co-eds and a love of cars.

29. Alfredo Balli Trevino – Harris met Trevino in a Mexican prison, mistaking him for a doctor who worked in the prison; Trevino was actually an inmate working in the prison.

Trevino was convicted of murdering then dismembering his lover. It was this encounter that would set the tone for Lecter.

30. Alonzo Robinson – Lecter has been compared to many serial killers over the decades, many of who’s crimes are too late to be included in The Silence of the Lambs novel (1988). It was most likely the story of Alonzo Robinson/James Coyner/William Coyner that planted the seeds of a cannibal killer in the young mind of Thomas Harris.

Influence – Every Serial Killer book written after The Silence of the Lambs was released in theatres, has a reference to it...even BTK referenced Buffalo Bill in his essay to FBI Profiler, John E. Douglas, among an impressive list of serial killers...Ted Bundy, Son of Sam, Ed Kemper, Steven Pennell and Gary Heideck.

Conclusion: Thomas Harris’ first Lecter novel, Red Dragon, turns 40 in October, so Hannibal Lecter has been part of our literary world for 40 years. Although Manhunter was released in 1986 as the first film featuring Lektor (spelling in the movie), it was Demme’s The Silence of the Lambs that will be remembered as bringing Lecter to the masses. Even though Hopkins would play Lecter two more times in Hannibal (2001) and in the remake of Manhunter, Red Dragon (2002), it’s Hopkins Oscar winning portrayal in The Silence of the Lambs that we will always remember and keep the lambs screaming...

Shannon L. Christie

[the-l-spacer]

Raven decides to embarrass Lloyd while out on a date. Based on this post.

'Raven has a shirt that says “i think carnies should be able to vote” and every time he’s out in public some good samaritan stops him to make his day with the news that yes, in fact, they can, and he just loses it. complete fake-joy sobbing mess in the street. he thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world until Lloyd refuses to go out in public with him anymore'

Enjoy!

- 

“Raven. Please. Don’t do this.”

Raven wrenched his hand away from Lloyd’s, and continued heading toward the door. Over his shoulder, he spat, “I’m doing it no matter what. And nothing you can say will change my mind.”

Moving quickly, Lloyd darted past his boyfriend and stood in front of the door, blocking his path forward. 

“Ravey, if any of the years we spent together, if any of the things we endured to be together again had meant anything, anything at all, you would listen to me when I tell you please, please don’t. It’s not worth it.”

Raven eyed Lloyd’s pleading face, eyes in supplication. He was unswayed. 

“Lloyd, you know I love you, but this is too important. You can’t do anything to stop me.”

Lloyd slumped in defeat. 

“So be it,” he said coldly. He detached himself from the doorway, allowing Raven to step past. A brief silence ensued, before Raven proffered an elbow, which Lloyd, after a heavy pause, took. 

The two Posthumans left together, disappearing into a recently-opened doorway to another narrative. 

-

The pair walking down the street of Victoriopolis, a city in a lovely steampunk narrative rather well known for its excellent carrot cake, would not have looked out of place, if it weren’t for the way one of them was dressed.

To be specific, the ‘one’ was wearing pins and badges all over the front and back of his jacket, declaring every variation of “Votes for Carnies!”, and “I think carnies should be allowed to vote!” and “Carnies demand votes!”.

The man wearing the bizarre accessories seemed completely content with the confusion it was sowing among those who caught a glimpse of its (numerous) messages as he and his companion walked down the busy street, grinning and winking at people who stared too long in confusion. 

The man beside him, however, looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. 

His dour disposition did not last long. As the day progressed, and he grew accustomed to the stares his companion was attracting, he finally seemed to relax. 

The two men wandered through the streets of Victoriopolis, weaving in and out of quaint little shops, visiting a bakery and sharing a tray of sumptuous-looking sweet pastries, going on a carriage ride through the park, hand in hand, before taking tea in the park’s lush garden.

It was evening by the time it finally happened.

The streets of the fashion district were bustling with workers and members of high society alike, returning home after a long day’s work, or heading out for a night of fun as the sun set. The two men were doing the latter (in fact, they were going to see a performance at the local theatre), as they passed a young university student, balancing a chicken pie bought off a nearby street cart on an armful of hefty textbooks.

When they passed by the two, the student did a double take at the… interesting aesthetic choices of the one on the right, nearly dropping their pie in the process. A conflicted look passed over their goggle-clad face, and they opened their mouth as if to say something, only for a tiny squeak to come out instead. The men to look round, confused, before continuing on past the spluttering student.

It took a few more seconds for the student to muster up their courage, and doubling back, they ran to catch up to the two strangers.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Two heads turned around, regarding the student with piercing gazes.

The student hugged their books closer to their chest, cleared their throat, and addressed the dark-skinned man in purple, pins and buttons (’Carnie rights!’) flashing from the light of the street-lamps.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, sir, but, um.” They flushed beet-red. “I think… I mean I’m rather sure that, well, carnies are already allowed to vote?”

In that moment, time seemed to slow. The man had halted completely in his tracks, jerking his companion to a stop alongside him. His eyes widened, mouth parting slightly in a gasp.

His voice was soft and tremulous, but cut through the bustle of the street. “C-could you say that again. Please?”

“Um… Carnival employees are already allowed to vote?” The student stammered. They could tell the three of them were beginning to cause a scene, people turning around to witness the reason for the sudden stoppage in the flow of foot traffic.

The man didn’t seem to care, however. He brought his hands to his mouth, as tears began flowing  freely down his cheek. The student took a few steps backward in alarm.

“Sir? Are you alright? I-“

Too late. The man’s quiet tears turned into full-on sobbing, and he lunged at the student, wrapping them in a crushing hug. The chicken pie fell with a splat on the pavement. Drat and blast.

“I can’t believe it,” he bawled. “After so many years, my dream’s become a reality! Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The student’s rather surly response, a muttered “I think they’ve always been able to, the canvassing really wasn’t necessary” went unheard as the man, still hiccuping with joy, disentangled himself from them and turned toward his companion, busy insisting to bewildered passers-by that he was in no way associated with that lunatic.

Said ‘lunatic’ seemed to think otherwise, though, and he ran to his companion, sweeping him up and dipping him low, kissing him victoriously (the student had never witnessed a victorious kiss before, and in between lamenting the loss of their pie, was mentally taking notes).

“Did you hear that, my dear Lloyd? Carnies can vote, now!” He said once they broke the kiss. His eyes were shining and his voice carried all the joy of a kid on their first Christmas.

Shutting his eyes tight, the other man growled, “Yes, it seems so. How wonderful, Ravey.”

“It’s everything we’ve ever hoped for, oh I can’t wait to tell the others!” He burst into happy tears again.

The other man, ashen-faced, dutifully let his companion cling to him, blubbering messily into numerous handkerchiefs he was seemingly pulling out of thin air. 

“Why. Don’t. We. Go. And. Tell. Them. Now?” He bit out.

The man, bright eyed and sniffling, turned to him. “Oh, let’s.”

As they made to walk off, the glowering man turned toward the student, who was attempting to retreat into the crowd of onlookers.

“Sorry about that,” he said shortly. “He’s… a showman.”

“Oh! Don’t worry about it!” They replied with false cheer. “I’ve met plenty like him in the Theatre department. He’s certainly got some flair.”

The man looked as if he had swallowed a lemon whole. “That he has, Mx, that he has.” 

Then, under his breath, “ThisiswhyIneverwanttogooutinpublicwithhim.”

“Come again?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing. Just… be wary of theatre folk. You may think they’re just harmless eccentrics, but a good many are downright monsters.”

“I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind?”

“Do.”

And with that, the two disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving behind numerous flyers for a place called ‘Uncle Raven’s Super Happy Funtime Carnival!”

(They had also left behind a slightly cooled apple pie, tucked into the bag of one well-meaning student, unbeknownst to most, including the student themself, who would only find out long after they reached home. Showman though he was, Raven wasn’t a complete monster.)

- 

It was dark outside, and Han Mi was in the middle of a rather interesting book when Raven and Lloyd returned to the carnival.

She glanced briefly up at the both of them.

“How was your date?”

Raven answered “Absolutely wonderful,” just as Lloyd muttered, “Terrible. I’m never going out with him ever again.”

She cocked her head at the two men. The former was practically glowing, while the latter looked as if he sorely needed to stab something.

“Mmhmm, glad you enjoyed yourselves,” Han Mi hummed, and turned back to her book.

[bonesthebeloved]

Absolutely nothing - Sanders sides short

Summary: Work based on the poem 'Absolutely nothing' which appears in 'the perks of being a wallflower'. A story about how somebody can lose their grip on happiness and how their friends don't notice

TRIGGER/SQUICK WARNING: Implied death/suicide. Self-loathing. Depressive thoughts. Heavvyyyy Roman angst. Hurt no comfort.

Word count: Idk man but its quite long.

-

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines, he wrote a poem And he called it 'Chops' because that was the name of his dog And that's what it was all about

Back when everything was bright and smiles were still genuine he had taken up writing. Little Thomas had learned just enough words for him to read a children's book and off Roman went, crayon in hand he scribbled the messy handwriting on a piece of printing paper, thinking long and hard before he wrote each line. Who knew that having to come up with rhymes was so hard!

He whispered the Poem into Thomas's ear in class when the teacher told them to write a story. The yellow paper a stark contrast to the white one Roman had used and the pencil not having the same effect as the colourful crayons had, but they made due and soon Thomas stuck his little hand in the air. Waving it around. Eager to show the teacher what he'd make.

And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts

The yellow paper hung proudly on the kitchen door that evening, Roman staring at it through Thomas his eyes and realising that 'that's something I helped made. I can make him feel happy like this!' He had gone and told Patton about it. Bouncing on his feet from excitement as he told him that 'Look Pat! Look at how happy I made him! I wanna do that all the time!'

Patton had laughed with him and told him that he could. And they had eaten cookies out of the jar and let Logan, who was the only one that was able to read well enough to do it out loud, read them a bedtime story.

The next few days Roman walked around with his chest puffed out. And Remus asked him why he was being so dramatic and he got excited again, showing his brother how he had made Thomas happy. Remus had called it dumb and then walked away to go see if he could steal a cookie out of the jar while Roman continued onto his day, chest slightly less puffed and smile a little less proud.

That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo And he let them sing on the bus and his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair And his mother and father kissed a lot

Singing was another wonderful thing he found made Thomas happy when he made him do it too. And from that day on they kept on singing and dancing while Thomas his mother rolled her eyes and her friends called her son a little drama queen. And he watched his first Disney movie and Patton gifted Roman a stitch plushy that Roman put a little crown on and Remus found stupid.

And Thomas his little brother had animated conversations with his stuffed animals and his brother taught him how to fake being upset when he wanted something while his older brothers rolled their eyes and did their homework.

And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant And his father always tucked him in bed at night And was always there to do it.

Roman had not felt comfortable intervening when a girl had asked Thomas to be his valentine and Patton had laughed and given him a sympathetic side hug while Logan looked on, brows knitted together in a very un-8-year-old manner. And Deceit was having a laughing fit as Thomas tried to think of an excuse as to why he couldn't accept, each lie more ridiculous as the previous one. And the newest addition to their group sat cross-legged on the floor, biting his nails anxiously as Remus looked at him from afar, very interested in how Anxiety would affect Thomas.

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines, he wrote a poem And he called it 'Autumn' because that was the name of the season And that's what it was all about

This time the paper was white. Though the blue lines still didn't make a perfect copy of what Roman had written out in his head. It was messier in there that year. Doable. But messier. Thomas had gone to high-school and his bag was heavy.

And everybody was already complaining about the homework even though they hadn't gotten any yet. And Logan was excited for this new opportunity while Anxiety had left them to put his room in what they now called the dark side of the mind palace.

And their little group had become even more little because they had split in two, Deceit telling them that this was for the best while Roman and Remus yelled and yelled until Thomas asked his mother if he could try one of her sleeping pills to calm them all down.

And as autumn rolled around and poetry was a subject once more he had written three poems already and ran them all by Logan to make sure it was presentable before he decided to tell Thomas to write the one he had never let Logan proofread because he had written it the night before.

And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars And left butts on the pews And sometimes they would burn holes

He watched as a newly thrown away bud lay on a yellow leaf and slowly burnt it away. The edges smouldering and slowly dissolving, leaving three corners and a little bit of ashes behind as he stepped inside, nose red from the cold near-winter breeze.

And Roman told him that it had looked beautiful. And Logan added that its a fascinating thing, giving Roman a pointed look telling him that he should stop doing something. He never knew what.

And Patton had refilled the cookie jar because it was always empty these days. And they sat crossed-legged on the carpet and told each other who their favourite teacher was and if they should get Deceit to stop make Thomas deny that he did have feelings for the black-haired boy in gym class.

That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot

Logan said that they must've heard the word gay before. Otherwise, he wouldn't have remembered it. Roman thought it meant happy while Anxiety had something else to say. He was around a lot these days

And Thomas and the girl around the corner were close friends, Patton encouraging the friendship while Virgil squeaked about all the red flag and Logan approved or either debunked them.

And his father never tucked him in bed at night And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it.

Thomas was too old to be put to bed now. That's what his parents had said as Roman took control. Clinging onto the stitch plushy as Patton slowly tried to pry him off the controls. "He is right we should confront the fact that we are not a small child anymore," was Logan his input and Thomas seemed to agree.

The next day all of his stuffed animals were in boxes and on their way to the homeless shelter. His mother said that it was fantastic that he had done such a kindhearted thing. He thanked her and worked hard to not cry in the next few days when he went to sleep and saw an empty bed.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook, he wrote a poem And he called it 'Innocence: A Question' because that was the question about his girl And that's what it was all about

College was harder for them all. Logan was overworking himself constantly and worked closely with Anxiety more often than not. And they had realised that Thomas was gay but these were scary times and an even scarier mindset and what if his parent were mad and what if the girl next door didn't want to talk to him anymore. They had started a relationship now. Years in the making and her taking all the first steps.

And focusing on putting out a good piece of poetry for his classes was hard so he had Logan do it. And Logan gave him a concerned look and told Roman to focus on the task at hand. And Deceit was around a lot these days and Patton had taken the cookie jar up to his room. And Roman felt stressed, but doing anything other than making Thomas sing his heart out in the shower and act along with songs when nobody was home, he felt powerless. Their interests had dropped to zero and Roman had had another screaming match but this time with Logan after he had proposed for them to start doing theatre instead of engineering. And Logan had yelled at him and told him to stop being so selfish. That Thomas was happy with this career path and that he should stop being so self-absorbed. And the others hadn't disagreed or stood up for him.

And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her

Roman had blamed Thomas his lack of confidence in the work he put out on Anxiety and had been told to stop blaming everything on the obvious target. And he hated it because they were right and he was the one that should be taking the blame because he had been so insecure about his work recently that it simply must've rubbed off on Thomas.

And he had written and rewritten the poem they had let Thomas hand in a hundred times over before letting him write it, each poem a bit different or completely variating from the original.

And he never showed the others because he knew it wouldn't matter and 'why would they care anyways Roman it's not like they actually like your work'.

And Thomas never showed his mother because what if she saw that it wasn't love. And what if she noticed and what if she hated it?

That was the year Father Tracy died And he forgot how the end of the Apostle's Creed went And he caught his sister making out on the back porch And his mother and father never kissed or even talked

Former relationships had been abandoned when Patton drew back and Anxiety became a more prominent figure and Logan became colder and Deceit and the others started drifting away and Roman... Well, Roman was left sitting alone in the common room. Dinner that nobody would eat but him sat on seven plates on the dinner table while he stared at the place the cookie jar had once been. And the plates piled up each week until somebody got sick of them and cleaned them up.

And ideas stopped coming without having at least a pinch of sadness mixed through them and he knew that the other would yell at him if they would make the effort to actually look each other in the eye these days.

And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to do

The relationship with the girl had continued and they didn't know how to get out of it anymore. Too much makeup and too little connection had wrapped themselves around Thomas like a viper about to strike. And when he finally had the confidence to tell her that 'I'm sorry I just don't think I'm... Into this.' he received a slap across the face and a foul word being screamed at him while they were standing way to close. And they broke up and Roman felt guilty because he should be the one to be able to save this. He should be the one making sure Thomas didn't get hurt and he expected everybody to be furious. But when he walked into the common room he was met with empty air and cold chairs. Nobody even there to do as much as glared at him.

And it was strange because while he had thought that nothing could hurt him more than their screams and disapproving stares. He quickly found out that just simple silence, ignoring him and each other and no confirmation or disapproval at all, hurt far worse than any comments had ever done.

And at 3am he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly.

Thomas would develop insomnia in those bad weeks which would make it difficult for him to sleep well into adulthood. And Roman was afraid to tell the others that he was the cause so he stayed quiet and stared at his ceiling while the seconds ticked by.

And he tossed and turned and hugged his stitch plushy close while the ceiling fan turned lazily and he counted the uneven dots on the ceiling time and time again. There were 743 of them.

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem

Now it was odd. A lot of things were these days. But it was truly odd. Because in truth he shouldn't be feeling this bad. But here he was, writing another poem that he would not show to Thomas this time around. No proof of reading. A simple poem written with black marker on the back of an old lunch bag he summoned to transport the cookies in he'd been wanting to give to Patton. He hadn't even reached the door to the fatherly traits room before he realised how stupid he was being, let the cookies clatter to the floor, broken pieces and crumbs spilling on the light wood, and making his way to his own room.

And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing'

He'd taken the longest shower he'd ever taken in his life. And though his skin was raw and burned from the scaling how water he still felt cold. And thinking back to how simple it had been. How easily they'd been able to fill his place, he felt even colder.

Because that's what it was really all about

He knew it was selfish and Logan would probably scowl at him for being overdramatic. But while his brother had a foot firmly lodged between his shoulder blades. Back protesting against the strain and he talked like nothing happened and like he wasn't standing on his brothers back, they had all communicated as if it was nothing. As if it was the easiest thing in the world to include him in their conversation while Roman thought back to how he hadn't been able to get even the shortest word in at their last debate and felt how cold overtook his body. Since then it hadn't left him and recently he had started to think how he might not want it to do so.

And he gave himself an A

He took the red permanent marker he'd taken with him together with the black one and drew a big fat A on the bag. A big middle finger to the teacher that had looked as if Thomas was insane when they handed him back his poem and an even larger one to his friends for making him feel like and F while his brother was there, a sparkly gold A pinned to his costume as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

and a slash on each damned wrist

He'd decided on it a long time ago already. That, if it all got too much for him he'd leave. How he hadn't known. And he still wasn't quite sure when he entered the bathroom thirty minutes ago, staring at his reflection with a stranger staring back at him.

Ducking out would be too easy. They'd just follow him. Well, he really wasn't quite sure if they would anymore. But it was a nice thought. Then there was running away into the imagination. Appealing, but if he were to die he'd just pop up in his own room again and he really did not want to risk getting caught sneaking back there.

So he settled on the most difficult and permanent option. Leaving the light side of the mind.

The dark side hadn't been inhabited for quite some time now. Even the dark sides found it terrifying and rather stayed in the uneventful middle then go anywhere near that place.

That was the only place in the imagination that they could actually die in. Well, die as much as a permanent trait could. There would be a new creativity. Freshly thought up and with none of the memories he had. A factory reset. Reincarnation. It almost sounded nice. Almost nice enough to distract him from the fact that, what he was about to do, was as close to suicide as a side could get.

And he hung it on the bathroom door

A deep breath as he pinned a note to explain the situation on the door. Eyes closed as he felt himself sink down and rise up for the very last time. The darkness grabbing onto him and twirling around him like vines, pulling him in further. Away from the light.

It shouldn't have come to this. That thought struck him as he felt his consciousness slip away from him slowly. It really shouldn't have.

But then, he shouldn't have been able to feel all of this either. To feel it so intensely. To feel their friendship and interest slip away from him. To feel the pleasant memories fade into the background, the bad ones remaining with their sharp edges and cutting his ties further.

He exhaled slowly. 'they'll be okay.' he thought. And that would be the last thought that Roman 'creativity' Sanders would have before a brand new version of the same trait with a different name and thought the pattern would open his eyes in an unfamiliar room.

because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen.

-

Tags: @purp-man @sapphire-knight @ragingdumpsterfiremess @that-random-ace

[theliberaltony]

via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

Sen. Elizabeth Warren played to a friendly crowd when she visited Brooklyn last week. The rally at King’s Theatre on Flatbush Avenue — an ornate people’s palace kind of joint with fleur de lis in the molding and vaudeville ghosts in the rafters — was a 4,800-person shot in the arm for her campaign, which had been flatlining of late. Julián Castro, young, Latino and recently out of the presidential race, had just endorsed Warren and there seemed to be a sense in the air — with a heavy hint from the mass-produced “We Julián” signs circulating — that the campaign was looking for a little good news out of the evening. The crowd scanned as largely young and professional, and a little girl sitting just in front of me waved another sign: “I’m running for president because that’s what girls do.”

Just under a week later, the Warren campaign would be at war with Sen. Bernie Sanders over Warren’s claim that Sanders told her in a private 2018 meeting that he didn’t think a woman could win the 2020 presidential election. This salvo from Warren’s camp was seen as a response to reports that talking points for Sanders volunteers characterized Warren as the choice of “highly educated, more affluent people,” a demographic both key to Democratic electoral success and associated with Hillary Clinton’s supposed out-of-touch elitism. Within a few hours, what had been a cold-war battle to define the left wing of the Democratic Party had gone hot. The handshake-that-wasn’t between Sanders and Warren at Tuesday night’s debate seemed to inflame tensions even more.

What’s curious, though, is that the rift isn’t over policy particulars. The Warren vs. Sanders progressivism fight seems to be more stylistic, an unexpectedly tense class war of sorts within the broader progressive class war. Should progressive populism be wonky and detail-oriented and appeal to college-educated former Clinton voters? Or a more contentious outsider assault on the powers-that-be from the overlooked millions of the middle and lower-middle class?

The groundwork for more open hostilities was perhaps laid at the start of last weekend with some numerical tinder. As I boarded a plane for Des Moines, Iowa, on Friday night, I scanned the results of the just-released Des Moines Register poll. The survey showed Sanders leading in the state with 20 percent of the vote, a notable shuffle in the race from the last poll from that pollster, which showed former Mayor Pete Buttigieg in the lead and Sanders scrapping for third place with former Vice President Joe Biden. Saturday afternoon I found myself in Newton, Iowa, listening to Larry Hurto, 68, reciting the full results of the poll to me from memory as he waited for Sanders to arrive at a rally. With Sanders, Hurto told me, “What you see is what you get.” Kim Life, 60, told me she’d voted for Clinton in 2016 but felt that, this time around, Sanders was the man for our times. “Things in the world are so unstable,” she said. “He hasn’t changed in 40 years.” Warren, she told me, was more influenced by corporate America than she let on.

Variations on this theme — Sanders as credible progressive curmudgeon and Warren as vaguely deceptive opportunist — popped up as I followed Sanders across the state. America is a country whose politics are pheromonal; voters are largely attracted to certain candidates not for their policy positions but for the cut of their jib or the familiarity of the story at the heart of their self-mythology. And among the Sanders-committed, there seemed to be a sense that the candidate’s famous frankness was his greatest asset — and it could well be with certain groups.

The other part of the controversial Sanders campaign talking points on Warren was that her supporters — the wealthy, well-educated ones — would already “show up and vote Democratic no matter what … she’s bringing no new bases into the Democratic Party.” At his rallies, Sanders was putting his electability foot forward — supporters waved “Bernie beats Trump” signs while he spoke. In November, The New York Times polled battleground state voters and found that persuadable, white working-class voters had policy views that aligned with some Sanders/Warren proposals, but “by a margin of 84 percent to 9 percent, they say political correctness has gone too far. They say academics and journalists look down on people like them.” Nonwhite persuadable voters supported systemic change candidates and single-payer health care, but 50 percent approve of Trump, a man known for pushing the boundaries of correctness, political or otherwise.

The anti-political-correctness voters and Trump-approvers are perhaps the demographics where Sanders has the greatest chance to make inroads. While his trademark directness isn’t anti-PC, it’s of a sympatico strain, in a way: “I don’t care what you think, I’m going to say and do what I please.” The Sanders brand is based entirely on that slippery, overused quality that politics so prizes: authenticity. He has believed in the same things for decades and advocated for them in the same polemical style. Even his heavy Brooklyn brogue remains unchanged despite his having left the borough in the ’60s. It speaks to being from a place, not a rootless cosmopolitan class.

Of course, Warren still has the flatness of the plains in her voice, but maybe that’s harder to pick out of the American pantheon of dialects and accents. Plus, the patina of Harvard elitism might stick more to a woman, with voters being more apt to see her as overly liberal in a cultural sense rather than an economic one — ironic, in Warren’s case, given that the cornerstone of her candidacy is radical economic reform. Her tightly constructed, loosely delivered stump speech in Brooklyn — Warren likes to pump her fists while she talks and bend down as if she might jump across a stage — was adept at connecting her famous plans together as a bid for “big, structural change.” Whatever issue brought people to the rally, Warren said, “I guarantee it’s been touched by money.” It was a solutions-oriented 45-minute verbal march; though, of course, both Warren and Sanders know that unless Democrats win the Senate in 2020 (unlikely) and hold onto the House, much of their potential agenda as president would be stymied from the get-go.

But each know that rhetoric wins the day. While they share so many policy goals, it’s obvious their appeal is somewhat divergent. There is certainly a gap between the demographics of Sanders and Warren supporters. According to FiveThirtyEight/Ipsos polling, conducted using Ipsos’s KnowledgePanel,1 about 34 percent of people considering voting for Warren’s have household incomes of over $125,000, compared to around 22 percent of potential Sanders supporters. And Warren’s potential backers are particularly skewed toward college-educated Democrats, while people considering Sanders and Biden are more evenly distributed across education levels.

Sanders is not wrong in pointing out that Warren’s populism — and make no mistake, it is that; she does her fair share of billionaire-bashing — has resonated with a different audience than his. In part, it’s because her packaging of populism is meant to extend an ideological hand to the establishment Democratic voters who cottoned to Clinton in 2016 but regretted, perhaps, their inability to see that the country was ravenous for system-busting talk. She scratches the itch of big ’ole change but understands that the Democratic Party is filled with people who are still comfortable within the system, even if they have intellectual critiques of it.

Sanders’s selling of populism is conscious of its place in the sweep of progressive history. In Iowa, he talked about how not so long ago, public education was seen as a radical idea and cited the aphorism, “It always seems impossible until it’s done,” to explain the mental block the country could overcome to accept Medicare for All.

On Saturday evening, Sanders held a rally in Davenport that opened with performances by a collegiate singer-songwriter — “This one is about my babysitter and how as you get older your relationships change” — and Rep. Rashida Tlaib of Michigan. Tlaib’s voice rose in emotional peaks and cracks as she spoke of her childhood in Detroit, which in her memory is perfumed with the rotten-egg smell of hydrogen sulfide. She bemoaned the building of “bougie” condos in her city. “We need somebody that’s courageous, that won’t sell us out,” she said. “I’m exhausted about the broken promises, these polished speeches — I don’t care if you said the same thing.” With Sanders, she said, “you see this person and he’s real.” It was as succinct an endorsement as a 2020 Democratic candidate could ask for; though, as we all well know by now, what’s “real” is ambiguous and mutable and very much according to one’s taste.

But of course, the crowd cheered; there was no higher praise.

Laura Bronner contributed analysis.

Make sure to check out FiveThirtyEight’s Democratic primary forecast in full; you can also see all the 2020 primary polls we’ve collected, including national polls, Iowa polls, New Hampshire polls, Nevada polls and South Carolina polls.

[barinacraft]

The Affinity Cocktail - Scotch Whisky And Vermouth Find True Love

The Affinity Cocktail Pairs Scotch Affection For Vermouth

The Affinity Cocktail is one of only a few truly classic drinks mixed with Scotch whisky which shows the difficulty of pairing it in the perfect marriage. At least in spirit.

Modern versions of the Affinity Cocktail have sort of settled on a sip similar to a perfect Scotch Manhattan with orange or aromatic bitters, although the original drink recipe was hardly perfect (equal parts French and Italian vermouth). Back then it was closer to a sweetened Scottish Rory O'More or a Robert Burns with sugar instead of absinthe.

Either way, like most Scotch whisky cocktails, the character of this drink is greatly effected by how manly the mixture is. Blended may be best to begin with.

History Of The Affinity Cocktail

First Appeared In Print

The New York Sun initially reported on Monday, October 28, 1907 that,*

There's another new cocktail on Broadway. They call it the Affinity. After drinking one, surviving experimenters declare, the horizon takes on a roseate hue; the second brings Wall Street to the front and center proffering to you a quantity of glistening lamb shearings; when you’ve put away the third the green grass grows up all around, birds sing in the fig trees and your affinity appears.

The new ambrosia contains these ingredients...

Original Affinity Cocktail Recipe:

1 jigger (1 ½ oz) Scotch whisky

½ jigger (¾ oz) Italian vermouth

1 (medium) tsp powdered sugar

1 dash orange bitters

Shake in cracked ice, cocktail fashion, until thoroughly blended and cooled, then strain and quickly serve. ( Note: would recommend using superfine sugar though instead of powdered to avoid the corn starch and other anticaking agents which adds cloudiness and can affect the flavor. )

During this time period, many cocktails were created to commemorate the opening of a Broadway play and the reference to Wall Street is in relation to the financial crisis known as the 1907 Banker's Panic which was triggered by a failed attempt to corner the market on United Copper Company stock in October 1907.

Which Broadway play inspired the name for the Affinity cocktail though?

Keep reading below.

Syndication

Syndicated newspaper columns including The Washington Post and others ran the story the following day. The Hartford Courant embellished the details with their own verse which also provided some more clues to the source, writing,†

Well, then the pianola sounds as good as the symphony orchestra. The second one convinces you that trust companies and savings banks are solvent and you want to put your money back. If you take three it seems like Summer, otherwise you’ll buy your wife, or the affinity, a new fur coat. Then it’s time to stop.

“It moved the poet to the following:

In its glistening depth is the light of her eyes,

In its taste is her honey kiss.

There’s a victor’s crown for the man who tries

To build me another like this.

If you put another bright red cherry in the last one you will feel like a Belmont as you ride home in the subway.

Divorcons or Let's Get A Divorce

James Slevin announces on November 8, 1907 a sketch he adopted for vaudeville based on the 1885 book Divorcons! by Emile de Najac and Victorien Sardou may be named Affinity.‡ This does not appear to have happened, although the original title was turned into a play1 which opened at the Playhouse Theatre April 1, 1913 running through May 19, 1913 and was later released as a 40 minute short silent black and white film2 as a comedy drama on December 15, 1915.

His Affinity Is A Miss

His Affinity is released as a black and white short silent film on November 9, 1907.3 This comedy details the adventures of a mild mannered husband, who after deciding to leave his overbearing wife, finds romance with a single girl he meets in the park. Drama ensues.

Good Golly Miss Molly, McGinnity

Good Golly is right when it comes to all the affinity references in popular culture in 1907 and shortly afterwards. Not to be confused with the rock and roll song by Little Richard in 1958, “Molly McGinnity, You're My Affinity” by composer John W. Bratton was released November 23, 1907. However, this humorous Irish folk song, lyrics below, was not featured on Broadway.4

The Billowy Ecstasy Of Neptunian Soul Kisses

The year 1907's affinity for affinity has come to a close and the source for the “newest drink on Broadway” as proclaimed by The New York Sun at the end of October does not seem to exist. Unless an advanced preview of an upcoming show served as inspiration for the Affinity Cocktail.

Enter The Soul Kiss, a Broadway musical created by Florenz Ziegfeld all about the subject, which included the song My Affinity, sung by the sculptor in the show sixth on the song list during Act I. It opened January 28, 1908 at the New York Theater and ran for 122 performances until May 23, 1908.5

The play had a behind the scenes production cast that included many of the same players responsible for The Ziegfeld Follies. Familiar names included producers A.L. Erlanger and Marcus Klaw, music by Maurice Levi (and others) and script / lyrics written by Harry B. Smith, who also wrote the Rob Roy operetta which has a drink named after it.

The soul kiss, a tongue in cheek [sic] expression for a French kiss elevated to exaggerated proportions, was supposedly invented by a romance instructor who was quoted in a newspaper interview as saying, “When I exchange soul kisses with my affinity in the planet Neptune, I close the doors, throw myself on a couch, my soul goes out from my body to meet him and I experience a billowy ecstasy.” By the way, at the time, personal lessons could be purchased for $300.

Her description inspired Smith6 to develop the plot for the play which had J. Lucifer Mephisto (Ralph C. Herz) betting one million dollars that sculptor Ketcham Short (Cecil Lean) would not remain faithful to his fiance, model Suzette (Florence Holbrook), under the temptation of a soul kiss from dancer (Adeline Genee). As a follow up, The Ziegfeld Follies of 1908, which debuted on June 15th of that year, contained a comedy spoof mocking the November elections called The Political Soul Kiss where Miss Columbia (female Uncle Sam) tries to find her affinity among the presidential candidates including William Jennings Bryan, Charles Evans Hughes, William Howard Taft and then 2nd term incumbent president Theodore Roosevelt who was not seeking a third.

The Affinity (Play)

Its probably folly to keep searching for the stimulus behind this sip's sobriquet since The Soul Kiss seems to seal the deal, but there actually was a Broadway play named The Affinity.7 However, in 1907 it was still known as Les Hannetons.

Les Hannetons, which translates to cockchafers (the beetles known as June Bugs), by French playwright Eugene Brieux, was a three act bitter comedy first produced at the Theatre de la Renaissance in Paris, France on February 3, 1906. The controversial play dealt with matrimony and mistresses, treating marriage as a battleground, and gained some infamous notoriety after being banned by censors in both France and England. British stage actor Laurence Irving, who translated Les Hannetons8 into English, performed the play with his wife Mabel Hackney in the United States, first renamed as The Incubus in 1909 and then later renamed again in January 1910 as The Affinity. There were no bureaucratic black outs on Broadway, but the crowds were not amused and the play lasted for only 24 performances at the Comedy Theater on west 41st street.

Behind Your Bar - How To Make An Affinity Cocktail At Home

First Published In A Cocktail Book

Minus the powdered sugar, the Express Cocktail with equal parts Scotch whisky and Italian vermouth plus a dash of orange bitters via Straub's Manual of Mixed Drinks (1913) appears to be the earliest recipe printed in a cocktail book which comes closest to the original 1907 Affinity Cocktail. However, the first one named the Affinity Cocktail published in a bartending book is the one in The Reminder by Jacob A Didier (1909) and it is a different formulation.9

Its this ‘perfect’ combination of Scotch whisky with French and Italian vermouths along with aromatic or orange bitters that has become the modern classic so to speak.10

Affinity Cocktail Drink Recipe (modern classic):

1 oz Scotch whisky (blended)

1 oz French (dry) vermouth

1 oz Italian (sweet) vermouth

2 dashes aromatic or orange bitters

Measure all the ingredients into a mixing glass with ice and stir well. Strain and serve with a twist of lemon peel (or orange rind to match the bitters if chosen). Adjust the manliness to suit.

David Embury, the author of The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks (1948) ratchets up the proportions to a 4:1:1 ratio. When it comes to Scotch though, that's probably too manly for most.

Similar Mixed Drinks

Automobile Cocktail - gin, scotch, sweet vermouth and orange bitters.

Beadlestone Cocktail - equal parts Scotch and dry vermouth.

Borden Chase - an original Affinity Cocktail with pastis instead of powdered sugar.

Emerald Cocktail - half-n-half Irish whiskey and Italian vermouth with a dash of orange bitters.

Highland Cocktail - equal parts Scotch and sweet vermouth.

Thistle Cocktail - Scotch whisky, Italian vermouth and Angostura bitters.

Trilby Variation - a Borden Chase with parfait amour.

York Cocktail - Scotch whisky, French vermouth and orange bitters.

References

* - "Live Topics About Town." New York Sun 28 Oct. 1907: 4. Print.

† - Hartford Courant 29 Oct. 1907: 14. Print.

‡ - "An 'Affinity' Sketch." Variety Magazine Nov. 1907: 6. Print.

1 - Divorcons (the play).

2 - Divorcons (the movie).

3 - His Affinity (the movie).

4 - Molly McGinnity, You're My Affinity song lyrics:

I've been a single man all my life.

I've never wanted to own a wife.

No Wedding Bells was the song for me.

Money my own, and my evenings free.

Now all that's over, those days are through;

You've done the trick with your eyes of blue.

Molly McGinnity don't you see?

You're the affinity meant for me.

Molly McGinnity, You're my affinity, Say that you love me, do.

In this vicinity, No femininity, Is half so sweet as you.

Molly McGinnity, Down at old Trinity, If you will not decline.

There's a doctor of divinity, The Reverend Finnerty, A waiting to make you mine.

“Hold on a minute,” says Molly dear,

“What's this affinity word I hear?

Is it some kind of a breakfast food?

May be its meaning is not so good.”

“Whisper,” says I, “‘tis a brand new word,

‘Tis from the French, and it means a bird.”

“Oh, if that's so” says my Molly dear,

“Say it again, for I like to hear.”

Molly McGinnity, You're my affinity, Say that you love me, do.

In this vicinity, No femininity, Is half so sweet as you.

Molly McGinnity, Down at old Trinity, If you will not decline.

There's a doctor of divinity, The Reverend Finnerty, A waiting to make you mine.

5 - The Soul Kiss (Broadway musical extravaganza).

6 - Harry Bache Smith, First Nights and First Editions - An Autobiography (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1931). Print.

7 - The Affinity (the play).

8 - Michael Holroyd, A Strange Eventful History: The Dramatic Lives of Ellen Terry, Henry Irving, and Their Remarkable Families (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008). Print.

9 - That's not really true, but since the first "Affinity cocktail" published in a bartending book was actually a completely separate recipe altogether, we decided to remove it from the main article content. This drink, which later became known to some as the Violet Affinity cocktail was originally listed with instructions to frappe 2/5 French vermouth with 2/5 Italian vermouth and 1/5 crème de violette; serving in a chilled stemmed glasses via William T. (Cocktail) Boothby, The World's Drinks And How To Mix Them (San Francisco: Pacific Buffet, 1908), 143. Print.

10 - Other Affinity cocktail variations have appeared along the way including one with equal measures of whiskey, French and Italian vermouths along with 3 drops of Peychaud bitters and a twist of orange peel on top via Ernest P. Rawling, Rawling's Book of Mixed Drinks - An Up to Date Guide for Mixing and Serving All Kinds of Beverages and Written Expressly for the Man Who Entertains at Home (San Francisco: Guild Press, 1914), 14. Print.

[starringemiliaclarke]

Emilia Clarke, of “Game of Thrones,” on Surviving Two Life-Threatening Aneurysms

Just when all my childhood dreams seemed to have come true, I nearly lost my mind and then my life. I’ve never told this story publicly, but now it’s time.

It was the beginning of 2011. I had just finished filming the first season of “Game of Thrones,” a new HBO series based on George R. R. Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” novels. With almost no professional experience behind me, I’d been given the role of Daenerys Targaryen, also known as Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Lady of Dragonstone, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons. As a young princess, Daenerys is sold in marriage to a musclebound Dothraki warlord named Khal Drogo. It’s a long story—eight seasons long—but suffice to say that she grows in stature and in strength. She becomes a figure of power and self-possession. Before long, young girls would dress in platinum wigs and flowing robes to be Daenerys Targaryen for Halloween.

The show’s creators, David Benioff and D. B. Weiss, have said that my character is a blend of Napoleon, Joan of Arc, and Lawrence of Arabia. And yet, in the weeks after we finished shooting the first season, despite all the looming excitement of a publicity campaign and the series première, I hardly felt like a conquering spirit. I was terrified. Terrified of the attention, terrified of a business I barely understood, terrified of trying to make good on the faith that the creators of “Thrones” had put in me. I felt, in every way, exposed. In the very first episode, I appeared naked, and, from that first press junket onward, I always got the same question: some variation of “You play such a strong woman, and yet you take off your clothes. Why?” In my head, I’d respond, “How many men do I need to kill to prove myself?”

To relieve the stress, I worked out with a trainer. I was a television actor now, after all, and that is what television actors do. We work out. On the morning of February 11, 2011, I was getting dressed in the locker room of a gym in Crouch End, North London, when I started to feel a bad headache coming on. I was so fatigued that I could barely put on my sneakers. When I started my workout, I had to force myself through the first few exercises.

Then my trainer had me get into the plank position, and I immediately felt as though an elastic band were squeezing my brain. I tried to ignore the pain and push through it, but I just couldn’t. I told my trainer I had to take a break. Somehow, almost crawling, I made it to the locker room. I reached the toilet, sank to my knees, and proceeded to be violently, voluminously ill. Meanwhile, the pain—shooting, stabbing, constricting pain—was getting worse. At some level, I knew what was happening: my brain was damaged.

For a few moments, I tried to will away the pain and the nausea. I said to myself, “I will not be paralyzed.” I moved my fingers and toes to make sure that was true. To keep my memory alive, I tried to recall, among other things, some lines from “Game of Thrones.”

I heard a woman’s voice coming from the next stall, asking me if I was O.K. No, I wasn’t. She came to help me and maneuvered me onto my side, in the recovery position. Then everything became, at once, noisy and blurry. I remember the sound of a siren, an ambulance; I heard new voices, someone saying that my pulse was weak. I was throwing up bile. Someone found my phone and called my parents, who live in Oxfordshire, and they were told to meet me at the emergency room of Whittington Hospital.

A fog of unconsciousness settled over me. From an ambulance, I was wheeled on a gurney into a corridor filled with the smell of disinfectant and the noises of people in distress. Because no one knew what was wrong with me, the doctors and nurses could not give me any drugs to ease the pain.

Finally, I was sent for an MRI, a brain scan. The diagnosis was quick and ominous: a subarachnoid hemorrhage (SAH), a life-threatening type of stroke, caused by bleeding into the space surrounding the brain. I’d had an aneurysm, an arterial rupture. As I later learned, about a third of SAH patients die immediately or soon thereafter. For the patients who do survive, urgent treatment is required to seal off the aneurysm, as there is a very high risk of a second, often fatal bleed. If I was to live and avoid terrible deficits, I would have to have urgent surgery. And, even then, there were no guarantees.

I was taken by ambulance to the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery, a beautiful redbrick Victorian pile in central London. It was nighttime. My mum slept in my hospital ward, slumped in a chair, as I kept falling in and out of sleep, in a state of drugged wooziness, shooting pain, and persistent nightmares.

I remember being told that I should sign a release form for surgery. Brain surgery? I was in the middle of my very busy life—I had no time for brain surgery. But, finally, I settled down and signed. And then I was unconscious. For the next three hours, surgeons went about repairing my brain. This would not be my last surgery, and it would not be the worst. I was twenty-four years old.

I grew up in Oxford and rarely gave a thought to my health. Nearly all I thought about was acting. My dad was a sound designer. He worked on productions of “West Side Story” and “Chicago” in the West End. My mother was, and is, a businesswoman, the vice-president of marketing for a global management consultancy. We weren’t wealthy, but my brother and I went to private schools. Our parents, who wanted everything for us, struggled to keep up with the fees.

I have no clear memory of when I first decided to be an actor. I’m told I was around three or four. When I went with my dad to theatres, I was entranced by backstage life: the gossip, the props, the costumes, all the urgent and whispered hubbub in the near darkness. When I was three, my father took me to see a production of “Show Boat.” Although I was ordinarily a loud and antsy child, I sat silent and rapt in the audience for more than two hours. When the curtain came down, I stood on my seat and clapped wildly over my head.

I was hooked. At home, I played a VHS tape of “My Fair Lady” so many times that it snapped from wear. I think I took the Pygmalion story as a sign of how, and with enough rehearsal and a good director, you can become someone else. I don’t think my dad was pleased when I announced that I wanted to be an actor. He knew plenty of actors and, to his mind, they were habitually neurotic and unemployed.

My school, in Oxford, the Squirrel School, was idyllic, orderly, and sweet. When I was five, I got the lead part in a play. When it came time to take the stage and deliver my lines, though, I forgot everything. I just stood there, center stage, stock-still, taking it all in. In the front row, the teachers were trying to help by mouthing my lines. But I just stood there, with no fear, very calm. It’s a state of mind that has carried me throughout my career. These days, I can be on a red carpet with a thousand cameras clicking away and I’m unfazed. Of course, put me at a dinner party with six people and that’s another matter.

With time, I got better at acting. I even remembered my lines. But I was hardly a prodigy. When I was ten, my dad took me to an audition in the West End for a production of Neil Simon’s “The Goodbye Girl.” When I got inside, I realized that every girl trying out for this part was singing a song from “Cats.” The only thing I could come up with was an English folk song, “Donkey Riding.” After listening rather patiently, someone asked, “How about something more . . . contemporary?” I sang the Spice Girls hit “Wannabe.” My dad’s hands practically covered his face. I didn’t get the part, and I think it was a blessing. My dad said, “It would have been hard reading anything bad about you in the paper.”

But I kept at it. In school productions, I played Anita in “West Side Story,” Abigail in “The Crucible,” one of the witches in “Macbeth,” Viola in “Twelfth Night.” After secondary school, I took a gap year, during which I worked as a waitress and went backpacking in Asia. Then I started classes at the Drama Centre London to pursue my B.A. As fledgling actors, we studied everything from “The Cherry Orchard” to “The Wire.” I didn’t get the ingénue parts. Those went to the tall, willowy, impossibly blond girls. I got cast as a Jewish mother in “Awake and Sing!” You should hear my Bronx accent.

After graduation, I made myself a promise: for one year, I would take only roles with some promise. I made the rent working in a pub, in a call center, and at an obscure museum, telling people that “the loos are just to the right.” Seconds lasted days. But I was determined: one year of no bad productions, no plays above a bar.

In the spring of 2010, my agent called to say that auditions were being held in London for a new HBO series. The pilot for “Game of Thrones” had been flawed and they wanted to re-cast, among other roles, Daenerys. The part called for an otherworldly, bleached-blond woman of mystery. I’m a short, dark-haired, curvy Brit. Whatever. To prepare, I learned these very strange lines for two scenes, one in Episode 4, in which my brother goes to hit me, and one in Episode 10, in which I walk into a fire and survive, unscathed.

In those days, I thought of myself as healthy. Sometimes I got a little light-headed, because I often had low blood pressure and a low heart rate. Once in a while, I’d get dizzy and pass out. When I was fourteen, I had a migraine that kept me in bed for a couple of days, and in drama school I’d collapse once in a while. But it all seemed manageable, part of the stress of being an actor and of life in general. Now I think that I might have been experiencing warning signs of what was to come.

I read for “Game of Thrones” in a tiny studio in Soho. Four days later, I got a call. Apparently, the audition hadn’t been a disaster. I was told to fly to Los Angeles in three weeks and read for Benioff and Weiss and the network executives. I started working out intensely to prepare. They flew me business class. I stole all the free tea from the lounge. At the audition, I tried not to look when I spotted another actor––tall, blond, willowy, beautiful––walking by. I read two scenes in a dark auditorium, for an audience of producers and executives. When it was over, I blurted out, “Can I do anything else?”

David Benioff said, “You can do a dance.” Never wanting to disappoint, I did the funky chicken and the robot. In retrospect, I could have ruined it all. I’m not the best dancer.

As I was leaving the auditorium, they ran after me and said, “Congratulations, Princess!” I had the part.

I could hardly catch my breath. I went back to the hotel, where some people invited me to a party on the roof. “I think I’m good!” I told them. Instead, I went to my room, ate Oreos, watched “Friends,” and called everyone I knew.

That first surgery was what is known as “minimally invasive,” meaning that they did not open up my skull. Rather, using a technique called endovascular coiling, the surgeon introduced a wire into one of the femoral arteries, in the groin; the wire made its way north, around the heart, and to the brain, where they sealed off the aneurysm.

The operation lasted three hours. When I woke, the pain was unbearable. I had no idea where I was. My field of vision was constricted. There was a tube down my throat and I was parched and nauseated. They moved me out of the I.C.U. after four days and told me that the great hurdle was to make it to the two-week mark. If I made it that long with minimal complications, my chances of a good recovery were high.

One night, after I’d passed that crucial mark, a nurse woke me and, as part of a series of cognitive exercises, she said, “What’s your name?” My full name is Emilia Isobel Euphemia Rose Clarke. But now I couldn’t remember it. Instead, nonsense words tumbled out of my mouth and I went into a blind panic. I’d never experienced fear like that—a sense of doom closing in. I could see my life ahead, and it wasn’t worth living. I am an actor; I need to remember my lines. Now I couldn’t recall my name.

I was suffering from a condition called aphasia, a consequence of the trauma my brain had suffered. Even as I was muttering nonsense, my mum did me the great kindness of ignoring it and trying to convince me that I was perfectly lucid. But I knew I was faltering. In my worst moments, I wanted to pull the plug. I asked the medical staff to let me die. My job—my entire dream of what my life would be—centered on language, on communication. Without that, I was lost.

I was sent back to the I.C.U. and, after about a week, the aphasia passed. I was able to speak. I knew my name—all five bits. But I was also aware that there were people in the beds around me who didn’t make it out of the I.C.U. I was continually reminded of just how fortunate I was. One month after being admitted, I left the hospital, longing for a bath and fresh air. I had press interviews to do and, in a matter of weeks, I was scheduled to be back on the set of “Game of Thrones.”

went back to my life, but, while I was in the hospital, I was told that I had a smaller aneurysm on the other side of my brain, and it could “pop” at any time. The doctors said, though, that it was small and it was possible it would remain dormant and harmless indefinitely. We would just keep a careful watch. And recovery was hardly instant. There was still the pain to deal with, and morphine to keep it at bay. I told my bosses at “Thrones” about my condition, but I didn’t want it to be a subject of public discussion and dissection. The show must go on!

Even before we began filming Season 2, I was deeply unsure of myself. I was often so woozy, so weak, that I thought I was going to die. Staying at a hotel in London during a publicity tour, I vividly remember thinking, I can’t keep up or think or breathe, much less try to be charming. I sipped on morphine in between interviews. The pain was there, and the fatigue was like the worst exhaustion I’d ever experienced, multiplied by a million. And, let’s face it, I’m an actor. Vanity comes with the job. I spent way too much time thinking about how I looked. If all this weren’t enough, I seemed to whack my head every time I tried to get in a taxi.

The reaction to Season 1 was, of course, fantastic, though I had very little knowledge then of how the world kept score. When a friend called me exclaiming, “You’re No. 1 on IMDb!” I said, “What is IMDb?”

On the first day of shooting for Season 2, in Dubrovnik, I kept telling myself, “I am fine, I’m in my twenties, I’m fine.” I threw myself into the work. But, after that first day of filming, I barely made it back to the hotel before I collapsed of exhaustion.

On the set, I didn’t miss a beat, but I struggled. Season 2 would be my worst. I didn’t know what Daenerys was doing. If I am truly being honest, every minute of every day I thought I was going to die.

In 2013, after finishing Season 3, I took a job on Broadway, playing Holly Golightly. The rehearsals were wonderful, but it was clear pretty soon that it was not going to be a success. The whole thing lasted only a couple of months.

While I was still in New York for the play, with five days left on my saginsurance, I went in for a brain scan—something I now had to do regularly. The growth on the other side of my brain had doubled in size, and the doctor said we should “take care of it.” I was promised a relatively simple operation, easier than last time. Not long after, I found myself in a fancy-pants private room at a Manhattan hospital. My parents were there. “See you in two hours,” my mum said, and off I went for surgery, another trip up the femoral artery to my brain. No problem.

Except there was. When they woke me, I was screaming in pain. The procedure had failed. I had a massive bleed and the doctors made it plain that my chances of surviving were precarious if they didn’t operate again. This time they needed to access my brain in the old-fashioned way—through my skull. And the operation had to happen immediately.

The recovery was even more painful than it had been after the first surgery. I looked as though I had been through a war more gruesome than any that Daenerys experienced. I emerged from the operation with a drain coming out of my head. Bits of my skull had been replaced by titanium. These days, you can’t see the scar that curves from my scalp to my ear, but I didn’t know at first that it wouldn’t be visible. And there was, above all, the constant worry about cognitive or sensory losses. Would it be concentration? Memory? Peripheral vision? Now I tell people that what it robbed me of is good taste in men. But, of course, none of this seemed remotely funny at the time.

I spent a month in the hospital again and, at certain points, I lost all hope. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. There was terrible anxiety, panic attacks. I was raised never to say, “It’s not fair”; I was taught to remember that there is always someone who is worse off than you. But, going through this experience for the second time, all hope receded. I felt like a shell of myself. So much so that I now have a hard time remembering those dark days in much detail. My mind has blocked them out. But I do remember being convinced that I wasn’t going to live. And, what’s more, I was sure that the news of my illness would get out. And it did—for a fleeting moment. Six weeks after the surgery, the National Enquirer ran a short story. A reporter asked me about it and I denied it.

But now, after keeping quiet all these years, I’m telling you the truth in full. Please believe me: I know that I am hardly unique, hardly alone. Countless people have suffered far worse, and with nothing like the care I was so lucky to receive.

A few weeks after that second surgery, I went with a few other cast members to Comic-Con, in San Diego. The fans at Comic-Con are hardcore; you don’t want to disappoint them. There were several thousand people in the audience, and, right before we went on to answer questions, I was hit by a horrific headache. Back came that sickeningly familiar sense of fear. I thought, This is it. My time is up; I’ve cheated death twice and now he’s coming to claim me. As I stepped offstage, my publicist looked at me and asked what was wrong. I told her, but she said that a reporter from MTV was waiting for an interview. I figured, if I’m going to go, it might as well be on live television.

But I survived. I survived MTV and so much more. In the years since my second surgery I have healed beyond my most unreasonable hopes. I am now at a hundred per cent. Beyond my work as an actor, I’ve decided to throw myself into a charity I’ve helped develop in conjunction with partners in the U.K. and the U.S. It is called SameYou, and it aims to provide treatment for people recovering from brain injuries and stroke. I feel endless gratitude—to my mum and brother, to my doctors and nurses, to my friends. Every day, I miss my father, who died of cancer in 2016, and I can never thank him enough for holding my hand to the very end.

There is something gratifying, and beyond lucky, about coming to the end of “Thrones.” I’m so happy to be here to see the end of this story and the beginning of whatever comes next.

Emilia Clarke, of “Game of Thrones,” on Surviving Two Life-Threatening Aneurysms was originally published on Enchanting Emilia Clarke | Est 2012

[staylucidechooflight]

Her name was Iris

Her name was Iris. She was your average twenty-something software developer. Well, average except every cell in her body was programmable by top secret technology. Kind of like 3D printing, only much faster, and more personal. This software was engineered to receive text input and output what it determined to be perfection, to every cell in her body, in realtime. So she was literally twenty-something, no older, no younger .. because the software determined this was the perfect age to be. everything was a further test used to acquire further perfection. She could enter a few words into her mobile device any time to make quick improvements, or to switch from one version of herself to another.

His name was Nick. He was 29. He was also pretty average, no automated perfection engine involved. He was just looking for a way to kill the boredom of the Easter long weekend. He somehow lined up eight blind dates within five days with girls he met online. He felt a little unsure if meeting eight different girls within five days was a good idea, but a few drinks later he was ok with it. What Nick didn’t realise was, Iris had hacked tinder so every time he swiped left or right on his device… a new version of IRIS would show up in his results, each time, looking more perfect than before, with a slightly more perfect personality. All of these variations were saved for later. Stored within her mobile device, accessible anytime. She could be any one of these different women within a moment. She just had to type a few words and her body’s cells would rearrange, her personality would slightly change, even her clothes were made up of programmable material.

So they went on a few dates. Nick had coffee with a redhead named Frankie. The next day he had lunch with a dark haired woman named Rachael, then later that same day found himself out at a nightclub with an Asian woman whose name he couldn’t seem to pronounce correctly no matter how many times he tried. For Nick, keeping track of all these different girls he had planned to meet and trying to remember the brief conversations they had had a night before online was a challenge. For Iris, it was simple, she selected one of the versions of herself available, the software rearranged her cells, and she continued.

On each date, beneath the surface, Iris got to know Nick. tested him, tested herself against his conversations, his awkward glances and his likelihood to ever call or text this version of herself back after the date was over. In the background beneath Iris’s actual thoughts, the computer program ran its own tests, made its own measurements and made adjustments to the next version of Iris to be tested. Always seeking perfection.

On one date, Nick and Iris spoke to each other as if they were secret agents, even though they were just texting each other on the way to meet for a Movie. On another, they got incredibly lost trying to find a theatre in Iris’s car, because she had decided to drive, and Nick is pretty much the worst at helping someone navigate from the passenger seat. During the last date, Nick brought Iris (this time a blonde named Kate) to the same bar he’d taken Iris on their second date a few days earlier. The first time around she was Rachael. The same bartender was there, unimpressed by Nick showing up more than once with some new woman he barely knows from Tinder. Nick thinks back for a moment and wonders why he’s returned to this bar. the utter nonsense of getting mixed up in such a ridiculous situation as juggling eight dates in less than eight days catching up to him and stopping him in his tracks. “Kate, I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve got to make a quick phone call.” Said Nick as he placed his phone just out of view and selected Rachael from his contacts.

He stepped outside the bar for a moment to make the call. As Iris’s phone received the call it vibrated and various subroutines in the software acknowledged the selection of Rachael as as factor in the perfection engines calculations. Iris breathed deeply. Her entire body ready to edit itself from one version to another at a moments notice, she replied to the call with a text message instead of answering. “I’m not free to chat right now” Nick doesn’t leave a voicemail, he hates leaving voicemails. He replies to the text. “I just wanted to say I really had fun getting to know you the other night. I was wondering if you’d like to do it again sometime.”

Without waiting for a reply Nick begins deleting the other contacts from his phone, Guilt flooding his senses as he tries to think of some excuse to use to get out of his current date. He can’t think of anything, he considers just walking away. He vows to get less drunk, to make wise choices, he realises he’s been outside for ages and starts walking back to find Kate. The text message in Iris’s phone is inputted directly into her software’s perfection engine. The version of herself known as Rachael is restored from backup, small improvements and optimisations based on recent conversations are applied. Rachael waits silently out of sight as Iris displays Kate to the outside world with every cell in her body. Nick returns from outside looking embarrassed.

“I’ve got to go. I’m really sorry.” Said Nick.

“It’s ok, it was nice to meet you.” Said Kate. Nick walked towards the train station.

What was this lost weekend of blind dates for. What purpose did it serve. It’s like some sort of test, and he thought he might have failed.

A message from Rachael appears a moment later on Nicks Phone.

“I’d love to see you again, let me know when you are free”

[kattorav-blog]

the article from DANCE MAGAZINE February 1962

BRUHN, BOURNONVILLE AND BALLET

Introduction

In the spring of 1955, a Danish dancer of unusual promise became an international star. Dance Magazine, recognizing that his­tory was in the making, made its now fa­mous photographic record (July ‘55 issue) of the rehearsals in which Alicia Markova taught the young soloist the role of Al­brecht for the Ballet Theatre production of “Giselle." Since that time Erik Bruhn has continued to grow as an artist. Where- ever he goes, his immaculate, thrilling dancing is met with acclaim.

Last year Lillian Moore, American dance historian-teacher-author-critic and frequent contributor to Dance Magazine, long entranced with the “Bournonville style” in which the Royal Danish Ballet has for over a century trained its danc­ers, persuaded Mr. Bruhn to collaborate with her on an informal but intense study of the teaching methods of the great 19th- century choreographer. The book, co­authored by Miss Moore and Mr. Bruhn, has just been published by the Macmillan Co. Its title is “Bournonville and Ballet Technique,” its cost, $5.00.

The following is Mr. Bruhn's introduc­tion to “Bournonville and Ballet Tech­nique.” Bournonwille’s foreword to the technique manual he called “Etudes choregraphiques” is also reprinted from the lovingly-fashioned collaboration of the authors, who have successfully recreated a major link in ballet history.

[FOTO] Erik Bruhn as James in “La Sylphide.” The photos on these pages are technical studies from the recently-published “Bournonville and Ballet Technique."

 My Bournonville Background by Erik Bruhn

Hours of waiting went by. It was very noisy. Some children were crying, others playing wildly all over the place; the grown-ups talked incessantly. Some of the children, either on their own initiative or at the demand of their mothers, were prac­tising “tricks” or little solos with which they hoped to attract the special attention of the ballet master or the teachers who, at any moment now, were to decide our future.

Up to this point, all the commotion had caused me just to want to leave the place. Mу aunt (who had taken me there, be­cause my mother was busy) finally bribed me to stay and go through with the audi­tion. It cost her one kroner (about a shill­ing, or fifteen cents).

Young ballet students, 16 to 18 years old, worked very hard separating the chil­dren from the parents, putting us in lines, and eventually dividing us into groups of fifteen to twenty, in different studios. It was something of an anticlimax to find out that all we had to do was march, walk in time to music and show our feet. Then we were examined by the doctors.

When my aunt learned that I had been accepted to enter the ballet school the fol­lowing season, she rewarded me with an­other kroner.

During the long summer vacation I al­most managed to forget that I was to enter the Royal Theatre again. There I would not only attend the ballet school, but re­ceive my entire academic education. As I recall it, I had a rather difficult time adjusting myself to that special kind of world which is the theatre, or in this case, the world that children consider the theatre to be.

If  I knew little about ballet, I knew even less about the training I was to receive for the next ten years. Very soon every child in the school was aware of August Bournonville. At that time, al­though there were some contemporary works in the repertoire of the Danish Bal­let, its centre and very base consisted of Bournonville’s ballets. There were many opportunities for us children to appear on the stage. To be chosen as one of the eight children to dance in Konservatoriel was the goal of all of us. Since the same dance combinations were given in our daily classes, we all strove to perfect ourselves in the steps, so that one day we might be given the opportunity to perform them.

To be called on to fill any small role in one of Bournonville’s ballets, or even to be one of the group of children that he used in the third act of Napoli as a back­ground for the soloists who performed the famous variations and pas de deux, was the focal point of our life and work in the theatre. I used to stand with the rest of the crowd on the bridge in Napoli, dreaming of one day taking part in that wonderful dancing, or even doing one of those exciting solos that took place on the stage below us. All the principal artists who now dance in Napoli have stood in the back as children, at one time or another. Some of us even got to dance the very same solos we dreamed about.

After a couple of years at the school, I had begun to feel much better about it. With the other children, I shared in the general fun and excitement of work and play, as well as some unanticipated dis­appointments and frustrated hopes. Each year from 1937 to 1947 I passed the ballet examination unnoticed. This was good, for many of the children, through letters ad­dressed to their parents, received word that because of their lack of progress the theatre would no longer be able to keep them in the school, nor recommend that they continue in ballet. (p.39)                

During these ten years, I was trained in the Bournonville school. There were six different classes, for the different days of the week. They were “set” and were re­peated with hardly a change from the day you entered the school as a child, until you graduated, and continued on as a pro­fessional dancer. At that time the children received the same strenuous training as the adults. Everyone, whether a beginner or a member of the company, was given the same exercises.

The Bournonville school, as it is known up to this-day, was formed by teachers and ballet masters who followed him. It was based mostly on steps and variations that exist in his ballet productions. Apart from a few months of lessons from the bal­let master during my last year, I knew as a student only the set Bournonville class­es as they were taught then by the teach­ers who had charge of the children from their entrance up to the age of 18.

In the old school, the barre work was extremely short, fast and very strenuous on the legs! The centre work had very little adagio movement, and very few pir­ouette combinations of importance. The barre work was to warm up for variations which contained steps and movements which would be required in performance, and which were constructed mostly to strengthen jumps and beats. Some of these things are not used outside the Bournon­ville school. To me, however, they are not' lost steps. All my life I have attempted to master them, and I believe that they have great value when added to a good basic foundation. Properly applied, they are excellent for ballon, batterie and any allegro movement.

As it is known today, the Bournonville school is really more a choreographic style than a method of teaching. The style that this great choreographer created firm­ly established the Danish ballet and its traditions. Until ten years ago, this par­ticular style was rarely seen outside Den­mark. Then the Royal Danish Ballet began to visit some of the major cities in the western world. Several of Bournonville’s works were included in their repertoire, and for the first time an audience outside Denmark discovered his ballets and re­sponded enthusiastically to them. London, Edinburgh, New York and other cities ac­claimed his style as a new discovery. In­deed, it was entirely new to most of these audiences. Ever since it was created, this Bournonville style has been cherished by each generation of dancers in Denmark, and carefully passed on. From childhood, the dancers are taught the essence of a period that has long been forgotten every­where else.

Bournonville was a great dancer who had been trained by some of the finest teachers in Paris during the first quarter of the nineteenth century. Had travelling been easier in those days, and had the status of the male dancer been more gen­erally recognized by the European public, he might not have settled in Copenhagen. His choreography established the vital im­portance of the position of the male danc­er. Because he was a strong dancer as well as a truly great choreographer, he created roles which remain a technical challenge to this day. He not only considered the man equal in importance to the ballerina, but in some ballets made him the central figure. As a result, the standard of the male dancer in the Royal Danish Ballet has always remained on a high level.

To some degree the Bournonville reper­toire, in all its greatness, has perhaps kept Denmark from producing ballerinas in the style associated with and produced by the great Petipa ballets. However, Bournon­ville in no sense asked less of the ballerina, technically. In most of his ballets you will find her having to dance variations as strenuous and difficult as those of the lead­ing male dancer, and in the pas de deux as conceived by him they often dance op­posite one another executing the same steps. These were designed to stress the vitality and strength of the man, so some­times they may have unjustly revealed the weaknesses of the ballerina. I am speak­ing only of the actual dancing in Bour­nonville’s ballets, and not of the charac­terizations, which in most cases were pro­foundly imagined, beautifully balanced, and in perfect accord with his themes and the means of expression of that period.

The Bournonville repertoire and school developed fine performers for one specific style. However, it did not produce dancers of sufficient range and versatility to meet the challenge of today’s ballets. Therefore, changes were made in the school.

In 1951 the Royal Danish Ballet had the good fortune to obtain the services of the great Mme Vera Volkova. When she arrived, the entire school was reorgan­ized under her direction. Through her teaching and supervision of the school in general, she has improved the approach to the child, the student and the profes­sional dancer in the various stages through which they must pass. She has raised the technical standards, developing dancers with a greater range, who are more adapt­able to the various styles of contemporary choreographers. The present teachers, and especially the younger ones who develop­ed under her guidance, have naturally been strongly influenced by her way of teaching. To many in Denmark this ap­pears to be a revolutionary change, not in accordance with the long-established Bour­nonville traditions and the maintenance of the Bournonville repertoire. But, as any­one can see, the Danish dancers of today have a stronger and purer technique than ever before. Through the improvement of the school during the past ten years they are now capable of performing, and most successfully, works by such modern cho­reographers as Balanchine, Robbins, Ash­ton and Petit. Previously the new forms which they have created would have been entirely alien to the repertoire of the Royal Danish Ballet and the dancers train­ed exclusively in the Bournonville school.

Soon after I graduated in 1947, I had the opportunity to study in London and Paris, and to dance first with the Metro­politan Ballet in England and later, after a time at home, with the American Ballet Theatre. I began to get acquainted with different schools and to discover other ways of training and approach in the bal­let world outside of Denmark. I began to understand the importance of a varied and well-rounded training. For a while I even wanted to forget all about the Bournon­ville school, while I was trying to strength­en these aspects of technique which it had perhaps neglected, while gaining new and important experience as a performer in a new and different repertory.

Then, in 1951, as I was leaving Copen­hagen for my second tour with the Amer­ican Ballet Theatre, our leading Danish ballet critic, Svend Kragh-Jacobsen, gave me, as a farewell present, a rare little book, «Etudes choregraphiques», written by Bournonville himself. It consists of various exercises, beginning at the barre, through centre work and concluding with combi­nations of steps designed to improve bal­lon and elevation. Bournonville dedicates this book to his pupils and his colleagues, the professional dancers. Perhaps at the time I received it I appreciated only the generous thought which prompted Mr. Kragh-Jacobsen to give it to me, and only vaguely realized that it was possibly also meant to be a reminder of my “past".

In 1959 I brought this little book to the United States and showed it to Lillian Moore. Her interest and enthusiasm, and her knowledge of the history and tradi­tions of the Danish ballet, gave me per­haps my second reminder of my Bournon­ville background, as well as a deeper арpreflation of values I had taken for grant­ed, and an insight into things I had not realized before, in any conscious way. (p40)

In studying Bournonville’s book, I have come to feel in some ways more in contact with him, and closer to understanding his aims, than when I was first taught his school. When he wrote it for his pupils and dancers, he stressed that they should apply the exercises according to their in­dividual needs. These exercises were de­signed from his own personal experience as a dancer and teacher, and they prove his flexibility and his understanding of a dancer’s body. It is as though, in this book, Boumonville hands you personally and directly his vast knowledge of the ballet and the processes involved in making a dancer.

Some of Bournonville’s exercises are not known, or seldom practised today (or practised differently) outside Denmark. We are not trying to advocate them as a new system, method or secret. However, we think they have a definite value which would be beneficial as a supplement to any dancer's training, when applied cor­rectly (as Bournonville insisted in his lit­tle book) by the teacher or the mature dancer himself. We submit them in the hope that they may prove part of the means with which to achieve greater know­ledge and ever-expanding artistic experi­ence.                

 END

 Foreword to "Choreographic Studies" by August Boumonville

Dance is an art, because it demands vo­cation, knowledge and ability. It is a fine art, because it aims towards an ideal, not only of plastic beauty, but also of lyric and dramatic expressiveness.

The beauty which it strives to attain is not founded on vague principles of fash­ion or mere enjoyment, but on the im­mutable laws of nature.

The art of mime encompasses all the changes of the soul: the dance is essen­tially fitted to express joy and to follow the rhythm of the music.

The purpose of art in general and of the theatre in particular (whether its direc­tion be comic or tragic) is to elevate the soul and strengthen the spirit. The dance should, then, arm itself especially against the too pronounced preference of a blase public for effects which are contrary to good manners, good taste and the true interests of art.

Joy is strength; intoxication is weak­ness.  Noble simplicity will always be beau­tiful. The astonishing, on the contrary, soon becomes boring. The dance can, with the aid of music, raise itself to the heights of poetry, but on the other hand it can equally, through excess of acrobatics, de­scend to the stunts of the mountebank. So- called difficulties are executed by numer­ous adepts, but the appearance of ease is achieved only by the chosen few. The sum­mit of talent is to know how to conceal the mechanism through the calm harmony which is the foundation of true grace.

To maintain this easy grace, in the midst of the most fatiguing movements, is the great problem of the dance, and such virtuosity cannot be acquired without good exercises, designed to develop the qual­ities and eliminate the imperfections which everyone, not even excepting the greatest talents,  is obliged to combat. It is such exercises which l present here to my dear pupils as well as to my worthy colleagues, reminding them of the oft-repeated saying, that it is not so much on the number of exercises. as on the care with which they are executedthat progress and skill de­pend.

[FOTO] August Bournonrille (1805-79) is re­sponsible for the tradition and an im­portant part of the repertoire of the Royal Danish Ballet today.

[FOTO] Mlle Lucile Grahn, Bournonville’s favor­ite pupil, in “La Sylphidewhich he staged for the Royal Danish Ballet in 1836. “La Sylphide" is still danced by that company.

 Conversation with Erik Bruhn by Eugene Palatsky

Erik Bruhn, as co-author with Lillian Moore of Boumonville and Ballet Tech­nique, suggests in his introductory remarks that the book’s lessons might aid the dancer “to achieve greater knowledge and ever-expanding artistic experience.”

An appropriate phrase, for such a pur­pose largely sums up Erik Bruhn’s career to date. From Copenhagen to London to Paris to America, and then ’round the world with American Ballet Theatre, he has constantly re-examined his art, sift­ing for new experiences, new meaning, profiting from each venture. Though it may seem to the audience on certain thea­tre nights that he could not surpass him­self, Erik would retire immediately if he weren't certain of coming closer to per­fection tomorrow.

Last May, the young man was home to his haven in Copenhagen, participating in the Royal Danish Ballet Festival. He stay­ed away from post-performance recep­tions, for minds like his stop functioning in the cocktail party atmosphere. Yet, a dancer who thinks deeply about his work wants to communicate, to hear how his ideas sound, if nothing else. This he did. in quiet, unhurried conversations away from the Royal Theatre.

His thoughts revealed his concentration on the idea of giving more of himself through dance — not in generosity to the audience, but as mental-physical release, total expression, as though he were try­ing to say something with every fiber of his body and brain. He has varied his dance associations over the years to broad­en. intensify and polish this release.

As for his original reason for leaving the Danish ballet in 1947 and going to England. Erik Bruhn doesn't intellectualize. He merely felt “wrong” in the then Boumomille-dominated classes and reper­toire and felt the need to broaden his ex­perience.

Returning periodically in guest capacity. Erik Bruhn seems to dance best in Copen­hagen. In the classical pas de deux, in Chopiniana particularly, and even in the raucous  Carmen, he softens his virtuosity with a poetic restraint, a gentle mascul­inity. that is sometimes lacking in New York. At home he pours forth a noble excellence which seems to summarize his worldwide experience.

In England, on his first contact with the outside world, he saw all that was then new in ballet — Sadlers Wells, Rambert, (p.41) the de Basil Co., Petit, Babilee. He was amazed at the variety of expression.

He joined Metropolitan Ballet, the re­spectable touring company which lasted three years in postwar Britain. One-week stands, dirty hotels, bad food. “But we danced everything.” Two teenagers, Erik Bruhn and Svetlana Beriosova,  danced Spectre de la Rose. Often he was thrown into performance after semi-rehearsal, with colleagues cueing him from the wings. “This is the great challenge. Now you must show what you are, what your train­ing has meant. You must create onstage, sometimes just improvising.”

Bruhn enlarged his repertoire and vocab­ulary in Metropolitan Ballet. During a summer of classes in Paris, he tried to “consolidate” his new technique, to the point of wrenching a knee, which trou­bled him for years after.

Blevins Davis, a patron of Ballet Thea­tre, spotted him in Copenhagen in 1949, and Erik Bruhn was subsequently invited to join the company. That November he made his American debut as Benno, sup­porting Nana Gollner and Igor Youskevitch in a Baltimore Swan Lake. His early parts were Orestes in Helen of Troy, a Pink Boy in Theme and Variations, Paris in Romeo and Juliet, and an occasional Nutcracker pas de deux or Prince Charm­ing. Yet his progress was not too rapid. Though he kept reappearing for Ballet Theatre seasons, he would return each summer to Copenhagen.

It was not until 1954 that he determin­ed, “I will go back to Ballet Theatre, and stay there. If I make mistakes, I will cor­rect them there.” He began to understand that each performance was an accumula­tion of everything that had gone before, good and bad. He realized that he must step on stage each night and dance with all his strength… then reflect between performances…   and dance the next night with new thoughts on the subject, recreating everything.

The key moment is at curtain time, when “you bring all this accumulation to bear, remove you from yourself, and let it happen.”

Ballet Theatre, for him, allowed this type of maturing process. Performances night after night, quick cast changes, hard work, overwork - far different from the security and complacency of a state theatre. Each night was a new challenge, and the young Dane made it a useful one. The payoff came at the storied matinee in May, 1955, when he danced Giselle with Alicia Markova at the Metropolitan Opera House, and the world had a new premier danseur.

Giselle had been under-rehearsed. But he absorbed everything he could from talks with Markova. “She explained just what her character was doing at each mo­ment. Then it was simple. I could natur­ally respond, and find my place. When it was over, I didn’t know quite what had happened. But it had all seemed very na­tural.”

This ability to comprehend the theatri­cal purpose of each movement and mo­ment has been vital in his artistic develop­ment. He has enjoyed collaborating with Birgit Cullberg, watching her drive ahead intensely with her dramatic development, then filling in the sketch with significant movement. He realizes that mime is not separate from dancing, that a pirouette can be happy or - as with Jean, the butler - hateful.

Эта способность постигать смысл каждого движения и момента была жизненно важна для его художественного развития. Ему нравилось работать с  Бриджит Кулльберг, наблюдая за ее энергичным движением вперед, ее драматическим развитием, а затем заполнять эскиз осмысленным движением. Он понимает, что мимика  неотделима  от танца, что пируэтом может выразить счастье, или, как с Яном-слугой - ненависть.

During the three months he spent with the New York City Ballet in 1959-60, he learned to understand and appreciate George Balanchine.

За три месяца,  проведенные с the New York City Ballet в 1959-1960 годах, он научился понимать и ценить Джорджа Баланчина.

Erik disagrees with the City Center dancers who sometimes complain that Balanchine speaks to them only in technical terms, ignoring the mood and meaning.

 “If you watch him while he is counting ... he doesn’t exactly demonstrate . . . but his body inflection, his facial expres­sion indicate everything he wants.

I learned his Swan Lake by watching him work with Maria Tallchief. As he talked to her, guiding her through the adagio, he unconsciously moved about, re­acting to her movements . . . and I knew then what I should be doing as the Prince.”

He observed that a new Balanchine ballet reaches its peak performance six months after the premiere — “because Balanchine and the dancers keep working on it.” Erik Bruhn disapproves of the too- secure company which studies a ballet for three months, shows in the premiere what it has prepared, and then repeats that single interpretation on succeeding nights.

He would like to dance again with the Balanchine company, “maybe to finish learning Apollo.” But he is vague about the future. He maintains a principal goal — perfection as a dancer-person - yet he prefers to have no pattern of existence, allowing his opportunities to just happen.

He is reputed to be an excellent teacher, and he enjoys teaching. Many Danes hope he will someday be ballet master of the Royal Danish Ballet. Teaching company class occasionally in Copenhagen during the festival, he was very demanding of the boys — naturally, for he demands the impossible of himself. He spoke severely to a budding ballerina in the company, telling her she must now forget what the teacher had said about the Don Quixote variation, and rethink it herself. “You have taken, taken, taken from your teach­ers. Now you must give something.” Again, he meant “giving” as self-expression, re­lease.

Choreography still interests him; but he has composed no complete work since Festa (Ballet Theatre Workshop, 1957), which had artful moments worthy of an­other try. He gathers pieces of music from time to time, and stores them away until he should again feel the choreograph­ic urge.

Erik Bruhn expresses his appreciation for help received from teachers, partners, choreographers and directors — if he is specifically asked. He is not ungrateful, but he seems to rely on no one. Viewing his career as an introspective study, he reflects on his needs and weaknesses, and solves them himself, whether they be emo­tional dilemmas or a suspected flaw in his dance technique.

Some wavering confidence is balanced by his shining, underplayed comic sense.

Perhaps his vigorous forefathers, the Vikings, were like handsome, searching Erik Bruhn - for they, too, were world conquerors.   

END

[imagine-that-one-thing]

Styles & Co. || 9.

*** ***

When Harry told me to pack a bag for the weekend I did not take him seriously one bit, I assumed he was just trying to be cheeky and make up for our previous disagreement; turns out, he was serious about the weekend. He — presumably with the help of Anastasia — Planned a small getaway just for the two of us, promising that his phone would be used at a minimum and I was *all* his for the whole weekend, no interruptions, no business talk, no business problems, or even clients that need to be seen. He is absolutely, one-hundred percent mine for at least the next forty-eight hours.

Oh, how so much can be done in forty-eight hours without interruptions...

Despite having a splendid cabin to relax in and partake in various activities with my boyfriend, I find myself hand in hand with Harry while we stroll along a hiking trail he specifically selected.

A walk in nature is refreshing; the rich air fills my lungs with a sense of clarity.

The worn trail leads a route through a chirr of insects sounding while within the terrain of old decayed logs, some softened by rot, along with many forest-y like shrubs, towering trees, and tussock grass.

Thick grass carpets contoured lines as a border for the narrow pathway we travel on— between the rich verdant woodlands on either side of us. The further I advance the more of a lush scent radiates from the various grasses that line the channels, the dips and curves of the uneven terrain.

"Harry, are you sure there are no snakes?" I challenge while I continue to gaze over the region, feeling as if I have been undividedly swallowed by a viridian forest of chaparral.

"Elle, you're in the heart of nature. Just relax and enjoy the walk." Harry responds, appearing to appreciate the calmness of the trail and the greenery it contains.

I have never really been fond of walking trails, I find them rather boring, in my eyes, all I see is greenery and random shrubs that may or may not be poisonous, but, Harry seems to appreciate the walk in nature, the least I can do is smile and breathe in the fresh air. After all, there have been things over the years he has done for me that he has thoroughly despised, such as attending a few theatre productions with me, and not complaining through the Nut-Cracker — that he found to be unquestionably tedious and torturous.

We subsequently reach the top end of the trail, the peak of the trail allowing us to appreciate a promising landscape. My eyes set themselves among the breathtaking panoramas over the edge — it's almost as if the whole world is at the edge of my feet, — Rugged Alpine mountains line the distance where the snow caps peak the skyline, the mountains accompanied by a thick mist at the base where rolling land dip and curve in the spaces between the hilly mountains and the valleys.

"It seems so peaceful out there." My eyes continue to gaze over the view thoroughly, taking in the beautiful detail and picturesque scenery offered, from the rigid cerulean mountains to the shadow the mountains cast over the scattered villages — almost as though the mountains are nature's shielding casings for the settlements before them.

Harry's arm benevolently encloses itself around my waist, a small kiss becoming caressed against my cheek.

"It does, it's a lovely view, I love the colour variations between the landscapes, how the colours elegantly dip and transition. It is remarkable." He agrees with the sense of peacefulness the distance emits. "Tell you what else is lovely?" He begins with a slight chuckle.

"You're about to say something incredibly cheesy and cute, aren't you?" I smile, my eyes turning to gaze at him, his view being one of my all-time favourites. I can never get enough of his features, his blue-green eyes that sometimes turn to grey, his pink lips, or even the way his nose crinkles at times.

He shrugs, his eyes moving back towards the landscape before us, "I was," he nods, "But since you just outed me, I will refrain from my comment." He continues as I lean into him, his arm becoming tighter.

"I want to hear it," I gently poke at him.

"Nope, are you ready to go back down the trail?" He questions and I nod, taking one last look at the view before I move from Harrys embrace and begin to step away from the edge.

"You coming?" I turn to smile at Harry, holding out my hand. I observe as he timidly nods, his hand fidgeting in his pocket. "Harry?" I narrow my eyes to him and he catches onto my glare, he makes his way closer to me and takes my hand, his fidgeting making me curious. "Why are you fidgety?" I softly question as we begin to walk back down the trail.

"Uhm," .."Sorry, love. I couldn't help myself and quickly checked my phone." he clears his throat, seeming a little apprehensive and nervous. I shrug it off and kiss his cheek, assuring him I am not mad — if that is what is making him timid and nervous.

My eyes stay focused on the rocky trail while I continue to admire the surroundings I missed on the way up the trail.

Harry's voice distracts me from a distance and it takes me a moment to realise he isn't right beside me, again.

"Elise, wait a second." He affectionately calls.

"This is the third time-" I begin as I stop in my tracks and turn around, immediately freezing when my eyes coincide with his. He returns to me a grinning smile, his eyes glistening a penetrating bluish-green from the rays of sunlight radiating down on us. I stand speechless, a tiny box in his hand, a diamond shining radiantly from the sun.

"Since the day I met you, I knew I wanted to one day marry you." He stammers, appearing nervous, a tone I barely ever catch.

A stuttering Harry is scarcely every detected. He's always calm and confident when speaking, it's how he tends to make his territory. The only other times I have seen him seeming timid or nervous was for a few major business settlements, and a wedding toast he was terrified as hell to make. It took him two glasses of strong liquor to calm him down and convince him that his speech was perfect and that he, in fact, did not need to prepare an expeditious getaway.

"For almost five years I have looked into your beautiful eyes, witnessed your adoring smile, and have had the privilege to wake up beside you for the last two years we have lived together. I have fallen in love with you, every inch of your personality, your body, and soul; your witty comments, and your touch. I love you," he continues, gaining a little confidence as his hand shakes a little. "I have come to realise that you have put up with a lot of my shit that my business throws at us; you have been one of the only ones to stick by me, even when things go south, you are there... you are the girl that my Mum used to tell me about, she told me that I would find a girl that starts a wildfire in my soul, a girl that is captivating in every way, talented, caring, loving, and most of all a girl that will stand by me even when things get tough..." .."She told me to marry the girl that I wouldn't want any other man to be with, the girl I want to dance with it at random hours, to marry the girl that stays even when she has seen me at my worst....., and I was wondering if you'd take the next step with me and marry me?" The proposal makes my heart skip a beat. A question I didn't think he'd ask me, at least not for a while.

We've never discussed marriage, I honestly did not expect to hear this speech for a while; I thought he would drop hints, or I would have to drop the hints by bringing it up or leaving my laptop open on a wedding dress page for him to find and freak out over, but none of that seemed to have happened... Neither of us has dropped hints. But here he is on one knee with a beautiful diamond ring cushioned within the box.

I stare down at him, lost for words, lost in my own thoughts.

This, this is really happening.

"Really?" My voice comes out as more of a squawk rather than a regular tone, my own nerves beginning to rapidly pulsate.

He nods, a smile spread across his face, his dimples becoming exhibited. I stare into his eyes, bewildered and clouded.

This explains why he was timid before we started walking down the trail again, why he was fidgeting his hand in his pocket, blaming it on him just wanting to check his phone...

Was he wanting to pop the question with a stunning view in the background? Was he just too nervous to do it?

I open my mouth, promptly closing it as a sense of nerves takes control of my body, I can't tell if I'm incredibly dismayed by the sudden question or if I'm about to throw up from being put on the spot.

His eyes soften as they do their best to interpret my own, "Elise?" a delicate film begins to cover his eyes — a covering that looks as though a tear is threatening to spill from his gorgeous eyes.

Without much more consideration I find my head nodding, a "yes," slipping from my lips. The moment the word escapes my tongue my lungs fill with fresh air, a smile embroidering itself across my lips. His smile stretches wide, his agile fingers taking the delicate ring from the box, gingerly sliding the ring onto my finger before I'm kissing him ever so sincerely. We pull away, still smiling at each before he breaks the silence.

"For a minute I thought you were going to turn me down." He clears his throat, placing the ring box back into his pocket.

"I uhm.. I stopped breathing for a moment." I chuckle.

"Yeah I thought so, you just looked at me with a stunned expression."

"Well, you did just out of the blue propose to me," I remind him, wondering just how much thought he put into this.

"It wasn't entirely out of the blue." He shakes his head while we begin to continue to walk down the trail.

"We have never discussed marriage."

"Well... true, but we have been dating nearly five years." He acknowledges my point, reminding me that our five year anniversary is swiftly approaching, along with his twenty-sixth birthday. Damn, how time goes by moderately quickly.

***

Harry catches me admiring my ring while I sit relaxed on the bed, the comforter draped over my legs. He leans on the doorframe, a smirk coated cutely across his face, a mug cupped in his hand. I bite my lip and give him an innocent smile, blushing at the fact he caught me watching my ring glisten in the lighting.

"Is it real or fake, darling?" He questions, seeming to be amused by the fact I am delighted with the diamond on my finger.

"Oh ha-ha," I roll my eyes, "It is extraordinarily beautiful, you have a good eye," I confess, rather surprised that he chose so well and selected something that suits my style.

"Mhm," he hums, stepping into the room, leaning over the bed and handing me the mug he was previously cupping in his large hand, "Here, sweetheart." I take the mug and press my lips to the rim, relishing in the aftertaste of the tea he graciously made for me.

"So, can I know the details?" I refer to the whole proposal, curious of his thoughts and planning involved. He crawls onto the bed and lays himself down beside me.

"What details?"

"How you asked my Dad and stuff."

"I have had the ring for six months sitting at the jeweller, I had both your parents look at it before I bought it. I was going to propose on the trip, but I had to go back and deal with my bloody business, then I thought of doing it on our anniversary in a few weeks, but I thought it would be far too typical and public at a restaurant.. it has been in my pocket waiting for the right moment." He explains, once again surprising me with the fact that he had the ring six months ago and never dropped a hint about it. Not one. "As for asking your Dad, that was the hard part." He admits with a low voice.

*** The thought of marriage lingered in my mind for a while, in fact, it was March of last year when I decided that I wanted to propose to you. The moment I knew I wanted to marry you is a whole other story that will have to wait for another time. Anyway, when the idea arose, I began to ponder on different things, whether you would say yes, whether your parents would give me their blessings, I even had to think about whether the two of us would be better off staying the way that we were — happily in a relationship as we had just crossed the four year mark. I sat at my desk trying to think of a way to ask your Father, preferably in a way that he would give me a yes. I wondered about it for quite a while, it wasn't until mid-May that I gathered up the courage to speak to your Father about marrying you. It worked out kind of perfectly, it just happened your Dad asked if I could have a car organised to pick him up at the airport, so I did, but I decided to accompany him. Your Dad played along perfectly into my plan, inviting me in once we arrived at his house — we spoke about business, his trip to Chicago, the stock market, all that nitty-gritty stuff you hate discussing with me. It was nerve-wracking, sitting in front of your Dad while he sipped on a glass of bourbon, explaining to me his own business things. It was in the moment that your Mum walked in with the lovely smile that you got for her, that I realised it was now or never. Well, it was also in that moment you began to call me and interrupt my process, making me even more nervous and uneasy. I managed to calm myself down after getting off the phone with you and I looked over at your Dad.. with a nervous breath I politely asked your mother to join our conversation, that is when I proceeded my speech, and yes, I remember it all like it was yesterday. "For a while, I have been thinking about what I am about to ask, I have put a lot of thought into this and think it is the right thing to do. I love Elise, it has been evident since the first time she introduced me to you two as her parents. Your daughter... your daughter is the girl that I would go to the ends of the world for, there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. We have been together for four years, and I would like to vow to her to stay with her for another seventy-four or for how many more years I live. I am asking for your blessing to marry Elise." I am pretty sure I stuttered through the whole damn thing, and I remember staring at your Dad as he gave me his answer.

"No."

I was devastated, I kinda just looked at him, unsure of why he turned me down, and that is when your Mum burst into laughter, making me feel even worse about myself. I thought she was laughing at me. turns out that wasn't the case. "

You should see your face," Your Dad chuckled, extremely amused by my lack of words and expression.

"Put him out of his misery, you had your fun." Your Mum piped in, giving me a grinning smile.

"We actually spoke about this the other week and wondered when you would finally ask us. Yes, you can marry Elise... It is about damn time you bloody ask, thought it would never happen." Your Dad smiled, giving me his blessing to marry you, along with a fucking heart attack.

"Even asked while in a suit and tie, how could we say no?" Your Mum continued, settling the situation and assuring me that they would not have said no and that it was purely a joke. So, that is how that went.....

[aion-rsa]

Tenet’s Release Date Forgets the Lessons of Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar

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It seems fairly certain now that Tenet will be released in theaters at the end of the summer. Warner Bros. confirmed as much Monday when the studio announced Christopher Nolan’s latest epic is set to open in 70 countries, including the UK, on Aug. 26. It will then make the jump stateside to vaguely determined “select U.S. cities” on Sept. 2, just in time for Labor Day weekend. While plans can change—they have before—there is almost a weary resignation about this announcement. We’re opening this in theaters in 2020, come hell or high water.

Yet one of the many bitter ironies about this choice is that it ignores a central theme of another Christopher Nolan odyssey, the star-gazing Interstellar. Every bit as ambitious and grandiose as Nolan’s other IMAX spectacles post-The Dark Knight, Interstellar grappled with cerebral concepts, including Einstein’s theory of relativity, intergalactic wormhole space travel, and the existential threat of depleted resources on Earth. The movie also, much more bluntly, dramatized the danger of anti-intellectualism and a willful rejection of scientific facts, especially  the danger of beleaguered resignation.

The scene that most crystallizes this occurs during the climactic moments of the movie’s second act. Literally worlds away from where the movie’s hero Joseph “Coop” Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) struggles with the pitiful Dr. Mann (Matt Damon), Coop’s children back on Earth also face a reckoning. Now both adults who took radically different lessons from their father’s NASA legacy, Murph (Jessica Chastain) is a scientist who followed Dad into the space program, and Tom (Casey Affleck) is the estranged brother who’s happy to keep his eyes squarely focused on the ground. There is nothing wrong with farming, of course, but for Tom it’s as much a form of self-denial as it is a profession.

When the confrontation comes, Murph and friend Getty (Topher Grace) have come to the farmhouse where Murph and Tom grew up with their grandfather, and where Tom now lives with his own wife and son. In actuality Tom had two children, but one of them, Jesse, died of a lung disease caused by “blight;” a new type of dust and ecological menace that’s spread around the globe and is now coating every crop Tom owns. On this fateful day, Tom’s living wife and son are also showing symptoms of disease, and Murph wants Tom to make the tough choice: Face the reality of the situation and leave his family home.

One look at Affleck’s glower when his character enters the house announces this isn’t going to happen.

“Let me make something abundantly clear, you have a responsibility—” begins Getty before Tom punches him in the face. Murph then more succinctly cuts to the chase, “Dad didn’t raise you to be this dumb, Tom.”

And here in this moment, like many a story before it, Nolan’s Interstellar has distills  the age-old conflict between science and commerce, hard truths and comforting delusions. When boiled down to its fundamentals, the scene isn’t that different from Chief Brody trying to explain to the mayor of Amity Island they need to close the beaches in Jaws, or Cassandra warning the Trojan court of a doom to come.

And yet, what’s intriguing about the Interstellar variation is that it sympathizes with Tom and his position. Unlike Murph, he wasn’t Daddy’s favorite; the educational system likewise didn’t see much promise in him. In high school a single test prevented him from going to college. Instead he was left behind, conscripted to do what society viewed as a less financially important task while his little sister excelled at university. In a handful of minutes, the implication that Tom grew bitter about both his lot and their father’s absence is self-evident. As is their connection since Cooper disappeared trying to mitigate an existential threat which has come all the same in Tom’s adulthood.

But as that grown-up, what once seemed like an abstract idea is now tragically obvious. The danger of the blight is visible in the small Cooper family cemetery outback, and it’s there on his sister’s face as she stands in his kitchen, calling him dumb. But then it’s uncomfortable looking reality in the eye like this—or being asked to forsake the only thing Dad ever left him, which was this farm.

“Dad didn’t raise me. Grandpa did,” Tom snarls. “And he’s buried out back with Mom and Jesse.” Interstellar empathizes with Tom’s plight and desire to ultimately do nothing—just keep going on and pretending everything is normal—even though the movie knows it’s a deadly delusion. After all, the film crosscuts this scene with Coop calling Dr. Mann “a fucking coward.”

What Tom is doing is cowardly. But it’s also tragic, because he refuses to accept the scientific facts of a worldwide disaster, even as they come from his own sister. So Tom refuses to uproot his remaining family, to live with Murph and what’s left of the United States’ science community, waiting for a proverbial cure that hasn’t been invented yet. He’d rather just do what makes him happy until it kills him. And not only him. “You’re going to wait for your next kid to die,” Murph apprises of the situation.

The scene is obviously a work of fiction in which there is a fantastic agricultural blight so deadly it’ll kill off all organic life on Earth in several generations—and it exists in a world where the U.S. government is still even-headed enough to launch a program to save its citizens and species. With that said, the echoes of the conflict between data-minded experts versus the wishful thinking of those who just want to keep on keepin’ on, even if it kills them and everyone they love, obviously speaks to our moment. You can see Tom in each American, maybe some of whom have legitimate reason to feel “left behind,” now refusing to wear a mask during the coronavirus pandemic.

Hence the number of confirmed COVID-19 cases currently increasing in 30 out of the 50 states. As of the time of writing, more than 4.3 million cases have been confirmed in the U.S. alone, and the death toll is about to cross the morbid threshold of 150,000 Americans. There is no sign of things getting better in North America. In fact, things are expected to get much worse, particularly as the White House attempts to force public schools throughout the country to reopen at full capacity.

As WB pointed out in a press statement, more than 30 states currently have given movie theaters the go-ahead to reopen at reduced capacity. However, there is undoubted crossover among the states where indoor theaters can reopen and those with rising infection rates. Similarly, studios and theater owners are aware of a certain risk level of opening Tenet during a pandemic, even in areas where infection rates are down. According to a report in Variety, multiple studios are likely considering releasing movies in Europe this summer “in case more theaters in Spain shutter” due to a second wave of infection.

This is not to say Warner Bros. is making the choice to release Tenet out of cynicism. Indeed, we can only speculate as to what the private conversations are behind closed doors between studio executives, filmmakers, and exhibitors. But we know Nolan is desperate to protect his love for theatrical moviegoing, which he vocalized in The Washington Post in March by correctly saying cinema is a vital part of our collective social life. It’s about as democratic a form of art as can be imagined, with all economic classes able to afford and share an experience of going to the movies.

Read more

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Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar: A Secular End Times Myth

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Horrifyingly, movie theaters are facing an existential threat at the moment. The CEO of the National Association of Theatre Owners warned last week if Hollywood keeps delaying their movies until there is a vaccine “we won’t be there in a year.” So it appears likely Nolan is trying to turn Tenet into a kind of economic refuge, or at least respite, for movie theaters to weather a storm that is likely to last well into 2021.

But like Tom trying to will away the threat of blight to his family, or ignoring the protestations of his sister, Nolan and Warner Bros. are playing a risky game. Even in areas where infection rates are down, people who go see Tenet in September will be gathering in indoor theaters for hours at a time, with more than a few lowering their masks every so often to enjoy a snack or drink. On some level, I want to be one of them. I’ve savored every Christopher Nolan movie to date, and find a kind of sacrosanct comfort each time I go to a movie theater. But as with Tom and Murph’s childhood home, one needs to face the risks hidden in that comfort as the world changes.

A month ago, epidemiologist and infectious diseases expert Dr. Carlos Del Rio told CNBC, “I would honestly say I’m not comfortable going to the movies right now. I want to see the numbers come down, want to see the cases go down. Right now, the only place I am comfortable going to the movies is my living room.” In the same report, Dr. Ravina Kullar, a Los Angeles-based infectious disease specialist said, “What we are seeing now is that wave one is still going on… there has not been a decline or a plateau and that is a concern. I don’t see any change in a positive direction.”

Since then, the daily increase of new reported COVID cases has risen from around 30,000 new cases a day to between 50,000 and 73,000 cases a day. Dr. Anthony Fauci, director of the National Institute for Allergy and Infectious Diseases, predicts we could likely soon see 100,000 new confirmed cases of coronavirus infection a day.For me, going to a movie theater is like going to church, or like working the same field as your father and grandfather is to Tom in Interstellar. It’s home. But until there is a solution to the problem, it is better to listen to the Murphs and Faucis of the world than wait around for another kid to die.

The post Tenet’s Release Date Forgets the Lessons of Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar appeared first on Den of Geek.

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New Post has been published on https://travelonlinetips.com/bar-hopping-for-pintxos-in-san-sebastian-and-discovering-spains-culinary-gems-lonely-planets-travel-blog-2/

bar-hopping for pintxos in San Sebastián (and discovering Spain's culinary gems) – Lonely Planet's travel blog

Pintxos with a view – the harbour of beautiful San Sebastián © Dan Flying Solo

Lonely Planet Pathfinder, Daniel Clarke of Dan Flying Solo, recently spent 10 days exploring northern Spain, home to our top ranking food experience in the world – bar-hopping for pintxos in San Sebastián.

Spain is a country renowned worldwide for its perfectly crafted cuisine, fresh, seasonal produce and passionate chefs who can take the simplest of ingredients and turn them into a mouth-watering journey for the taste buds. It’s also home to the top experience from Lonely Planet’s Ultimate Eatlist – eating pintxos in San Sebastián, a culinary gem found in Spain’s Basque Country.

However, gastronomic greatness is not reserved solely for this dreamy seaside town. The variety of tasty local cuisine served up in Spain’s distinctive regions and provinces saw 13 Spanish foodie experiences feature in Ultimate Eatlist. During my 10-day Spanish tour I managed to get to grips with San Sebastián’s prized pintxos scene, as well as tuck into a few of the other delicious delicacies on offer in northern Spain.

Pintxos, the top food experience in the world

Topping Lonely Planet’s Ultimate Eatlist, San Sebastián’s small but perfectly formed pintxos are petite and delicious. These flavoursome treats come in many forms, from the traditional mini-skewer combination of olive, anchovy and pepper known as the ‘gilda’, through to intriguing amalgamations of ingredients piled-high on bread – this is a dining delight that’s never bland.

Don’t go mistaking pintxos for tapas though! These tiny bites are exclusive to the Basque Region and aren’t to be confused with the traditionally free bar-snacks of tapas, which are served in other parts of Spain. Pintxos are ordered and paid for individually, and aren’t just an accompaniment to a drink, but the star attraction of a social dining experience.

Head to the old town streets for the buzz

The best way to enjoy pintxos in San Sebastián is by taking to the buzzing streets of the old town, where countless bar-tops are piled high with numerous variations, from toothpick based stacks to mini-sandwiches.

This is sociable dining at its very best, and the crowds from the bars spill out onto terrace tables, street stools, beautiful plazas and even church steps to enjoy the experience of eating in this food-obsessed city. Don’t start your edible escapade too early though – 9pm is the absolute earliest to hit the streets if you want to enjoy your pintxos with a slice of atmosphere, and you’ll be eating and drinking for much of your evening (and night!) in the old town. Is there any better excuse for an afternoon siesta?

Pintxos: perfectly formed finger foods

While you can grab a plate in any bar, and fill it with the tempting and delectable bites in no time at all, pintxos are best enjoyed the way the locals do – on a bar-hopping adventure. This way you can sample various treats in different bars across the city. For a really authentic experience, order a glass of the local sparkling wine, txakoli, and enjoy the theatre of skilled bartenders pouring it from a height to increase the bubbles in the glass.

It’s easy to miss the specialities on bar blackboards, which are usually cooked fresh unlike the spread on the counter – just ask the bartender what the best dish is that day, and order away! Whether battered white asparagus or mushrooms soaked in garlic, make sure you leave space to enjoy the warm dishes as well.

A stunning backdrop to a land of gastronomy

There is no denying that San Sebastián is a breathtaking beach destination, especially given the views of the bay from the top of Mount Igueldo, great for post pintxo-hiking (or easily accessed by funicular!)

There is a lot more to this destination than meets the eye, however, especially for those with a real passion for food. There are around 150 gastronomic societies in San Sebastián, which are a bit like members clubs, but for cooking and sharing culinary creativity. It is within these club houses that family get-togethers happen, and locals spend time in the communal kitchen. Members have their own key, providing access at any time of day – I was lucky enough to spend a morning with local chef, Ben, who showed us around one, and taught me how to cook local specialities. If you find yourself in San Sebastián, be sure to try and experience it for yourself!

Days all begin at the markets

No matter where my food tour of Spain took me, nearly every morning of it began at a market. With fresh, seasonal produce being the focus, and local ingredients and flavours prevailing, a trip to the market is much more than a shop, it’s a social experience in itself.

In Barcelona, Sarah, who would later cook us up some Catalonian treats in her home, guided us through a few of the local markets to meet her suppliers (and friends). The community bond between those who sell and buy at these markets is genuine, and community seems to be at the heart of the culinary experience throughout the country. Celebrating the market culture of Spain, at number 23 on the Ultimate Eatlist, is Barcelona’s La Boqueria market, by far one of the most visited by tourists. This bustling pit-stop on La Rambla is a buzz of bars, stalls and vendors, and a great introduction that may inspire you to hunt down some of the smaller markets throughout the city.

Continue your Ultimate Eatlist tour across Spain

Lonely Planet’s Ultimate Eatlist ranks the top 500 food experiences in the world, and with 13 of those originating in Spain, I had plenty to sink my teeth into. From freshly-sliced jamón ibérico (number 192), through to dark-chocolate dunked churros (number 22), I devoured my way across the country, and realised just how much you can tell about a destination from its cuisine and eating habits.

Like any incredible journey though, mine sadly had to end, and against the impressive backdrop of Santiago de Compostela Cathedral, I dived into my last Ultimate Eatlist experience – the almond-based tarta de Santiago. Coming in at number 272, it was the perfect sweet treat with which to bid Spain farewell. With another 487 foodie experiences left on the list, it’s onto the next adventure (and meal) for me!

Fancy tucking into northern Spain’s food scene yourself? Enter our Ultimate Eatlist competition for your chance to win two places on this Intrepid Travel tour, along with return flights to Spain.

Daniel Clarke travelled to Spain with support from Intrepid Travel. Lonely Planet contributors do not accept freebies in exchange for positive coverage. Follow @lonelyplanet for more Instagram inspiration.

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[markwatersme]

Antithesis and “A Room of One’s Own”

      Virginia Woolf is probably one of the top writers to have ever graced this planet.  She redefined what writing is through a style that only she could muster.  In the book, “A Room of One’s Own” Woolfe uses an unseen rhetoric force to tell us about the struggles and issues associated with female authors in the early 1900’s.  It is within this “voice” that she is able to untangle the hypocrisy and sexism associated with writing and publication.  A few things came to mind while I was reading “A Room of One’s Own.”  The first being her usage of rhetorical devices and the second focusing around her literary elements.  The main rhetorical element in which is consistently employed throughout the book is “antithesis.”  The University of Kentucky, Department of Modern and Classical Languages, Literature and Cultures, defined “Antithesis” as a rhetorical device focusing on “opposition, or contrast of ideas or words in a balanced and parallel construction.”  The second thing that came to mind was the literary concept of “the other” which seems to fit in as both as a literary element and a rhetorical device.  My primary focus is on how Woolfe used these rhetorical devices to “show” the readers some of the issues faced by female writers.

      In the book, “A Room of One’s Own” Virginia Woolfe tells a tale of what it is like to be a female author.  The reader learns of her struggles through her use of antithesis as a driving force used to clarify and explain a pretty terrible situation.  She starts right at the beginning by telling us, the reader her views on “Women and Fiction.”  She starts out by telling us what the “words” “Woman and Fiction” might mean and begins to tell us her story.  “They might mean simply a few remarks about Fanny Burney; a few more about Jane Austen; a tribute to the Brontës and a sketch of Haworth Parsonage under snow; some witticisms if possible about Miss Mitford; a respectful allusion to George Eliot; a reference to Mrs Gaskell and one would have done.” Woolfe goes on to tell us the opposing side to her argument… “But at second sight the words seemed not so simple. The title women and fiction might mean, and you may have meant it to mean, women and what they are like, or it might mean women and the fiction that they write; or it might mean women and the fiction that is written about them, or it might mean that somehow all three are inextricably mixed together and you want me to consider them in that light. But when I began to consider the subject in this last way, which seemed the most interesting, I soon saw that it had one fatal drawback. I should never be able to come to a conclusion.”  She may never be able to “come to a conclusion” but through their antithesis, the reader is clearly able to come up with the conclusion on their own.   It is within this binary opposition that she begins to create and build upon her rhetorical force.

      The opposition of Woolf’s antithesis could very well be the “male” himself.  According to Annette Kolodny’s “Some Notes on Defining a ‘Feminist Literary Critism’” Woolf had studied a great deal of male authors for their style and technique in an effort to establish why they were being published.  Kolodny tells us that Woolfe studied male writing in such great detail that “…a similar confinement could not be possible for the richness and variety of women’s writing.”  The interesting thing here is that the antithesis contained within her writing is also embodied within the criticism of her writing.  Kolodny goes on to say “But it is precisely that richness and variety which will escape us if we practice a criticism based on assumptions…”  The literary critic, Annette Kolodney now faces the similar opposition as Woolfe herself expressed in the book.  

      Virginia Woolfe continues to use her rhetoric and voice as the story progress along.  She never tells the reader what he or she should think and feel she just tells us the facts and we are able to draw our own conclusions as to what we should feel.  A prime example is when Woolfe tied her antitilogical style into an example using Shakespeare… “I looked at the works of Shakespeare on the shelf, that the bishop was right at least in this; it would have been impossible, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare.”  Woolfe continues on with the other half of the antithesis… “Let me imagine, since facts are so hard to come by, what would have happened had Shakespeare had a wonderfully gifted sister, called Judith, let us say. Shakespeare himself went, very probably,— his mother was an heiress — to the grammar school, where he may have learnt Latin — Ovid, Virgil and Horace — and the elements of grammar and logic. He was, it is well known, a wild boy who poached rabbits, perhaps shot a deer, and had, rather sooner than he should have done, to marry a woman in the neighbourhood, who bore him a child rather quicker than was right. That escapade sent him to seek his fortune in London. He had, it seemed, a taste for the theatre; he began by holding horses at the stage door. Very soon he got work in the theatre, became a successful actor, and lived at the hub of the universe, meeting everybody, knowing everybody, practising his art on the boards, exercising his wits in the streets, and even getting access to the palace of the queen. Meanwhile his extraordinarily gifted sister, let us suppose, remained at home.”  According to the book “Literature after Feminism” by Rita Felski, “Woolfe is a figure who is torn and contradictory, ambivalent and multifaceted, concerned with aesthetics and politics.”  It is through this articulation of style that Woolfe is able to lock on to certain literary devices and essentially “ride” them through the entire story.  This is demonstrated throughout the story and Felski’s commentary on Woolf’s contradictory style further emphasizes her technique.

      Virginia Woolf’s comments on other authors such as George Elliot in order to further show this “opposite but equal” comparison.  Woolf tells us about how useless men are “It is useless to go to the great men writers for help, however much one may go to them for pleasure. Lamb, Browne, Thackeray, Newman, Sterne, Dickens, De Quincey — whoever it may be — never helped a woman yet, though she may have learnt a few tricks of them and adapted them to her use. The weight, the pace, the stride of a man’s mind are too unlike her own for her to lift anything substantial from him successfully.” Woolfe then goes on to tell us how great these same male authors were … “All the great novelists like Thackeray and Dickens and Balzac have written a natural prose, swift but not slovenly, expressive but not precious, taking their own tint without ceasing to be common property.” It is, once again her usage of antithesis as a literary devices that allow us to “see” both sides of the story.  It is through this rhetorical voice that we, the reader feel like we are getting an unbiased account of what it is like to be a female writer.  On one hand she tells us that men are not so good but she is willing to point out the good qualities as well.  According to Margaret Kirkham’s book “Jane Austin Feminism and Fiction” Jane Austin saw men in a similar way, particularly George Elliot; she goes on to tell us that… Woolfe “sees Austin as the well nigh miraculous example of the female artist of androgynous mind, whose are transcends such irritations as the author, as a women, must have experienced.”  This androgyny view of Woolf’s further exemplifies the usage of antitheses within the story.  The term androgynous is an example of opposing and balanced ideas, as was defined by “The University of Kentucky.”

      There is one line in particular that really stood out as a prime example of the antitholigical rhetorical device.  Woolf was talking about Mary Carmichael’s novel, “Lifes Adventure” and she was thinking about Carmicheals writing style; and Woolf’s thoughts were on weather, “she has a pen in her hand or a pickaxe.”  This once again resurrects the idea of antithesis and binary opposition.  The pen has the ability to create, while the pick axe has the ability to destroy.  The fact that she was wondering this about a female author and not the male counterpart shows us that either the male of the female can create or destroy.  It was that line that eliminated any remaining idea that I may have had that Woolfe was more bias towards women.  It was that idea that showed the equal oppositions associated with antithesis.  

      Another critical element employed by Woolfe was her concept of the “other.”   Annette Kolodney tells us “That women often write out of that different and sometimes ‘other’ perspective of experiences has now become virtually a truism in feminist critical circles.”  She was talking about the variations of styles between women and men.  Woolfe mentions “…when a woman speaks to women she should have something very unpleasant up her sleeve. Women are hard on women. Women dislike women. Women — but are you not sick to death of the word?”   This ties into the concept of the “Other” in a sort-of-reverse manner.  In this particular case, we are led to believe that the women are not the “Other” or literary “the one”.  The previous quote lays claim that, that is not the case.  So, in fact, women would be “the one” and the male counterpart would be classified as the “Other.”  Jacques Lacan  spoke of the “Other” in terms of…  “…the very place called upon by a recourse to speech in any relation where it intervenes.  If it speaks in the Other, whether or not the subject hears it with his own ears, it is because it is there that the subject, according to logic prior to any awakening.”  Using Lacan’s description, I am once again reinforcing that Woolfe is describing women as the “one” and men as the “Other.”  

       A Room of One’s Own is a masterpiece of literature.  Virginia Woolf beautifully weaves this story using many different literary devices.  The main literary device that stands out is her usage of antithesis and how she employs it and ties it into a flawless rave of rhetoric’s.  Finally, she concludes this work of art with the literary element of the “other” nicely tying everything together and allowing the reader to make his or her own judgments about the types of challenges faced by female writers.  In the end…Woolf’s room of her own, gave her a voice of her own.  

 Bibliography

Castle, Terry. Boss Ladies, Watch Out!: Essays on Women, Sex, and Writing. New York: Routledge, 2002. Print.

Felski, Rita. Literature after Feminism. Chicago: University of Chicago, 2003. Print.

"Kentucky Classics." University of Kentucky - Welcome to the University of Kentucky. Web. 02 Mar. 2011. <http://www.uky.edu/AS/Classics/rhetoric.html>.

Kirkham, Margaret. Jane Austen, Feminism and Fiction. Sussex: Harvester, 1983. Print.

Kolodny, Annette. "Some Notes On Defining A "Feminist Literary Criticism"" 1975. Feminist Criticism: Essays on Theory, Poetry and Prose. USA, 1978. 37-58. Print.

Lacan, Jacques. The Meaning of the Phallus. Print.

Woolf, Virginia. A Room of One's Own. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1989. Print.