#limbec

[graywyvern]

( via / via via feuilleton )

Hanuman Fighting.

"on a mean pyramid allow for a lossless" --@horse_ebooks 2-4-13

The Song Before.

"lair of the white watch"

like any other book    i can't read i nevertheless embark like any other book & enter the limbec its great Dark Ride like any other book    i can't read

"The city we visited on Friday is called 'Razish,' the provincial capital of a fictional nation known as 'Atropia'."

[leanstooneside]

Possession is nine tenths of the law

- Now to th

- On to thir

- Gumms and Balme

- Hoods and Habits

- Gambold before them

- Fields and Groves

- flight to Hell

- Spires and Pinnacles

- wrought but malice

- empties to enlighten

- Eremits and Friers

- Diamond and Gold

- seasons and thir

- charge while goodness

- fields and regions

- bliss while I

- now and pin'd

- aspir'd and me

- it to exclude

- land nor herb

- Cedar and Pine

- Phantasms and Dreams

- voice and wilde

- dew nor fragrance

- things to mans

- seemd where bounds

- Keys and now

- Discoverd and surpriz'd

- thee how I

- oft though wisdom

- Angel to our

- Pole to Pole

- side to thee

- Partakers and uncropt

- unpeopl'd and untrod

- Sails and Wind

- seemd or fixt

- foe to God

- ITHURIEL and ZEPHON

- Viewless and underneath

- Compass to beware

- Limbec to his

- Laurel and Mirtle

- thereby to glorifie

- malice to conceale

- Subjection but requir'd

- Dance or wanton

- Pearl and sands

- chance but chance

- him though enamourd

- Sons and Daughters

- ours to lop

- Aire and Sea

- PAN or SILVANUS

- Saints or middle

- Man or Beast

- Haply so scap'd

- They to thir

- fruit and flour

- gifts and O

- Spouse nor EVE

- Knots but Nature

- Battel and his

[now-winter-comes-slowly]

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day

John Donne

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;         The sun is spent, and now his flasks         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;                The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring;         For I am every dead thing,         In whom Love wrought new alchemy.                For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;         I, by Love's limbec, am the grave         Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood                Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown;         Were I a man, that I were one         I needs must know; I should prefer,                If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun         At this time to the Goat is run         To fetch new lust, and give it you,                Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

[somediyprojects]

Scandinavian Forest WIP stitched and designed by Limbec.

“Nordic folk inspired project. Actually nowhere, I just look around for inspiration then draw the pattern myself. This one is sort of a collage of different drawings and patterns.”

[pitiless-achilles-wept]

Brighter from Here: 'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's

Hello friends,

Happy Solstice! When they were younger--before I was born--my parents used to throw a solstice party. They served things that were spiny or hard on the outside and soft within (pineapple, coconut - Mom makes a delicious ambrosia) and celebrated the passing of the shortest day and longest night in the company of friends. I'd like to mark it here with you. I had hoped to have time, space, or energy to write a post that reflected more on the idea of the long night and of the distance still to travel from the dark. Maybe later. For now, I have two things to share with you.

The first is a piece of good news: my most recent scans were good enough that I am able to stay on this treatment! They weren't a miracle cure--it's more stability than anything else--but since that is better news than I have had since June I will take it. And it is a relief to know that I did not lose all my hair only to change immediately.

The second follows at the end here. It's one of my favorite poems, John Donne's "A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day." I'd like to write you either a long explanation of why I love it so much or an analysis of it as a beautiful piece of poetry (and I'm more than qualified to do both). But time is short, so instead I will share the lines that I recur to most often and have, in other winters, at other times, through my cancer treatment, and through this pandemic: "He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot/ Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not."

It has been a year of cataclysmic global and small personal losses. It seemed sometimes that loss was only thing that could be around any corner. I think of death every day, whether it is my own, those in the news, the ones I fear for my parents, or the fast-approaching one of my companion animal. Even as I write this I am staying up late because Percy, my aged and beloved cat, has chosen to sleep on me and he's ailing so quickly that any time he does this might be the last, especially since I leave tomorrow for a 2-week stay in St. Louis. For me the risk of travel was worth the reward of a Christmas with my parents, who I have not seen for six months (since they came to take care of me after my surgery). The combination of their ages (81 and 76) and my cancer means that this could easily be our last opportunity.

I've said before that a year (or however long it takes to get this health crisis under control) is longer in my life than in most people's. But it does not mean that "absence, darkness, death: things which are not" don't haunt all of us. And though tonight and in the days to come we may sit through them at a vigil--for Lucy, as the poem's speaker says--we must know that she will be back. So I welcome you to wait with me, and to watch for the light.

Love, Bex

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;

        The sun is spent, and now his flasks

        Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;

               The world's whole sap is sunk;

The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,

Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,

Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,

Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be

At the next world, that is, at the next spring;

        For I am every dead thing,

        In whom Love wrought new alchemy.

               For his art did express

A quintessence even from nothingness,

From dull privations, and lean emptiness;

He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot

Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,

Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;

        I, by Love's limbec, am the grave

        Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood

               Have we two wept, and so

Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow

To be two chaoses, when we did show

Care to aught else; and often absences

Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)

Of the first nothing the elixir grown;

        Were I a man, that I were one

        I needs must know; I should prefer,

               If I were any beast,

Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,

And love; all, all some properties invest;

If I an ordinary nothing were,

As shadow, a light and body must be here.

But I am none; nor will my sun renew.

You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun

        At this time to the Goat is run

        To fetch new lust, and give it you,

               Enjoy your summer all;

Since she enjoys her long night's festival,

Let me prepare towards her, and let me call

This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this

Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

[p-isforpoetry]

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day by John Donne (read by Richard Burton)

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;         The sun is spent, and now his flasks         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;                The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring;         For I am every dead thing,         In whom Love wrought new alchemy.                For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;         I, by Love's limbec, am the grave         Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood                Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown;         Were I a man, that I were one         I needs must know; I should prefer,                If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here.

But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun         At this time to the Goat is run         To fetch new lust, and give it you,                Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

[elucubrare]

John Donne, A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;         The sun is spent, and now his flasks         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;                The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring;         For I am every dead thing,         In whom Love wrought new alchemy.                For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;         I, by Love's limbec, am the grave         Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood                Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown;         Were I a man, that I were one         I needs must know; I should prefer,                If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun         At this time to the Goat is run         To fetch new lust, and give it you,                Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

[ipsomaniac]

it’s the winter solstice, the UK has a new more infectious strain of coronavirus, christmas is cancelled and Brexitfuck. and it’s grim out. so here is my favourite deepwinter soulvortex poem

A Nocturnal Upon St Lucy’s Day

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;         The sun is spent, and now his flasks         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;                The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring;         For I am every dead thing,         In whom Love wrought new alchemy.                For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;         I, by Love's limbec, am the grave         Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood                Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown;         Were I a man, that I were one         I needs must know; I should prefer,                If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun         At this time to the Goat is run         To fetch new lust, and give it you,                Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

[weaselvoid]

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,

Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;

         The sun is spent, and now his flasks

         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;

                The world's whole sap is sunk;

The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,

Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,

Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,

Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be

At the next world, that is, at the next spring;

         For I am every dead thing,

         In whom Love wrought new alchemy.

                For his art did express

A quintessence even from nothingness,

From dull privations, and lean emptiness;

He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot

Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,

Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;

         I, by Love's limbec, am the grave

         Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood

                Have we two wept, and so

Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow

To be two chaoses, when we did show

Care to aught else; and often absences

Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)

Of the first nothing the elixir grown;

         Were I a man, that I were one

         I needs must know; I should prefer,

                If I were any beast,

Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,

And love; all, all some properties invest;

If I an ordinary nothing were,

As shadow, a light and body must be here.

But I am none; nor will my sun renew.

You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun

         At this time to the Goat is run

         To fetch new lust, and give it you,

                Enjoy your summer all;

Since she enjoys her long night's festival,

Let me prepare towards her, and let me call

This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this

Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

- John Donne, A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day

[thesquireofcheddar]

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day BY JOHN DONNE 'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;         The sun is spent, and now his flasks         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;                The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring;         For I am every dead thing,         In whom Love wrought new alchemy.                For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;         I, by Love's limbec, am the grave         Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood                Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown;         Were I a man, that I were one         I needs must know; I should prefer,                If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here.

But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun         At this time to the Goat is run         To fetch new lust, and give it you,                Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

[newlydeified-loki-blog]

Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;         The sun is spent, and now his flasks         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;                The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring;         For I am every dead thing,         In whom Love wrought new alchemy.                For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;         I, by Love's limbec, am the grave         Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood                Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown;         Were I a man, that I were one         I needs must know; I should prefer,                If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun         At this time to the Goat is run         To fetch new lust, and give it you,                Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s Day by John Donne

[graywyvern]

( via / via )

Pretty as a Picture.

broken meditations amerced by ghost handbook croaked harshly petitions in the wish-choked limbec

B&W spiralling.

"It has been argued that humans tend to live in quadripartite cities because they are by nature quadripartite creatures..." --This Tree Grows Out of Hell

Catch the Demon!

[rubctosis-blog]

hell state event 017.                          “the pantheon”

In vain, though by their powerful Art they bind Volatile Hermes, and call up unbound In various shapes old Proteus from the Sea, Drain'd through a Limbec to his native form. — John Milton, Paradise Lost, III.603–06

g e n e r a l  ––

God;; PROTEUS

Description;;   “an early sea-god or god of rivers and oceanic bodies of water, one of several deities whom Homer calls the "Old Man of the Sea."

t h o u g h t s o n p u n i s h m e n t  ––

Proteus having the ability to foresee the future would often change his appearance in order to avoid telling it, forcing people to capture the beast in order to hear his tellings. He often took to the forms of a lion, serpent, leopard, pig or even something more difficult to find as water or a tree. With him being forced into ONE human body, he is understandably annoyed with this punishment. He can no longer hide or change appearance when he needs to and that lack of ability gives him a lot of anxiety. He is just hoping Zeus comes to his senses sooner rather than later.

c o n n e c t i o n s  ––

Olivia Staford; his curiosity. Cer and Aiden both handled their violence in different ways but, even so, they feel they relate to each other on some level. There is a natural curiosity that Proteus feels and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued.

[ib2se]

#2CV & #MINI by @Lennarrrt

The Elvis15-Playlist 2018-10-08 @ Radio Vättervåg 98,5 Mhz

1. 'Wear My Ring Around Your Neck [New Sound Remastered]' [2:16] 2. 'A Big Hunk O' Love' [2:15] 3. 'She's Not You [Remastered]' [2:10] 4. 'Return To Sender' [2:10] 5. 'King Creole [New Sound Remastered]' [2:09] 6. 'Wooden Heart' [2:04]

The B:sides-Playlist 2018-10-08 @ Radio Vättervåg 98,5 Mhz

This week: Cuneiform-14

starter: 'B:zväng' TextMix & reading af MrZ Komposition & Produktion af SkåneJokke Lütz [0:41]

Cuneiform Turns 30: The Albums of 2014 by Cuneiform Records, released 25 November 2014 1. Dylan Ryan / Sand - Trees, Voices, Saturn [from 'Circa'] 4:36 2. Anthony Pirog [ft. Michael Formanek and Ches Smith] - The Great Northern [from 'Palo Colorado Dream'] 5:53 3. Raoul Björkenheim / eCsTaSy - El Pueblo Unido [from 'eCsTaSy'] 5:46 4. Present - Promenade Au Fond D'un Canal (excerpt) [from 'Triskaidekaphobie'] 7:30 5. Jonathan Badger - Limbec [from 'Verse'] 6:43 6. Led Bib - Giant Bean (excerpt) [from 'The Good Egg'] 5:06 7. Happy Family - Slide [from 'Minimal Gods'] 5:01 8. Richard Pinhas & Yoshida Tatsuya - Part One - Intro [from 'Welcome In The Void'] 4:15 9. Ideal Bread - Crops [from 'Beating the Teens: Songs Of Steve Lacy'] 4:16 10. The Ed Palermo Big Band - Why Is the Doctor Barking? [from 'Oh No! Not Jazz!!'] 5:49

1 jingle incl tune from Kmag #107 af Loopmasters Samples & 2 jingles from B:sides on Spotify DAGENS SYNAXARIUM This weeks BibleVers: “Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.” As it is, you boast in your arrogant schemes. All such boasting is evil. If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them.” ~ James 4:13-17

Drink Espresso - God bless U! /MrZ :)

www.ib2.se Soli Deo Gloria

  All Pix: MrZ ~ Wättern.se

Join Generation XYZ @ gen.xyz 

GDPR Z

[azoth-et-ignis]

The place he found beyond expression bright, Compar'd with aught on Earth, Medal or Stone; Not all parts like, but all alike informd With radiant light, as glowing Iron with fire; If mettal, part seemd Gold, part Silver cleer; If stone, Carbuncle most or Chrysolite, Rubie or Topaz, to the Twelve that shon In Aarons Brest-plate, and a stone besides Imagind rather oft then elsewhere seen, That stone, or like to that which here below Philosophers in vain so long have sought, In vain, though by thir powerful Art they binde Volatil Hermes, and call up unbound In various shapes old Proteus from the Sea, Draind through a Limbec to his Native forme. What wonder then if fields and region here Breathe forth Elixir pure, and Rivers run Potable Gold, when with one vertuous touch Th' Arch-chimic Sun so farr from us remote Produces with Terrestrial Humor mixt Here in the dark so many precious things Of colour glorious and effect so rare? Paradise Lost

[violettesiren]

‘Tis the year’s midnight, and it is the day’s, Lucy’s, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks ; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays ; The world’s whole sap is sunk ; The general balm th’ hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed’s-feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr’d ; yet all these seem to laugh, Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring ; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness ; He ruin’d me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death—things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that’s good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have ; I, by Love’s limbec, am the grave Of all, that’s nothing. Oft a flood Have we two wept, and so Drown’d the whole world, us two ; oft did we grow, To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else ; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death—which word wrongs her— Of the first nothing the elixir grown ; Were I a man, that I were one I needs must know ; I should prefer, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means ; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love ; all, all some properties invest. If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

But I am none ; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun At this time to the Goat is run To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all, Since she enjoys her long night’s festival. Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year’s and the day’s deep midnight is. A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day by John Donne