#pauci

[neopronouns]

flag id: a flag with 7 stripes, which are pale green, very light grey, light pink, bright pink, darker pink, very light grey, and pale green. end id.

banner id: a 1600x200 teal banner with the words ‘please read my dni before interacting. those on my / dni may still use my terms, so do not recoin them.’ in large white text in the center. the text takes up two lines, split at the slash. end id.

pauciromantic: an orientation in which one only feels romantic attraction towards specific people, with that attraction being very intense, and is romance-indifferent in general, but romance-favorable towards said people

[pt: pauciromantic: an orientation in which one only feels romantic attraction towards specific people, with that attraction being very intense, and is romance-indifferent in general, but romance-favorable towards said people. end pt]

for anon! the outer green and grey stripes represent romance indifference and being arospec and the inner three represent intense romantic attraction. 'pauci' is latin for 'few'.

tags: @radiomogai, @liom-archive, @orientation-archive, @macchiane, @genderstarbucks, @sugar-and-vice-mogai, @freezingnarc | dni link

[karasartravelsfreequeboutique]

Osim 2 gnijezda stršljena, #pauci i #škorpioni bili su mi česti kućni ljubimci ovoga ljeta na otoku Krku... 🤪 _ _ _ _ _ _ _ #otokkrk #hrvatska #croatiafullofnature #croatiafulloflife #croatiafullofmagic #croatiafullofopportunities #mediterraneanasitoncewas https://www.instagram.com/p/CklINHGMe9f/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[major-toast]

Passenger

@rosekillermicrofic // May 14th - insane // words: 856 // minors dni

Speeding down the highway, the landscape is rushing past them, a nervous blur of the black night sky and bright neon signs. Evan’s eyes flick down to the dashboard of their trusty Dodge Challenger. And so do Barty’s.

140 miles per hour. 150. 200.

They’re fucking fast.

“Hit the gas, Rosie!” Barty laughs, turning in his seat to catch their trackers tailgating them. They’re fast too. But, considering Evan will turn off the car lights any second, plunging them into total darkness and vanishing the Challenger into the cool air of the night, they stand no chance. Barty’s grin takes up a new dimension of delight.

“Any faster, and I’ll lose track of the road signs”, Evan mumbles, taking one last sip of his soda can. 

Scrunching up the frail metal within his palm, he then throws the remains out of the open window, one hand safely secured to the wheel. For a moment, Barty hoped the can would hit the windshield of the SUV behind them, but to no avail. Disappointed, he clicks his tongue, focussing back on the road ahead.

“Fuck the road signs!” he says. “If one of the pigs wants to stop us now, I’ll show him how pretty his brain looks on the pavement. Didn’t bring those TEC-9s for nothing.”

Huffing, and with his arms crossed above his chest, he slumps back into the passenger seat, propping his feet up against the windshield.

It was supposed to be an easy job; in and out. No witnesses. A simple kidnapping with a shit-ton of ransom money as a reward. But, of course, it had to be a trap, a botched operation. If Riddle wanted to get rid of them so desperately, he should have done it himself, and not sent out a bunch of bloodhounds.

What an egomaniacal, deranged coward. Barty will be all too happy to greet him with the gun inside his pants. And this time, he doesn’t mean his cock.

Roll the windows down, this cool night air is curious. Let the whole world look in. Who cares who sees anything? I’m your passenger.

At the sound of the radio echoing back his own sentiment, the grin reappears. Usually, Barty listens to no one, but the moment couldn’t be more fitting.

“What- what are you doing?” Evan questions warily, his eyes fleetingly glancing over at him.

“Living” comes the simple reply.

Before the pretty blonde can do anything, Barty has rolled the windows down.

Without unbuckling his seatbelt – because why would he fasten it to begin with? – he climbs out halfway, nothing but his waist and legs keeping him inside the racing car. Feeling the harsh air whip through his hair and prick his nose and ears like a thousand tiny needles, an ecstatic cackle bubbles from his lips.

This. This is what it means to be alive, to breathe.

If only for a short moment.

“Get. In”, Evan grunts, pulling Barty back with one harsh tug on his blood-soaked shirt. “You maniac are getting us both killed!”

Almost as if to lend his words some weight, Evan swerves hard right, trying to avoid crashing into the slowing car before them. The tires screech deafeningly in protest and the centrifugal force shoves Barty back into the passenger’s side door. Left and right, empty beer cans and other trinkets are flying through the tiny space, and with one last bumpy correction of his course, Evan gets them back on track.

“Beautiful”, Barty breathes in admiration, his piercing eyes alighting with new fire and his hands shaking from excitement. “No one can drive like you can, Rosie.”

“Save your compliments until we’re fucking out of here, Crouch.”

He looks over to him, watches the wind dance inside his blonde locks. If they go crashing down, Barty will be glad to crash with him.

Here I lay, just like always. Don’t let me go. Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go. Take me to the edge.

“Do you trust me?” Barty murmurs into the warm space between them.

“Of course, I trust you”, Evan replies.

“Blindly?”

“Blindly.”

Without another word, Barty leans forward then. Gently, he wraps his hands around Evan’s face, covering his eyes. Freezing at first, the pretty blonde relaxes into the touch easily, his grip slackening on the wheel.

“The road is empty. There is no one in front of us”, Barty coos. “You got this, angel. Let me be your eyes-“

“-and I’ll be your wings”, Evan finishes, a small smile stretching over his lips at the familiar words. 

Confidently, he presses down on the gas pedal, increasing their speed once more. Filled with pride, Barty gently kisses his cheek.

“There is another sloth right in front of us. The right lane is empty. You have about 15 seconds.”

Shifting gears and slowing down without effort, Evan taps the wheel. Gracefully, they avoid yet another crash. Yes, no one can drive like his Rosie. No one knows the road like he does.

“You are one insane motherfucker”, Evan smiles as Barty lifts his hand again. He simply shrugs it off.

“As long as I am yours.”

[rausule]

28 Augustus 2023

* * * In die laaste paar uur het 'n bomaanval die internasionale lughawe van Aleppo, die tweede stad van Sirië. Die bediening self het dit gekommunikeer Siriese verdediging, wat die verantwoordelikheid vir die aanval aan die Israeliese lugmag toegeskryf het. “Omstreeks 04:30 – lui 'n nota gepubliseer oor die Sana-agentskap – die Israeliese vyand 'n lugaanval vanaf die Middellandse See, wes van Latakia, op die lughawe uitgevoer internasionale lughawe in Aleppo, wat materiële skade aan die teer aangerig het en die lughawe buite sit

diens". Dit is nie die eerste keer dat die lughawe geteiken word nie. In Maart meer klopjagte toegeskryf hulle het reeds ernstige skade aan die Israeliese lugmag aangerig. Die regering van die Joodse staat, vanaf op sy beurt is hy al jare lank besig met operasies wat daarop gemik is om Iranse teikens te teiken teenwoordig in Siriese grondgebied. As tot verlede jaar die strooptogte in die suide van Sirië en in die Damaskus-gebied, vir 'n paar maande nou het die bomaanvalle ook geraak Aleppo.

* * * In ultimis paucis horis bombing aeroportus internationalis afficit Aleppo, urbs Syriae secunda. Ministerium ipsum communicavit

Defensio Syriaca, quae responsalitatem populationis Israelis vi aeris attribuit.

"Circum 4:30 - legit notam editam in Sana propellente - Israelis inimicus"

ferri airstrike ex Mediterraneo, Latakia occidente, contra aeriportum

internationale aeroportus in Aleppo, materiam damna tarmac faciens et extra aeriportum ponens

servitium". Nulla tempus ante ut elit iaculis dictum. Mense Martio plures incursiones attribuuntur iam grave damnum vi aeris Israelis attulerunt. Imperium iudaicum, from ex parte, versatus est in operationibus quae scopos Iranianos in annos nisi sunt praesens in territorio Syriaco. Si ad annum usque ad meridiem coactae populationes Syria et in area Damasci, iam aliquot menses bombingae etiam affectae sunt Aleppi.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Pauci tamen reperiuntur quibus natura indocilis est.*

- Piccolomini

We encounter few, however, who are unteachable by nature.*

When Albert Einstein met Charlie Chaplin in 1931, Einstein said, "What I admire most about your art is its universality. You do not say a word, and yet the world understands you." "It's true." Replied Chaplin, "But your fame is even greater. The world admires you, when no one understands you."

[latinare]

my magnum opus:

Salve, mihi nomen est Hebenus Tenebrae Dementia Corvus Via, et capillos promissos hebeni coloris habeo (quod est quomodo meum nomen mihi datus sit) paucis purpureis lineis attingentes usque medium tergum et oculos glaciales et caeruleos similes limpidis lacrimis, etiam multi homines semper mihi dicebant meam faciem esse similem faciei Amatae Lee (Adnotatio Scriptoris: si nescias quae illa sit, abi ex hinc!) Non sum cognatam Gerard Viae sed volo me fuisse cognatam quod valde speciosissimum est. Sanguisuga sum tamen candidis et rectis dentibus. Pallidam et albam cutem habeo. Maga quoque sum, etiam ad magam scholam appellatam Hogvartensem Anglia ibam ubi in septem annum sum (in duodeviginti aetatis annum sum). Gotham sum (si non potueris intellegere) et plerumque nigras vestes gerebam. Tabernam appellatam Gratiossisimam Rem amo et semper omnes meas vestes ex illinc emebam. Exempli gratia, hodie nigra adminicula pari ornato et subtili textili cingente id et minimam castulam factam ex corio gerebam roseis textis tibialibus et nigras caligis. Nigrum pigmentum in ore, album pigmentum in vultu, stibium et rubeum pigmentum super oculos gerebam. Extra Hogvartense ambulabam. Ningebat et pluebat ut sol deesset, ob quod maxime gaudebam. Multi parati me spectaverunt. Medium digitum ad eos sustuli.

oh my GOSH @anneonomus

have you done/are you doing the whole thing??

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

David Rowe

* * * *

Nihil deorum honoribus relictum, cum se templis et effigie numinum per flamines et sacerdotes coli vellet. Ne Tiberium quidem caritate aut rei publicae cura successorem adscitum, sed quoniam adrogantiam sævitiamque eius introspexerit, comparatione deterrima sibi gloriam quæsivisse. Etenim Augustus paucis ante annis, cum Tiberio tribuniciam potestatem a patribus rursum postularet, quamquam honora oratione, quædam de habitu cultuque et institutis eius iecerat quæ velut excusando exprobraret. ceterum sepultura more perfecta templum et cælestes religiones decernuntur.

No honor was left for the gods, when Augustus chose to be himself worshipped with temples and statues, like those of the deities, and with flamens and priests. He had not even adopted Tiberius as his successor out of affection or any regard to the State, but, having thoroughly seen his arrogant and savage temper, he had sought glory for himself by a contrast of extreme wickedness. For, in fact, Augustus, a few years before, when he was a second time asking from the Senate the tribunitian power for Tiberius, though his speech was complimentary, had thrown out certain hints as to his manners, style, and habits of life, which he meant as reproaches, while he seemed to excuse. However, when his obsequies had been duly performed, a temple with a religious ritual was decreed him.

—Gaius Cornelius Tacitus, Annales lib i, cap x (117 CE)

[interretialia]

salve! aliquid rogandum mihi est, quod spero te explicare posse.

civitas mea nomen "Nova Zelandia" habet. quid autem nomen adiectivum hominibus huius civitatis adhiberi debet? sumne mulier novazealandica? novazealandensis? neozelandensis, sicut in linguā italicā? praecipue miror quemadmodum vocabulum "nova" ut pars adiectivi declinatur - suntne exempla ex antiquitatis?

(si civitatem "Aotearoa" appellem, nomen adiectivum "aoteroana" sit - sed pauci externi hoc vocabulum Maorianum cognoscunt)

Salve,

Gratias tibi ago quod mihi nuntium dedisti. Dicere tibi possum quemadmodum nomen adiectivum e Nova Zelandia nomine facere debeamus et quae figurae nominis adiectivi iam factae sint.

Si veras ac solitas regulas iuncta et derivativa verba Latina formandi restrictissime rigidissimeque sequamur, habeamus Novizelandiensis aut Novizelandicus aut Novizelandianus. Bene nota quid alibi antea dixerim sed Anglice: “Duo verba in unum simpliciter commiscere nec morphologiam utriusque verbi nec syntaxin irritam facit.” Idcirco res ita se habet quod, ut Zelandia, cum novum nomen adiectivum ortum est, terminationes suas casuum amisit et ne figuram nominativam singularem quidem habere potuit, ita Nova quoque, eodem tempore, terminationes suas casuum amisit et ne figuram nominativam singularem quidem habere potuit. Quare Novazelandiensis et Nova(-)zelandicus menda re vera sunt, quippe quorum -a terminatio casus in i Vocalem Conectentem mutari debeat.

Scriptores autem novae Latinitatis, ut “New” pars derivativi nominis adiectivi e nomine Latino formati in Latinum converteretur, Neo- elemento (quod e Lingua Graeca venit) aut Novo- elemento uti constituerunt, etiamsi Novus in hoc nomine Latino loci ipso apparet, condentes igitur modum propter quem Novum Eboracum ac Neo-Eboracensis (in quo fortasse hypen est ut “eoe” grex inconcinnus vitetur) et Novum Brunsvicum ac Novobrunsvicensis nunc videri possunt. Romani ipsi Novocomensis adiectivum e Comum fecerunt, quae sine dubio origo Novo- elementi est. Exemplum adiectivi e nomine Latino formati, quod et Neo- elementum monstrat et a Romanis ipsis factum est, invenire non possum, sed Neo- elementum novae Latinitati insertum firme est (ut significant scriptores hodierni, quorum est Gulielmus Stearn, scriptor Botanical Latin libri). Adde quod e nominibus Latinis in -landia desinentibus adiectiva facta sunt quae in -landicus aut -landiensis aut (irregulariter quasi e -landum) -landensis desinunt.

Secundum Davidis Morgan lexicon, Carolus Egger, praeclarus scriptor novae Latinitatis, has tres figuras adiectivi nobis dedit: Novozelandicus et Neozelandiensis et Novozelandensis. Pagina “Nova Zelandia” in Vicipaedia situ posita porro Neozelandicus et Neozelandiensis et Novozelandensis tres figuras monstrat, sed ibi non est nota quae fontem Neozelandicus figurae indicat. Novocomensis adiectivum a Romanis ipsis iam factum nobis exemplar Novozelandiensis novae figurae dat.

Inter omnes figuras adiectivi e Nova Zelandia formati iam dictas, ego, quoniam sententiae Caroli Egger fido et veram etymologiam verborum indicare volo, Novozelandicus et Neozelandiensis figuras commendo, quorum hoc nomen substantivum hominem Novae Zelandiae indicans fieri potest et illud adiectivum tantum plerumque remanet. At profecto, si nobis omnes hae figurae adiectivi desunt, Novae Zelandiae figura genitiva nominis pro adiectivo uti possumus! Ergo tu, ut puto, mulier Novozelandica aut mulier Neozelandiensis aut Neozelandiensis aut etiam mulier Novae Zelandiae es.

Utinam hoc tibi prosit!

Vale.

[jeannereames]

Hello Dr Reames,

Let me start by saying that DWTL Is one of the best novels I've ever read and I can't thank you enough for writing it. It was a pleasure to read such a great characterization of Hephaistion. Also, thank you for running this interesting blog, every new entry is a discovery!

Regarding my question: you've mentioned in a prior ask that Hektor was implied to be a "favorite" as well. Can you tell me which are these sources? I've tried to do my own research but I'm not and expert and It shows ahahah.

Thank you! I'm so glad you enjoyed it, and like my version of Hephaistion. :-)

As for Hektor as a possible favorite: that comes solely from the description of Hektor's death in Curtius (4.8.7-9). He's described as being in the flower of his youth and dear to Alexander for a short while: eximio aetatis flore, in paucis Alexandro carus.

Carus means "dear one" or "beloved," but context determines whether or not it would have a romantic/sexual implication. It's not like eromenos, where the romantic/sexual overtones are clear. Given the additional description of him being in the flower of his youth, that sorta implies he was a little more than just a bosom buddy.

But it is up to interpretation. We don't find Hektor, or his death, even mentioned in Arrian, nor in any other sources. Without Curtius, we wouldn't know Parmenion had three boys. It happened while the army was in Egypt. He died from exhaustion (and possibly water in his lungs) from an overloaded boat capsizing in the Nile. (Alexander gave him a magnificent funeral.)

[libriaco]

Non per tutti

"Non ego loquar omnibus", "Non parlerò a tutti", sembra un buon motto per un libro sui 'giochi di parole' e sugli enimmi, come scrivevo ieri sera, tuttavia credo che l'ing. Premazzi lo usasse anche sugli altri volumi in suo possesso.

La stessa frase, questa volta su un più classico cartiglio, copre l'Albero della Conoscenza in un altro ex libris in cui mi sono imbattuto, e certo il significato che gli attribuiva chi lo ha usato voleva essere ben altro.

Si tratta, in questo secondo caso, dell'ex libris che si trova sui volumi che la vedova, Ernesta Bittanti, e i figli di Cesare Battisti donarono al Comune di Trento, con vincolo di deposito al Museo trentino del Risorgimento.

A guardare nel passato, è una frase, mutata di tempo verbale, che scrisse Petrarca nel secondo capitolo del De vita solitaria, dove però recita: "nec ego loquor omnibus, sed tibi, sed mihi et his paucis quibus hec rara conveniunt." cioè "non mi rivolgo a tutti, ma a te, a me e a quei pochi cui si addicono queste cose eccezionali." E Petrarca stava argomentando sulla bontà della vita solitaria, una vita di studi lontano dal 'volgo'.

F. Petrarca, De vita solitaria [1346::1366],  Milano, Mondadori, 1992 [A cura di M. Noce]

[hmsharmony]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗

Oooh let's see:

Fragment of Light

A Handful of Sand

Multa Paucis

scars are souvenirs you never lose

Speak Aloud What Until Now I've Only Sung

[claudehenrion]

Mais dans quel pays vivons-nous, au juste ?

  La réponse à cette question lourde de sens pour notre futur et celui de nos enfants (et, pour certains, petits enfants et arrière-petits enfants) a l'air facile, au premier abord : il est convenu de répéter machinalement, par habitude, que nous vivions en France, pays souverain, démocratique, autonome, indépendant, patrie de notre ''liberté chérie'', etc... etc... : la liste est longue des poncifs qui sont récités comme s'ils étaient vrais ! Mais... le sont-ils encore, en 2022 ? Car tout ce bel (?) édifice s'effondre dès que l'on veut préciser telle ou telle des notions abstraites qui le remplissent de vide : en un clin d’œil, il ne reste pas pierre sur pierre de clichés dont beaucoup étaient pourtant vrais, pour partie, dans un passé pas trop lointain.

Car plus le temps passe, plus s'éloigne de nous cette litanie aussi ressassée que mensongère : pratiquement plus un seul de ces truismes rituels n'a le moindre sens : le bla-bla-bla séculaire qui chantait 1789, glorifiait 1848, regrettait la Commune et célébrait les sans-culotte ou les poilus de 14/18, n'est plus qu'un vague souvenir en voie de devenir une contre-vérité : ‘’la France de notre mémoire’’ (pour les plus anciens d'entre nous) n'est plus, il s'en faut de beaucoup. Comment expliquer que tant de nos contemporains --qui, pourtant, vivent dans un monde où le chaos est plus ''la règle'' que l'ordre-- ne s'en rendent pas compte ? Mystère et boules de gomme ! insécurité à tous les étages, liberté  ramenée à son ''PPCM'' ou moins, fiscalité démoniaque qu'on annonce toujours en baisse pour l'augmenter sans le dire, enseignement ramené à réciter des concepts creux et mortifères... Où est-elle, cette liberté clamée et réclamée ? Et où, nos ‘’valeurs’’ ? Soyons sérieux !

La France dans laquelle nous vivons mais que des bandes d'incapables multi-diplômés mais ''pauci sensés'' ont esquintée avant de la réduire à rien, est le produit pur --dans son impureté totale-- de penseurs et de chercheurs officiels, adoubés, patentés et promus par le gouvernement et issus d'institutions qui, n'existant que par et grâce à l'Etat, dépendent de lui en tout et pour tout, et ne savent plus que se répandre en courbettes devant les puissants du jour... quitte à affirmer le contraire de ce qu'ils disaient la veille, tels ce ridicule Comité soi-disant d'éthique, qui répond ''Oui'' à toute question où le ''Non'' est de rigueur, et vice versa, tout comme les subventionnés d'une Presse malade de son suivisme ‘’toutou-esque’’, qui sont tous dans la ''recherche de connivence'' permanente plutôt que dans la quête de vérité.

Mais la moindre remise en cause de ce système prébendier dévoilerait leur (et par conséquent notre) dépendance totale à cet Etat qui envahit jusqu'aux recoins les plus intimes de nos vies. Soumis en permanence à des bombardements de mensonges, nous en sommes arrivés à nous dire que peut-être que, sans l'Etat, la France n'existerait pas, ou plus... alors qu'il la tue, et nous avec elle : en 2008, le PIB par habitant s'élevait à 41 538 € en France et à 41 121 € en Allemagne, des chiffres très proches. En 2021, ces chiffres sont devenus 39 673 pour la France  (--1813), vous avez bien lu : ''moins 1813 €'' !)  et 44 738 (+ 3612) pour l'Allemagne. Ecart : 4 425 € en 12 ans. C'est horrible !  Où sont les nuls ?  Et les nôtres ont l’impudence de nous donner des conseils, via des clips tv publicitaires infantilisants --mais hors de prix-- ''pour dépenser moins'' (?)... du peu qu’ils nous laissent !

Cette croyance en une utilité irremplaçable de l'Etat Léviathan est peu à peu devenue en nous comme une seconde nature. Il est vrai que l'Etat donne beaucoup (en puisant directement dans les caisses et en mettant le futur en grand danger), mais on ne se rend pas assez compte qu'il prend beaucoup plus qu'il ne donne, ''volant'' sans pudeur dans nos poches pour subventionner des idées, des activités et des comportements sans aucun intérêt ni pour la race humaine ni pour l'avenir du monde, ni, bien sûr, pour la France : on baigne dans l'inutile, dans le pervers, le mortifère, le dangereux, et les stupidités de Sandrine Rousseau ou de la ''nupes'' !  Les inutiles privations de liberté non motivées, toutes les mesures discriminatoires néfastes et liberticides, les humiliations criminelles (la mort des ''vieux'', tout seuls pendant un confinement rigoureusement inutile... mais jamais puni !) et leurs atteintes aux droits élémentaires de la personne humaine --soi-disant dues au covid (NB : on a vu leur résultat : il est nul !)--, suffiraient à ce que le cas soit entendu.

On connaît ce lieu commun qui affirme que les français seraient ingouvernables. C'est un argument stupide, s'agissant de l'un des peuples dont l'administration a su et a pu déployer un réseau de contraintes, de surveillance et de ponction fiscale parmi les plus vicieux et les plus coercitifs qui aient jamais été, au monde. C'est la France qui est ingouvernable --pas les français : d'un côté, elle s'est laissé enfermer peu à peu dans les contraintes insupportables et les privations de liberté que l'Europe-institution nous impose contre toute raison et toute efficacité, et de l'autre côté, elle s'est laissé persuader que les réseaux sociaux sont autant de pouvoirs --irrésistibles, disent les couards--  auxquels il faudrait donc qu’on se soumette...

Ainsi limités vers le haut et vers le bas, nos gouvernements ont accepté, en outre, les règles ''a-humaines'' d'idéologues criminels (on les surnomme ''la Commission de Bruxelles'', dirigés par une walkyrie qui se croit illuminée), qui interdisent tout ce qui serait bon pour l'homme, mais qui sont sensibles aux pires extravagances que peuvent inventer leurs cerveaux malades dont l'unique objectif est l'asservissement progressif de ce qui fut l'Humanité. Alors, pour essayer de justifier la présence (coûteuse) de hordes de ''ponctionnaires'', ils se sont repliés sur la communication, sur une querelle byzantine sur ''le genre'' --un truc inexistant et pervers, s'il en a jamais été !--, sur la fausse bien-pensance des Tweeter et des Instagram, sur des déplacements ministériels impromptus dont la mise en scène préparée jusque dans le moindre détail fait penser aux ''villages Potemkine'' de Catherine II, et sur ce que nos édiles voudraient que nous pensions d'eux ou d'elles. Pour ce faire, on a dû créer de toutes pièces un nouveau métier : celui de ''penseur subventionné'' (Alain Minc, BH Lévy, Attali, Jack Lang sont parmi les plus nuisibles). Ce sont des penseurs sans idées autres que ''conformes'' (professeurs d'Université, énarques) qui n'existent que par le système, et trouvent donc dans l'Etat et l'Administration, eux-mêmes adeptes du dirigisme liberticide, une oreille attentive, un accueil favorable, des sinécures juteuses et des Légion d'Honneur totalement imméritées...

Et voilà comment la force centripète qui avait construit la France a évolué en une force centrifuge qui ravage tout ce qu'elle effleure. Plus personne ne reconnaît ''la France'' dans ce gloubi-boulga où des gens qui lui doivent tout ne veulent avoir avec elle qu'un rapport de haine primitive, et viennent nous expliquer que ''la France, c'est... --et suit la liste complète de tout ce qu'elle n'est pas, n'a pas envie d'être et se porterait bien de ne jamais devenir !''. A leur opposé complet,... ''La France, c'est la France, nom de Dieu !'', disait Maurice Clavel ! Ou encore, comme le grand Ernest Lavisse : ''Tu dois aimer la France parce que la nature l'a faite belle, et parce que son histoire l'a faite grande''. Non seulement il n'y a pas un mot à changer à ces phrases, mais elles sont le leit-motiv dont nous avons le plus besoin, si on veut conserver un mince espoir de nous sauver --peut-être--  de la noyade vers laquelle nous entraînent tous les mouvements de soi-disant pensée actuels, absurdes mais que suivent nos dirigeants, pires guides qui puissent être !

H-Cl.

[rideretremando]

«Namque pauci libertatem, pars magna iustos dominos volunt - Soltanto pochi desiderano la libertà, i più non cercano che buoni padroni.»

(Sallustio, Epistula Mithridatis)

[major-toast]

West Coast

@rosekillermicrofic // August 9th - heart // words: 631 // cw: slightly suggestive content

„You’re sick?“

„Yeah?“

„Really?“

„Yeah!“

„Dorcas, do you need any more proof than… that? God, one more word out of Crouch’s mouth and not even hearing aids will compensate for the damage done to my ears.”

“Stop being dramatic, Regulus! I am sure this is nothing a bit of tea and honey won’t solve.”

“Oh, yes. Definitely.”

Regulus rolls his eyes wryly, ignoring Dorcas’ scolding glare. Barty wants to laugh, but – fuck – it hurts.

“In all honesty, I don’t think it will”, he croaks instead, coughing the moment the words leave his mouth.

Maybe he shouldn’t have partied outdoors until the brink of dawn… in the middle of December. But – ah well – mistakes are there to be made. At least, he got a sick new tramp stamp.

Dorcas groans.

“This is horrible! Absolutely fucking horrible! You knew how important this gig is! Why in God’s name would you get sick now?”

Barty shrugs. How is he supposed to know?

“I could do the vocals, no problem.”

All heads turn to Evan, who is sitting by his drums and lazily twirls one of the sticks in his right hand.

“What?”, he challenges, raising a brow. “I can sing.”

Dorcas slumps. With a sigh, she says, “Guess we don’t have a choice, do we? Crouch, do you feel well enough to shred your guitar?”

Barty nods.

What is one messed up gig, in the grand scheme of things?

Later that night, the hall is brimming with anticipation. No one has ever heard Evan sing before. Not even Pandora, she claims. Barty, however, isn’t fooled. He has seen her blink three times. Something she always does whenever she’s lying.

Usually, he’d pry it out of her somehow. But not tonight.

Tonight, he’ll be blown away.

Once the light dims, and they walk on stage to an already cheering crowd, Barty opens with a slow solo on his guitar. Immediately, hysteria washes over the audience; more than a few groupies crying and screaming in the front. Barty winks at them with a grin before stepping away from the microphone.

Tonight, someone else will be their darling.

Down on the West Coast, they got a sayin'. If you're not drinkin' then you're not playin'.

Barty falters, his heart missing a beat. Immediately, his eyes snap over to Evan.

Hitting the drums with not a care in the world, he’s closed his eyes. His blonde hair is swaying in sync with the beat of his drums, his voice a low murmur as he serenades the mic.

It’s soft, mellow; a warm cadence in a whirl of raspy notes and fastening beats. For a second, Barty believes to have entered heaven a bit too early.

Down on the West Coast, I get this feeling like it all could happen, that's why I'm leaving you for the moment.

Evan’s eyes find Barty’s. Briefly, his mouth curls into a satisfied smile. Then, his attention focuses back on the crowd before changing the vocals into a harsh growl.

Barty swallows. He doesn’t know whether his cock is hard or his knees are weak. Most likely, a bit of both. Louder than the drums, his heart thrashes in his ears.

“Are you going to play or just stand here?” Dorcas hisses as she slowly moves towards him, her hands easily tapping the strings of her bass.

Barty jolts, jumping back into action.

I can see my baby swinging, his Parliament′s on fire and his hands are up. On the balcony and I’m singing, “Ooh baby, ooh baby, I′m in love.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Barty will never let him live this one down.

Yes, he thinks while he bangs his head to the melody, playing with the pacing of his riff. Angel, I think I’m in love.

He’s going to marry that bloke someday.

The song referenced in this post is mac glocky's cover of West Coast in the style of Deftones. This version can be found here. I highly recommend checking it out.

[canadianno]

By the way

"[=|_|_!<>^|^"

Our deal here is not over.

Orationes vestras sint multae

et pauci dies tui

-alz

[rohanseoewe]

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