Der Erlkönig

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

“Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?” –
“Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif?” –
“Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.”

“Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel’ ich mit dir;
Manch’ bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand.” –

“Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?” –
“Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind;
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.” –

“Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehen?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn,
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.” –

“Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?” –
“Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau. –”

“Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt.” –
“Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an!
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!” –

Dem Vater grauset’s, er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Müh’ und Not;
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.

Auf Englisch:

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp’d in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.

“My son, wherefore seek’st thou thy face thus to hide?”
“Look, father, the Alder King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Alder King, with crown and with tail?”
“My son, ‘tis the mist rising over the plain.”

“Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
For many a game I will play there with thee;
On my beach, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold.”

“My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Alder King now breathes in mine ear?”
“Be calm, dearest child, thy fancy deceives;
the wind is sighing through withering leaves.”

“Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care
My daughters by night on the dance floor you lead,
They’ll cradle and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep.”

“My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Alder King is showing his daughters to me?”
“My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
‘Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight.”

“I love thee, I’m charm’d by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou aren’t willing, then force I’ll employ.”
“My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
For sorely the Alder King has hurt me at last.”

The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He holds in his arms the shuddering child;
He reaches his farmstead with toil and dread, –
The child in his arms lies motionless, dead.

!!

!!

(Source: defff666)

slaughterhouse90210:

“I wanted to try this new drink: That’s all we do, isn’t it - look at things and try new drinks?” ― Ernest Hemingway, The Complete Short Stories

This is actually from “Hills Like White Elephants,” one of my favorite Hemingway stories. That combined with one of my favorite TV shows warranted reblogging.

slaughterhouse90210:

“I wanted to try this new drink: That’s all we do, isn’t it - look at things and try new drinks?”
― Ernest Hemingway, The Complete Short Stories


This is actually from “Hills Like White Elephants,” one of my favorite Hemingway stories. That combined with one of my favorite TV shows warranted reblogging.

Why I don’t eat hot dogs

Why I don’t eat hot dogs

(via thesimpsonswayoflife)

anachronisticfairytales:

The Princess and the Pea
Edmund Dulac

anachronisticfairytales:

The Princess and the Pea

Edmund Dulac

A Poem A Day: Morning

Morning

by Frank O’Hara

I’ve got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I’ll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

(Source: apoemaday)

2 months ago - 10

Childhood teachers

As previously noted, I spend a lot of time reminiscing about my childhood. The fact that we were all smaller versions of ourselves years ago stupefies and fascinates me. Here are some things I remember about my elementary school teachers: 

1st grade - Mrs. Serabian - She seemed ancient, although was in actuality probably in her 60’s. She had butter-yellow hair and a freckled face and was sweet as sugar. Once, during story time, I saw up her skirt and was shocked by the strange garter/stocking combination she wore. She taught me that “like” was not spelled “lick” while proofreading a letter I wrote to a boy named Gabriel wherein I stated, “I lick you.”

2nd grade - Mrs. Kaltreider - She was the worst. Pixie haired and pointy faced, she fulfills the character of villain in my memory’s narrative. She used a set of colored markers to grade our papers and my parents had happened to purchase for me the same set of markers - probably one of my most prized possessions. She forbade me from using them. Like I said, she was the worst. Every once in a while her 12 or 13 year old son would accompany her to class and I had a major crush on him. 

3rd grade - Mrs. Rottenberg - Although her name lent itself to nasty jokes, this matronly New York native was my favorite teacher. She was sassy and outrageous and wouldn’t put up with any misbehavior (which I was introduced to at that age).  Once, in her class, I got a test back that I did so poorly on I ran into the back and tearily ripped it to shreds. When I sat back down at my desk she informed the class that we had to get those tests signed by our parents and return them to her. I lied and said I lost my test in the 30 seconds since she’d handed them out. I don’t think I’d ever been more terrified in my life. Surprisingly, I don’t remember the outcome, so I guess it couldn’t have been that bad. 

Memory

Dan always tells me that I should be the one of us who is interested in journalism because 90% of what comes out of my mouth is a re-telling of an event. I guess I just find everything that happens to me or anyone else interesting! I don’t know! In light of this phenomenon I’ve decided to write a few of my thoughts down. I often wonder why I remember certain ostensibly meaningless events (some from 20+ years ago) with such clarity. Maybe something happened later in that particular day that traumatized me but I’ve repressed that incident and instead focus on the mundane. Either way, certain moments and experiences continuously pop out of my cereberum, some that happened only once, some ongoing occurences, like this one:

Like most children, I was a picky eater. A plate of fish, which now sounds extraordinarly simple and tantalizing, slathered in butter and flanked by waxy yellow potatoes, had to be covered in ketchup and smashed into an unrecognizable pink glob, which I then gulped down with water while dramatically gagging. If something had more than 3 ingredients, it wasn’t coming close to me. I’d sit on the floor of our pantry shoveling dry cereal into my mouth in order to stave off hunger, but if someone asked me to try something slightly more complicated, it was futile. Such was the case with lasagna.

The word itself is one of those haunting memories I was talking about - it brings a dream-like swirl to mind of all kinds of unrelated topics. I hated lasagna. I can’t imagine that now; it doesn’t even fit the stereotype of being green and all it is is pasta, cheese, and tomato sauce, but it literally put dread in my stomach when I saw it imposing itself on my dinner table. I don’t remember where I learned it, but some television program or book had mentioned the funny things kids were supposed to do when they didn’t want to eat food and I tried all of them. I’d try to wrap it up in my napkin, put it into a potted plant, feed it to the cat (we didn’t have a dog so I tried the best I could), and even rushed to the bathroom to spit it into the toilet. Of course my parents were having none of this and I usually ended up blubbering into my plate, whimpering as though someone were forcing me to watch a puppy get tattooed or a bald eagle drowning. My parents told me I should like it because it’s what Garfield ate - and this is where Garfield enters this stream of conciousness.

My Garfield alarm clock had a few different alerts. In the morning at the allotted time, it would shrill, DOO DOO DOO DOO - GET UP SLEEPY HEAD - DOO DOO DOO DOO. I’d press his nose and in his honey-slow voice he’d assure, “Nahh, don’t get up, stay in bed, sleep longerrrrrrrrr.” I just now realized that this must’ve been the reason I often dreamt about the mischievous cat - he often appeared behind my eyes, skateboarding through the halls of my school or sliding down the hand rails outside. These dreams are as clear to me now as when I had them 20 years ago.

So basically this story explains why to me, Garfield, lasagna, dreams, and nausea are all inextricably linked. Stay tuned - who knows what next time’s walk down memory lane will bring?!

(Source: rvamag)

Leonor Fini, ‘Splendid Devil’

She is splendid!

Leonor Fini, ‘Splendid Devil’

She is splendid!

(Source: theliltingwall, via lacontessa)