Kay

@kayburke.net

174 Followers 176 Following

Love, rising from the mists

Augury was the Roman religious practice of observing the behavior of birds to receive omens. When the individual, known as the augur, read these signs, it was referred to as "taking the auspices". "Auspices" (Latin: auspicium) means "looking at birds". Auspex, another word for augur, can be translated to "one who looks at birds". Depending upon the birds, the auspices from the gods could be favorable or unfavorable (auspicious or inauspicious). Sometimes politically motivated augurs would fabricate unfavorable auspices in order to delay certain state functions, such as elections. Pliny the Elder attributes the invention of auspicy to Tiresias the seer of Thebes.
Alongside Catbird cadenzas from the bushes issue like edicts. See him! Fearless, intent upon invention, slate blue among the dewy leaves, his puffed throat
Giovanni di Giovanni; 7 May 1365; 15-year-old boy charged with being "a public and notorious passive sodomite"
Crunchyroll Apple TV app. The banner image is for Kamiina Botan, but the show description is “Bloodthirsty demons lurk in the woods, and nobody dares to venture out at night, save for the demon slayer of legend. Surviving in this harsh world, young Tanjirou take...”
cover of Scum by Bark Psychosis. A razor blade on a blue background
Jumart: a jumart, bif, or baf is a
pressed against two black pubescent mounds also filled with shadows. The annoying wisps of disheveled hair strewn across the cheeks had become signs of love. Smooth, burning thighs lay in intimate contact with smooth, burning cheeks, while the soft bellies heaved like moonlit inlets. He could not hear distinct voices, but a sobbing, neither pleasure nor sorrow, vibrated the length of the torsos. Breasts now abandoned by the partners innocently turned their nipples toward the light, trembling at times as though under an electrical charge. The depth of the night concealed in the aureoles around the nipples, the distance of the pleasure that made the breasts shudder, testified to the fact that every atom of their bodies was still isolated in maddening aloneness. They were feverishly striving to come closer, toward a greater intimacy, to fuse one into the other, but to no avail. Far away Keiko's red-lacquered toes flexed as if she were dancing on a sheet of hot iron, and yet they merely trod the empty twilight. Honda realized that the room was filled with cool mountain air, but he felt as though the center of a furnace lay beyond the peephole. A shining furnace. He regretted that Ying Chan's back that he had examined so carefully during the day at the pool, perspiration flowing slowly down the spine, was turned toward him. Shortly the perspiration was diverted from its channel and trickled down the dark flank against the bed. It seemed as though he could smell the fragrance of some rich, ripe tropical fruit that had just split open. Keiko shifted her body slightly to be on top, and Ying Chan tilted her neck, thrusting her head between Keiko's shining thighs. Naturally her breasts came into view. Her right arm encircled Keiko's hip, while her left hand gently caressed her belly. Intermittently little nocturnal lappings could be heard licking the banks of the harbor. So beautiful was Ying Chan's sincerity that he was seeing
Once a Kabbalist asked the Besht if he believed the world to be an emanation of God. "Oh, yes," he said, "the whole world is God." Everyone wholeheartedly seconded this enthusiastic response. "And evil?" asked the Kabbalist, tricky and malicious. "Evil, too, is God," calmly retorted the Besht, and he was placid, but now a murmur passed through all those present, and soon the voices of other learned tzaddikim and various holy and distinguished men piped up. All conversations in this place provoked violent reactions-the overturning of chairs, sobs, cries, men pulling out their hair. Many times did I watch them debate this very question. And my blood boiled then, too, for indeed, how could it be? All this that surrounded us—how to account for it? Under what rubric were we to place hunger and bodily injury, and the slaughter of ani-mals, and children felled by the plague and laid row upon row in the earth? In such instances, I was never able to shake the impression that ultimately, and irrefutably, God must not give a damn about us. It sufficed for someone to point out that evil was not evil in itself, but rather only in the eyes of man, and a skirmish would break out at table; water would spill out from a broken jug and soak into the sawdust on the floor; one man would run out of the room in anger; another would have to be prevented from dealing a blow. Such was the power of the spoken word.
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Two reposts by iambic.bot: from @blockedforthispost, "This is a pretty fascist thing to say" and from @ladyqueenb, "Is Cleveland trying to give this game away?"
Jack Ferver (born 1979) is an American dancer, choreographer, actor, and professor. They are known for their dance-theatre shows that examine trauma, otherness, and queerness, as well as for their portrayal of a character known as the Little Lad in a 2007 Berries and Cream Starburst commercial.
One night a moth flew into the candle, was caught, burnt dry, and held. I must have been staring at the candle, or maybe I looked up when a shadow crossed my page; at any rate, i saw it all. A golden female moth, a biggish one with a two-inch wingspan, flapped into the fire, drupped her abdomen into the wet wax, stuck, flamed, frazzled and fried in a second. Her moving wings ignited like tissue paper, enlarging the circle of light in the clearing and creating out of the darkness the sudden blue sleeves of my sweater, the green leaves of jewel weed by my side, the ragged red trunk of a pine. At once the light contracted again and the moth's wings vanished in a fine, foul smoke. At the same time her six legs clawed, curled, blackened, and ceased, disappearing utterly. And her head jerked in spasms, making a spattering noise; her antennae crisped and burned away and her heaving mouth parts crackled like pistol fire. When it was all over, her head was, so far as I could determine, gone, gone the long way of her wings and legs. Had she been new, or old? Had she mated and laid her—
LinkedIn email with the subject "Anchoress (Remote, US) role is available"
"I Cannot Weave" after a fragment by Sappho O mama it's no use— undo my loom. I am undone by one who unloves me. - JF
ANTONIO I am more serious than my custom. You Must be so too, if heed me; which to do Trebles thee o'er. SEBASTIAN Well, I am standing water. ANTONIO I'll teach you how to flow. SEBASTIAN Do so. To ebb Hereditary sloth instructs me.
A green agamid lizard sits on my open palm. He is angled away but looking back with a sort of “so what’s your deal?” expression
A view of the Manhattan skyline from Brooklyn. The plume from two smoke stacks (I think in the Brooklyn Navy Yard) occlude part of the Empire State Building and a large part of the sky in frame.
Dalkey Archive Essentials cover for Miss MacIntosh, My Darling. The first several hundred pages are about a bus definitely not going where it ought to
Noun feygele (plural feygeles) 1. A man who is or who is thought to be homosexual. [quotations A] • 1999 September 24, cor...@frogger.telerama.com, "Our Commodification", in soc. motss!!]E (Usenet): When will they introduce a scantily clad, ultrabuff, humpa-hunka burn'n all-man studflesh to give us feigellas a reason to watch?
Photo from a bedroom looking into a bathroom. A mirror to the left of the open bathroom door is reflecting Sara smiling at the camera, though she is not visible through the doorway. In the bottom right is a mirror on the ground, reflecting me taking the photo.
cover of The Fifth Season by NK Jemisin
Search results on AO3 for the Peanuts fandom tag: 1,013 matching posts.
Passage from Elsie Venner: “For some reason which must be left to the next generation of professors to find out, the men who are knowing in horse-flesh have an eye also for,— let a long dash separate the brute creation from the angelic being now to be named,— for lovely woman.”
What was the organization of illusion, of memory? Who knew even his own divided heart? Who knew all hearts as his own? Among beings strange to each other, those divided by the long roarings of time, of space, those who have never met or, when they meet, have not recognized as their own the other heart and that heart's weaknesses, have turned stonily away, would there not be, in the vision of some omniscient eye, a web of spidery logic establishing the most secret relationships, deep calling to deep, illuminations of the eternal darkness, recognitions in the night world of voyager dreams, all barriers dissolving, all souls as one and united? Every heart is the other heart. Every soul is the other soul. Every face is the other face. The individual is the one illusion.
Paperback copy of Miss MacIntosh, My Darling. A Deep Vellum bookmark is on top of it.
Colophon for Broadway Play Publishing Inc. It’s a cartoon frog posing like the Vitruvian Man, with multiple arms and legs.
Photo of a stone carving of a horse’s head with the caption, “The ideal head of the warhorse.” The horse is kind of doing a “wazzaaaaaap” thing with its mouth.
Paperback copies of Dictee by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha and Nostalgia by Mircea Cărtărescu
Physical copies of Thomas Merton’s The Seven Storey Mountain and Dennis Cooper’s The Sluts next to each other
"The love of our neighbour in all its fullness simply means being able to say to him: “What are you going through?” It is a recognition that the sufferer exists, not only as a unit in a collection, or a specimen from the social category labelled “unfortunate,” but as a man, exactly like us, who was one day stamped with a special mark by affliction. For this reason it is enough, but it is indispensable, to know how to look at him in a certain way. This way of looking is first of all attentive. The soul empties itself of all its own contents in order to receive into itself the being it is looking at, just as he is, in all his truth.” ― Simone Weil, Waiting for God
CHAPTER 62 Sometimes Mr. Spitzer wondered if he had ever really slept. Sometimes it seemed to him that the illusion of perfect sleep like the illusion of perfect death was the one illusion which was never possibleat least never for him. He had dreamed that he was oaring with his oar along a dark river which had suddenly turned into a river of fire, molten fire. He had dreamed that the fire had turned into a river of ice brilliant as five-pointed Arcturus. He had dreamed that he had heard the icebergs breaking and roaring along some distant river or estuary or channel as the seagulls upon the ice floes with their white wings folded like the shrouds of ghosts floated out to sea under the frozen nail-head stars nailing down the coffin lid of the sky-and there were old walruses upon the mirroring ice floes like ballroom foors under great chandeliers making tine music, old walruses sitting upon gilded chairs of the fin de siecle period, whichever century it was, and seals on distant ice floes wearing diamond necklaces with diamond crosses. But perhaps all these rivers were one great river of reality burning from light to darkness, darkness to light, water to freezing, ice to star, burning star in the frozen cloud above the ice pinnacles like another star.
Three books: Jack the Modernist by Robert Glück, The Wax Child by Olga Ravn, and Perverts by Kay Gabriel
Yahoo Answers post that says “Aren’t you tired of being nice? Don’t you just want to go ape shitt”
Screenshot of two consecutive posts on Bluesky. The first is Cat Fitzpatrick saying "it is 1pm and today I have finished re-reading A/S/L and saved the life of a small bird #GoodDay." The second is by an art account named after Peter Paul Rubens, with the caption, "Alas, poor bird! It is #NationalCatDay as celebrated in 1939 by Pablo Picasso," sharing a Picasso painting of a cat ripping open a bird.
OED definition for “drink” as a verb, obsolete, meaning to drown. The example text is “Hadde I than be dronken, And in the salt flod sonkyn.” From a text called Seven Sages.
Ground view of the Gereja Ayam. A stained white church with a massive facade of a crowned dove, exulting, twice the height of the rest of the church
Instagram ad that says “Warning: This is the first Tucking Jeans turly (sic) made for you.”
I am holding Shadow Ticket by Thomas Pynchon in my hand!
Paperback copy of Gendertrash from Hell, edited by Mirha-Soleil Ross
Paperback copy of Oreo by Fran Ross
He is the most dangerous and destructive social type that has ever appeared in Western Civilization. For generations people believed that the men opposed to rights of ownership, production for the market, domination of money, etc. were socialists, communists, radicals of some sort united by the fact that they all thought in terms of the reorganization of society by the workers, the great majority of the oppressed, the exploited, the disin-herited. Some there were, of course, who believed that the experi-ment, if made, was bound to result in tyranny. Nobody, not a single soul, thought that in the managers, the superintendents, the execu-tives, the administrators would arise such loathing and bitterness against the society of free enterprise, the market and democracy, that they would try to reorganize it to suit themselves and, if need be, destroy civilization in the process. There are a number of writers, chiefly German, who have shown that they more or less understand the type. But there is not one ruler, foreign minister, state department representative or member of parliament, who, despite all the preparations for war yesterday against Nazism and today against Soviet imperialism, shows the slightest sign that he understands the enemy against whom he is preparing. It is the unique and solitary greatness of Melville that he saw and understood the type to the last degree and the relation to it of all other social types. How he was able to do this a hundred years ago, we shall also show but the first point is to understand the totalitarian type itself. Ahab is no common man. He has a fine brain and has had some education. He is a man of splendid physique, great courage, and a
Abstract The tattoos of the Pazyryk ice mummies are of paramount importance for the archaeology of Iron Age Siberia and are often discussed from a broad stylistic and symbolic perspective. However, deeper investigations into this cultural practice were hindered by the inaccessibility of quality data. Here, the authors use high-resolution, near-infrared data in conjunction with experimental evidence to reexamine the tools and techniques employed in Early Iron Age tattooing. The high-quality data allow for the previously unfeasible distinction of artist hands and enable us to put the individual back into the picture of a widespread but rarely preserved prehistoric practice.
Paperback copy of Prince of Grass, by Dan Wriggins
Illustration of a man sitting on a bed. He is maybe wearing a blue tuxedo, but it’s also a onesie, and his dick and balls are extremely prominent. His bed sheets look like dripping cum. At the bottom of the page is the caption, “an unbidden, most miserable presentiment”
Hardcover of the Kraken Edition of Herman Melville’s Pierre. Green dust jacket, with an illustration by Maurice Sendak in the center, depicting a naked man and woman embracing
From Melville’s Pierre: “For surely a gentle sister is the second best gift to a man; and it is first in point of occurrence; for the wife comes after. He who is sisterless, is as a bachelor before his time. For much that goes to make up the deliciousness of a wife, already lies in the sister.”