THUNDERCATS 2011 - THE LIZARDS' HEEL-FACE TURN

 This happens in Episode 14, "New Alliances," where the Lizard Mooks who "fight for treasure" desert the evil army en masse to return with their families because Even Mooks Have Loved Ones (compare the Fire Nation soldier in "The Southern Raiders"). This prompts Mumm-Ra, the Big Bad, to recruit generals who "fight for blood" (instead of treasure), ie ruthless psycho killers Kaynar (who was being shipped into solitary confinement) and Addicus (who was being executed), both of whom committed war crimes that were even too vile for Mumm-Ra's taste.

This contrast between Mooks with loved ones and psychos without loved ones, between fighting for treasure and fighting for blood, impressed me quite as a teen, in Thundercats 2011 and similar war/fantasy stories of that decade (like A:tLA) and, along with my obsession with the Vasas, led to my 30 Years' War phase and to the Ringstetten Saga...

TV TROPES:

Why is the Lizard Army now so easy to defeat?Also, it's pretty easy to get a huge army together by promising them the loot of their enemies. Once said enemies are defeated and the loot is taken? Not so easy when the Lizards explicitly state that they have families and children to return back to!

In "New Alliances" it appears that much of the Lizard army are conscripts. They may have been oppressed under the cats but under Mumm-Ra they're outright slaves. No wonder they take Lion-O's offer of mutual co-existence, it's the best deal they've ever had. 

THE POISONED CUP - THE MIDNIGHT ARCHIVES

 The Midnight Archives delivers again! In a foreign country, a trophy wife uses her woman's weapons and a drink laced with death to get rid of her captor after he earned her trust... catnip for me, something right up my alley (remember the Baratheon Saga?)

This is "The Poisoned Cup," Chapter 5 of their Aladdin retelling!

CHAPTER 5 - THE POISONED CUP

At the foot of his own stolen palace in a foreign land where the man who wants him dead is sleeping inside holding the only thing that can win.

 [...] And now she has been torn out of the world entirely, carried across the earth in one night, and installed in the same stolen palace in a foreign country as the captive and intended prize of a sorcerer she has never met: a daughter, a near bride, a wife, a trophy carried off in the dark. 

She has never in the whole arc of the tale been allowed to decide a single thing. She is about to decide everything. 

The sorcerer having won behaves like a man who has won. He does not chain her. He courts her. He has crossed the world for this. the palace, the wealth, the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. And he means to enjoy all of it, her included. 

So he comes to her and flatters her and at last tells her the truth of her situation with the calm of a man explaining the weather. Aladdin is finished. The boy will never reach her. Her old life is over, and she would be wise to make her peace with the new one, with him. 

He is so certain of his victory that he tells the prisoner she is a prisoner and assumes she will simply settle. It does not occur to him that the quiet grieving woman across the table has stopped grieving and started counting because she has. She reads him the way her husband never bothered to read her. And into the middle of this, through the same lesser magic that hauled him out of the cave, Aladdin appears, slipping into the palace he himself wished into being. Through passages he remembers, because he is the one who dreamed them. 

When she sees him, she does not fall into his arms. The tale gives her something better than that. She is relieved, yes, but clear-eyed and hard because she has had a long time to think about the man whose buried secrets put her here, and there is not much room left for his explanations. But they share an enemy now, and very little time, and the plan that forms is hers to carry out, because it can only be hers. Aladdin has no power here. His ring cannot touch the sorcerer, and a direct attack would simply get him killed where he stands. 

She is... The only person in the palace the sorcerer trusts. The only one who can come close to him with his guard fully down is the woman he is certain he has already won. So, she will become her and understand what that costs her because the tale rushes past it. And it should not. 

She has to take the same face that has been used against her all her life. The gracious, composed, agreeable woman, the prize that smiles and accepts and weaponize it. She has to sit across from the man who murdered her way of life, who carried her off in the night like furniture, who has told her to her face that she now belongs to him. And she has to make him believe she is glad of it.

 She has to be warm to him. She has to laugh at the right moments. She has to let him think his patience has been rewarded. That he has finally fully won. And she has to do all of it with steady hands and a steady voice. While the knowledge of what is in the cup sits in her like a held breath.

 There is no magic in this part. No genie does it for her. It is the hardest thing anyone in the story does, and it is done by the person everyone in the story has spent their time underestimating. 

She dresses as if for a celebration. She sends word that she has come to terms with her fortune and with him and would be glad of his company. And the most learned man in the tale, the one who has outwitted everyone who crossed the world twice and was beaten only once by an accident, walks straight into it because the one thing all his learning never taught him is that a prize might have a will of its own. 

He comes to her delighted, certain he is being rewarded for his patience. She is warm. She is gracious. She plays a woman reconciled to her master so perfectly that he never once sees the edge underneath it. And when she lifts a cup to him, a private toast, a sealing of the new arrangement, he drinks deeply the way a satisfied man drinks. In the cup is a powder Aladdin carried across the world for exactly this moment. There is no struggle, no last curse, no dramatic unmasking. The greatest sorcerer in the tale is killed by a cup of wine handed to him by the woman he was sure he had conquered, and believed. Aladdin comes in once it is finished and takes the lamp from the dead man's body and holds it differently now. 

[...] He knows what she is. The one who actually saved them with a steady hand and a poisoned cup while his magic stood useless in his pocket. They

CHARLES ROBINSON - The Loveliest of the Queen's Maids-of-Honour

 While looking at vintage fairytales on Instagram I was surprised to find a contemporaneous (with Oscar Wilde) portrait of my second favourite Wildean character - The Loveliest of the Queen's Maids-of-Honour!  AKA "a beautiful girl..." (My favourite Wildean character is Her Lover, that romantic and passionate young man who says, stargazing with her on the balcony to the sound of dancing: "How wonderful the stars are, and how wonderful is the Power of Love!" -- hands down my favourite Wildean quote and Wildean scene; there's something so satisfying in how these two young characters subvert gender roles!).

Charles Robinson, the illustrator, imagines The Loveliest of the Queen's Maids-of-Honour in a medieval setting, wearing a hennin on her head (while most adaptations, like those of Andersen, prefer Victorian setting contemporary with the author). Her raven hair and ivory skin may echo Snow White, even more so in medieval attire, but her cold sneer reveals the character's callousness and materialism.

SÖDER OM SAHARA - MIGUEL BOSÉ

 SÖDER OM SAHARA

Av Miguel Bosé

översatt av Sandra Dermark

02/06/MMXXVI

*******************

Söder om Sahara, hjärtesorg

är det där du gissar är astronomins borg?

Vi kan vara mer än vad vi glömt

i himlen, på jorden, mer än vad vi drömt

Det kan vara en cirkel gjord av sten,

tarotkort som vänds eller rullande ben,

det kan vara en leylinje på land,

det förflutna och framtiden uti din hand...

Det kan sluta cirkeln...

*********

REFRÄNG:

Dubbel stjärna lyser klart,

vit dvärg och jätte blå... åh, Sirius...

Men det så oförklar't

är kvar... mysterious...

*******************

Söder om Sahara, Timbuktu,

det som folk har glömt och det som chockar nu

Det kan va' det sällsammaste av allt,

en skatt utav kunskap i ökennatt kall...

Söder om Sahara

*********

Nutidens logik försöker ge

en form till den malström som rymden kan se,

nervceller, atomer, form ni minns,

som överallt uti vi själva alltid finns,

i sanden i Sahara

************

REFRÄNG

Dubbel stjärna lyser klart,

vit dvärg och jätte blå... åh, Sirius...

Men det så oförklar't

är kvar... mysterious...

*********

Dogonerna i savannen alltid vet

en vy från besöket från annan planet,

besökare från Sirius, helig sol

sen urminnestider kontakten så cool

Dogonernas mysterier

*******

Hur kan vi förklara...

Hur kan vi börja att förklara

allting som finns?

********

Vi kan vara en leylinje på land,

förändring som ej syns i timglasets sand

Vi kan vara mer än vad vi glömt

i himlen, på jorden, mer än vad vi drömt

Vi kan bli för evigt

Victorian poem My Mother - for Mother's Day

 From The Fairy Gazette

Poem by Anne and Janet Taylor, "My Mother" -

Who fed me from her gentle breast,

And hushed me in her arms to rest,

And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?

My Mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,

Who was it sung sweet lullaby,

And rocked me that I should not cry?

My Mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head,

When sleeping in my cradle bed,

And tears of sweet affection shed?

My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.

Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,

And would some pretty story tell,

Or kiss the place to make it well?

My Mother. 

And can I ever cease to be

Affectionate and kind to thee,

Who was so very kind to me?

My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head,

‘T will be my turn to watch thy bed.

And tears of sweet affection shed,

My Mother.

Mortals of all ages celebrate their mothers on one special day each year. Tender words are penned, thoughtful presents are given, and favourite meals are prepared with love.

Mon coeur - Petite Maman / Pequeña Mamá

Imagina que pudieras conocer a tu madre del pasado, cuando tenía tu edad...

Fabricar cosas juntas, compartir ilusiones y temores, hornear juntas una tarta de cumpleaños... navegar por el lago en la misma Zodiac...

Eso les pasa a Nelly y a su "Pequeña mamá" Marion en esta película tan tierna y tan otoñal... nada de violencia, sólo que van a operar a la pequeña Marion, pero su hija del futuro disipa toda incertidumbre...

Os dejo con la banda sonora y con los conmovedores pósters...

Des voix d'enfants

Chanteront

De nouveaux rêves

Le rêve d'être enfant avec toi

Le rêve d'être enfin loin de toi

Le rêve d'être enfant avec toi

Le rêve d'être enfin avec toi

Le rêve d'être enfant avec toi

Le rêve d'être enfin loin de toi

Le rêve d'être enfant loin de toi

Le rêve d'être enfin avec toi

Le rêve d'être enfant avec toi

Le rêve d'être enfin loin de toi

Le rêve d'être enfant loin de toi

Le rêve d'être enfin avec toi

Le rêve d'être enfant avec toi

Le rêve d'être enfin loin de toi

Le rêve d'être enfant loin de toi

Le rêve d'être enfin avec toi

Si mon cœur est dans ton cœur, ton cœur

Ton cœur est dans mon cœur

Si ton cœur est dans mon cœur, mon cœur

Mon cœur est dans ton cœur 

ROBERT BURNS - TO A LOUSE (ON A LADY'S BONNET)

 Imagine this: you're calmly sitting in your pew at church until you realise the girl in front of you is wearing a puffy hat full of frills and lace (inspired by the hot-air balloon/Montgolfier craze), and OMG, WAS THAT A BUG ON HER HAT?

Robert Burns felt really inspired and this is the result - it's far funnier than the Haggis and Mouse poems I have previously analysed:

Robert Burns

To a Louse

On Seeing One on a Lady’s Bonnet, at Church
1786

Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?

(where are you going, you crawling miracle?)
Your impudence protects you sairly;

(sairly: greatly)
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;

(lice like you strut very rarely on frilly, lacy hats --because the wealthy care much more about their hygiene)
Tho’, faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,

(blasted --"bloody"-- wonder)
Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sinner,

(hated by saint and sinner alike)
How daur ye set your fit upon her-

(fit: feet)
Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Swith! in some beggar’s haffet squattle;

(haffet: temple --the part of the head--; squattle, squat, occupy)
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,

(cattle: here, beasts)
In shoals and nations;

(shoals: schools, like those of fish - in the heads of the poor, there are whole schools and nations of lice)
Whaur horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle

(where neither horn hairbrushes nor bug poison --bane-- dare unsettle your colonies; ie in the scalps of the poor)
Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,

(haud: halt. Halt/stop you there!)
Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight;

(fatterels: the frills of the hat/bonnet)
Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,
Till ye’ve got on it-
The verra tapmost, tow’rin height

(the very topmost, towering height)
O’ Miss’ bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

(bauld: boldly)
As plump an’ grey as ony groset:

(groset: gooseberry; he's exaggerating the size of the louse)
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

(rozet: resin. Mercurial roset: resin laced with mercury - to poison the louse)
Or fell, red smeddum,

(smeddum: makeup - Burns intends to poison our bug with it)
I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,
Wad dress your droddum.

(droddum: breeches, trousers. I'd give you so much poison that you'd soil your breeches!)

I wad na been surpris’d to spy
You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;

(on an old lady's flannel cap)
Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy,

(on a small ragged boy, a street-rat)
On’s wyliecoat;

(on his underwear)
But Miss’ fine Lunardi! fye!

(Lunardi: puffy hat, inspired by a hot-air balloon. He's referring to Jenny's frilly hat, with the louse on it. Fye: EWWW!!)
How daur ye do’t?

(how dare you do it?)

O Jenny, dinna toss your head,

(Jenny is the girl in the Lunardi hat, the poem's addressee)
An’ set your beauties a’ abread!

(set your beauties in public, show off your looks)
Ye little ken what cursed speed

(ye little ken: you barely know)
The beastie’s makin:
Thae winks an’ finger-ends, I dread,

(there's people looking at you and stretching out their fingertips to catch the louse)
Are notice takin.

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!

(may Heaven/the gods give us the gift to see ourselves as others see us)
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

(mony: many)
An’ foolish notion:

(that gift would spare us many blunders and many foolish notions)
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
An’ ev’n devotion!

(putting on airs would leave us in a worse state. Jenny thinks that the others are admiring her hat and hairstyle; but really all eyes are on that louse)