fruit / fowl

**I am ridiculous.

But, whether he had not noticed the trick, or did not dare to attempt it, the "new fellow," was still holding his cap on his knees even after prayers were over. It was one of those head-gears of composite order, in which we can find traces of the bearskin, shako, billycock hat, sealskin cap, and cotton night-cap; one of those poor things, in fine, whose dumb ugliness has depths of expression, like an imbecile's face. Oval, stiffened with whalebone, it began with three round knobs; then came in succession lozenges of velvet and rabbit-skin separated by a red band; after that a sort of bag that ended in a cardboard polygon covered with complicated braiding, from which hung, at the end of a long thin cord, small twisted gold threads in the manner of a tassel. The cap was new; its peak shone.

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2413/2413-h/2413-h.htm

Hardwick on Holiday

She was fat the first time we saw her, large, brilliantly beautiful, fat. She seemed for this moment that never again returned to be almost a matron, someone real and sensible who carried money to the bank, signed papers, had curtains made to match, dresses hung and shoes in pairs, gold and silver, black and white, ready. What a strange, betraying apparition that was, madness, because never was any woman less a wife or mother, less attached; not even a daughter could she easily appear to be. Little called to mind the pitiful sweetness of a young girl. No, she was glittering, somber, and solitary, although of course never alone, never. Stately, sinister, and absolutely determined.

The creamy lips, the oily eyelids, the violent perfume—and in her voice the tropical l’s and r’s. Her presence, her singing created a large, swelling anxiety. Long red fingernails and the sound of electrified guitars. Here was a woman who had never been a Christian.

To speak as part of the white audience of “knowing” this baroque and puzzling phantom is an immoderation; and yet there are many persons, discrete and reasonable, who have little splinters of memory that seem to have been personal. At times they have remembered an exchange of some sort. And always the lascivious gardenia, worn like a large, white, beautiful ear, the heavy laugh, marvelous teeth, and the splendid archaic head, dragged up from the Aegean. Sometimes she dyed her hair red and the curls lay flat against her skull, like dried blood.

 http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/1976/mar/04/billie-holiday/

red

Kant says, in a text of the Critique of Pure Reason: "if cinnabar was sometimes red, sometimes red and sometimes black, sometimes heavy and sometimes light... I would never have the opportunity to associate - i.e. my imagination would never have the occasion to associate - the heavy cinnabar with the colour red..."

"If cinnabar were sometimes red, sometimes black, sometimes light, sometimes heavy, if a man changes int this and sometimes into that animal form, if the country on the longest day were sometimes covered in fruit, sometimes with ice and snow, my empirical imagination would never find opportunity when representing red color to bring to mind heavy cinnabar."

If I aim at the being of some redness, the texture of denim, and some cut or pattern in

the form of an hourglass, I can imagine three arrows carrying the being of redness, the being of denim, and the being of the form of an hourglass towards a fourth arrow: a dress which is red, denim, and in the form of an hourglass. And yet the dress is not predicated on anything, while the redness, denim, or form of an hourglass are predicated on the dress. The dress directs the circulation of being into itself, into its self. At the end of its flight, the arrow of the dress aims at nothing other than itself.

Tristan Garcia // Form and Object: A treatise on things 


Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Verde que te quiero verde. 

More green, more black:
Somnambule Ballad
Federico Garcia Lorca
Green, how much I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship upon the sea
and the horse in the mountain.
With the shadow on her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, hair of green,
and eyes of cold silver.
Green, how much I want you green.
Beneath the gypsy moon,
all things look at her
but she cannot see them.
Green, how much I want you green.
Great stars of white frost
come with the fish of darkness
that opens the road of dawn.
the fig tree rubs the wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the mountain, a filching cat,
bristles its bitter aloes.
But who will come? and from where?
She lingers on her balcony,
green flesh, hair of green,
dreaming of the bitter sea.
—Friend, I want to change
my horse for your house,
my saddle for your mirror,
my knife for your blanket,
Friend, I come bleeding,
from the passes of Cabra.
—If I could, young man,
this pact would be sealed.
But I am no more I,
nor is my house now my house.
—Friend, I want to die
decently in my bed,
Of iron, if it be possible,
with sheets of fine holland.
Do you not see the wound I have
from my breast to my throat?
—Your white shirt bears
three hundred dark roses.
Your pungent blood oozes
around your sash.
But I am no more I,
nor is my house now my house.
—Let me climb at least
up to the high balustrade:
let me come! Let me come!
up to the green balustrades.
Balustrades of the moon
where the water resounds.
Now the two friends go up
towards the high balustrades.
Leaving a trail of blood,
leaving a trail of tears,
Small lanterns of tin
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
were piercing the dawn.
Green, how much I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends went up.
The long wind was leaving
in the mouth a strange taste
of gall, mint and sweet-basil.
Friend! Where is she, tell me,
where is your bitter girl?
How often she waited for you!
How often did she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the face of the cistern
the gypsy girl swayed.
Green flesh, hair of green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of the moon
suspends her above the water.
The night became as intimate
as a little square.
Drunken civil guards
were knocking at the door.
Green, how much I want you green,
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship upon the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.
Stephen Spender and J. L. Gili
Romance Sonambulo
Federico García Lorca, 1898 - 1936
(skip to the original poem in Spanish)
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.
Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.
--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I’d help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that’s possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don’t you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsty dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.
Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.
Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken “Guardias Civiles”
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.

more sulphure for Basing...

 

As for Civil Structures,  Basing, built by the first Marquess of Winchester, was the greatest of any Subjects House in England, yea larger than most (Eagles have not the biggest Nests of all Birds) of the Kings Palaces. The Motto Love Loyaltie, was often written in every window thereof, and was well practised in it, when for resistance on that account, it was lately levelled to the Ground.

*

What blood was shed at  Basing, after they

Had spent their sury, with their pois'nous breath:
And wanted strength unto their wills to slay,
But promis'd quarter! let the harmless earth
It fell on, witness! may it ne'er forsake
That tincture, untill Heav'n enquiry make.

Select and choice poems collected out of the labours of Captain George Wharton.

Date: 1661

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Charles Landseer / The plundering of Basing House / exhibited 1836 [Tate]
Nothing can be more true or pathetic than Charles Landseer's picture of this event. Two hundred royalists were taken prisoners, one hundred were slain. Of the latter there were counted in the house, immediately after the assault, seventy-four men and one young lady. She was the daughter of a clergyman, Dr. Griffiths."She came," says Mr. Peters, Cromwell's messenger to the Commons, "railing against our soldiers for their rough carriage towards her father," whom even Peters acknowledges they used "hardly," i.e. "cruelly," on account of his being a clergyman; and when the daughter interfered to save her tortured parent, the wretched Roundheads killed her. "Her two sisters and six or seven other ladies of rank were permitted to escape without serious injury."

 XXXV. Doctor Griffiths Daughter, who though a Female, yet of a Masculine spirit, and for her Loyalty deserving a large share amongst those Notable Hero's slain in the Kings service; this Amazonian Lady (whose praise cannot be sufficiently celebrated) in the foresaid storm at  Basing House, was by the barbarity of the Enemies killed, and shame|fully left naked; a trophy of their Baseness, and her own eternal Renown and Honour.

Winstanley, William, 1628?-1698.
Title: The loyall martyrology, or, Brief catalogues and characters of the most eminent persons who suffered for their conscience during the late times of rebellion either by death, imprisonment, banishment, or sequestration together with those who were slain in the Kings service : as also dregs of treachery : with the catalogue and characters of those regicides who sat as judges on our late dread soveraign of ever blessed memory : with others of that gang, most eminent for villany / by William Winstanley.
Date: 1665

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