Open thread, talk about whatever you want but don’t be an asshole.
Affinity
Art, Fun, & Nonsense.
Open thread, talk about whatever you want but don’t be an asshole.
These are my recollections of a life behind the iron curtain. I do not aim to give perfect and objective evaluation of anything, but to share my personal experiences and memories. It will explain why I just cannot get misty eyed over some ideas on the political left and why I loathe many ideas on the right.
For today I had to pick a theme that is really, really short.
And there really is not much to say about this, astounding as it might sound in today’s time. Nowadays commercial advertisements are everywhere – not only on TV and in magazines, but in newspapers, on billboards along the roads, on buildings and, of course, on the internet. And from what I gather, they were very common in the West in the past too, minus the internet.
However behind the Iron Curtain, commercial advertisements were very nearly unknown. The only place I remember ever seeing them was on TV between the programs – but never in the programs. Such a thing as an advertisement in the middle of a movie or a tv-series episode was unheard of.
Another typical feature of the advertisements that I remember was that they were product-oriented, not brand oriented. Since all brands were state-owned, and all production was centrally planned, there were no brands that would compete to sell the same product. Further the advertisements were so dull, that I only remember a single one – for milk. A glass of milk stood on a table, a man walks up to it, drinks it, and puts the empty glass back to a background of singing chorus “For your beauty and your health. What? Of course milk, milk, milk!”
Where I live we did pick up West German TV, so we knew that things look differently over there, but not knowing German, we did not know how different they are and what lies in store for us. This is one of the rare instances when I think that the “good ol’ times” actually were, you know, good.
Apparently, thistles are delicious.
©Giliell, all rights reserved. Click for full size.
©Giliell, all rights reserved. Click for full size.
©Giliell, all rights reserved. Click for full size.
©Giliell, all rights reserved. Click for full size.
When I have made my first, very crude, knife some twenty years ago, my friend’s father commented:
Charly, people want it to be handmade, but they do not want it to be immediately apparent that it is handmade.
That advice stuck in my mind so when I have read Feet of Clay from Terry Prattchett much later, following line resonated with me:
The thing looked like the kind of pots Igneous despised, the ones made by people who thought that because it was hand-made it was supposed to look as if was hand-made, and that thumbprints baked in the clay were a sign of integrity.
I tried to tie the leather strap as close to how it is done on the in-game model as I could manage. The only significant difference from the game model is the red leather on the scabbard, instead of brown.
If you look closely, here you can see that the hand guard does not stick out symmetrically on both sides of the scabbard.
Overall length ca. 395 mm, blade ca. 257 mm long, 23 mm wide at the guard, single-edged. Good cutting ability although not as good as a dedicated cutting blade would have. It is still a stabbing weapon.
Handle is turned out of maple wood. Rings are allingend perpendicularily to the blade so the shiny lignin spots are symmetricaly with it on both sides of the handle.
Rondel has ten hammered grooves giving it a daisy like look. All metal parts are polished to mirror finish and buffed with jeweler’s rouge.
Although the handle looks massive, the knife is weighed towards the tip when put on a flat surface. I guess it could be thrown, but I do not intend to try it for fear of the blade breaking.
My signature for knives from now on – my initials in Glagolitic script. This is also the writing used in the Witcher games, so it also thematically appropriate.
Today’s snippet is from my home country.
It is a symphonic poem “Vltava” from a series of six such poems in a musical epos “Má Vlast” (My Country) written by Czech composer Bedřich Smetana. Vltava is the most known from the six and in my opinion rightly so. It is an astounding piece of music, all the more impressive for the fact that Smetana composed it at a time when he was deaf. So he never actually got to hear it except in his head.
Truth be told I do not much care for most of Bedřich Smetana’s works, because he mostly wrote operas. And I was to one of his opera’s once, in school, and it was boring as hell. The singing, the implausible stories and lack of acting in my opinion destroy the beautiful music. But I did not care much about Má Vlast either at that time, partly because of natural tendency of children to oppose anything that is a part of the curriculum and partly probably because my brain was not mature enough to enjoy this kind of music. Maybe nowadays I could enjoy opera done properly?
This recording has the added dimension of being made in Prague Spring Festival in 1968, a year when Czechoslovak Socialist Republic had also a political Prague Spring, when its people peacefully stood up to the USSR bully in wanting to determine their own fates and got beaten into submission in return.
And finally, before you can enjoy the music, author’s own words explaining what it means (a rare and very specific occurrence):
The composition describes the run of Vltava, beginning at its both springs, the warm and the cold Vltava, the confluence of both streamlets into one, then Vltava’s flow through woods and meadows, through landscapes where merry feasts are held; in Moon’s night glow veela dance; on the cliffs proud castles and their ruins stand; Vltava foams in St. Johns rapids; flows in a broad stream towards Prague, Vyšehrad shows up, and it ends its majestic flow n the distance in Labe.
Jack with Mr. voyager, ©voyager, all rights reserved
That handsome fellow with Jack is Mr. Voyager and the photo was taken on the boardwalk in Perce about a month ago on the occasion of our 25th Wedding Anniversary. We’re not the type of people who make a big fuss about things like that so we didn’t have a party or go out for a fancy meal and we didn’t exchange gifts. Instead, we went down to the beach and set off fireworks just like we do every year. We did talk about giving each other gifts, but in the end we decided that we’d rather save up for a trip. During that discussion Mr. V mentioned that I haven’t yet posted a picture of him on this blog. I got the definite feeling that he’d enjoy it if I did, but I wanted it to be a surprise so I waited a month. I hope he’s pleasantly pleased.
It’s time for the next chapter in Ice Swimmer’s series Harakka – an Island. Our guide will take it from here. Thanks, Ice Swimmer.
1. Odd Spruce, Rocks and open sea, ©Ice Swimmer, all rights reserved
This view is from the top of the island, towards southeast. I wonder what has happened to the spruce.
And as a finale of his week’s series from rq, mostly fluffy pictures.
©rq, all rights reserved. Click for full size.
One has to admire thistles. Fluffy flowers, fluffy seeds and spiky everything else.
Bumlebees and bees have similar combination of fluff and spiky, I sense a theme here.
More fluff, but where are the sharp bits?
No fluff, no sharp bits. Just a wannabe tough guy.
And finally no fluff and no shar bits whatsoever. Just perfect depth of field. I love this picture.
Turkey Tail fungus, ©voyager, all rights reserved
©voyager, all rights reserved
Jack and I found this beautiful turkey tail fungus today. We often find this at home in Trillium Woods, but I seldom see it here in Pointe Claire. I love the way the fungus looks like the wood shavings left behind after sharpening a pencil. This specimen also collectively looks like a head of curly hair. Or maybe that’s just me. Either way I think it’s lovely, even though it did leave me feeling a bit homesick.
Admittedly, not the most exciting recipe, but it’s the time…
This year is the first one where we’re getting apples from our trees, or at least one tree. The whole thing looked quite ridiculously kitschy in summer, like my garden was trying to mock my disdain for people like Kincaid by throwing this at me.
Lovely, right? The pic doesn’t even get how violently bright everything was.
© Giliell
Now the apples are getting ripe and some are falling down, the ones not yet ripe enough to pass on to neighbours and family, so on Sunday I went to pic them up. I gave up when my basket was getting too heavy to lift and I wasn’t even halfway done. The next hour and half Mr and i spent together peeling and cutting apples and we reminded me of my grandparents, but in a good way. See, they were from a time where making your own preserves was a matter of survival, and even though those times were long gone during my childhood, they kept it up for as long as they could. And actually, the work was nice. It wasn’t very demanding physically or intellectually, but we were grounded to the kitchen table without any media and could just spend the time talking about this and that.
Applesauce:
Peel and cut apples
Microwave with some cane sugar
Add cinamon
Nomnomnom
©Giliell
Optional: Have a very nice neighbour who makes you potato pancakes.
She’s 89 years old, by the way.
The neighbour, not the pancakes.
©Giliell
A short video from michaelcthulum, one of the charity things I was talking about last time. This one is only 13 minutes and be sure to watch it until the very end.
I laughed so hard I nearly fell of my chair. And I sure as hell do not regretting being this man’s patron on patreon.
It turns out that a lot, even when the blooms are past their prime. I love the metallic sheen of that green fly. I would love to have a car like that.
©rq, all rights reserved. Click for full size.
As usual, I’m late to the party. I know that Spider Week at Affinity is over, but Jack and I went to Terracotta Park for our walk today and we came across a lovely big web that I wanted to share. If you want to see the long legged beauty who did all the intricate work it’s under the fold.
©voyager, all rights reserved