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Table of contents

• Russell Mills On… Meeting Trent Reznor and His Haunting Nine Inch Nails Artwork
• Haunting Violet (Haunting Violet, #1) by Alyxandra Harvey
• movies & whatever whatnot
• Haunting Near Virtuous Spring

Why chidest thou the tardy Spring?

1. A House Once Stolen.
2. 51 MEANINGFUL AND INSPIRATIONAL QUOTES FROM CHILDREN’S!
3. Works!
4. Haunting Near Virtuous Spring | Ossurworld's Irreverence, Irony, Insouciance & Iconoclasm!
5. Navigation menu.
6. Haunting Near Virtuous Spring | Ossurworld's Irreverence, Irony, Insouciance & Iconoclasm.
7. Haunting Violet.

The hardy bunting does not chide; The blackbirds make the maples ring With social cheer and jubilee; The redwing flutes his o-ka-lee, The robins know the melting snow; The sparrow meek, prophetic-eyed, Her nest beside the snow-drift weaves, Secure the osier yet will hide Her callow brood in mantling leaves,— And thou, by science all undone, Why only must thy reason fail To see the southing of the sun? The world rolls round,—mistrust it not,— Befalls again what once befell; All things return, both sphere and mote, And I shall hear my bluebird's note, And dream the dream of Auburn dell.

April cold with dropping rain Willows and lilacs brings again, The whistle of returning birds, And trumpet-lowing of the herds. The scarlet maple-keys betray What potent blood hath modest May, What fiery force the earth renews, The wealth of forms, the flush of hues; What joy in rosy waves outpoured Flows from the heart of Love, the Lord. Hither rolls the storm of heat; I feel its finer billows beat Like a sea which me infolds; Heat with viewless fingers moulds, Swells, and mellows, and matures, Paints, and flavors, and allures, Bird and brier inly warms, Still enriches and transforms, Gives the reed and lily length, Adds to oak and oxen strength, Transforming what it doth infold, Life out of death, new out of old, Painting fawns' and leopards' fells, Seethes the gulf-encrimsoning shells, Fires gardens with a joyful blaze Of tulips, in the morning's rays.

The dead log touched bursts into leaf, The wheat-blade whispers of the sheaf. What god is this imperial Heat, Earth's prime secret, sculpture's seat? Doth it bear hidden in its heart Water-line patterns of all art? Is it Daedalus? Or walks in mask almighty Jove, And drops from Power's redundant horn All seeds of beauty to be born? Where shall we keep the holiday, And duly greet the entering May? Too strait and low our cottage doors, And all unmeet our carpet floors; Nor spacious court, nor monarch's hall, Suffice to hold the festival.

Up and away! As poured the flood of the ancient sea Spilling over mountain chains, Bending forests as bends the sedge, Faster flowing o'er the plains,— A world-wide wave with a foaming edge That rims the running silver sheet,— So pours the deluge of the heat Broad northward o'er the land, Painting artless paradises, Drugging herbs with Syrian spices, Fanning secret fires which glow In columbine and clover-blow, Climbing the northern zones, Where a thousand pallid towns Lie like cockles by the main, Or tented armies on a plain. The million-handed sculptor moulds Quaintest bud and blossom folds, The million-handed painter pours Opal hues and purple dye; Azaleas flush the island floors, And the tints of heaven reply.

Wreaths for the May! Spring is strong and virtuous, Broad-sowing, cheerful, plenteous, Quickening underneath the mould Grains beyond the price of gold.

So deep and large her bounties are, That one broad, long midsummer day Shall to the planet overpay The ravage of a year of war. Drug the cup, thou butler sweet, And send the nectar round; The feet that slid so long on sleet Are glad to feel the ground. Fill and saturate each kind With good according to its mind, Fill each kind and saturate With good agreeing with its fate, And soft perfection of its plan— Willow and violet, maiden and man.

The bitter-sweet, the haunting air Creepeth, bloweth everywhere; It preys on all, all prey on it.

movies & whatever whatnot

Blooms in beauty, thinks in wit, Stings the strong with enterprise, Makes travellers long for Indian skies, And where it comes this courier fleet Fans in all hearts expectance sweet, As if to-morrow should redeem The vanished rose of evening's dream. By houses lies a fresher green, On men and maids a ruddier mien, As if Time brought a new relay Of shining virgins every May, And Summer came to ripen maids To a beauty that not fades. I saw the bud-crowned Spring go forth, Stepping daily onward north To greet staid ancient cavaliers Filing single in stately train.

And who, and who are the travellers? I saw the Days deformed and low, Short and bent by cold and snow; The merry Spring threw wreaths on them, Flower-wreaths gay with bud and bell; Many a flower and many a gem, They were refreshed by the smell, They shook the snow from hats and shoon, They put their April raiment on; And those eternal forms, Unhurt by a thousand storms, Shot up to the height of the sky again, And danced as merrily as young men. I saw them mask their awful glance Sidewise meek in gossamer lids; And to speak my thought if none forbids It was as if the eternal gods, Tired of their starry periods, Hid their majesty in cloth Woven of tulips and painted moth.

On carpets green the maskers march Below May's well-appointed arch, Each star, each god; each grace amain, Every joy and virtue speed, Marching duly in her train, And fainting Nature at her need Is made whole again. The air stole into the streets of towns, Refreshed the wise, reformed the clowns, And betrayed the fund of joy To the high-school and medalled boy: On from hall to chamber ran, From youth to maid, from boy to man, To babes, and to old eyes as well.

I returned home and just got on with the work, becoming totally immersed in the project, eventually producing about 30 new mixed media works towards uses on what became The Downward Spiral album. Quiet yet charged with potential, transfused with the significance of the meanings that they have accumulated in everyday life. Objects, be they rare treasures, shabby detritus or sentimental knick-knacks, be they exotic, bizarre or mundane, become part of our identity. An object acts as mnemonic device, which triggers that high voltage spark of associative connection. Raking over the trivial or irrational, we are continually seeking to wrestle subtle indications of meaning and mortality from the grubby fragments of our past.

Where they meet they have been singed with a blowtorch, producing a hybrid color, they suggest both a collision and collusion: a bruise that heals. The work does not question these facts, but rather is concerned with how, in our attempts to measure everything, from the speed of light to the quality of life, we reduce everything to a graph, a statistic or a diagram of quantifiable data. Bomber Command rear gunners suffered the highest casualty rate of all the British Armed Forces in the Second World War and at the time of his death my father was one of the last surviving members of this dwindling body of men; he was also one of my best friends.

The textures of the work convey a story. A bed of deep blue wax resembles the endless depth of a night sky; most bomber raids that my father flew on were made under the cover of night. A dense swirling web of angel hair resembles a ball of protective cumulus cloud-cover and also memories of the last family Christmases spent before my parents separated and divorced. Beneath the row of test tubes, a slab of plaster, earth and pigments creates the solid down-to-earthiness of the work itself and of my father. This piece alludes to ideas about control achieved by deception and to the tenacity of the human spirit in the face of unimaginable despair.

Beauty can be skin deep or illusory; what glitters may not be gold. A feathered fishing lure, delicate, dazzling and jewel-like, is no more than glamorous bait for a barbarous trap. Used in chess it describes a position in which a player is forced to make a move that, regardless of where the move is to, will lead to loss or severe disadvantage. It is the move of reluctant suicide. After moving into their dream home, however, Malcolm is once again plagued by bizarre paranormal events. Director: Michael Tiddes. Added to Watchlist.

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