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Hello to everyone,

This journal is mostly public because most of it contains poetry, quotations, pictures, jokes, videos, and news (medical and otherwise). If you like what you see, you are welcome to drop by, anytime.

Have a look at my archives as well--especially if you're interested in quotes or poems--take a look at the "quote of the day" and "poem of the day" tags; there's also a fairly large collection of items under the "inspiration" tag.

My mirror / backup site is http://med-cat.dreamwidth.org/


(Painting is by Eleanor Pollen and was found via levkonoe--many thanks!)

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Белла Ахмадулина
По улице моей который год...

По улице моей который год
звучат шаги - мои друзья уходят.
Друзей моих медлительный уход
той темноте за окнами угоден.

Запущены моих друзей дела,
нет в их домах ни музыки, ни пенья,
и лишь, как прежде, девочки Дега
голубенькие оправляют перья.

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[reposted post] немного истории

1916. Французские огнеметчики под Верденом (снимок раскрашен). Огнеметы широко использовались уже в Первую мировую войну для уничтожения огневых точек противника. Оказалось, что огнемёт имеет не только высокую эффективность, но и сильное психологическое воздействие: были случаи, когда солдаты бросались в бегство только при одном появлении огнемётчиков.

хххCollapse )

Seeking support for a worthy cause

A year ago now, my friend lindahoyland adopted a ginger and white kitten, Filipos Apollo, via a cat sanctuary on the island of Syros, in Greece.

The Cat Sanctuary on Syros that arranged Filipos' adoption is seeking supporters who will donate the price of a cup of coffee a month. 4 Euros or $5. Less or more is also fine. They do wonderful work and everyone who signs up will get a signed poster featuring Joan's artwork. (Joan is the lady who runs the sanctuary, she is a professional artist).

And yes, I have signed up!

The sanctuary has become famous recently, when Joan advertised the "paid job with cats"--if you do a Google search, you'll see her job ad and her sanctuary has been featured by many major newspapers and TV stations.

However, sadly, fame does not equal donations and even the smallest amount helps.

Filipos is an amazing cat and it is heartbreaking to think he could so easily be living rough in Syros, or worse--dying unloved and alone at the roadside.

This is the FB page for the sanctuary, God's Little People: https://www.facebook.com/godslittlepeople/

If you are not on Facebook and want to know more, just let me know.

The donation link is here https://1l.ink/W6D3WRR

You can also contribute by buying some of Joan's greeting cards from her Etsy shop. I have bought them more than once and can personally assure you they are very good quality, and shipped quickly!

Filipos would love more cats on Syros to have happy carefree lives.

[reposted post] coreopsis

coreopsis (kohr-ee-OP-sis) - n., any of several species of American and African composite flowers (genus Coreopsis) cultivated for their yellow, brown, purplish, or yellow-and-red daisy-like flowers.

Can be quite showy. Also called calliopsis and tickseed. Named around 1750 in Latin from Greek roots kore-, stem of kóris, bedbug + -opsis, -like, so named from the shape of seed. This one is a Coreopsis gigantea:

Coreopsis gigantea flower is flowery
Thanks, WikiMedia!

"Coreopsis has set in!" Pocketa-pocketa-pockata.


Crossposts: https://prettygoodword.dreamwidth.org/736437.html
You can comment here or there.
LGBTQ activist and journalist Bil Browning reminisces about the importance of a simple toy

...I would not have thought the numbers are so high...

"...I’d unknowingly learned another lesson from the bus-inspired fantasies of vanquishing the bullies: If you want to succeed, if you want to move forward, you first have to open your mouth. So, I came out. I couldn’t stay home any longer and quickly became another statistic: 40 percent of homeless youths are LGBTQ. Family conflict is the most common reason; half of all teens get a negative reaction from their parents when they come out. One out of four are thrown out of their home."


October 10, 1885

The three women pictured in this incredible photograph taken on this day in 1885 -- Anandibai Joshi of India, Keiko Okami of Japan, and Sabat Islambouli of Syria -- each became the first licensed female doctors in their respective countries. The three were students at the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania; one of the only places in the world at the time where women could study medicine.

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(from A Mighty Girl FB page)

Quote of the day

“Kindness is in our power, even when fondness is not.”

~Samuel Johnson.

"On Giving", by Kahlil Gibran

On Giving

You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?
And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?
And what is fear of need but need itself?
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?

There are those who give little of the much which they have--and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.
And there are those who have little and give it all.
These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.
There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.
And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.
And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;
And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.
And is there aught you would withhold?
All you have shall some day be given;
Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors'.

You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving."
The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?
And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

And you receivers... and you are all receivers... assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings;
For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the freehearted earth for mother, and God for father.

~ Kahlil Gibran
* * *

Уж сколько их упало в эту бездну,
Разверзтую вдали!
Настанет день, когда и я исчезну
С поверхности земли.

So many of them have fallen into this abyss,
Which is gaping open far away!
The day will come when I too will disappear
From the face of the Earth.

Застынет все, что пело и боролось,
Сияло и рвалось.
И зелень глаз моих, и нежный голос,
И золото волос.

Everything will freeze, which had sung and struggled,
Shone and aspired.
The greenness of my eyes, and my tender voice,
And the gold of my hair.
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[reposted post] Thursday word: Cheville

cheville (shuh-VEE) - n., a word or phrase whose only function is to fill a metrical gap or make a sentence balanced.

Generally, either with little to no meaning or just repeating what's already been said. These are common in oral traditions (a lot of Homeric epithets can be considered chevilles) but by no means restricted to them. Adopted in the 19th century from French, where it's literally a peg or plug, with the latter sense being operative; that in turn is from Latin clāvīcula, key/pivot/peg, from a Proto-Indoeuropean root.


Crossposts: https://prettygoodword.dreamwidth.org/734643.html
You can comment here or there.


"When writing poems, if your meter's not tight,
Just add a cheville, and it all adds up right."

Or a less ad hoc example, from Shakespeare's sonnet 38:

"How can my Muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse"

A lot of do/doth/dost auxiliaries in verse are not needed even for the emphasis they give the verb, and are for the meter.

This entry is brought to you by prettygoodword

[reposted post] *yawn*

Blandiose - Adjective describing something that wants to be grand (or has pretentious grandeur) but is only bland. Simultaneously dull and overblown; striving to be impressive, but turning out bland or unoriginal. Comparative - more blandiose, superlative most blandiose

Origin Blend of bland and grandiose.

Boy, does this describe my job right now...

[reposted post] Good morning


Наши предки лезли в клети 
И шептались там не раз: 
«Туго, братцы...видно, дети 
Будут жить вольготней нас». 
Дети выросли. И эти 
Лезли в клети в грозный час 
И вздыхали: «Наши дети 
Встретят солнце после нас». 
Нынче так же, как вовеки, 
Утешение одно: 
Наши дети будут в Мекке, 
Если нам не суждено. 
Даже сроки предсказали: 
Кто – лет двести,кто – пятьсот, 
А пока лежи в печали 
И мычи, как идиот. 
Разукрашенные дули, 
Мир умыт, причесан, мил... 
Лет чрез двести? Черта в стуле! 
Разве я Мафусаил? 
Я, как филин, на обломках 
Переломанных богов. 
В неродившихся потомках 
Нет мне братьев и врагов. 
Я хочу немножко света 
Для себя, пока я жив, 
От портного до поэта – 
Всем понятен мой призыв... 
А потомки... Пусть потомки, 
Исполняя жребий свой 
И кляня свои потемки, 
Лупят в стенку головой! 

Саша Чёрный

Саша Чёрный

[reposted post] Sunday Word: Amanuensis

amanuensis [uh-man-yoo-en-sis]
A literary or artistic assistant, in particular one who takes dictation or copies manuscripts.


Who the author was we do not know with certainty, but... a reference at the end of I Peter... makes him the companion and amanuensis of Peter. (H L Mencken, Treatise on the Gods)

May I introduce my niece, Evelyn Dixon, as an honest and competent secretary. For the past five years, Miss Dixon has acted as amanuensis to Sir Wilfred Hadley, my late father. (Judith B Glad, The Anonymous Amanuensis)

We are allowed to drink it, mercifully – Pratchett’s assistant and amanuensis, Rob, a large and friendly man in late youth, had recommended it the moment the pair of them walked in the door – and the knobbly bits can remain in situ. (Tom Chivers, Terry Pratchett interview: a fantasy writer facing reality)


Early 17th century: Latin, from (servus) a manu '(slave) at hand(writing), secretary' + -ensis 'belonging to'. (Oxford Dictionaries)

In Latin, the phrase servus a manu translates loosely as "slave with secretarial duties." (The noun manu, meaning "hand," gave us words such as manuscript, originally meaning a document written or typed by hand.) In the 17th century the second part of this phrase was borrowed into English to create amanuensis, a word for a person who is employed (willingly) to do the important but sometimes menial work of transcribing the words of another. (Merriam-Webster)

The original, in Ukrainian is here
 I translated it, for your reading pleasure:

In all this spy story this is what interests me:

There's this fellow, Bond, James Bond, working in her Majesty's Secret Service, right after graduating from Eton, and here they wake him up in the middle of night, 'John, code red, we have chemical weapons in the midst of our own dear England!'

So he rubs the sleep out of his eyes, puts on his glasses and hotfoots it to work.
By morning he knows everything about those Moriartys from Ryazan, including who used to beat them up at school, not to mention who ordered the poisoning. So he is looking at all those lines of text and he can't believe his own eyes--surely they couldn't have been this dumb.

Then his boss calls him on the phone, sounding worried, 'James,' he says, 'this is an urgent matter, you have a month tops, for all this,' and our Bond casually says to him, 'can I come see you for a minute?'

James Bond comes into his boss's office, let's say his boss is M., with a stack of papers and says, 'here you go'.

M. riffles through the papers, looks now at the papers, now at Bond, and whispers, 'And that's it? You're not having me on, are you? James, so you propose that I take this story to the Prime Minister? And what should I tell her? That these russkije are more stupid than the rugby team from the St. Martha's Care Home for the Mentally Disabled?'

And the two of them are staring at each other, in silence.

"In the morning", by Sasha Chernyi


Бодрый туман, мутный туман 
        Так густо замазал окно – 
        А я умываюсь! 

Бесится кран, фыркает кран... 
Прижимаю к щекам полотно 
И улыбаюсь. 

        Здравствуй, мой день, серенький день! 
        Много ль осталось вас, мерзких? 
        Все проживу! 

Скуку и лень, гнев мой и лень 
Бросил за форточку дерзко. 
Вечером вновь позову... 

Саша Чёрный

Саша Чёрный

What if...

what if
when icarus fell
apollo caught him
before he hit the sea,
arms as warm as the sun,
but safer.

what if
when ariadne cast the rope
across a broken branch
aphrodite stepped in
with a reminder that this,
this is not the kind of love
you die for.

what if
when achilles
was ready for war
ares appeared with a smile
and said “you win well when you win,
but what are you unwilling
to lose if you lose?”
and achilles knew the answer.

if you could
retell the tale wouldn’t you want
to tell it kinder? wouldn’t you
want to give them peace, even love,
where you could?


Posted 2 years ago on 27th May

by poemsforpersephone Tumblr ( http://poemsforpersephone.tumblr.com/post/145021756099/what-if-when-icarus-fell-apollo-caught-him-before)

Something for your Wednesday

Steel Drum - Great Beach Music Video 1+ Hr. Album! 1080p


Quote of the day

"When your fear touches someone's pain, it becomes pity; when your love touches someone's pain, it becomes compassion."

(Stephen Levine)

Ken Meisel, 'Reminiscences'


Freud speaking with Breuer, in Lower Manhattan,
New York City, September, 2001


They’d completed their rounds of patients at the hospital and walked
through the damaged city for about one hour, before returning back

to the clinic. “All the world’s psychological traumas can’t be resolved
by the Talking Cure—” Breuer said to Freud as they strolled past

the railway of the Hudson River where a man, drunk on yellow bullets,
Nembutal, rocked back and forth like a Bedouin, a crazed orphan.

The park was full of young mothers and children, and the restless river,
punctured with refuse from the recent terrorist attacks, glistened

with floating glassware and plastic. Scrap wood and debris rippled lazily
over the sordid currents, and above them, swallows from a bombed-out

brownstone up the hill rose and fell in haphazard, drunken reenactments.
Someone played a saxophone under a tree, and a boy, his thin mouth

full of lipstick, his face painted in clown, did silent mime like a fragile doll.
The media had issued warnings about toxic debris in lower Manhattan,

and the police warned of other possible terrorist attacks and that citizens
in all parts of the city should maintain a calm alertness, wherever they went.

The two medical doctors paused, fed the ducks at the river’s edge
of the park before proceeding across the busy streets of New York.


“Oh, let me tell you of the woman I spoke with yesterday,” Breuer
said to Freud, nudging the latter on the elbow as they walked beyond

the park onto the street where the crippled clubs hosted dinner music.
“The woman had spoken to me with specific complaints of losing

the smile on her face, that it had been torn off, really, after the tragic
unfortunate death of her child, just a boy—a sixteen year old boy

with freckles and piercings, by suicide, by leaping, she said to me,
recklessly from an overpass north of here and high on hallucinogens

and too much Metallica.” “And that he’d been obsessively viewing
sociopolitical material about the East-West divide in our world, on the web,”

Breuer added, while pulling out a cigar, “and that his mother couldn’tCollapse )

By Ken Meisel

Originally posted by duathir at Ken Meisel, 'Reminiscences'
Cross-post from war_poetry:
The September Gale

I'm not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;
For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,--
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled!
They seemed like bursting craters!
And oaks lay scattered on the ground
As if they were p'taters
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying;
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,--
I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air, Collapse )

By Oliver Wendell Holmes

Originally posted by duathir at Oliver Wendell Holmes, 'The September Gale'

Only 12 days to go to send your entries in, to the online pet and nature  photo show:


Please share!

(amethyst_witch, kavery, elenbarathi--perhaps you or some of your friends might be interested?)

(also, if anyone doesn't have FB, let me know and I can submit the photos on your behalf, when I submit a few more of mine this coming week)

How a Secret Garden Taught This Woman a Life-Changing Lesson
Jaroldeen Edwards

It was a bleak, rainy day, and I had no desire to drive up the winding mountain road to my daughter Carolyn’s house. But she had insisted that I come see something at the top of the mountain.

So here I was, reluctantly making the two-hour journey through fog that hung like veils. By the time 
I saw how thick it was near the 
summit, I’d gone too far to turn back.

Nothing could be worth this, 
I thought as I inched along the 
perilous highway.

“I’ll stay for lunch, but I’m heading back down as soon as the fog lifts,” 
I announced when I arrived.

“But I need you to drive me to the garage to pick up my car,” Carolyn said. “Could we at least do that?”

“How far is it?” I asked.

“About three minutes,” she said. “I’ll drive—I’m used to it.”

After ten minutes on the mountain road, I looked at her anxiously. “I thought you said three minutes.”

She grinned. “This is a detour.”

Read more...Collapse )


...if there is nothing else one learns in this profession in general, and in this specialty in particular--it is this:

One must be grateful

for every year
every week
every day
every moment
every unassisted breath

(and no, I don't always remember that, either...)

(and 'assist-control', in case you wondered, is the most common mode used on the ventilators)

This entry was originally posted at https://med-cat.dreamwidth.org/3284070.html. You can comment here, or there using OpenID if you prefer.
The Little Old Lady in Lavender Silk
by Dorothy Parker

I was seventy-seven, come August,
I shall shortly be losing my bloom;
I've experienced zephyr and raw gust
And (symbolical) flood and simoom.

When you come to this time of abatement,
To this passing from Summer to Fall,
It is manners to issue a statement
As to what you got out of it all.

So I'll say, though reflection unnerves me
And pronouncements I dodge as I can,
That I think (if my memory serves me)
There was nothing more fun than a man!

In my youth, when the crescent was too wan
To embarrass with beams from above,
By the aid of some local Don Juan
I fell into the habit of love.

And I learned how to kiss and be merry- an
Education left better unsung.
My neglect of the waters Pierian
Was a scandal, when Grandma was young.

Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid,
And the bitter outmeasured the sweet,
I should certainly do as I then did,
Were I given the chance to repeat.

For contrition is hollow and wraithful,
And regret is no part of my plan,
And I think (if my memory's faithful)
There was nothing more fun than a man!

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