moving from shoulder stand into plow position

Isabeli Fontana by Paola Kudacki

yoga shoulder stand

Patrick Procktor, Gervase III

The “Two Dog Palette” made of siltstone and depicting a mixture of fabulous and real wild animals. Predynastic Period ca. 3300-3100 BC, it was found in Hierakonpolis in southern Egypt and is now on display at the Ashmolean museum in Oxford 

“The rules of logical syntax must go without saying, once we know how each individual sign signifies.”

— Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

-At the Gate of the Temple-

Brassaï. Pont Neuf. Paris. 1949

Follow my new AI-related project «Collective memories»

Bohumil Kröhn • Dancer doing a one handed cartwheel, 1937

I love how the woman’s pose is iterated in the lily, even her classic 1930's hair roll follows the line of the flower.

Malygris the Magician

But, though these things and the power they held or symbolized were the terror of the peoples and the envy of all rival magicians, the thoughts of Malygris were dark with immitigable melancholy and weariness filled his heart as ashes fill the hearth where a great fire has died. Immovable he sat, implacable he mused, while the sun of afternoon declining on the city and on the sea that was beyond the city smote with autumnal rays through the window of greenish-yellow glass and touched his shrunken hands with its phantom gold and fired the bales-rubies of his rings till they burned like demonian eyes. But in his musings there was neither light nor fire; and turning from the grayness of the present, from the darkness that seemed to close in so imminently upon the future, he groped among the shadows of memory even as a blind man who has lost the sun and seeks it everywhere in vain. And all the vistas of time that had been so full of gold and splendor, the days of triumph that were colored like a soaring flame, the crimson and purple of the rich imperial years of his prime, all these were chill and dim and strangely faded now, and the remembrance thereof was no more than the stirring of dead embers. Then Malygris groped backward to the years of his youth, to the misty, remote, incredible years, where, like an alien star, one memory still burned with unfailing luster - the memory of the girl Nylissa whom he had loved in days ere the lust of unpermitted knowledge and necromantic dominion had ever entered his soul. He had well-nigh forgotten her for decades, in the myriad preoccupations of a life so bizarrely diversified, so replete with occult happenings and powers, with supernatural victories and perils; but now, at the mere thought of this slender and innocent child who had loved him so dearly when he too was young and slim and guileless, and who had died of a sudden mysterious fever on the very eve of their marriage-day, the mummylike umber of his cheeks took on a phantom flush, and deep down in the icy orbs was a sparkle like the gleam of mortuary tapers. In his dreams arose the irretrievable suns of youth, and he saw the myrtle-shaded valley of Meros, and the stream Zemander, by whose ever-verdant marge he had walked at eventide with Nylissa, seeing the birth of summer stars in the heavens, the stream, and the eyes of his beloved.

Clark Ashton Smith, The Last Incantation (published 1930 in Weird Tales, Vol. 15, No. 6) from the Poseidonis stories

I’m bored and nosy. Please reblog this with the book you’re currently reading.

Adam Quill in Envoy on Excursion

'Alone in the dark Quill listened to the grisly ticking of the alarm-clock. He felt horrible. It seemed to him that he must be looking exactly like the hero on the jacket of a ten-cent pulp. Only these heroes always got themselves rescued. … Nothing for it but to die. He hoped he would die like an Englishman. With calm. Well it had been a good life. Scotland Yard. The Stroganoff Ballet. And the girl behind the tobacco kiosk. It was a pity perhaps that he had never solved a case, but it was too late to bother about that now. … The pounding of blood in Quill's ears sounded exactly like distant footsteps. God it was footsteps! They were coming closer. “Help!” yelled Quill, forgetting to die like an Englishman. “Help!”'

Caryl Brahms & S.J. Simon, Envoy on Excursion (1939)

Yes, the farmer Gibberty had once been a real living man, like himself. And so had millions of others, whose names he had never heard. And one day he himself would be a prisoner, confined between the walls of other people’s memory. And then he would cease even to be that, and become nothing but a few words cut in stone. What would these words be, he wondered.

Lud-in-the-Mist, by Hope Mirrlees.

haven’t had yelling at the sky annotations in awhile! brought to you by Lud-in-the-Mist

-View of the Ducal Palace-