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#bachmann
honeyrolls · 2 years
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Mousse Cakes
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Pennsylvania Railroad GG1
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wncrails · 8 months
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sirenofshadow · 6 months
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Man the Reboot Steam Team got weird.
The collection grows! Also have a Stepney on the way I bought from a friend and an Oliver another friend is going to send me as a gift c:
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ERTL and Bachmann Gordons. These, and the Hornby model, are probably the best Gordon models available in the West, as they actually get his wheel arrangement correct!
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tirededward2 · 7 months
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Recently been able to build a bachmann layout
So now I'm gonna be running my models on it and posting videos of them
Yippee
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ironirma103 · 5 months
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herecomesoberon · 10 months
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Be silent with me, as all bells are silent!
Ingeborg Bachmann, “Psalm.” Translated by Peter Filkins in Darkness Spoken, the collected works
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jacktheoh · 9 months
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Bachmann Branchline Mk2 DBSO acquired
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loneberry · 2 years
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death and desiccated leaves
I know what Susan Howe means when she describes how, when the intensity of your reading life reaches a fever pitch, you can experience a profound telepathy between all things. Scraps of language are brought into spontaneous relation by a compulsively constellating mind. I described such experiences to my new analyst, who replied that these thoughts were "psychotic"--yet, as though he wanted to soften the blow of using such a loaded word to describe the way I make meaning out of the dross of life--he added that they also seemed somehow "real." (To be fair, the part he probably thought was psychotic was the way I turn these intuitions into prophecies, that the signs seem to be gesturing towards some hidden design that one could call fate.)
Case study. One night, not long after C's suicide, when the air was still vibrating with her absence, I heard a leaf outside my window slowly being dragged across the pavement by the wind. And the sound it made, like a shrill hiss, was her voice, the voice of the dead no longer capable of making their utterances cohere into semantic meaning--all she can do is cry and groan (as she was wont to do when alive and in despair). She is that dead leaf, I thought.
After that experience, the desiccated leaf appeared to me everywhere. I was reading the correspondence between the poets Ingeborg Bachmann and Paul Celan, which led me to revisit Bachmann's Malina. When Bachmann and Celan first met in Vienna, Celan gave her a leaf. In one letter, he accused her of losing the leaf. The gifted leaf became a motif in their writings. In Bachmann's poem "The Storm of Roses" she writes, “a leaf that met us drifts after us on the waves.” 
Toward the end of the novel Malina, there is a fevered dream sequence in which Bachmann writes, I’m still deathly afraid since it’s starting once again, since I’m going crazy, he says: Just stay calm, think about the Stadtpark, think about the leaf, think about the garden in Vienna, about our tree, the princess tree is blooming.
It's quite unfortunate that Philip Boehm chose to translate "die Paulownia" as "the princess tree" (as Paulownia's are sometimes called), for English readers would completely miss that the desiccated leaf of the Paulownia tree contains the dead lover’s name: Paul [Celan]. The Paulownia was one of Celan's favorite trees; it grew in the Place de la Contrescarpe in the Fifth Arrondissement of Paris, were Celan lived. The Paulownia was even memorialized in Jean Daive's memoir of his walks with Celan, Under the Dome. As Robert Kaufman and Philip Gerard note in the intro to the book: The “dome” of the book’s title refers in the first place to the shade-shelter formed by the trees’ foliage, the “foliage” that, in French and German, among other languages, yields terms that can signify “leaf” or “page”: feuille; Blatt.
Back to Malina. Soon after the protagonist is told to stay calm by thinking about the leaf, the death of her first love is announced: May I speak with you, madam, for a moment? asks a gentleman, I have some news for you. … I snap at him: Do not pronounce this name, ever. Don’t tell me a thing! But he shows me a desiccated leaf, and I know he has spoken the truth. My life is over, for during the transport he has drowned in the river, he was my life. I loved him more than my life.
[How terribly I wept, pondering those last two sentences, for they seemed to describe exactly how I felt in that moment.]
In Sites of the Uncanny, Eric Kligerman writes: the Blatt [leaf] returns at the end of the dream as a “vertrocknetes Blatt” (desiccated leaf/piece of paper) pulled from a river. A messenger, a Hermes-like figure, arrives from the “Totenreich” (realm of the dead) with the Blatt for the narrator. The message informs her of the stranger’s death by drowning, and thus Bachmann links the events of the Holocaust to the poet’s suicide. 
Now you see where the invisible skein of my reading had taken me. Gossamer threads seemed to link everything. Like Paul Celan, the person, C.,--whose soul I imagined was contained in the leaf--died by jumping into a river.
I re-read Virginia Woolf's The Waves, perhaps unconscious to the fact that Woolf was another river suicide--some part of me must want to understand that fatal call of water. C--she's the character Rhoda, isn't she? The principle of watery being, without defense against dissolution. Re-reading the book enables me to appreciate the exquisite structure of Woolf's text: the six friends as a hexagonal flower, but also the mirroring of the lives of the friends reflected in the italicized nature interludes.
I am gobsmacked, for the leaf appears again, this time, to foreshadow the suicide of Rhoda:
Some petals had fallen in the garden. They lay shell-shaped on the earth. The dead leaf no longer stood upon its edge, but had been blown, now running, now pausing, against some stalk.
Then, in the last interlude before Bernard's heartbreaking soliloquy, leaves appear to foreshadow the death of all the characters:
The tree shook its branches and a scattering of leaves fell to the ground. There they settled with perfect composure on the precise spot where they would await dissolution.
Every person has a phantom that lives in the world of metaphors. What is it about the desiccated leaf that makes us think of the dead? The leaf-page develops a peculiar translucency. We see beyond its surface into the frailty of human life, how we pass, how we are discarded, with the same cold anonymity of the leaves that are blown from the tree.
This morning, when I was reading Geoffrey Brock's translation of Giuseppe Ungaretti's Allegria, I noticed that Ungaretti used the image of falling leaves to describe those who perish in war.
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I was reminded of one of my favorite stanza's from Alice Oswald's Memorial, which also uses the image of desiccated leaves to index dead soldiers; in her case, the war-dead of Homer's Iliad:
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We are no more than leaves.
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honeyrolls · 2 years
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Red Velvet / Oreo / Strawberry
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Trains 4k
4k clips of trains passing with background music.
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wncrails · 1 year
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One more shot of that train...
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commetombeunarbre · 1 month
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‘ik drink mijn werk in mij naar binnen / naar buiten, ik kan alleen nog drinken / mij uit alles weg drinken, dat zuipt / de smaak uit alles weg, uit stof uit / ik zeg het niet omdat niemand het zegt / waarom het drinkt, zich dood zuipt / ik ben het immers niet, het zuipt zich / vol ik zeg niet, omdat niemand zegt / men moet mij niet aanporren / mij dwingen te zeggen, dat weet toch iedereen / waarom het zuipt, zich bezuipt, zich / zich verdooft, het verdooft zich / En een beetje liefde en schurft en vooruitgang / dat weet toch iedereen en wie niet zuipt, weet / ook, dat weet toch iedereen, dat zeg ik niet meer, / weet weet weet weet weet weet / weet / meer zeg ik niet / dan hetgeen iedereen weet.’
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tumblesdownhill · 2 months
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I should be doing homework but instead I'm looking at a $600 set of Amtrak Surfliner cars and a $280 Surfliner livery SC-44 Charger. I don't even have the money to buy them but like they're sooooo pretty.
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metamorphesque · 2 months
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tenderness is in the hands ― Carolyn Forché, L’Avventura (1960), Ocean Vuong, The White Ribbon (2009), Hart Crane, Gelatin Silver, Love (2009), Ingeborg Bachmann, Les amants du Pont-Neuf (1991), Sylvia Plath, Psycho (1960), Rod McKuen (stills by @forhandsthatsuffer)
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