Institution

These are pictures of what is, apparently, a compound in North Korea for a bunch of Japanese hijackers who have been kept under lock and key there since 1970 (story and link via Blood and Treasure).

The outdoor pictures show exactly the same shade of blue paint applied to the pergola(?) above and to railings, window frames, steps...

Nothing says more plainly that, however pleasant the arrangements, they are part of a prison, a madhouse, an institution. They do not belong to the inmates or to the landscape, but to the authorities.

They remind me of the Soviet-era playgrounds I have seen in the grounds of  housing estates and parks. Some broken and rotting, others well-maintained and freshly painted, all relentlessly and uniformly jaunty. You have to do a spot of Googling to find any pictures that include children actually playing in them.

Which...

...talking of beauty, set me thinking of this fillum of Ulysses.

"I don't want my country to fall into the hands of the Jews. I'm afraid that's our national problem just now."

Oh, Mr. Bloom.

Somebody In Britain Just Said Something

Sheee-ut.

Mean ter say.

Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
ut.

Somebody thar in that ole Enger-land jus' sayed a Word.

And he wuz a member of them ole Parliay-munts an' all.

He sayed a Word.

Do Not Go Gentle

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And so on. What an arsehole.

Night: good. Must be near closing time in Cardiff or Swansea or somewhere in Wales with the prospect of a lock-in.

Burn and rave: Oh sweetie, get over th'hangover.

Close of day: like a cricket match, what what?

It gets worse. A lot of worse.

Gobby Welsh drunk. Died or was born ~1000 years ago. Kthxbai.

Disobliging? Yes. And with good reason.

Mufti

Medium blue shirt, light tan troons, brown loafers or semi desert boots, brown belt with simple open gilt-effect buckle. Bit of a suntan but not too much. Not a corporate haircut, not messy either.

This is Andrew Wallace-Hadrill (left) and Terry Jones (right) engaging in an agreeable stroll around Herculaneum, but it could just as well be any other pair of civilised codgers strolling around anywhere else in the world.  Even the stonework (far right) is trying to join in.

Angkor Wat? Avebury? Serpent Mound? Great Zimbabwe?

GISSA FING JOB AND I'LL BUY THE FING TROUSERS AND SHIRT AND STUFF AND SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE BEING FING AGREEABLE.

Until then, all bets are off.

Never So Clearly Has Death Been Told To Fuck Off

Carpe Diem

Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi
Finem di dederint, Leuconoë, nec Babylonios
Temptaris numeros. Ut melius, quicquid erit, pati,
Seu plures hiemes, seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,
Quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare
Tyrhenum. Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi
Spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
Aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

(Horace, Ode 1.11, ca 23 BC).

In "carpe diem" the verb carpere apparently means "to pluck" as in a fruit or flower, without the violence of "seize the day", which puts an entirely different complexion on the tag beloved of Business Success Coaches and New Age Selfishistas.

Thanks to yet another new fault in Firefox I have lost the link to the essay discussing the translation by Ezra Pound and

Business Success Coaches and New Age Selfishistas:
SEIZE TH'DAY BY THE F

                                                      oh my

BALLS YOU F

                                                      dear oh dear

LOSER WOIM!!!

Well, look at all the websites offering "90 Days to Building a Successful Business Coaching Business" and imagine the sad sacks who fall for them. Like those Captains'o'th'Turf who make their living selling racing tips to the dumb punterage.

Si Monumentum Requiris Circumspice

Here fleeps in peace a Hampfhire Grenadier,

Who caught his death by drinking cold fmall Beer,

Soldiers be wise by his untimely fall

And when ye're hot drink Strong or none at all.

An honeft Soldier never is forgot
Whether he die by Mufket or by Pot.

From the gravestone of Thomas Thetcher at Winchester Cathedral, quoted in Bill's Story.