The Organ

[AdamSmith]

 

[AdamSmith]

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clarke's_three_laws

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Niven's_laws

[AdamSmith]

 

[Guest Larstrup]

 

[Guest Larstrup]

 

[AdamSmith]

 

[AdamSmith]

 

[AdamSmith]

Ravin's of a Piute Poet Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, eerie, scary,
I was weary, I was wary, full of sorrow,
Thinking of my lost Lenore,
Of my cheery, eerie, faery, fiery dearie -- nothing more.

I lay napping, when a tapping on the overlapping coping
Woke me -- grapping, yapping, groping -- toward the rapping.
I went hopping, leaping, hoping that the rapping on the coping
Was my little lost Lenore.

That on opening the shutter to admit the latter critter,
In she'd flutter from the gutter with her bitter eyes aglitter!
So I opened wide the door -- what was there?
The dark wier and the drear moor -- or, I'm a liar!:
The dark mire, the drear moor, the mere door,
And nothing more!

Then in there stepped a stately raven, shaven like the Bard of Avon,
Yes, a shaven, rovin' raven seeking haven at my door.
And that grievin', rovin' raven had been movin' (get me, Steven!)
For the warm and loving haven of my stove and oven door,
Oven door and nothing more!

Ah, distinctly I remember, every ember that December
Turned from amber to burnt umber. (I was burning limber lumber
In my chamber that December, and it left an amber ember.)
With each silken sad uncertain flirtin' of a certain curtain,
That old raven, cold and callous, perched upon the bust of Pallas
Just above my chamber door -- a lusty, trusty bust thrust
Just above my chamber door.

Had that callous cuss shown malice, or sought solace there on Pallas?
You may tell us, Alice Wallace! Tell this soul with nightmares ridden,
Hidden in the shade and broodin', if a maiden out of Eden
Sent this sudden bird invadin' my poor chamber
(And protrudin' half an inch above my door!).

Tell this broodin' soul (he's breedin' bats by so much sodden readin'--
Readin' Snowden's "Ode to Odin"!) ...
Tell this soul with nightmares ridden if -- no kiddin'! --
On a sudden, he shall clasp a radiant maiden born in Aiden
(or in Leyden, or indeed in Baden-Baden) --
Will he grab this buddin' maiden, gaddin' in forbidden Eden,
Whom the angels named Lenore? And that bird said, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet", cried I, "thing of evil, navel, novel, or boll weavil,
You shall travel! On the level! Scratch the gravel now, and travel --
Leave my hovel, I implore!"
And that raven, never flitting (never knitting, never tatting,
never spouting 'Nevermore') still is sitting (out this ballad!)
On the solid bust, and pallid -- on the valid, pallid bust --
Bust above my chamber door.

And my soul is in the shadow which lies floating on the floor --
Fleeting, floating (yachting, boating) on the fluting of the matting,
Matting of my chamber door!
And that's all there is, and nothin' more!

-- C.L. Edson

[AdamSmith]

 

[AdamSmith]

 

[AdamSmith]

 

[Guest Larstrup]

 

[Guest Larstrup]

 

[AdamSmith]

6 hours ago, Larstrup said:

 

LOVE!!! IT!!!

one possesses (of course ) an autographed photo of Himself, in costume from the Dr Smith era!

Picked up, coincidentally (though those really never exist), in the Vendor Room of the 1993 Dark Shadows Festival  held in the Times Square Marriott Marquis in August of that year.

[AdamSmith]

 

[AdamSmith]

7 hours ago, AdamSmith said:

LOVE!!! IT!!!

one possesses (of course ) an autographed photo of Himself, in costume from the Dr Smith era!

Picked up, coincidentally (though those really never exist), in the Vendor Room of the 1993 Dark Shadows Festival  held in the Times Square Marriott Marquis in August of that year.

AND, from that same Fest, an autographed pic of Ray Harryhausen, caressing one of his claymation monsters!

[AdamSmith]

On 8/9/2017 at 3:24 AM, AdamSmith said:

 

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6600981-barnabas-collins-in-a-funny-vein

 

[AdamSmith]

21 hours ago, AdamSmith said:

 

http://www.stsulpice.com/

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Church_of_Saint-Sulpice,_Paris#

[AdamSmith]

https://youtube.com/watch?list=PLtyWcO10oL2zq5jut7ng_wvQqJAxxODre&params=OAFIAVgB&v=yeLaJj0wrT4&mode=NORMAL

[AdamSmith]

 

[AdamSmith]

To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad

By Edgar Allan Poe

 

The skies they were ashen and sober;

      The leaves they were crispéd and sere—

      The leaves they were withering and sere;

It was night in the lonesome October

      Of my most immemorial year;

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

      In the misty mid region of Weir—

It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

 

Here once, through an alley Titanic,

      Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—

      Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

These were days when my heart was volcanic

      As the scoriac rivers that roll—

      As the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

      In the ultimate climes of the pole—

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

      In the realms of the boreal pole.

 

Our talk had been serious and sober,

      But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—

      Our memories were treacherous and sere—

For we knew not the month was October,

      And we marked not the night of the year—

      (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber—

      (Though once we had journeyed down here)—

We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

      Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

 

And now, as the night was senescent

      And star-dials pointed to morn—

      As the star-dials hinted of morn—

At the end of our path a liquescent

      And nebulous lustre was born,

Out of which a miraculous crescent

      Arose with a duplicate horn—

Astarte's bediamonded crescent

      Distinct with its duplicate horn.

 

And I said—"She is warmer than Dian:

      She rolls through an ether of sighs—

      She revels in a region of sighs:

She has seen that the tears are not dry on

      These cheeks, where the worm never dies,

And has come past the stars of the Lion

      To point us the path to the skies—

      To the Lethean peace of the skies—

Come up, in despite of the Lion,

      To shine on us with her bright eyes—

Come up through the lair of the Lion,

      With love in her luminous eyes."

 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

      Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust—

      Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—

Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!

      Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must."

In terror she spoke, letting sink her

      Wings till they trailed in the dust—

In agony sobbed, letting sink her

      Plumes till they trailed in the dust—

      Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

 

I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming:

      Let us on by this tremulous light!

      Let us bathe in this crystalline light!

Its Sybilic splendor is beaming

      With Hope and in Beauty to-night:—

      See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

      And be sure it will lead us aright—

We safely may trust to a gleaming

      That cannot but guide us aright,

      Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

      And tempted her out of her gloom—

      And conquered her scruples and gloom:

And we passed to the end of the vista,

      But were stopped by the door of a tomb—

      By the door of a legended tomb;

And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,

      On the door of this legended tomb?"

      She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume—

      'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

      As the leaves that were crispèd and sere—

      As the leaves that were withering and sere,

And I cried—"It was surely October

      On this very night of last year

      That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—

      That I brought a dread burden down here—

      On this night of all nights in the year,

      Oh, what demon has tempted me here?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—

      This misty mid region of Weir—

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber—

      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

 

Said we, then—the two, then—"Ah, can it

      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—

      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls—

To bar up our way and to ban it

      From the secret that lies in these wolds—

      From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds—

Had drawn up the spectre of a planet

      From the limbo of lunary souls—

This sinfully scintillant planet

      From the Hell of the planetary souls?"

[Guest Larstrup]

 

[Guest Larstrup]

15 hours ago, AdamSmith said:

 

exuberating!

[Guest Larstrup]

His organ moves me!

 

 

[Guest Larstrup]