Sea Drift is among the larger-scale musical works by the composer Frederick Delius. Completed in 1903-1904 and first performed in 1906, it is a setting for baritone, chorus and orchestra of words by Walt Whitman. Sea Drift takes its name from a section of Walt Whitman’s poetical compilation Leaves of Grass, Sea-Drift, which contains several poems about the sea or the shore. The text is drawn from the poem Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking, though it does not use the full text.
Full Poem Text
tura satana appreciation post. here’s what u need to know:
- born in 1938 and died in 2011
- her parents were a silent movie actor and a circus performer
- she was gang-raped by five men when she was ten. they were never prosecuted and it was rumoured that the judge was paid off.
- this prompted her to train in various martial arts (such as aikido and karate)
- over the next 15 years, she hunted down each of her rapists and exacted revenge against them. they never even knew who she was until she told them
- at the same time, she formed an all-woman gang called “the angeles”
- "we had leather motorcycle jackets, jeans and boots and we kicked butt."
- moved to los angeles when she was 15 and supported herself
- dated elvis presley and turned down a marriage proposal from him
- her most famous film role was in 1965, as varla, a “very aggressive and sexual female character”, in faster, pussycat! kill! kill! (a film that was “an ode to female violence”)
- tura was responsible for her own costume, makeup, use of martial arts, and much of her dialouge. she also performed all her own stunts and fight scenes
- was known for not taking shit from anyone. russ meyer, the director for faster, pussycat! kill!, said of her “[tura was] extremely capable. she knew how to handle herself. don’t fuck with her! and if you have to fuck her, do it well! she might turn on you!”
Roger Ebert would reblog. You should too.
And yes, I very nearly cried.
nintendophoria and I will be seeing this together opening night, right pal?
US one sheet for MOSCOW ON THE HUDSON (Paul Mazursky, USA, 1984)
Artist: Craig (after Saul Steinberg)
Poster source: Heritage Auctions
This year has taken from me some of my greatest filmic heroes. I was gravely affected by the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman, and the passing of Eli Wallach was, to me, one of the final nails in the coffin of a certain cinematic era. But Robin Williams wasn’t simply an inspiration to me, although he did much inspiring. He was an actor I have admired and cherished since I was born, someone who has been with me in some capacity or another in every chapter of my life. To me, Robin Williams represented a certain sliver of myself that could never wither. And yesterday, he did precisely that.
I am gobsmacked. I feel as if some stranger has just walked up next to me, slashed me up the stomach, and walked away in stride without a word to let me bleed and scoop up my own intestines. Not only is this man, a titan of the stage, screen, and written word, gone, but he’s apparently gone by his own hand. How could this be? Why? What demons creeped through such a lovable, agelessly youthful creature? If a man as effervescent and brimming with life as Robin Williams couldn’t bear to live just one more day, then how is the rest of the planet, as scarred and poisoned as it’s become, supposed to carry on?
At the moment I’m writing this, I can only seem to count the works of his that HAVEN’T graced my vision. Good Morning Vietnam, Awakenings, The Fisher King, One Hour Photo; none of these I’ve actually seen. But Aladdin? Good Will Hunting? Dead Poets Society? These are films that have been directing and sculpting me my entire life. It disturbs me to think what my family and I would be like without The Birdcage, and World’s Greatest Dad was arguably the focal point of my adolescent maturation. When I first saw the latter film, the moment I came into my own as a sense of humor and as a personality could quite literally be felt. That movie brought adulthood into my life not with the melancholy one expects but with a slightly guilt-ridden laugh.
I tend to view the deaths of my idols through a contrived timeline for the sake of poetry. With Robin Williams, I don’t have to. The timeline has always been there, slithering along soundlessly as I unknowingly grew to its shape, and I never truly took the time to appreciate it.
Thank you, Robin. You, more so than perhaps anyone else I admire, made me who I am, just as you have for countless others.
I will never forget that.
aaaand now I’m crying.
This one. This is the one that did me in.
"The idea for Limite came about by chance. I was in Paris, having come over from England where I was studying, and I was passing by a newspaper stand when I saw a magazine with a photograph of a woman on the cover, with arms wrapped round her chest, handcuffed. A man’s arms. And the magazine was called Vu [no. 74, 14 August 1929]… I carried on walking and I could not get this image out of my mind. And right after that, I saw this sea of fire and a woman clinging to the remnants of a sinking ship… At night, in a hotel, I scribbled down the opening scene of the film, without knowing what I was doing.”
— Brazilian director Mário Peixoto on the origins of his experimental 1931 silent film Limite.
In that case, the best and most satisfactory of riddances.