18+ No idea what i’m doing, and I’m not good at being sexy, 22 he/they/lui
Virginia Beach, VA
Joined November 2021
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A face you only see in melodramatic Homoerotic literature, local twink hoping the night sky can make meaning out the mundane terror of living
To the spanish translators, the works of the 1400s poet Lope de Stúñiga (in some sources his surname is Estúñiga) has not been translated & compiled into a cohesive English text. I have found reasonable Italian resources to understand them but English scholarship is lacking.
It seems the italian interest comes from love letters where Lucrezia Borgia (an infamous Italian aristocrat with strong cultural ties to Iberia) quotes him in spanish to Pietro Bembo (a fellow poet & early promoter of a standard italian literary language) in the early 1500s.
Nothing like sobbing at five in the morning to be reminded that life goes on. Resenting life but can’t find a way to embrace or denounce, so have stubbornly failed both options.
Great love to the information system of the venetian republic, la Serenissima. These catty gossiping bitches pretending to be diplomats infesting every city or seat of power across the Mediterranean & beyond. Nothing is insignificant or too sacred for them to send news of home.
I read Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina too young, viewing it as archetypical of 1800s great novels, as literature detached from intimate relatability. The older I get, it becomes sobering to understand how these characters find themselves in such earnest panic induced fear at their lives
There’s something so soothing about feeling like you have been seen, that you have been completely understood. There is also something deeply painful about realizing there is no perfect direct understanding, we are simply too complex too messy too dynamic to be perceived purely.
The construction of “Al Raig d’Francia…” & “Chia d el nun plaschiaiva noas cumbalg.” Are so amazingly mind bending to my latin-Italian exposed understanding of vernacular romance. Thank you Romansh/Ladin poetry from the 1500s.
Much like a medieval mystic living in Béarn during the dominion of the dukes of Foix; the saints speak to me but only in a Gascon variety of Occitan. If only their tongues knew of civilized speech, “venètz veire çò qu'es aquel mond.”
What a marvel to find oneself in this world, it’s so very vile so painfully complex yet we cling so tightly to the beauty and joy that can be forced from it.
Still don’t know what it means to be alive, there are so many sensations to feel & be moved by, it’s exhaustingly exhilarating. I could scream profanity in butchered Ionic Greek Old Welsh Sumerian, or could say anything & it’ll be woefully insufficient even if honest.
There’s something spectacular about rural western Virginia, perhaps an allure from living so close but differently at the coast. The contrast between the lush forested hills of Shenandoah & garish yet lively truck stops that liter I-64. The final green glory of summer before fall