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It was the best of times,

it was the worst of times,

it was the age of wisdom,

it was the age of foolishness,

it was the epoch of belief,

it was the epoch of incredulity,

it was the season of Light,

it was the season of Darkness,

it was the spring of hope,

it was the winter of despair,

we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way-- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.

It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood.

France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.

In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night; families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of “the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace; that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of sixpence.

All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded, those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the roads that lay before them.

It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November, before the first of the persons with whom this history has business. The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to their duty.
With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it—like an unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.

There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings, and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed into it, as if they had made it all.

Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter, when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in “the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet, and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols, deposited on a substratum of cutlass.

The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the journey.

“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to it!—Joe!”

“Halloa!” the guard replied.

“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”

“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”

“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”
The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative, made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach stopped, and they kept close company with it.

想買一部輕便的小型安卓機,用來上網,有時拍照和聽音樂,預算三百美金左右。結合性能綜合來說我應該買 :blobcatnotlike: :

Sony Xperia XZ2 Compact
gsmarena.com/sony_xperia_xz2_c

Sony Xperia 10 II
gsmarena.com/sony_xperia_10_ii

Samsung Galaxy S10e
gsmarena.com/samsung_galaxy_s1

Google Pixel 4a
gsmarena.com/google_pixel_4a-1

(又忘了增加投票選項)

Watching this I miss living in a city a little. Only a very little. I remember in my 20s in Manchester, rainy dark nights in cafes and bars, and you could kid yourself you were living this poetic noir-esque life. youtu.be/icJw9HXXoXA #theStudio #theObservatory

加班摸鱼中,脑子被抽干啦。依旧是周末普普通通的记录,花了两块钱坐了一次船。

[...]L'arte è un gesto vitale.

Il raggio di sole è sempre stato usato in senso mistico, dagli Egiziani ai fondi bizantini a Le Corbusier: storicamente la luce è stata considerata un tramite tra il divino e l'umano.

A me interessa la luce nella sua fisicità come materiale: infatti nelle mie opere la luce, sia che abbia usato quella naturale che quella artificiale, è stata direzionata e veicolata. [...]

M.M. 1967

mauriziomochetti.it/luce

上一条转发的照片出自一档Archive, 历经四十年, 是美国一九六九至二〇〇八年的(废弃)路边建筑, 包括饭铺、咖啡馆、药店、加油站、影院、motel、路标、霓虹灯牌、海滩/山地度假胜地, 用三十五毫米胶片拍摄; 摄影师叫John Margolies, 生于四〇年, 是纽约建筑联盟(the Architectural League of New York)的建筑实录副手(assistant editor of Architectural Record), 而后成为项目负责人(program director), 也是建筑时评人兼策展人.

这位老兄并非专业摄影师, 取景不灵, 还犯了用光大忌, 整个session都选艳阳天, 几乎所有建筑都是高光/顶光, 阴影部分死黑一片, 而且后期稀烂, 基本没有compensating, 按我的标准看是废片. 但该Archive属于picture story, 记录先于审美, 可能独一无二, 哪怕技法再差也是珍贵资料.

loc.gov/pictures/search/?q=mrg
这是Archive的网址, 目前上传的照片超过一万张, 同时提供jpg和tiff两种格式的下载.

笑聲逐漸猖狂(感覺我現在馬上加個什麼表情大家都不會發現是新加的,會以為是自己之前看漏了):leo_haha:

有画面了,单身父亲推着婴儿推车,推车里的小儿子在牙牙学语吃冰激凌,大儿子是个熊孩子

我真的好喜欢1920s, 1930s的建筑啊,那种大ballroom,还有lobby...就...特别grand,特别流光溢彩。所有建筑物都...掷地有声。
还有加州七八十年代的那种大酒店,门口立着几棵数楼高的棕榈树,一整面玻璃墙被夕阳贴上金箔。
能让人忘记片刻被时间表挤满的生活,peer pressure,忘记一切标准化,就连‘奢华’都像在精打细算现代生活背景,骗自己神游回或盲目乐观,或纸醉金迷的旧时梦境里。
我就老是想象曾经走在这些建筑里的人,步履闲适衣着讲究。没有996,没有社交媒体,太美好了。

Blender, OBS, GIMP and Inkscape… are all established – why not ENVE? Does nobody ever need a free alternative to AfterEffects?! 😍

This young application is an absolute GEM, yet the only developer can't support working on it right now. 🤬

maurycyliebner.github.io/

I'd wish for a magic wand to create a sustainable community around this right now.

And funding. 😑

#snowdrift.coop #enve #design #freesoftware #motion #animation #OBS #graphics

我为什么要重置关注关系 

重置关注关系不难,tootctl accounts reset-relationships 管理命令行一行命令的事,效果也很简单就是清除掉所有关注者与被关注者。
重置关注关系这个想法,并非今天突发其想,而是早已有之,大概是之前想写自己所感受到长毛象的变化一嘟时便有了一点这些想法,但嘟文没有写成,重置关注关系的想法却不断成长。
重置关注关系的一大诱因是关注的人太多了,现在关注的人已经上千了,虽然划分了20多个列表,但绝对数量在这里摆着,外加最近工作繁忙,状态也不太好,纷纷而来的嘟文难免有一点让人眼花缭狂心发慌。虽然可以开小号,但因为是主号,总是要上的,以上的问题早晚还是要面对的。
如果只是关注的人太多,只需要清除正在关注就可以了,没有必要将关注者也一并清除。下面则主要说是一为什么我要将关注者也一并清除掉。

在上面提及的还未出生便胎死腹中的嘟文主要的想法大概便是影响力吧。
现在的长毛象,与我来到时的长毛象最大的区别是什么?就我自己的感觉大概就是影响力吧。
我来的时候,虽然并不是最早的一批用户,但当时人还是比较少的,当时在群友的安利下,在猫娘实例注册了一个帐号,猫娘实例虽然注册的人数挺多的,但活跃的人并不多(现在也是),然后基本上就是自话自说,偶尔有一两个人来互动一下。后来到草莓县注册了一个小号,但主要的目的也只是为了看版聊。再后来,有一天猫娘实例挂了挻长时间的,受此触动,外加手上有DO的服务器,又有域名,于是就在上面按照官方的文档搭建了自己的实例。
总的来说,大家总体上都还是比较偏向于自话自说的,有人走上来,那就交流几句。具体来描述一下,大概就是一个乡下的小酒馆,大部分人自己点酒自己喝;还有一些人掏出自己发现有趣的东西正展示给人看,有的展示台周围人多,有的展示台周围人少,多的人发现人这么多人都感兴趣,高兴地说着什么,而没有什么人的展示台,嘟主则盘腿打坐,自己也乐的清闲;而酒馆中央,一些人聚在一起在讨论什么,边吃着瓜子,边喝着小酒,听到有意思的话题便上去插上几句。
至于微博客那些博主所追求的流量,追求的影响力,在这里根本看不到。具体而言,就是不会有人试图主动去影响别人,或者主动散发自己的想法、观点。就像上面所说,长毛象就是一个乡间的小酒馆,大家虽然并不相识,但也可以算是朋友了,你会试图向朋友传教,向朋友灌输什么观念吗?

但是近期,大概就是最近几波移民过后,我好像感觉到长毛象的氛围变了,最大的不同,大概是对影响力的追求吧。追求自己的想法能够传播开来,追求自己可以影响周围的人,也为自己的关注者众多而自豪。对于这样的变化,我也不知道这是好事还是坏事,但对于本来比较自闭的我而言,好像有一点不太适应。最让我感觉不适的大概就是那上千的关注者。
我承认,我也曾为自己有上千的关注者而小小骄傲过一番,虽然并非主动,但我也曾试图利用这四位数的关注者来传播自己的影响力。但这并没有什么用,虽然当时带来了一些注动,但很快就只留下一些空虚。
而且更加糟糕的是,上千的关注者总给我一种被人盯着的感觉,想说什么话,想写什么东西总是有一点不自然,不自在。
也或多或少理解了人设这种东西,所谓人设就是众人脑补的具现化,人设最初可能来自于你自己的某一个方面,但人设这东西一但形成,便有了自己的生命,是以目光与妄想为食的奇特生物。而你不知不觉之间,反倒变成人设的附属品了,虚实互换,察觉时自己已成目光的牵线木偶。
清除掉关注者大概便是为了让自己从目光中离开,舍弃掉这份让我不适的影响力吧。

人之患在好为人师,被一大堆人看着,难免就有一些自我膨胀,难免就想指点别人。而且自己挺蠢的,被人盯着,想说几句蠢话都挺困难的。

虽然已经决定,但突然做出这么大的举动,难免让大家感到意外。所以特别写下此嘟文说明一下。

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人类,可以对世界失望,但是小鸟总是好的,看看小鸟

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THE COCTEAU TWINS, PHOTO SESSION. CIRCA 1990'S BY PAUL COX.