Candra Mandala, the mandala of Moon God, nepali painting
The (presumptive) source page has more spectacular mandalas
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Throughout Western society there tends to be one informal or backstage language of behaviour, and another language of behaviour for occasions when a performance is being presented. The backstage language consists of reciprocal first-naming, cooperative decision-making, profanity, open sexual remarks, elaborate griping, smoking, rough informal dress, ‘sloppy’ sitting and standing posture, use of dialect or sub-standard speech, mumbling and shouting, playful aggressivity and ‘kidding’, inconsiderateness for the other in minor but potentially symbolic acts, minor physical self-involvements such as humming, whistling, chewing, belching, and flatulence. The frontstage behaviour language can be taken as the absence (and in some sense the opposite) of this.
Erving Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (1959)
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Storytelling […] sustains your life so that you never succumb to the terrible despair of someone who cannot see beyond today’s happenings.
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A list of words, some of them Yorkshire dialectal, used in Ross Raisin’s novel God’s Own Country:
Collywobbles, hubbleshoo, daffled, trunklements, unsnecked, nithering, snickleway, nazzart, powfagged, aflunters, choiled, glegged, jarped, rigwelted, druft, skiffled, blashy, glishy, grum, mawnging, scraffled, frammled, fratchen, tantled, heart-sluffened, claggy, munk, hagmist, bloach, mardy, shuftied, mafted, bluthering, idleback, sluffened, flackering, crozzled, crammocky, slummery, slubbery, slutherment, dafflement, betwaddled, lugger-buggers, barmpots, gozzle.
Kugel thought specifically about the experience of dying. He thought about the pain, about the fear. Most of all, he thought about what he would say at the final moment; his ultima verba; his last words. They should be wise, he decided, which is not to say morose or obtuse; simply that they should mean something, amount to something. They should reveal, illuminate. He didn’t want to be caught by surprise, speechless, gasping, not knowing at the very last moment what to say.
No, wait, I oof.
I haven’t really given it much splat.
If I could just ka-blammo.
Shalom Auslander, Hope: A Tragedy (2012)
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Only if dreams are made public through art can they affect the nightmares we enact in everyday life.
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‘It is now a year since herself was laid to rest. Laid to rest!’ He laughed, a little bitterly. ‘That is what they call it. A week after that again, call it what you like, the graveyard was closed by orders. There are people still to the fore who have their rights under the law; but it is hardly likely that many, if any of them, will try to make good their claim to be buried in Gort na Marbh.’
Gurthnamorrav, the Field of the Dead, that is what those around and about call the lonely patch to this day. Though this generation of them are ‘dull of’ the ancient tongue, such names of native savour, help to keep them one in soul with the proud children of Banbha who are in eternity. Vivid imagery, symbols drawn, in a manner of speaking, from the brown earth, words of strength and beauty that stud like gems of light and grace the common speech hold not merely an abiding charm in themselves. Such heritages of the mind of the Gael evoke through active fancy the fuller life of the race of kings no less surely than those relics of skill and handicraft found by chance in tilth or red bog, the shrine of bell or battle hook, the bronze spear head, the torque of gold.
John Guinan, ‘The Watcher o’ the Dead’, in The Supernatural Omnibus II, edited by Montague Summers
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