The Black Death arrived in Europe by sea in October 1347 when 12 Genoese trading ships docked at the Sicilian port of Messina after a long journey through the Black Sea. The people who gathered on the docks to greet the ships were met with a horrifying surprise: Most of the sailors aboard the ships were dead, and those who were still alive were gravely ill. They were overcome with fever, unable to keep food down and delirious from pain. Strangest of all, they were covered in mysterious black boils that oozed blood and pus and gave their illness its name: the “Black Death.” The Sicilian authorities hastily ordered the fleet of “death ships” out of the harbor, but it was too late: Over the next five years, the mysterious Black Death would kill more than 20 million people in Europe–almost one-third of the continent’s population. [+more]
Alana \a-la-na\ as a name is pronounced ah-LAH-nah. It is of Old German and Hawaiian origin, and the meaning of Alana is “precious; awakening”. A rather modern Latinate feminine form of Alan. Also possibly from the Gaelic “ailin” meaning “little rock”
Happy Bloomsday: James Joyce met and fell in love with Nora Barnacle. The day of their first walk together, 16 June 1904, was immortalized as Bloomsday, during which the entire narrative of his masterpiece Ulysses takes place. To this day, Dubliners celebrate Bloomsday with literary walks and celebrations.
PSYCHOSOMA — an atmospheric ensemble compilation set to the unsettlingly bizarre, violent, cerebral, eldritch otherworld of Hannibal. Orchestra, piano, dark ambient, and strings-heavy.
(This is blood on the walls and in the cracks between tiles and under every footstep and this is what clings to the soles of your bare feet when you tread so carefully so as not to disturb the ones still sleeping. This is luxury and taste; a thick, dripping opera, crying out against the still-shaking air. This is what you hear when you get into his head. This is food, lovingly prepared; a rich and heavy succulence, ripe and ready and oh god, that’s delicious, what is it? This is what sits on the rough of your tongue as you swallow. This is what lives in the back of your throat and this is what it tastes like to go mad: like honeyed fire. This is what cakes onto your knees as you crawl over the bodies. This is wine, flowing, a fountain of burgundy and marrow-white. This is what it feels like to not know who you are. This is what hides underneath your fingernails when you wash your hands; this is the color red, never pink. This is bile and rot and pinched, papery flesh. This is how your seams rip; how the juices burst open the taut skin—you are only ruptured fruit. This is the way your teeth sink into her. This is the dark of your fluttering eyelids and the smell of fevered sweetness: this is what you hate to think about. This is what you can’t look away from. This is why you can’t sleep at night. This is not your design, but it feels like it is, and you are waiting for the day when knowing no longer matters.)