Loki protecting Jane. (◡‿◡✿)

Late Victorian or Early Edwardian Etruscan Revival Gold Necklace with Gold Coins of Philip II & Alexander III the Great (359-323 BC)

Ten Gold staters and one gold distater mounted in a late Victorian or Edwardian Etruscan Revival gold necklace. Likely crafted in Greece or Cyprus circa 1870-1910, the necklace contains a central gold distater of Alexander (Price 163) which may be a cast replica (without removal from mount it’s hard to be certain). All of the remaining 10 gold staters, nine of Alexander and one of Philip II, appear to be quite genuine, conditions ranging from a rough fine (the Philip, also holed) to nearly extremely fine. Among them are three dated issues of Sidon (one of 325-324 BC [Price 3486] and two of 324-323 BC [Price 3490]); four of Amphipolis (Price 176 [2], 172 and 168), and a couple in which the mintmark is obscured by the mounting bezel. Coins are set in ornate openwork 14 k gold frames joined by delicate chains in a golden cascade, interspersed with numerous florate pendants set with small pearls; a heart-shaped central drop pendant set with six tiny pearls completes the ensemble. Total weight: 170.03 gm.

Reportedly from the collections of General H. L. Haughton, a British officer in service in India circa 1890-1930, and of Sir Ronald Storrs, British Governor-General of Cyprus 1926-1932. Sold for $28,750.

nope. sorry but i literally did nothing wrong here. i did nothing except point out that that person’s post had big issues with it. i did not personally insult them, i did not harass them, i merely criticized and expressed my distate for the argument they posed. i accepted their apology as well.

you can call me a toxic monster and a bully all you want, but i’m not going to put up with that kind of emotional manipulation, nor will i be held responsible for whatever actions they choose to take.

i said my part, and i dont regret anything i said, and it’s done. goodbye

sofia looked across the table at her now fiance, her arms were crossed as she looked at the male. she wasn’t happy in the least bit to be engaged to him, the princess had tried to express to her grandmother and her mother her distate in the idea but here she was with her future husband. “just to be clear, i’m not happy about this.” sofi said.
Whoever you are.

Is it ridiculous that I might be doing things currently because I want to build up this person I envision to be? This cramming late-morning, more of early-noon, in between my brain closely beating with my heart and panicking hands, neuropsychology bouncing all over my neurons, my coffee full of rebellious distate for the wrong time being drank, I decided it is not. I know, I’m a psychology major, and there are hundreds of theories about THE ‘ideal self’. But not ever, not even close enough to score the highest, hit the bullseye.
In contrast to what might everybody be expecting of me trying to overly think of and love myself, I choose to deviate, or perhaps I am just of odd species. And God help me, I have never even thought of myself as highly as Mr. K. West, I have not even made the greatest metaphor that I see myself in.
Whenever people ask,”So how do you see myself 20 years from now?”, I get confused, which quickly develops into a great annoyance, and then World War III commences. I mean, how could I ever see myself a few years from now if, in the first and hardest place, I can’t even see myself clearly now? It divirginizes my mind in a whole new level. But don’t get me wrong, of course, in between lines and circles, I understand myself. I understand myself completely. It’s in my mind, I can predict myself more often than usual.
But this person I want to be. I might know he is not—that he is not highly, either, he is not boastful, he is not dreadful, he is not lonely, he is not sad—but I can’t find ways to see who he really is. And while I don’t find it ridiculous to doing things in building up this someone I strongly want (and mostly unsteadily mysterious), I find it bluntly rude, to be wanted yet as much as this, but not being known. I am unrequited just yet again.

Sobre #Ovidio: el amor comienza y termina con O.

Como tímidos admiradores y tratando en lo posible de cultivar nuestra vida con las obras de los poetas clásicos, nuestra primera semana está dedicada a Ovidio en honor a su nacimiento que se conmemora el día de mañana.

Aunque su primera obra fue Amores, es necesario, para conocer un poco de su vida, comenzar por Tristia, uno de sus últimos trabajos; obra escrita en su exilio del cual nos ocuparemos más adelante.

Podemos indicar, por medio de sus versos, que nació en Sulmona situada en el centro de Italia a 130 kilómetros de Roma:

Sulmo mihi patria est, gelidis uberrimus undis,     

milia qui novies distat ab urbe decem”

(Tristia IV 10, 3-4)

Nace en el año 43 AEC, el 20 de Marzo, día indicado con un giro poético en Tristia IV 10, 9-14, es decir, un día después de iniciada la fiesta dedicada a Minerva denominada Quinquatria y celebrada entre el 19 y el 23 del mismo mes. De este día nos relata, también, que su hermano había nacido justo un año antes de él, por tal motivo se les celebraba con dos tortas el mismo día:

Lucifer amborum natalibus affuit idem:

     una celebrata est per duo liba dies;

(Tristia IV 10, 11-12)

Desde siempre, su gusto por el ritmo fue evidente, aunque su padre nunca estuvo de acuerdo:

Saepe pater dixit ‘studium quid inutile temptas?

Maeonides nullas ipse reliquit opes.

Con frecuencia dijo mi padre ¿por qué intentas un estudio inútil? El mismísimo Homero ninguna fortuna adquirió.

(Tristia IV 10, 21-22))

Él intentó, sin conseguirlo, escribir en prosa, pero la música brotaba.

At mihi iam puero caelestia sacra placebant,

inque suum furtim Musa trahebat opus.

Desde pequeño me complacían los secretos celestes y, hacia su trabajo, la Musa me conducía con sigilo.

(Tristia IV 10 19-20)

Como vemos, el ritmo definitivamente marcaría su vida. Desde los 19 años estaba en recitales de poesía; entabló amistad con el poeta Marco Mesala por el cual ingresó al Círculo de Mesala donde conoció a muchos más poetas lo que conllevaría a tener una larga vida como poeta.