Ded Man Cometh
- Thread starter FalseFlagg K
- Start date
idestroyedthetoilet
Well-Known Member
Anyone else excited to see DedEx get on the court like they're excited to see Denny Hamlin get in the DedEx car?
Think the choice of #11 was coincidence bros?
Not only that... he’s making his return at the FedEx forum?Anyone else excited to see DedEx get on the court like they're excited to see Denny Hamlin get in the DedEx car?
Think the choice of #11 was coincidence bros?
idestroyedthetoilet
Well-Known Member
Ah yes, the place where Dante will exhume his dead body, as the old poet Dante Rossetti exhumed his dead wife to retrieve Poems, a collection of prophetic limericks written about our love and hate of Dante Exum.
It all started decades earlier with the forecasting tale of Dante's death in My Sister's Sleep.
"She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
At length the long-ungranted shade
Of weary eyelids overweigh'd
The pain nought else might yet relieve.
Our mother, who had lean'd all day
Over the bed from chime to chime,
Then rais'd herself for the first time,
And as she sat her down, did pray.
Her little work-table was spread
With work to finish. For the glare
Made by her candle, she had care
To work some distance from the bed.
Without, there was a cold moon up,
Of winter radiance sheer and thin;
The hollow halo it was in
Was like an icy crystal cup.
Through the small room, with subtle sound
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove
And redden'd. In its dim alcove
The mirror shed a clearness round.
I had been sitting up some nights,
And my tired mind felt weak and blank;
Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank
The stillness and the broken lights.
Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years
Heard in each hour, crept off; and then
The ruffled silence spread again,
Like water that a pebble stirs.
Our mother rose from where she sat:
Her needles, as she laid them down,
Met lightly, and her silken gown
Settled: no other noise than that.
"Glory unto the Newly Born!"
So, as said angels, she did say;
Because we were in Christmas Day,
Though it would still be long till morn.
Just then in the room over us
There was a pushing back of chairs,
As some who had sat unawares
So late, now heard the hour, and rose.
With anxious softly-stepping haste
Our mother went where Margaret lay,
Fearing the sounds o'erhead—should they
Have broken her long watch'd-for rest!
She stoop'd an instant, calm, and turn'd;
But suddenly turn'd back again;
And all her features seem'd in pain
With woe, and her eyes gaz'd and yearn'd.
For my part, I but hid my face,
And held my breath, and spoke no word:
There was none spoken; but I heard
The silence for a little space.
Our mother bow'd herself and wept:
And both my arms fell, and I said,
"God knows I knew that she was dead."
And there, all white, my sister slept.
Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn
A little after twelve o'clock
We said, ere the first quarter struck,
"Christ's blessing on the newly born!""
Dante Exum, portrayed as Dante's sister but really his future wife, who he would sing ballads of in remembrance pre-burial and exhume, even inventing the term "yesteryear", to describe our memory of Dante Exum's recent court play.
"TELL me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman? (Exum)
Where ’s Hipparchia (Exum), and where is Thais (Exum)
Neither of them the fairer woman
Where is Echo (Exum), beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere,—
She whose beauty was more than human (Exum)?…
But where are the snows of yester-year (Exum)?"
And after five years of burial, just as Dante Exum lay dead for five years after declaring for the NBA draft, Rossetti exhumed his wife (Dante) to retrieve the ballad of Dante Exum's new life, most prominently in Part II: Transfigured Life
Transfigured Life
As growth of form or momentary glance
In a child's features will recall to mind
The father's with the mother's face combin'd,--
Sweet interchange that memories still enhance:
And yet, as childhood's years and youth's advance,
The gradual mouldings leave one stamp behind,
Till in the blended likeness now we find
A separate man's or woman's countenance:--
So in the Song, the singer's Joy and Pain,
Its very parents, evermore expand
To bid the passion's fullgrown birth remain,
By Art's transfiguring essence subtly spann'd;
And from that song-cloud shaped as a man's hand
There comes the sound as of abundant rain.
By thine own tears thy song must tears beget,
O Singer! Magic mirror thou hast none
Except thy manifest heart; and save thine own
Anguish or ardour, else no amulet.
Cisterned in Pride, verse is the feathery jet
Of soulless air-flung fountains; nay, more dry
Than the Dead Sea for throats that thirst and sigh,
That song o'er which no singer's lids grew wet.
The Song-god--He the Sun-god--is no slave
Of thine: thy Hunter he, who for thy soul
Fledges his shaft: to no august control
Of thy skilled hand his quivered store he gave:
But if thy lips' loud cry leap to his smart,
The inspir'd recoil shall pierce thy brother's heart.
Some prisoned moon in steep cloud-fastnesses,--
Throned queen and thralled; some dying sun whose pyre
Blazed with momentous memorable fire;--
Who hath not yearned and fed his heart with these?
Who, sleepless, hath not anguished to appease
Tragical shadow's realm of sound and sight
Conjectured in the lamentable night? . . .
Lo! the soul's sphere of infinite images!
What sense shall count them? Whether it forecast
The rose-winged hours that flutter in the van
Of Love's unquestioning unrevealed span,--
Visions of golden futures: or that last
Wild pageant of the accumulated past
That clangs and flashes for a drowning man.
NostraDante Rossetti. Read his entire works if you want to know how the story/parallel life of Dante Exum ends.
idestroyedthetoilet
Well-Known Member
Ah yes, the place where Dante will exhume his dead body, as the old poet Dante Rossetti exhumed his dead wife to retrieve Poems, a collection of prophetic limericks written about our love and hate of Dante Exum.
It all started decades earlier with the forecasting tale of Dante's death in My Sister's Sleep.
"She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
At length the long-ungranted shade
Of weary eyelids overweigh'd
The pain nought else might yet relieve.
Our mother, who had lean'd all day
Over the bed from chime to chime,
Then rais'd herself for the first time,
And as she sat her down, did pray.
Her little work-table was spread
With work to finish. For the glare
Made by her candle, she had care
To work some distance from the bed.
Without, there was a cold moon up,
Of winter radiance sheer and thin;
The hollow halo it was in
Was like an icy crystal cup.
Through the small room, with subtle sound
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove
And redden'd. In its dim alcove
The mirror shed a clearness round.
I had been sitting up some nights,
And my tired mind felt weak and blank;
Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank
The stillness and the broken lights.
Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years
Heard in each hour, crept off; and then
The ruffled silence spread again,
Like water that a pebble stirs.
Our mother rose from where she sat:
Her needles, as she laid them down,
Met lightly, and her silken gown
Settled: no other noise than that.
"Glory unto the Newly Born!"
So, as said angels, she did say;
Because we were in Christmas Day,
Though it would still be long till morn.
Just then in the room over us
There was a pushing back of chairs,
As some who had sat unawares
So late, now heard the hour, and rose.
With anxious softly-stepping haste
Our mother went where Margaret lay,
Fearing the sounds o'erhead—should they
Have broken her long watch'd-for rest!
She stoop'd an instant, calm, and turn'd;
But suddenly turn'd back again;
And all her features seem'd in pain
With woe, and her eyes gaz'd and yearn'd.
For my part, I but hid my face,
And held my breath, and spoke no word:
There was none spoken; but I heard
The silence for a little space.
Our mother bow'd herself and wept:
And both my arms fell, and I said,
"God knows I knew that she was dead."
And there, all white, my sister slept.
Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn
A little after twelve o'clock
We said, ere the first quarter struck,
"Christ's blessing on the newly born!""
Dante Exum, portrayed as Dante's sister but really his future wife, who he would sing ballads of in remembrance pre-burial and exhume, even inventing the term "yesteryear", to describe our memory of Dante Exum's recent court play.
"TELL me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman? (Exum)
Where ’s Hipparchia (Exum), and where is Thais (Exum)
Neither of them the fairer woman
Where is Echo (Exum), beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere,—
She whose beauty was more than human (Exum)?…
But where are the snows of yester-year (Exum)?"
And after five years of burial, just as Dante Exum lay dead for five years after declaring for the NBA draft, Rossetti exhumed his wife (Dante) to retrieve the ballad of Dante Exum's new life, most prominently in Part II: Transfigured Life
Transfigured Life
As growth of form or momentary glance
In a child's features will recall to mind
The father's with the mother's face combin'd,--
Sweet interchange that memories still enhance:
And yet, as childhood's years and youth's advance,
The gradual mouldings leave one stamp behind,
Till in the blended likeness now we find
A separate man's or woman's countenance:--
So in the Song, the singer's Joy and Pain,
Its very parents, evermore expand
To bid the passion's fullgrown birth remain,
By Art's transfiguring essence subtly spann'd;
And from that song-cloud shaped as a man's hand
There comes the sound as of abundant rain.
By thine own tears thy song must tears beget,
O Singer! Magic mirror thou hast none
Except thy manifest heart; and save thine own
Anguish or ardour, else no amulet.
Cisterned in Pride, verse is the feathery jet
Of soulless air-flung fountains; nay, more dry
Than the Dead Sea for throats that thirst and sigh,
That song o'er which no singer's lids grew wet.
The Song-god--He the Sun-god--is no slave
Of thine: thy Hunter he, who for thy soul
Fledges his shaft: to no august control
Of thy skilled hand his quivered store he gave:
But if thy lips' loud cry leap to his smart,
The inspir'd recoil shall pierce thy brother's heart.
Some prisoned moon in steep cloud-fastnesses,--
Throned queen and thralled; some dying sun whose pyre
Blazed with momentous memorable fire;--
Who hath not yearned and fed his heart with these?
Who, sleepless, hath not anguished to appease
Tragical shadow's realm of sound and sight
Conjectured in the lamentable night? . . .
Lo! the soul's sphere of infinite images!
What sense shall count them? Whether it forecast
The rose-winged hours that flutter in the van
Of Love's unquestioning unrevealed span,--
Visions of golden futures: or that last
Wild pageant of the accumulated past
That clangs and flashes for a drowning man.
NostraDante Rossetti. Read his entire works if you want to know how the story/parallel life of Dante Exum ends.
Oh wait, Rossetti exhumed his wife seven years later. Dante still ded for two more.
Dali
Well-Known Member
I'm on Exum Island for sure. Nothing wrong with having a bit of a laugh at his expense, especially for us dudes who don't mean anything by it. Be ready to laugh at yourself, and all that Jazz.
But I bet there are some on the forum whose motivations are a little more nefarious, when they ridicule him.
LifeOnaPlate
Well-Known Member
I think Dante could have added some much-needed fire to the game last night. Wish he would have seen the floor.
