Lily Bui

1 LILY BUI 1

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28 year old English / History high school teacher in Sydney, Australia.
  I'm in the Matcha Monday web ring with my friends Fernando Borretti, Sam Isgrove, ⏳, and ⏳.
  I love reading Shakespeare, poetry, and books; listening to concertos, RTJ, and MK.GEE; watching Bergman and Lean; Dr. Strangelove (1964), The Age of Innocence (1993), and Heat (1995); looking at French, Expressionist, and monumental paintings; Edward Burtynsky; infrastructure (dams, bridges, and transmission towers), machinery, transport, and large industrial spaces (planes and hangers; rail, stations, and catenary systems); military technology (carriers, jets, bombers, ships, and subs); steel; go-karting; mammatus and cumulus clouds, crepuscular rays and glitter paths from ports; shadows; flowers; churches, gardens, park benches; cooking; Australian farms and beaches, European cities, and American national parks; green and mustard and a Persian rug on mid-century; techno; Charlie; Brandy Melville; Norm Macdonald, Mitch Hedburg, and Dan Hentschel; sweet cocktails and miniatures; film; lists, & tricolons.

I also like...

CLEOPATRA.
O, Charmian,
Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?
Or does he walk? Or is he on his horse?
O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
Do bravely, horse, for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?
The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm
And burgonet of men. He's speaking now,
Or murmuring "Where's my serpent of old Nile?"
For so he calls me. Now I feed myself
With most delicious poison. Think on me
That am with Phœbus' amorous pinches black,
And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar,
When thou wast here above the ground, I was
A morsel for a monarch. And great Pompey
Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;
There would he anchor his aspect, and die
With looking on his life.

Although it blew hard when Caesar crossed the Rubicon, the passage of that river is commonly calm; calm as Acheron. So long as he gets his fare, the ferryman does not need to be told whom he carries: he pulls with a will, and heroes may be over in half-an-hour. Only when they stand on the opposite bank, do they see what a leap they have taken. The shores they have relinquished shrink to an infinite remoteness. There they have dreamed: here they must act. There lie youth and irresolution: here manhood and purpose. They are veritably in another land: a moral Acheron divides their life. Their memories scarce seem their own! The Philosophical Geography (about to be published) observes that each man has, one time or other, a little Rubicon—a clear or a foul water to cross.