sartorias: (handwritten books)
Today's post features excerpts from a book about Diana Sperling, who was an indefatigable painter of real life scenes during the Napoleonic era. She works in so many delightful details of her home, what people wore and did.

I love artwork by ordinary people who depicted their lives as they saw them. The emotions this art evokes are different from that I feel before the timelessness of great artists, but that might just be me. (In museums I'm always drawn to statuary that is modeled from real faces rather than the ideal or the generically beautiful.)
sartorias: (handwritten books)
I was commenting to [ profile] asakiyume about how I was watching film clips, as I often do when resting my hands. I guess I was drawn to such after hearing that the wannabe Putin is trying to take control of intelligence and data gathering, and it is so depressing to consider how few of my fellow Americans have a sense of history--or of consequences.

Berlin, summer of 1900:

So many men and boys.

So many women in this one, same area, (some of same sites) in summer 1945:
sartorias: (handwritten books)
Just a few snips:

My maternal grandmother was the only grandparent that was still alive at the time I was born. From the perspective of a child, she appeared to be very old and crippled when she came to live with us. She was actually in her sixties.

My memories of Grandma are sketchy and vague. She was just "there" occasionally. She had strong hands with which she would smooth vaseline into her palms and then stroke it firmly over my Dutch-boy haircut. I was convinced that one of her specialties was concocting loathsome home remedies for anything that ailed you--ginger tea, hot mustard foot baths, obnoxious poultices and spring tonics--cod-liver oil and iodine milk. Needless to say, there was never feigned illness when Grandma was around. . .

By the time I was of school age, the school districts in the area were at a height of a heated controversy. Rural school consolidation was a burning issue and left the community divided. Our family opted to go to the new, larger consolidated school in Burnside, while many of the children from our church were still attending the old No. 5 school, the rural one roomer very close to our house. We were ridiculed by the No. 5 children--abused with names like "Burnside Snots." I was very uncomfortable with that, but my sisters seemed to accept it as an interesting challenge.

We had to be bussed to school. The roads were definitely not what they are today--no paved or black-top roads--so the motor bus couldn't always make it. Weather dictated when it was necessary to resort to actual "horse power." In the winter sleighs were used. Kids were huddled together under heavy blankets, with feet warmers filled with charcoal. It was necessary to walk to the main road to catch the bus.

Many days the wet clothing was draped around in the furnace room to dry while classes were in session. Snow suits were yet to be invented and girls never wore pants in those days. Long underwear, long stockings with garter belts, leggings, and cloth boots which had metal buckles were the mode of the day. School lunches were carried in tin syrup or honey pails. They consisted invariably of an apple, a sweet and a sandwich. Sandwich fillings were mostly jelly or peanut butter. I can't remember every combining the two . . .

Bed clothing was changed on Saturday. [they slept two to a bed.] The top sheet was transferred to the bottom and a clean sheet put on the top--no such thing as fitted sheets. The pillow cases were changed weekly. It was the custom to wash clothes on Monday.

It was essential to have a wash boiler, wash board, two galvanized or wooden tubs, a clothes stick and one large wicker clothes basket for the wash-day activities. The boiler was kept on the stove and water heated to boiling. The dirty clothes or stained clothes were soaked in cold water and then boiled in the hot soapy water. Soft water and home-made soap were used for washing clothes. Some of the farmers had rain water cisterns and some used rain barrels in the summer time.

The clothes were removed from the boiler with a stick, then put in a tub of warm water where the scrub board was used to extract any remaining soil. A hand wringer was used to wring that water out and drop the clothes into clear cold water and then into the clothes basket. Handkerchiefs were put into a pail of cold water with salt, then heated and stirred on the stove before putting in with the other soiled clothes. The Kleenex had not as yet been invented. Sanitary napkins were home-made from soft clothes and were washed and re-used. Bluing was used in the cold water rings as a brightening agent. Colored clothing was very seldom boiled. Ironing day was dreaded in the summer . . .Most outer garments were starched . . .

[My grandmother had to quit school in the eighth grade when the Depression hit, and go to work cleaning and cooking for a family, for a dollar a week. She said the diapers were the worst. Especially in winter.]
sartorias: (handwritten books)
Yesterday afternoon my 98-year-old great-aunt stood in the old farmhouse where she'd been a child, her careful feet on the break between the newer part of the house and the old. Gazing down at the scrubbed floorboards covered with a modern rug, she said, "My father lay right there in his casket. I was five years old, and I had no idea what was going on. They never told children in those days, you know. Not like now."

Standing by her was the 82-year-old man whose father had bought the farm when my great-grandmother finally had to give it up, after unsuccessfully trying to hold onto it as a widow in the Depression. He'd been a kid when he moved in, and at once his dad put him to work improving a house that was still nineteenth century in every way--outhouse on the knoll, paraffin stains on the walls from the lamps, a wood stove that was the only heat in the house. That stove was gone, as was the big copper pot before it that the families had bathed in--the girls first, then mom, then the boys, and the dad got the dirty bath water after everyone else was done. Both families--that was the way around there--and they laughed about how to get in and out with your knees around your ears.

That house has been in their family for seventy years, but he and his family always understands when the Carlson girls' descendants want to come visit the farm. (I was there with my mom summer 1969, but that time the dad was away, so we could only peek in the windows) They hosted a Carlson family reunion on the beautiful grounds about ten years ago--my grandmother got to be there before she died.

My daughter and I spent the entire day with my aunt, going to the various sites from hers and my grandmother's and their sisters' childhoods, with glimpses, no more than shadows, of the previous generations, left behind in work, and of course in their graves in the cemetery. So many children. "These two little boys would have been my uncles," Aunt Mim said, pointing down. One was two, the other made it to five before he died in the 1880s.

My daughter asked over dinner, "Do you miss those days?"

"Are you kidding?" Aunt Mim laughed. "Life is so much easier now. Especially for us girls. We were indentured servants back then."

She fought bitterly to be allowed to finish high school, and they let her, but the minute she got home she had to get on her overalls and get the farm chores done (she was living with a childless aunt and uncle while my great-grandmother worked as a domestic at a local rich person's house; my grandmother did child labor as the domestic at someone else's house, all the labor for a buck a week). Her younger sister was so bright that she was offered a scholarship to the local college, but that was ridiculous, the family decided--it was past time to get to work.

All the women worked, she said. Her best job was at a local orphanage, where a lot of the kids coming in spoke only Swedish.

Late in the day she admitted that she had written her autobiography. It's wonderful.

"I sugar-coated some stuff, you know," she said. I nodded--having just read a harrowing passage--and told her that if it was computerized it would be easy for her to change it any way she liked.

She admitted that she's always liked writing, but never showed anyone any of it. The only one of her kids interested died of MS ten years ago. Aunt Mim's nearly blind, but she bends over the paper with a super strong LED light bar, and writes in pencil. I told her if she writes more, or can find the chapters she wrote subsequently that didn't get typed when the MS finally crippled her daughter, I can put them in her book, and see that the whole family on that side gets a copy, along with the film my daughter is making. (She took her boyfriend's super powered camera along, and spent the entire day shooting tons of footage.) So she gave it to me.

When I show this autobiography to my mom, she's going to be blown away.
sartorias: (1554 S)
Last year, at my favorite con, Sirens, I did a presentation on folding fans and fan language. Unfortunately, I can't reproduce here the fun part--the skits the participants put together. I had expected ten or twelve people at most, but the room was packed, so we ended up with five different teams, who came up with hilarious and inventive skits.

Fans have been a part of my life since I was college age. In those days I carried one to get rid of cigarette smoke, to which I'm allergic. (I was the only one in my family who didn't smoke.) I discovered through using the fan that I could crack it like a gunshot when I was annoyed, like if I was taken to an expensive restaurant, and the stench wafted my way, I'd crack that fan before blowing the smoke back to the smoker. But those days are long gone, and now I use the fan when a hot flash has me sitting in a pool of my own sweat. (And I try to fan away from other people!) Oh, the wonders of old age!
sartorias: (1554 S)
Happy Purim to those who celebrate!

Somewhat related, a beautiful and poignant display of dioramas of Polish life in the 1930s.

In other news, due to unfortunate circs, my mother had to leave her trailer park and she is about to move into a retirement facility. It's one she picked, and the window of her admittedly small room has a view of the Pacific Ocean. She will get meals, and house cleaning, all bennies. But first she had to go through and discard huge portions of her life, not that she was much of a hoarder.

When you're pretty much down to mementos and worn old furnishings, the latter can go out (except for your favorite chair) without much regret, but the mementos are tougher. Boxes of crystal and old family items, such as my great-grandmother's hand-embroidered pillow cases (part of her trousseau)are now passed on to us, to be passed in turn on to any of our kids who might someday find a permanent address. So far, they are all living paycheck to paycheck in crappy apartments, even though the eldest are in their thirties.

So the boxes are here, and I went through them to weed out stuff I knew that neither the kids nor I would want. I'm ambivalent about my letters written from Europe when I was a student 1971-2. When one writes the parents, there is oftentimes a veneer, less truth than what one thinks they want to hear. I might toss all but a few letters that evoke life back then. Like these postcards:
post cards

The University of Vienna, and Amsterdam. The backs of these go into detail, the uni one about what one sees there, what one does to attend classes, the monumental hassle of checking books out of the library at that time. (Especially if one of the histories turned out to be written by a Jew. Those books came from a deep archive somewhere, and had JUDEN stamped all over the front pages.) I'll be back to that in a moment.

The back of the Amsterdam card was sent after five of us girls teamed up to buy a junker car so we could drive around Europe in it. None of us had much cash--my budget, figured out to the penny, allowed me roughly between fifty cents and a dollar a day to live on, so the days I bought a book I didn't eat, easy to do when you're twenty--so our great idea had been to boil up six dozen eggs and eat those for the first week of travel. The eggs lasted about three days until we were all sick of them.
back of postcard

I ended up doing most of the driving, once I mastered stick pretty much on the run; all four of the others came from small towns, and were intimidated by European traffic, but I was an L.A. girl and I said, "What traffic?"

Among our adventures were visiting the American base at Kaiserslautern, where my sister's boyfriend was stationed. There either weren't any hotels or we couldn't afford them, so we slept in the car. The tiny print talks about sleeping in a small Opel with four other girls, me behind the driver's seat so I had the wheel stuck in my gut. A couple of us snuck out in the middle of the night and let ourselves into the plush car of one of the officers, which we vacated as soon as the sun came up.

Most of the rest of the letters skated over hardships or risky moments, except for one that I'd managed to suppress: when my mom's best friend came over to visit me. I'd found her a cheap hotel for her week's stay, but when it came time for her to check out, the hotel owner charged her double. She didn't speak German, so she didn't hear the exact words, but she could tell something bad was going on, and I knew the parents would hear about it, so I described the encounter, and how (when my Austrian boyfriend backed me up) the hotelier gave in but castigated us as "American Jew pigs."

That had shocked me at the time. Except for occasional memories, most of them venomous, about the Russian occupation, the older generation had made no references to World War II whatsoever. None. Nada. Classes at the University in history (and I took a lot of them) ended at WW I. To me, age twenty, the war that had ended 26 years previous belonged to the mists of time, but looking back now, I know that 26 years is an eye-blink in a lifetime, especially something like that. Prejudice against Jews had not vanished, it had gone underground, and that was not the only instance I saw.

Other signs of post-war effects were there as well, uncomprehended by oblivious me, such as the very large number of widows operating tabacs and restrooms and other little businesses all over the city.

The widow I rented from, who had a bunch of empty rooms for one aging woman, once invited me to a tea with some of her friends. They were very nice to me, but the labored conversation ended when I stupidly asked about children, and the only one of them who'd had kids talked about her son, a pilot, shot down by the Americans somewhere over France.

Anyway, still dithering about the letters. I guess I'll ask my daughter if she might ever want to read them.
sartorias: (1554 S)
Watched Hava Nagila (The Movie). Anyone else ever seen this documentary? I really enjoyed it. Had no idea that "Hava Nagila," which was popular enough when I was young to go mainstream, began as a nigun in the Ukraine.
sartorias: (desk)
Reflections of immortality? Personal expression? Scam? Challenge? Looks at street art, rock art and possible meanings.


Feb. 28th, 2015 06:51 am
sartorias: (desk)
Reprise on bricolage, after a bunch of related discussions online and at cons. Plus mentions of a couple books, including Andrea K. Höst's new release.
sartorias: (desk)
If you have fifteen minutes, do not miss this terrific essay by Alice Munro.

Really. Read it all the way to the end.
sartorias: (Fan)
Via [ profile] paulakate, check this out!

I love this sort of thing. If anyone knows of others, link away!
sartorias: (Fan)
Over the weekend I was in the redwoods, working with Dave Trowbridge on our massive rewrite of our space opera. Dueling computers, with occasional gusts of laughter, and sometimes Deborah, Dave's wife, who is staying with a friend through her hast days. She could be present on Skype so we could all talk writing.

I don't know if you can see it, but there is a stream far below this bridge I was standing on. (Dave and I walked the three miles into the small town for dinner one night.)

When I got home, there was my Netflix waiting, and first up was Triumph des Willens, the Nazi propaganda film made by Leni Riefenstahl in 1934, a year after Hitler took power.

Getting on toward half a century ago (it seems to weird to type that, but it's true) I first saw it, on one of those occasions when the German profs showed us significant German films. This particular time they used a room off at the film school I guess so that casual passers by couldn't look in, and with this peculiar atmosphere partly grimness, partly disgust, partly the almost-embarrassment of academics studying sociology looking at a famous porn flick, they hitched up the projector, we sat in those horrible plastic chairs popular at the time, and they let it roll.

I'd been dreading it. By then I'd spent my year in Austria, and I'd talked to a lot of folks, young and old, about the war years. That shadow was still long in 1971. I already knew plenty about atrocities, and if this was a party film, I was expecting clips of the sort of stuff Hitler had loved at private showings. (You can imagine; I'll stop here, but I heard even more details a few years later, when I was working in the film industry, and one of the older screenwriters talked about his days in the signal corps, having to review and catalogue the private film stashes of Nazi commanders, captured after the fall of Berlin.)

But what did we get? The film starts out high above the clouds, an exalted view of the sky overhead and all around amazing air-castelated cumulous. Then we descend through the mists (we are on Hitler's private plane) and there below is old Nuremberg, a fantastically beautiful city with a complication of slanted roofs juxtaposed over medieval and Renaissance times up and around the spires of famous churches. A castle or two. All to be bombed flat, of course, a few years later--and then apparently rebuilt pretty much as it had been. (I think that was still going on when I drove through there in '72, at least, all I remember is a lot of scaffolding.)

The shadow of the plane soars along a main boulevard down which precisely squared rows march toward the central gathering area at city-center. It's called Adolph Hitler Platz in the film; I don't know what it was before, or is now. The camera swoops down and makes love to glimmering reflections of old buildings in the peaceful waters, shows castle and homely (but picturesque) farmhouse, street and statue, and all of them--every one--flying the new flag of Germany, with the swastika (Hakenkreuz, or hooked cross) they'd pinched from the Aryans of India, under the supposition that the master race had conquered there and gone north, I guess blondifying as they went, until they reached the pinnacle of racial purity in Germany.

Everywhere at the roadside and hanging out of the streamer-bedecked windows and climbing precariously on centuries-old statues of saints and commanders, are people waiting to see Hitler. Blonds, mostly; though Hitler and his middle-aged, constipated-looking senior staff (except for the cadaverous Goebbels with the hooded gaze) were stodgy and dark-haired--Riefenstahl couldn't do anything about that except to shoot them from below, making them as imposing as she could--she and her camera linger on the fair-haired. There is a lot of speechifying about Germany and a reference to racial purity, though Hitler, when he speaks, reveals a very strong Austrian commoner's accent.

That is the best part of the film. Most of the rest are various sustained set pieces shot over the week-long "Party Day" get-togethers, which Hitler hosted every year until 1939, when he dispersed his peace-loving, state-serving boys off to slaughter and be slaughtered. The centerpiece is a long sequence I guess meant to show the solidarity of the S.A. with the S.S. as this was shot a bare month or two after Hitler bloodily purged the S.A. of 'undesirables.' Including the president, von Hindenburg, whose memorial is lengthily and unironically displayed in the film.

There is a second film, which is all military parade all the time, which makes me wonder how much Leni R. had had to fight the party honchos to get her vision over their demand for More Military Might. (According to the history professor who did the 2000 re-release film commentary, there was plenty of debate, for example, the old cavalry units wanted their time in the film but only got four minutes.)

The speeches are as creepy as you'd expect, the torchlight parades and all the rest pretty much what we've seen displayed in endless fiction since that time. But what got to me were Leni's own touches: the shots of Hitler from behind, from over his shoulder, so that the adoring crowd are framed between the side of his head and his upraised arm; the lingering on his profile with sunlight limning his head; and above all, the upward, heart-lifting shots of beautiful blond boys and girls, their hair sun-kissed, looking up adoringly at their leader. These shots are what I remembered all those years later, when the rest of it had faded.

1934. It got me wondering if this film was intended to sell the Nazis to the rest of the country, because it seems to me (and of course I stand to be corrected, as I've only been there twice, and can only read and listen from a distance) that Hitler might have finagled control of the government (which was a mess, coming out of post-war depression, and the humiliation of Versailles), and he undoubtedly did have all these thousands of followers, but he did not actually have the entire country behind him. It's interesting to note who is left out of that film, like the old army, commanded for centuries by the warrior caste. You get a couple brief shots of distinguished Junker army chiefs, in the audience at the speeches, not speaking themselves. There is absolutely no sign of German's once-vigorous intelligentsia. Instead we have Young Germany as Hitler envisions it, everyone in either in uniform, or in traditional garb when celebrating fealty to Hitler's person.

It occurred to me that this particular film was as effective as it was because of the female view, this lingering on the beauties of the city, the ancient buildings, the lovely smiling faces of girls and women. Sweet shots of the scuffed backs of children's shoes as their tow-headed wearers stand on tiptoe eagerly trying to catch a glimpse of the motorcade.

The party boys wanted (and got, in the sister film, which is stunningly boring except to the historian), military matchings and arms swinging, boots smacking the ground in unison, row after row of artillery with barrels jutting upward at an aggressive angle, medals glinting on uniforms. Leni Riefenstahl twines her message around the heart of the watcher, which is far, far more insidious.

It got me thinking about women who, while not in power, used their gifts to serve power, and how very dangerous they were.


Jul. 4th, 2013 02:29 pm
sartorias: (Glory and Trumpets)
We vow not to use these powers to oppress any person, but to regain the independence of the nation, and to strengthen universal liberties.

Sounds stirring! And which American patriot made that vow? Well, many of them might have made similar vows, (most of them verbally or mentally excepting slaves), but the person who vowed it meant it to stand for all people. Insert the missing clause after "but to": (but to defend the integrity of the borders of Poland) and there is the cry of Tadeusz Kościuszko, the remarkable leader who had carried his ideas of liberty to the New World in aid of the colonies seeking to break free of British rule.

Kościuszko amassed quite a bit of property in the new United States, always intending to return, but the terrible events in Poland precluded that. So he left his property to Thomas Jefferson, his fellow liberty-fighter, with the stated purpose of using the funds to buy and free slaves. I don't know what happened to Kościuszko's property after he died on the way back from the Congress of Vienna, but it wasn't used to free slaves.

The Day of the Polish Constitution is May 3rd, and that constitution was the first of its kind in Europe, modeled on the American one. Though it was proclaimed bloodlessly, it only lasted a year, and then the Empress Catherine of Russia came gunning for the Poles and their rich, fertile land, helped by conservative Polish nobles whose noses were put out of joint about their prospective curtailed powers in that constitution.

In spite of Prussia totally reneging on their promises of alliance, Kościuszko's Uprising in '94 might have prevailed, but for the Russians coming after the commander. One of Kościuszko's cherished regiments was a first, an all-Jewish volunteer force. In a series of encounters that would make Game of Thrones look like Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, the Russians by overwhelmingly superior force stamped out the uprisings, and in retaliation for the trouble they'd been put to, wiped out the entire civilian populace of Praga, a suburb of Warsaw. Kościuszko was wounded, captured, and borne off to Catherine's dungeons. Only her death saved his life.

After that, Russia, Austria and France bellied up to gobble the smoking remains of Poland, with the result that Poland vanished from the maps, though not from the hearts of the Polish people, for the entire nineteenth century. But first, Napoleon, no fool, promised to restore liberty--promised anything--to get those tough, dashing polish grenadiers and hussars fighting for him. He, like other commanders who attended military colleges, knew the term hussar got its rep in part from that Polish-Lithuanian heavy cavalry in 1500 who thundered into battle wearing pairs of wings on their backs.

But Napoleon betrayed Poland, even sending Poles to fight in Saint-Domingue to keep slavery; he should not have been surprised when those who survived the brutal weather and illnesses switched sides and fought with Toussaint L'Overture for liberty.

A century later, Poland emerged out of the wreckage of World War I, flourished . . . and was overrun by Germany in '39, and again, its allies sat on their hands. Again the Poles escaped and fought for liberty, and again stood by and watched as the big guns looked away while Stalin's USSR swallowed Poland in '45.

When I was growing up, there was no Poland. On our maps there was only the Iron Curtain, shrouding us from the Soviet world.

So here is Poland back in the world again, a romantic, dashing, tragic, heroic, amazing country with a long and tumbled history, entwined with that of the United States. Whenever I think about liberty, they are among the first to come to mind.
sartorias: (Fan)
Have you see this?

It's so amazing, poised between the last glimmers of the Belle Epoque and the first rumbles of WW II thunder. And . . . love letters! Hidden paintings! Wow.
sartorias: (Fan)
I was watching The Thin Man last night, with William Powell and Myrna Loy. The opening of the film simply shows the cover to the book, which was tremendously popular at the time, though Hammett has not worn well. (The Maltese Falcon is another I think is far better on film.) The sprightly dialogue and above all the acting is so superior to Hammett's gimmicky prose and (at least to me) two-dimensional characterizations . . . two dimensions? The women don't even get that much depth.

I was thinking later about films that are better than the books. Of course so much of that is personal bias, and which one you encountered first. I have always known that, but it hit me afresh when I over heard some young people talking about how much better the Lord of the Rings films were than the book, which was slow, boring, no women. I utterly disagree, but that was how they felt.

I've also heard the same about Breakfast at Tiffany's. Nobody I've ever talked about this with has trashed Capote's prose, I think it comes down to image, and also, whether you like the bittersweet ending the filmmakers tacked on, or prefer Capote's Dark and Bitter without a bit of sweet. Another I've heard both ways is Rebecca, some preferring du Maurier's spike take on the Gothic with her unnamed heroine, the dweeby men (du Maurier really seems to have disliked men) up against a couple of powerfully evil women, and the moody film.

Re bad prose, I've often heard film friends say that Billy Wilder took Cain's blah writing and injected it with brilliance when he made Double Indemnity. I feel that way about Last of the Mohicans, book and film. (though the film is a bit too gory for my taste.) Another I've heard that about is Journey to the Center of the Earth, and also the Anthony Andrews Scarlet Pimpernel--Baroness Orczy's prose being dreadful, but her sense of story pretty good.

Then there are the ones where the book is turned into something completely different, but better, like the plodding, overly earnest Red Alert in Kubrick's hands becoming Dr. Strangelove.

There are some anime films that seem better than the manga they are based on, as well. Like X1999.

For a total change of pace, but I don't want to forget it, [ profile] azdak found this tremendous YouTube offering: Stalingrad '42-'43, Volgograd 2013. This was arguably the most decisive battle on the Eastern front during WW II, lasting from August to February, with bitter close contact fighting, in which roughly two million people were killed. Two. Million. It ranks up there with one of the nastiest battles ever. When I was in school during the Iron Curtain days, it barely got a mention, while we heard about D-Day, the bombing of London, and maybe the Battle of the Bulge.

The sinister music is by Hans Zimmer; it fits, though I can't help wishing the maker had found something suitable from Russian composers, many of whom were no slouches at both sweep and sinister.
sartorias: (Fan)
I've been binging on a lot of thirties films, especially those written and directed by Europeans who came to America for various reasons. (Billy Wilder stated in Conversations With Billy Wilder that some came for the sunshine, or the opportunities, and some, like him, came to escape the gas chambers. Most of his family was killed at Auschwitz.)

Anyway, so many movies made during the thirties convey this strange, glamorous picture of that time. What is your sense of the thirties, whether from books, films, or both? Do you get conflicting impressions, or one uniform one?

This makes me think about a sense of history, how difficult it is to wrap oneself completely in it, even with a lifetime of study. Yet there are those odd moments if you enter a space and see how the light falls differently on the furnishings of the time, perhaps sounds and smells all combine to give you this peculiar feeling that--right then and there--time has vanished between you and then. Liminality. (Or that could just be fancy.)

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