Разговорчики

[Amberon]

макс размер аватары стал 170х170

[Amberon]

ТЕСТ

Добавлено спустя 6 минут 7 секунд:
ТЕСТ

Добавлено спустя 50 секунд:
Добавил функцию склейки постов - если вы подряд пишите несколько сообщений, они будут склеиваться

Добавлено спустя 20 минут 41 секунду:
ТЕСТ

Добавлено спустя 1 минуту 1 секунду:

---

УБРАЛ СТРАНИЦЫ С РЕДИРЕКТОМ
-вы успешно вошли-
и
-сообщение добавлено-


Добавлено спустя 1 минуту 37 секунд:
тест

Добавлено спустя 42 секунды:
или не убрал... дум. бляаааа.. щас...

Добавлено спустя 3 минуты 55 секунд:
тест

Добавлено спустя 40 секунд:
ясно. я до этого в основном скрипте форума убрал, а в моде склейки постов - нет)

[Amberon]

Скрытый текст:

ВАРВТПАТПРть

Добавлено спустя 1 минуту 30 секунд:

Не нажимать:

Henry Moore at eighty leafs through a book of sketches of his baby grandson and says, "I draw in order to know. I know Gus very much better after drawing these, you see." Later in the interview (aired on PBS) he shows us drawings of roots, trunks, branches. "I love trees nearly as well as I love Gus. I draw them in order to see them. ..." How shall we tell love from knowledge? How shall we tell the dancer from the dance? People assert the incompatibility of science and art as glibly as they insist upon a quarrel between science and religion, for the human craving for quarrels and compartments is insatiable; but as insatiable, and far more profitable, is the human craving for knowledge. If art is considered a form of knowledge, a means of learning to see, the quarrel evaporates and the compartments remain only as useful distinctions.
To very few artists is given the central, massive certainty of a Henry Moore, but all artists like to thumb their noses at the box-makers and dance with the buoyancy of Disney hippopotamuses across the boundaries drawn by anxious mapmakers of the mind.
Where a good many people are literate, poets may become the cautious members of this unruly chorus-line, keeping their elbows close to their sides, careful where they put their feet. Poets deal in words, and so do we all. People who won't dance, and won't paint, and won't act, and won't whittle, and won't sew. and wouldn't even put tissue paper on a comb and hum The Bear Came Over the Mountain to entertain the baby, do talk.
And they write. They write advertising copy, technical specifications, interoffice memoranda, newspapers, shopping lists, love letters, poison pen letters, postdeconstructionist exegeses, and FUCK on brick walls. And thus, being word-users, they kind of keep crowding the poets. Some of the poets quite rightly respond by saying: We have nothing, nothing whatever to do with you; our words are entirely different from your words: you speak English, more or less, but we speak Poetry, and you may think you can judge us, but you can't. Fortunately, however, writing is not the only activity involved in being literate, and lo! light as the Disney hippos, thumbing their noses gallantly, come the readers, pirouetting over the boundaries, bouncing on the boxes people, even poets, build to hide in. Boldly they read what the poets write. What for? In order to know. They want to know more, they want to know better, they want to see the world, because knowledge is love; or, as Keats put it. beauty, truth, truth beauty.
Keats said that was all we need to know, but he said nothing about the business being easy, or safe. In poetry, there's nowhere to hide. Not for the rash poet, not for the gallant collaborator, the reader. Every word's a UXB: the flash when one goes off can illuminate the whole landscape of a heart, and the light is merciless. As for the white stuff between the lines, that's totally unsafe. A Poem read is a risk taken. A poem read is a risk shared. The thing about collaborating at risk is, it makes us aware that we may be lonely but are not alone; we're all in this together,

often losing words to circle
and movement to other leaves
like trees to spin. . . .


LOCKER ROOM

You words damned well better do as you're told.
Get in line. Sound sweet. Stay on your feet.
When I need a pun I'll ask for it.
Match sound to sense, sense to sound.
Block that image of the wraparound
windshield's revealing/concealing in sun's glare.
Whatever's there needs care in the display.
Technical honesty's the note for the day.
Stop talking to each other. When I call,
you come. When I say shit
you say what color. Is that clear?
Get back here! Words can't walk out on



DANCE

Any minute now
the words will replay themselves
within the mind's ear:
The clown and the singer
fail at last,
juggler of hearts
and crier at the sticking place
falter,
footing lost, voice broken,
embracing in the downward spinning,
and clown take up the cry,
falling caller
catch the dark staccato
laughter, netless
in the minute's eye.



SONG

When I learned the other day
that everything Emily Dickinson wrote
can be sung to the tune
of 'The Yellow Rose of Texas"
I was crushed.
It was true.
I can no longer read Emily Dickinson
but Lone Star ghosts flit across the page,
the Alamo is not forgotten
and I hear the thundering hoofbeats
of the great horse Silver.
I wondered then
whether every person who pens a poem
has a tune,
a secret melody which will destroy him
if the word gets out.
A small thought, perhaps,
not quite as profound as it sounds;
and those who fool with vers libre
should be safer than most.
Yet the notion nags.
There's an awful lot of music in the world
To be trapped by John Cage
or crushed by Leadbelly
would be bad enough.
But I have this nightmare
of being done in by a hymn.
If Rock of Ages gets me in the end,
mocked Emily's diamond eyes
may sparkle like the dew
in stillnesses that lie
between the words and the Word.

SONNET, ANYONE?

Save for Berryman's, who wants the sonnet?
- A fusty hangover from ages dark.
Take a thought, hang fourteen lines upon it,
Prime it and crank it, force it to a spark,
Then halting rhyme in pattern archaic,
Play with the choke until the engine sings
(Wondering when you'll get that certain kick),
A stilted song of common imagings.
While the oldfangled buggy, pushed with pride,
Jolted to a motion, at times repays
Mechanic hands, mostly it's a rough ride,
With that Model T we drive on Sundays,
Bumping down twisted country roads, my love,
Where each must go who has something to prove.

Добавлено спустя 3 минуты 37 секунд:

Специально для Odin:

Вот тебе и спойлеры

Добавлено спустя 18 минут 10 секунд:
Включил DEBUG, т.к. некоторые сообщали о том, что форум тормозит.
Теперь внизу видна строка вида [ Time : 0.065s | 9 Queries | GZIP : Off ]
Если Time будет зашкаливать, сообщайте:)
Благо, сервер piter12 не очень загружен , несмотря на то, что на нём есть сайт с сервером линейки

[Ephior]

Дед Мороз, Снеговик... А Снегурочка где?
*косится в сторону Одина*

[Amberon]

Добавил Репутацию
Мучался над ней 4часа
Надо было исправить 76 файлов
Знаю, многое глючит, пишите - поправлю..
В понедельник все баллы репутации обнулю, так что тестируйте

Добавлено спустя 8 минут 16 секунд:
в общем, как в прошлый раз с быстрым ответом- в форум внедрил, а в стиль - не до конца:)
За выходные разберусь в дизайне стиля... и до Нового Года сделаю:)

[Odin]

я сначала не понял, куда попал, вот вам делать нефиг...

*косится в сторону Одина*

Не не не не не !!! Не хочу быть скукоженным до барбисайз!

[Amberon]

Если не нравится имя - обращайся к Эфиору

[Odin]

/хмурый смайлик/

[Amberon]

ггггггггг

[Odin]

блин, не надо так шутить.

[Amberon]

А как тебя назвать?

[Odin]

не люблю я нг.

[Amberon]

готово
ушёл по делам:)

[Amberon]

И вообще мы все умрём.

[Ephior]

я сначала не понял, куда попал, вот вам делать нефиг )

Я тут не причем. Сам был в шоке.

Если не нравится имя - обращайся к Эфиору

А я-то тут при чем?