4 ms·

I choose to read this as describing a frustrating round of golf.

• ethbr0 3y ago
  Truly an indictment of those who build golf courses, by which metric Florida is utterly damned.
  • Tepix 3y ago
    Golf courses, as in Qwitzatteracht, the golf game?
    • ethbr0 3y ago
      The golf game Qwitzatteracht always makes me chuckle.
• ftxbro 3y ago
  "A legion of golfers, dozens in number, dressed in plaid or argyle or attired in golfing gear from a bygone era, with visors and gloves and golf bags still stained with the grass and dirt of prior rounds. Some wore knickers and tam o'shanters, while others donned bright polo shirts and khaki shorts. One golfer carried a large umbrella, another wore white knee-high socks stained with grass, and another wore a bloodstained wedding veil. Some wore hats adorned with feathers or made of rawhide, and one even dressed in the armor of a medieval knight. The golfers' faces were painted in outrageous patterns, like a troupe of carnival performers, all howling and shouting in a language unintelligible to the uninitiated, as they approached the tee box like a raiding party from a wilder world than that of the manicured course they terrorized, screeching and yammering, their clothing billowing behind them like smoke from some infernal realm."
  • ckw 3y ago
    A phalanx of mace-wielders, legioned by the dozens, swathed in interlocking geometries of archaic clan and tribal shroud, donned in specters of yesteryears garb. Upon crowns they bore the half moons of sun-shielders, hands sheathed in the callused gloves bearing the earthen residue of the wars waged on emerald fields. Some festooned in old world breeches and shapeshifter's bonnets, others in the blaring colors of plebeian polo and desert-dusted shorts. Among these warriors, a solitary figure, a shielder of storms, his trusty parasol held high. Another’s lower limbs swathed in ghostly shroud, baptized by the verdant life of the fields. And still another, a tragic bride, her veil sanguinary from the love-feast unholy. Feathers plucked from the winged ones adorned the headgear of some, the rawhide caps of others akin to the primal trophies of untamed hunts. A lone paladin armored in the steel and iron of yore. Faces beneath this motley parade painted in the ghastly festival hues of the carnivalesque. A cacophony of unknown tongues ricocheted, a grotesque operetta resounding in the ears of those unversed. As they approached the maiden's tee, they were as a raiding horde birthed from some primeval chaos, an epoch more untamed than the manicured world they stormed upon. The shrill discordance of their cries echoing, their raiments in their wake, whispering tales of an infernal dimension, billowing like the smoky breath of the underworld's beast.
• bamfly 3y ago
  Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting. They were coming toward where the flag was and I went along the fence. Luster was hunting in the grass by the flower tree. They took the flag out, and they were hitting. Then they put the flag back and they went to the table, and he hit and the other hit. Then they went on, and I went along the fence. Luster came away from the flower tree and we went along the fence and they stopped and we stopped and I looked through the fence while Luster was hunting in the grass. (Faulkner; the first lines of The Sound and the Fury)
  • ftio 3y ago
    Absolutely gorgeous. Thank you for sharing.
    • wrycoder 3y ago
      From a little after two oclock until almost sundown of the long still hot weary dead September afternoon they sat in what Miss Coldfield still called the office because her father had called it that—a dim hot airless room with the blinds all closed and fastened for forty-three summers because when she was a girl someone had believed that light and moving air carried heat and that dark was always cooler, and which (as the sun shone fuller and fuller on that side of the house) became latticed with yellow slashes full of dust motes which Quentin thought of as being flecks of the dead old dried paint itself blown inward from the scaling blinds as wind might have blown them. There was a wistaria vine blooming for the second time that summer on a wooden trellis before one window, into which sparrows came now and then in random gusts, making a dry vivid dusty sound before going away: and opposite Quentin, Miss Coldfield in the eternal black which she had worn for forty-three years now, whether for sister, father, or nothusband none knew, sitting so bolt upright in the straight hard chair that was so tall for her that her legs hung straight and rigid as if she had iron shinbones and ankles, clear of the floor with that air of impotent and static rage like children’s feet, and talking in that grim haggard amazed voice until at last listening would renege and hearing-sense self-confound and the long-dead object of her impotent yet indomitable frustration would appear, as though by outraged recapitulation evoked, quiet inattentive and harmless, out of the biding and dreamy and victorious dust. — Absalom, Absalom - Faulkner - first two sentences