#Latinist

[tullycicero]

SALVETE!

Hi everyone!!!!! mihi nomen est Arti - as I go by for my art - {arti.fexi on insta} (i drew my lil self portrait) - I'm just a simple puella, my Roman Empire is the Roman Empire, and that's basically what this blog is for

Classics, Latin, Mythology, Archaeology - my degree!!!! I'm having a whale of a time studying this so come say salve anytime if u like this sort of stuff - or any of the stuff tagged xxx I firmly believe in unaesthetic academia (or chaos so to speak but I like to think it has purpose) - I love my reading and my degree and my subject so let's just enjoy our work!!!! maybe sometimes i need reminding abt why I love my degree, because I'm sick of my work, but I don't think I could ever go into anything else...

Some summarised info abt me

~ I'm Arti, and I'm 20

~ I'm a Christian

~ I study Classics at Cambridge (in the UK :D) - which is predominantly what I talk abt

~ I v much love classics and always enjoy my classics and talking abt classics <3

[latinadarkacademiawannabe]

cicero is a nickname and marcvs tvllivs cicero is no friend of mine

[shoulda-been-a-redhead]

[soupedepates]

[blacklinesw9]

(via Nunc est bibendum: now is the time to drink Clock by BrixtonWords)

[volumina-vetustiora]

what the fuck

saxo cere comminuit brum

what the actual fuck

[nicandros]

The real problem with the classics corner of tumblr is that it's deeply unbalanced. There are not enough hellenists going insane over random ancient greek politicians. The latinists are giving it their all and being completely unhinged on main and we aren't matching their energy. This simply cannot stand.

[measureformeasure]

matching couples tattoos where one of you gets sappho 31 and the other one gets catullus 51

[thisbluespirit]

@lurking-latinist I'm sure you will already have done this, but for your Hornblower obsession needs: The Hornblower Story (BBC Radio 1979-1980) link!

[wellntruly]

Hello, love that you have a whole tag for #men in statement scarves. Are you aware of this Guardian article entirely about ex-Doctor Who Sylvester McCoy (everyone's adorable Scottish grandpa) in extremely large scarves? It is at https://www.theguardian.com/fashion/2019/oct/05/mens-fashion-long-scarves-doctor-who-sylvester-mccoy-tim-dowling. The scarves are massive and he is tiny.

"The scarves are massive

and he is tiny"

[shoulda-been-a-redhead]

Actually it’s “Wolf-boy Wolf” the werewolf. 

If ur gonna point out a genius linguistic pun at least get it right. 

[apollon-emos]

hello i'm asking the hivemind for opinions on translations of The Metamorphoses. which one should i aim to get for my first reading?

[maaarine]

my 11yo niece loves Greek mythology (Percy Jackson was the gateway drug)

so I bought her a little intro to the Greek alphabet so that she can write fanfic about Ἄρτεμις

[misscrazyfangirl321]

android is also the local tech expert, so when they start to malfunction they have to talk their human friends through how to repair them, even though the procedure is painful?

OOOOO

"There's a panel-" Speech. Talking. Unexpectedly difficult. Something is wrong. Wrong. Malfunctioned. Glitching. "On my back. On the left side." Left? Process. Repeat. Clarify. "Right side."

"Listen, I don't know about this." Scared. The human is scared. (So am I. Another glitch. Another malfunction. Another failing.) "Maybe we should wait until Frankie gets back."

Frankie Hills. Mechanic. Fifteen. Expert. This human is not an expert. He's new; his name isn't in my database yet. But he's not a mechanic. I know that; he told me. "No time. Glitching. Crashing. Odds of successful repair... Dropping."

This doesn't make him calmer. His hands are shaking, which is bad. Wrong. He's glitching. (But humans don't glitch. They just exist. Why can't I just exist?) I search my database, ignoring the strain on my processor. If I'm not careful, I'll overheat, but he'll never get anywhere without my help.

Comfort words. Excellent. "It will be-be okay." Repeating. Echoing. I'm overloading my system. Audio quality is suffering. "I believe in you."

An odd thing: belief. I don't know what it means. But I know I'm broken, and he's the only one who can fix me. I need him to fix me, before it's too late.

In any case, the words seem to assure him. His features shift. Change. The word comes to my processing center unbidden: Soften. He relaxes, and clears his throat. "Left panel?"

"Right." Then, when he starts to reach, I clarify, "Right panel. Right side. Not correct. Right."

This gives him pause, but only briefly. Then he reaches again, this time for the right (right, correct, direction) panel. When he twists the screwdriver, my sensors burn in protest, and I cannot stop a noise from slipping out. Unfortunate; it frightens him.

"Did I hurt you?"

Hurt: to cause pain. My sensors are not for pain; they serve as alarms for things that pose a threat. They tell me if things are too hot, too cold, subject to cause harm to my hardware or programming. It sends a warning through my wires; I find it unpleasant, but that does not make it pain.

My processor is too close to overheating; I cannot explain all of this. "Yes." It falls within the parameters of truth the Organization has defined for me. "Remove the panel."

"But if it's going to hurt you-"

"It must be removed. There is no other way to repair me."

He makes a noise of his own: a groan, a human sound for pain. But why is he in pain? He isn't; he hurts for me. Hurts because I suffer. Still, though, he sets to work, removing the panel. This time, when noises escape, he does not falter.

"Now what?"

"There are two wires: red and green."

"You have a lot more wires than that back here."

His voice has changed. Taken on a sound: a drawl. So this is sarcasm, then. A human attempt at humor, to make me feel more relaxed (or perhaps, to make him feel more relaxed).

"Those do not matter. Find the red and green wires."

He makes another noise, similar to the grunt, but lighter. Louder. I identify it as laughter; he thinks I've made a joke in turn. Very well.

"Okay, got 'em. What do I do?"

This will be unpleasant. I know this. These wires are not meant to be exposed, so they're connected to powerful sensors. When he does what he must, it will overwhelm my system. But it has to happen.

"Wait until I finish speaking. Disconnect both wires, and insert the yellow drive on the table into the slot behind those wires. Then, reconnect the wires. Make sure you do not cross them."

He waits five seconds-I count-to ensure that I'm done talking. I've encountered droids far less compliant than him. Then, he asks, "What happens if I cross the wires?"

The sensation I experience isn't truly fear; it's simply programming, a jolt of warning, an attempt to preserve data. I'm more useful when I have all of my data, after all. Still, I sound unsteady even to myself when I reply, "System reboot."

Wiping me. Erasing me forever. I would still be here, but not here. Not me. Something else. Someone else. But me. I don't want to think about this; it will definitely overwhelm my processors.

"I'm done speaking," I inform him, because he still hasn't continued the procedure.

"Right, just, uh... Brace yourself." There is nothing to brace myself against; there is nothing to prepare me for this.

"I will not be able to guide you any longer," I warn, and he hesitates. Humans have something called intuition, and I suspect right now that his is activating, inferring from the data I've provided that this will not be a good experience for me. It will, however, be a necessary one.

He knows. Clears his throat. "Okay. Here goes nothing."

A strange thing, something humans often say before things which are most definitely not nothing. A human contradiction; they have many.

Then, all programs running in my mind cease, replaced only with sensor alerts, warnings, jolts- (it hurts-)

Processing fails.

-

I've been recharged. It isn't truly waking up, but that's what humans call it, when I shift from powered down to powered up. All of my sensors are operating at normal levels, not detecting any negative input.

And all of my data is in-tact.

The man is sitting by my charging stall, watching me with an odd look on his face. I run it through my processors (running smoothly now, easily able to take in the new information): It is exhaustion. While I have been recharging, he has not done the same. Curious.

"You require sleep. My calculations indicate that your performance will be diminished by more than-"

"You're okay!" He interrupts me, and-as per my programming-I cease imparting information. Then he stands, reaching over and wrapping his arms around me.

A hug; I don't need to check my database for that. I've observed it before, frequently. It's strange, finally experiencing it. My sensors exist for detecting threats, but the pressure is too light to register as a threat. It does register, though; awareness without warning. It's... Not unpleasant.

"You performed the procedure adequately," I inform him, because my records indicate that moments of embracing call for phrases of sentiment.

He laughs, again. That's not the correct response to sentiment; maybe I didn't do it right. But he hugs me again-more tightly, but still not tight enough to send a warning-before releasing me.

"Thanks for talking me through it," he says.

Odd, to thank me for something that benefitted me more than him. Programming and experience both tell me, however, that there is only one response he's seeking.

"You're welcome."

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

I’m a time traveler and I’m lost! Please help me! What is the current year?

No! I don't know!!!

[siena-sevenwits]

I would like a folk song please!

You get "Verkhovyna," which is an extremely fun early 20th century Ukrainian folk tune. It starts slow and then picks up spirit. It's close to my heart because when I worked at a living history museum, there was a little informal choir among the costumed staff, and this was one of the songs we sometimes performed to showcase the popular music that immigrants brought to Canada. This version is performed by the Orpheus Vocal Group.