Three Queens in Seanhenge

Again three Queens and their households are residing in Seanhenge.

Nectarious times they are living,

and (almost) no doubt:

Sweet will be their reward.

Imagine: 100 Days of the Book

Today a month ago happened what does not happen often: I was ahead the times.

Therefore, I thought tonight I'd just have to set the very link, but alas:

By doing so I had to realise: I am almost one month behind the time to answer some comments.
Sorry.
Not that this would not happen now and then. It does.
And as I am at it: Mostly it's not due to the attribute I am (often) coquetting with (my laziness), but my (felt) inability to quickly/spontaneously express my thoughts. In this very case it's due to something else.
Ah, it's such a pity: to read an interesting comment/thought, and (feeling to) not having the words, (to) not having the time to answer properly and then - to forget about it.
Well, my problem. Why did I start blogging in English, instead of sticking to the language I sucked from my mother's breast?!

End of the beforegoing.

[...] and after having cancelled lots of further rubbish [...].
For those who did not follow above given link: Certain people do (the rest of their contempories wish to) think today - April 23rd - is 'The Day of the Book'.

These people are idiots; and not just in the classical sense.

What about an Orwellian Hate Week?
Coming to think of it. One week of hate would mean: there'd be 51 weeks of no hate at all. What a relief, hm?!
Analogue, there'd be 364 Days of no Book.
[Yes, yes! And 365 days in leap years.]
Take your choice.


Postscriptum for those who'd find difficult to understand: It's not as difficult as you think; it's much more complex.

Finally, my commendation for the next Day of the Book:

Some works of John McGahern.

They're easily read within 24 hours.
And re the other few authors worth being read: In case you're able to read immediately after your birth, and assuming you're going to live 100 years, there'll be 100 Days of the Book. Now that's a big heap of time, hm?
Enjoy.
And good luck with the other 36,400 (bookless) days.

No kingdom for more sleep

Not much sleep I'd get these days. However, the other morning, having a mug of tea and a cigarette on balcony, when ...

looking east, and ...

looking south ...

again I felt: I am privileged.

The peace of the night.

Pars pro toto

Spring, spring!
Spring in Seanhenge!

Night and Dreams

Having helped her to sit up on the edge of the bed, he says while kneeling in front of her and putting on her slippers:
- You look like I was again causing you nightmares.
No response. No smile. No eye sparkling.
- Did I again offer you tea all night until you were fed up with me?
- ...
- Hm, do you think you are ready to fly into my arms?
- Yes.
- Alright then. ... Ready?
- Yes.
- You know that you will never ever fall when the strongest of all sons-in-law's with you?
- Yes.
- Good. So let's do it, Mylady. One ... two ... three! Done.
A little scream. Her head leaning against his left shoulder; he feels her shivering.
- Did it hurt?
- No.
- You say when you are ready for the marathon?
- I am ready.
- Good. So give me your hands, Mylady.
Slowly, step by step, they cover the three metres to the bedroom door, its threshold.
- And now we are climbing Mt. Everest. ... Good.

Minutes later. The old woman sitting on the toilet, he sitting on the rim of the bath tub.
- Don't you feel well?
- No.
- Any pain?
- No.
- So, w...
- I'll tell you when I've the teeth in my mouth.
- So be it.
He smiles. Their eyes meet. She does not smile.

Half an hour later, having another marathon behind her, with climbing Nanga Parbat and Popocatepetl, surviving a breakfast containing of three tiny bits of bread - one with egg and fleurs de sel, one with walnut cheese, one with chaumes -, a cup of tea and three pills, she says:
- It was so horrible! Wearing white runners, on arriving with my bicycle at the grocer's suddenly there was a sandheap. I fell. While getting up, fortunately Mickey appeared. Mickey, I said, could you please pick up my bike? He did, and I asked him: Mickey, would you now, please, be so kind and slap me? - But, why should I slap you, Eireen? he asked. Oh Mickey, I said, Diarmuid's told me by no means to get up without him. I could call him at any time of the day and the night, and now I am here. He will ... In the next moment I awoke ... ah ... and so relieved I felt to be in my bed. Still, I was shivering with horror.
- White runners? Did you ever wear white runners?
- No.
- Did you really ask Mickey to slap you?
- Yes.
And he laughed and laughed and ... both they laughed.

Pitch'n'Putt with Andrew'n'Calum

Postscriptum:
Oh sorry. Just notice: Correct title, wrong video. Or ...?

[...] full of nuts [...]

Part two

Happy 104th, Sam

Cascando
1
why not merely the despaired of
occasion of
wordshed

is it not better abort than be barren
the hours after you are gone are so leaden
they will always start dragging too soon
the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
bringing up the bones the old loves
sockets filled once with eyes like yours
all always is it better too soon than never
the black want splashing their faces
saying again nine days never floated the loved
nor nine months
nor nine lives

2

saying again
if you do not teach me I shall not learn
saying again there is a last
even of last times
last times of begging
last times of loving
of knowing not knowing pretending
a last even of last times of saying
if you do not love me I shall not be loved
if I do not love you I shall not love
the churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable
whey of words

terrified again
of not loving
of loving and not you
of being loved and not by you
of knowing not knowing pretending
pretending
I and all the others that will love you
if they love you

3

unless they love you

Samuel Beckett, *April 13th, 1906

Enduring what?

There might follow an update.

Don't know when, though, as I am trying to help a dear person to get better - or at least - yes, although we do not want to, we do have to face this possibility - to die without pain ... peacefully and with a little smile on her lips.

Why would I mention this?

I think it's a fitting counterpoint to what you can see and hear in the following videos full stop

The peace of the night.






The following video is a short version. For the original 38 minutes video released by wikileaks.org please visit their special project website www.collateralmurder.com.

Ah, and by the way ...

... and just in case you didn't know, yet:
April, April! Flann fooled you, folks.

McSeanagall's outing

Remembering that once in the past millennium when discovering all counties of Ireland [causing anyone's reflexes here?], during the first three weeks - probably due to my face being tanned by the Welsh sun - I got asked whether I were French or Italian; that after four weeks, though, people seemingly thought 'Well, neither he's English, Irish nor American, but perhaps Australian?; remembering that after three months I got asked which part of Ireland I was coming from, and that on the very last day when - just to say goodbye - entering a tea-house in Laragh where several times I had enjoyed tea & scones & good talks, the landlord just turned round and said 'Another two weeks, and you're a fucking Paddy, yourself', I think it's time to reveal ...

... once for ever ...

with an April 1st smile

that - in fact - I am a Scot.

Moon, Light & Shadow

Clouds, clouds, clouds tonight. And rain. Nothing to be seen here of tonight's full moon, unlike some days ago, when the astro-physicist before for one night travelling a bit deeper into what humans commonly call our (sic!) universe, focused the observatory's telescope on the almost full moon.
If I remember correctly, the photo contains of 14 shots, and its original size is 80 x 90 centimetres.

Click to enlarge.

So much for the light, and here comes for the shadow.

Just a thought

Sometimes I wish I knew less
about violence in its various forms.
And when being in such a mood,
I wish I were a humble gardener,
fond of literature and poetry,
writing a poem now and then.