Bloom's Day in Seanhenge

... today means weeding weeding weeding

 instead of reading

or even making words words words

which, by the way, easily can become a sword.

Tonight I might open page 506 of Richard Ellman's Joyce biography, though.

Why page 506 (pp)?

The answer you could find by visiting Stan's dwelling, while its owner - so to speak - is celebrating Molly's Day. 

Enjoy.

Variatio delectat

Don't let disturb yourself by this blog's varying appearance. 

I might be a bit experimenting for a while.

After all, change is part of Omnium, too, hm?

Just a thought

The tinier one's brain, the less others need to wash.

Disability and the UN System

... ha ha ha, there was no need to invent this title. The UN - so far! - is a forum of the disabled. {Anyone to sue me? You're welcome!) Imagine: Libya f. e. amongst members of the Human Rights Council. Thankfully there's no need of a comment. Alfred E. Neuman years ago put it nicely.

"The U.N. is a place where governments opposed to free speech demand to be heard!"

And thus ends a day with Schumann

Es war, als hätt' der Himmel
Die Erde still geküsst
Dass sie im Blütenschimmer
Von ihm nun träumen müsst

Die Luft ging durch die Felder
Die Ähren wogten sacht
Es rauschten leis die Wälder
So sternklar war die Nacht

Und meine Seele spannte
Weit ihre Flügel aus
Flog durch die stillen Lande
Als flöge sie nach Haus



It was as though the sky
had silently kissed the earth,
so that it now had to dream of sky
in shimmers of flowers.

The air went through the fields,
the corn-ears leaned heavy down
the woods swished softly—
so clear with stars was the night

And my soul stretched
its wings out wide,
flew through the silent lands
as though it were flying home.

[To esteemed visitors who might come to think 'this is/seems to be suboptimal a translation of Eichendorff's poem': You may even say: It's a lousy one! - However, such an admirer of Eichendorff I am not that I'd  ask McSeanagall to make it better. In other words: I don't like the poet, but this very piece of music.]

Poet(s) of Love

Schumann 'In foreign lands'

Fairy Tales ...

for viola (Yuri Bashmet) and piano (Mikhail Mutian).

On Robert Schumann's 200th

Today 200 years ago a child was born: Robert Schumann.

What could be more natural then than beginning Omnium's little homage à Schumann with his Kinderszenen / Scenes from Childhood?
Thus, take your time, cl... ah, no!

First of all let me wave farewell to all busy contemporaries by whom as it's noise-related, music is not appreciated, and / or to whom 17:37 minutes are a big heap of time 'within which I could easily visit appr. 35 blogs and leave 40 comments'.

Oh. You are still there? Fine.
Thus, close your eyes, remember (some of) those magic moments in your childhood of which I hope you had a plenty, or better: become again the child that once you were. And if when opening your eyes after 17:10 minutes you feel a salty drop in their corners like the ones you are detecting in the great Horowitz' eyes: there's no reason to regret ...    

Interesting, isn't it?

Money in German means Geld.

(To) geld in English means to castrate.

A gelded horse in German is a Wallach.

A Wallach in English is a gelding.



Therefore: money is a gelding, hm?

Last question for tonight: How do geldings reproduce?

No clue?
Ask your trusted banker.
And to verify your banker's answer, ask your repesentative.

I don't ask for empathy

... either you feel it, or you don't.

What a voice

Am I sad, tonight? Do I feel sentimental?
No.
How could one who'd now and then be considered (ice-)cold, heartless, selfish, feel ... Fado-esque?

Ah, don't wonder, don't ponder.
Just open your ears, listen ... and agree: What a voice.

I don't know the reason why ...

... but I'll (probably) continue blogging.

Hm ... a guitar's music does not mean more to me, than any other woman I have known.

Still, some of the following lyrics (latest when replacing songs by posts) will let sense those of you who know me why I thought this is not an ideal but quite a fitting post after three years blogging.