Never wake a lazy lion

Ladies and gentlemen,
Dames en heren,
Bayanlar, Baylar,
Signoras e Signori,
Señoras y Señores,
Mesdames et Messieurs,
Friends,

I am so sorry to cause inconviences.

Some religious nutters cause me, in a first step to ask for word verification. As soon as the lady and the gentleman* (or the machine) get tired and thus decide to focus on other poor bloggers, I shall return to easy business as usual.


* My esteemed readers will notice that on my quest to become the politest blogger in this universe and those yet to discover, I did not call mentioned lady and gentleman names.
Otherwise, I'd say they are fucking idiots.

The peace of the night.

Perhaps, perhaps

Astronomy is perhaps the science whose discoveries owe least to chance, in which human understanding appears in its whole magnitude, and through which man can best learn how small he is.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

One cat a day ... ?

Yesterday a blackbird, used to find ...

(at least) one apple a day in Seanhenge,

looking left ...

looking right ...

hardly could believe its eyes.

Forest Bulb: Some thought I were Venus

Well, as promised for today's Laughing Lhursday, here's the metagrobolistic subject of Seanstronomy, observed in daytime.

I think from now on I shall call this star Forest Bulb.

As now :) can (perhaps) easily be seen it's neither Venus, Moon, nor Mars, but the good old bulb at the edge of our good old greenhouse which - mind you, the greenhouse, not the bulb - once, deep in the past millennium, was build mainly from old windows by our father (never would have come to my mind he was "but" my father-in-law) who whenever I'd admire his various skills (and how often I would!) accompanied by his unique tiny smile used to say (and still I do have his voice in my ear): "Sean, you can well be stupid as long as you know how to help yourself."

By the way: See the bright spot on the western side of Forest Bulb's northern hemisphere, pretty near to its equator? That's the sun.

Well, I am pretty sure that someone who on first sight knows to distinguish Mars from a bulb [see here, in the comment section] will probably insist on that it's rather a reflection of the sun, or to put it more precisely ... here's your turn, Andrew. :)

And now, getting hungry, I'll dedicate myself to something completely different. Bertus would call it minestronology.

Chill out with Chopin

Long live Heine

Our death is in the cool of night,
our life is in the pool of day.
The darkness glows, I’m drowning,
the day has tired me with light.

Over my head in leaves grown deep,
sings the young nightingale.
It only sings of love there,
I hear it in my sleep.

Heinrich Heine (13.12. 1797 - 17.02. 1856)

Same route - different views

Almost I had forgotten what difference blue sky and some spells of sun do make.
Well, ... and ... freshly fallen snow.

Remember but a few days ago?

Well, here's what it is looking like today.

One more example:

Ten days ago.

This morning.

Seanstronomy

Snowrotic

Metropolis

Those who might rather have expected the opus 'Megashovelling' will have to wait until tomorrow, as - after all the snow shovelling - I watched the restored version of Fritz Lang's silent classic that tonight had its premiere at the 60th "Berlinale".

Stunning!

And now, for those who can't wait until the film will be released in their country: Voilà.

The peace of the night.

Laughing Lhursday

Hostes alienigeni me abduxerunt. Qui annus est?*

* I was kidnapped by aliens. What year is it?

Nah! Neither was I kidnapped nor did I spoil a walk by breaking this or that extremity on icy path(s).


Just extremely busy with not blogging I was for a couple of days. And as you can easily see from above's title, still I would not let a tiny T spoil an absolutely amazing avantgardistic alliteration.

Apropos 'Laughing Lhursday': Visiting Stan, the master of Sentence First, the corners of your mouth will start quite a few expeditions to your ear-lobes.

Take your time, but don't miss coming back for Knatolee's hilarious hen-haiku(s) and ...

... Webwisewoman who caused me a bockety laughter.

The peace of the night.

Killing ... their power

“ ‘Gao Zhisheng! You mother****er! Your date with death is today! Brothers! Let’s show the bastard how brutal we can get. Kill the bastard.’ A leader of the group screamed. Then, four men with electric batons started to beat my head and body with ferocity. Nothing but the noise of the beating and my moaning could be heard in the room. I was beaten so severely that my whole body began shaking uncontrollably on the floor.

But one example. But one example.

How many journalists have been murdered in Mexico since 2000?

But one example. But some examples.

But one ... day ...

Forget it!!

There won't be the day that a (wo)man will not be bullied, imprisoned, tortured or killed by those who have not much more than their power.

Tell my ashes if I were wrong.

One apple a day ...

keeps ...

... the hunger away.

Catwalk

Home warm home

Anything else than triste

Cheers!

The heirs of today's birthday child who once finished his masterpiece in Triest will feel a bit triste when thinking of next year as then they can't suck any more honey / money from their ancestors' genius - in January 2011 the copyright expires.

How cometh I am looking forward to January 13th? :)

This cloak of white feathers

I do not sleep at night nor go out by day, I am sad because the world has disappeared, nor is there food nor bank left, nor open grounds nor fields. Nor will I be enticed out of my house by any girl's invitation while this plague continues, this cloak of white feathers sticking close to dragon's scales, but tell her that I do not want my coat made white like a miller's garment. After New Year one must go wrapped in fur, and during January God makes us start the year as hermits.

Now God has whitewashed the dark earth all around till there is no undergrowth without its white garment, no coppins that's not covered with a sheet: fine flour has been milled on every stump, heavenly flour like April blossoms. A cold veil lies over the woods and the young trees, a load of chalk bows down the trees; ghostly wheaten flour which falls till a white coat of mail covers all the fields of the plain. The soil of the ploughed fields is covered with a cold grit, lying like a thick coat of tallow on the earth's skin, and a shower of frozen foam falls in fleeces big as a man's fist. Across North Wales the snow-flakes wander like a swarm of white bees. Why does God throw down this mass of feathers like the down of his own geese, till here below the drifts sway and billow over the heather like swollen bellies big as heaps of chaff and covered with ermine? The dust piles in a drift where we sang along the pleasant paths.

This garment of snow holds us in grip while it remains cementing together the hills, valleys and ditches und a steel coat fit to break the earth, fixing all into a vast monument greater than the graveyard of the sea. What a great fall lies on my country, a white wall stretching from one sea to another! Who dares fight its rude power? A leaden cloak lies on us. When will the rain come?

Dafydd ap Gwilym