Sweet Nothings (?)

Why would one not be surprised that Luc Bondy's interpretation of  Arthur Schnitzler's Liebelei in Austria would get this (i.e. "Not more than a sweet Nothing") and that roasting(s).

As a man who is not immune against arrogance, purism, smugness. vanity etc., I am not.
After all, above mentioned traits are part of Omnium, hm? :)*

By the way, Judith Schmitzberger (author of above's this and Sophia Felbermair (author of above's that, are (now) part of Omnium, too. Congratulations, Myladies.

Well, arrogance, purism, smugness. vanity and utter stupidity aside:

I'd (have) like(d) to watch this, either in Northampton, Kingston, Coventry, Vienna, Recklinghausen, Madrid or ... in the Young Vic.

It seems to be a fine, an interesting approach.



* Sorry, Don QuiScottie.

Right Mum, Son

Just so, inspired by Andrew.

A tragedy, a shame

... that I'd distract your attention from today's events.
Who cares about what was up to date many many yesterdays ago, hm?
The more as tomorrow today's another yesterday, hm?
Anyway, as said. Sorry, and by all means: Don't let disturb your peace of mind.
Apart from that we can't solve each tiny problem on this beautiful planet: we just can't afford pondering too much, can we?
Pondering too much makes so bloody depressive, hm?
And life is much too beautiful, too precious to waste it on getting depressive, hm?
The more as us getting depressive, will not change anything, hm?
It's hard enough daily to watch all these (breaking) news while enjoying our most delicious dinner, hm?
Ah! No. Skip watching the vid that I am too lazy to delete.
Enjoy life. It's so fucking short.

The f... err ... the peace of the night.

BP would like to clarify that ...

... contrary to some media reports ...

Thank you so much for clarifying, Big Prother.

Troubleshooters

It's the time
of the year
when at night
listening to the silence
my heart feels so light.

The frogs are croaking.

Tiny question to billionaires

Gosh. No post for a couple of days.

And the stories lying on the street (at least this is what the avarage young would-be journalist will once, twice, thrice etc. been told in the beginning of what he's very probably sure will become a great career.

Three months ago I would not know how to spell shornalist, and today already I am one, eh?

Wow, ... writing German I could go on and on and on ...

Now did I decide to not blogging in German.

Thus, my fault, hm?

Ha ha ha.

Anyway. All this just to tell that there's much to learn about life when - after having rubbed her neck, back and knees with oinments - listening to a woman without teeth.

You're smiling? You don't believe?

Alright. But one example: You can be a billionaire. However, what do your billions help when you can't go on toilette?

The peace of the night.

[...] to be anything but ...

[...] the laboring man has not leisure for a true integrity day by day ; he cannot afford to sustain the manliest relations to men ; his labor would be depreciated in the market. He has no time to be anything but an earthworm*."
Thoreau, Walden

* Err, don't know how it could happen. Please replace an earthworm by a machine.

Same sight, different view

Well, for yesterday's post I chose a photo taken in April, around Eastern.
That's why the Osterglocken (Easterbells = daffodils) meanwhile are withered, and thus today it looks a bit different: Narcissi & Co. have taken their place, the hazeltrees have put on their foliacious skirt. Only Forest Bulb remains as it is.

Of warmth, worms and extasy

The sunshine bathes in clouds of many hues
And mornings feet are gemmed with early dews
Warm Daffodils about the garden beds
Peep thro their pale slim leaves their golden heads
Sweet earthly suns of spring—the Gosling broods
In coats of sunny green about the road
Waddle in extacy—and in rich moods
The old hen leads her flickering chicks abroad
Oft scuttling neath her wings to see the kite
Hang wavering o'er them in the springs blue light
The sparrows round their new nests chirp with glee
And sweet the Robin springs young luxury shares
Tuteling its song in feathery Gooseberry tree
While watching worms the Gardeners spade unbears

John Clare (1798 - 1864) Home Pictures in May

More poems by John Clare are to be found on this fine site.

I've been reading a lot

Much reading has brought upon us a learned barbarism.
Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

Instead of words

Phew! And nowadays?

Nowadays three witty turns of phrase and a lie
make a writer.
Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

Don Quiscottie & Seanso Pansa

...are not fighting windmills.

See?

It does not lack of irony

... when Mother's Day coincides with this very anniversary.

Re a knot in my hanky

Well, ...

almost three months ago, during a 'late night session' with
- in alphabetical order, but comme il fault, ladies first -
CherryPie, Claudia and Andrew, I promised CherryPie to make
a knot in my hanky* in order to not forget that she's looking
forward to pictures from the other seasons.

Voilà. And see, CherryPie?
No hanky spoils the view of the scenery.

Instead: two golfers. Joyce'n'Beckett?
Certainly not, as I realised at first sight.
Andrew'n'Calum, then?
Not sure.
None of the gentlemen cursed, sweared,
battered a club on the ground or
hurled it further than the ball.
Who knows, though?
Calum claimed nowadays to be
much much ..... much much fucking calmer!

PS: Claudia, you're not forgotten. My muscles do however need some exercise before being worth to be publicly shown. Therefore I suppose, the ideal moment will be, when the last potato has been digged up. ...

Just repeating yesterday night's comment*

Pyrrhus Cameron will not be able to get Clegg's support, hm?
Clegg would prove to be a turd**, did he support Cameron, hm?
Thus, as it looks like, Labour will have to become a bit liberal.
Whatever that means.
Guid nicht!
And what a disappointment it would mean for all those who call themselves Libertarians.

Anyway, this might cause trouble:
A statement said: "It is a cause for serious concern that many people who wanted to vote today were unable*** to do so by 2200 when polls closed."
And right so!
What a bunch of dilettantish bureaucrats!
Good night, Great Britain. And good luck!

* (hopefully) without typos this time.

** sorry. Certainly I had not written this baaahd word, had not been coming to my mind what once in the past millennium I saw on a wall in Derry's Bogside: "Thatcher lured Hurd to be a turd."
Obviously I am getting old, hm? My long-term memory works so fine.

*** many people were unable to vote?! Rather they were enabled not to vote, hm? Ah, language is interesting; and sometimes reveals a lot.

Mind you, I have no clue of politics.

Zwei Pfennige worth(less)

When in the Course of human Events, it becomes necessary for one People to dissolve the Political Bands which have connected them with an antiquated Constitution, an unfair electoral system based on a duopoly of greed and unbalanced outcomes for the subjects (called citizens elsewhere) … they should vote for change.

By pinching shamelessly above's quote I am adding meine zwei Pfennige to Mr. Grahn's two cents on today's general election in the UK.

Heaven - that was easy!

Of all the inventions of man I doubt
whether any was more easily accomplished
than that of a Heaven.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

One for both the naive and the liar

There are people who believe
everything is sane and sensible
that is done with a solemn face.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

Instead of a rant

about ...
[take your choice; you can hardly be wrong]

here's a glimpse of what pleases my eyes,
whenever on my walks I am reaching this spot.

He who stubbed virgin soil ...

... and planted a blue flower.

Born May 2nd, 1772 as Georg Philipp Friedrich von Hardenberg in Oberwiederstedt Manor / Harz mountains, when choosing his pseudonym he probably bethought himself of the name his ancestors in Großenrode had kept until the sons of Bernhard de Novalis decided to take Hardenberg as their family name. And 'stubbing virgin soil' (which is the meaning of Novalis) he intended to do, this Novalis who when in May 1789 meeting Gottfried August Bürger, felt taken with this ardent advocate of a folksy poetry, but distanced himself, after he had met the Bürger-critical Friedrich von Schiller.
'Everything must be poetic', henceforth is his maxim. Less romantic contemporaries shrug off his work as fustian, others (glorifying him) explain his desire for death (Hymns to the Night) with his not getting over the death of his great love (Sophie von Kühn); but Novalis arguably did more than inventing the symbol of romanticism – the Blue Flower dreamt up by the protagonist in his fragmental novel Heinrich von Ofterdingen:
Studies of law and mining, arts, science, love: the 'dreamer' , who in view of an accelerating celerity commended his contemporaries to exercise slowness, was eager for knowledge, was concerned about many things. Often disputed. Self-critical, too. And he is not given as much time as Goethe. Death comes quickly. March 25th, 1801 Novalis dies, not even 29 years old. Probably he got infected, while tending his from phtisis suffering friend Friedrich.

What remains from Novalis? Much more than Pollen (Blüthenstaub).

Night-in-gale