Saturday, December 29, 2018

Tuesday, December 25, 2018

Merry Christmas

Same photo as last year,
as the year before,
as ten years ago.
Nothing seems to change, hm?

Merry Christmas, then,
Goodwill to all people
and Peace on Earth.

Saturday, December 22, 2018

Saturday Night Music

Dmitri  Hvorostovsky (16 October 1962 – 22 November 2017)

Aida Garifullina * 30 September 1987

This concert in Grafenegg on June 22nd, 2017 was Dmitri Hvorostovsky's last one. Five months later he died.  

Tuesday, December 18, 2018

Thursday, December 13, 2018

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Saturday, December 08, 2018

Thursday, December 06, 2018

Laughing Lhursday*

A man and a donkey know more than a man.

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Tuesday, December 04, 2018

Sunday, December 02, 2018

Saturday, December 01, 2018

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

O sole mio

Dmitr Hvorostovsky (9 October 1962 – 22 November 2017

Sunday, November 25, 2018

Saturday, November 24, 2018

Thursday, November 22, 2018

Saturday, October 27, 2018

Friday, October 26, 2018

Friday is Skyday

If I would not care about the news ...

Sunday, October 21, 2018


While she is sleeping
A moonlit dreamscape her face.
Watching her in awe

Her beauty makes me breathless.
Her love is my oxygen.

Saturday, October 20, 2018

Friday, October 19, 2018

Friday, October 12, 2018

Tuesday, October 09, 2018

The Valuable Time of Maturity

“I counted my years and discovered that I have fewer years left to live compared to the time I have lived until now.

I feel like that kid who won a package of goodies: the first ate them eagerly, but when he perceived that there were few, he began to savour them deeply.

I have no time for endless meetings where discuss statutes, rules, procedures and regulations, knowing that it will not achieve anything.

I have no time to withstand ridiculous people who, despite their chronological age have not grown.

I don’t have time to deal with mediocrity.

I do not want to be in meetings where parade inflated egos.

I won’t tolerate manipulators and opportunists.

Bother me envious, seeking to discredit the most able, to usurp their places, talents and achievements.

I detest people who do not argue about content but titles.

My time is too precious to discuss titles.

I want the essence, my soul is in a hurry. Not many treats are left in the packet.

I want to live among human people, very human. People, who can laugh at their mistakes.
Who do not become full of themselves because of their triumphs.
Who do not consider themselves elite, before they have really become one.
Who do not run away from their responsibilities.
Who defend human dignity.
Who do not want anything else but to walk along with truth, righteousness, honesty and integrity.

The essential thing is what makes life worthwhile.

I want to surround myself with people who can touch the hearts of others.
People who despite the hard knockouts of life, grew up with a soft touch in their soul.

Yes, I am in a hurry. So that I can live with the intensity, which only maturity can give me.

I intend not to waste any of the treats I have left. I am sure they will be more exquisite compared to the ones I have eaten so far.

My goal is to reach the end satisfied and at peace with my loved ones and my conscience.

I hope yours is the same, because the end will come anyway…”

Mario De Andrade (October 9, 1893 – February 25, 1945)

Hommage à Jacques Brel

Jacques Brel 8 April 1929 – 9 October 1978

Patricia Kaas *9 December, 1966

Monday, October 08, 2018

As for Extremists

"I am against all extremists.
In fact, I think they should be lined up against a wall, and shot."

Chevy Chase
(October 8th, 1943

Tuesday, October 02, 2018

Monday, October 01, 2018

Merci, Monsieur!

Charles Aznavour (
22 May 1924 – 1 October 2018)


Kiri Te Kanawa 

E, pakia kia rite 
E, ko te rite kia rite
E, takahia kia ngawari
E, torona kei waho
Hoki mai 

E whakarongo ai au
Ki te tangi mai
A te manu nei,

A te tarakihi,
I te weheruatanga
o te po

Tara ra-ta kita kita
Tara ra-ta kita kita

Wiri o papa, towene, towene
Wiri o papa, towene, towene

Hope whai-a-ke
Turi whatia
Ei! Ei! Ha! 

- - -

Clap in unison
In unison, in unison
Stamp your feet smoothly,
Hands outstretched,
Then back. 

I listen
To the cry
Of this flying creature,

Of the cicada,
In the middle
of the night 

[cicada noises] 

quivering rear end, whirring, whirring
Quivering rear end, whirring, whirring 

Knees bent!
Hips swaying! 
Ei! Ei! Ha!

Friday, September 28, 2018

Tuesday, September 25, 2018

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Time to relax

I think I'll be there
contemplating, pondering.
At least now and then.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Monday, September 17, 2018

An idea is developing

Sometimes art is disturbing,
sometimes inspiring.
I feel inspired.

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Saturday, September 15, 2018


A hot day it was.
Hot and humid. And my heart
was full of great joy.

Friday, September 14, 2018

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Bye bye, Bicycle

What a bicycle!
Sergeant Pluck would be delighted
(to confiscate it)
as would the magnificent Jams O'Donnell.
To Seanso Pansa it looks like an iron donkey.
And, indeed, we met not far from La Mancha.
Don Quijote's country, that is,
not Don QuiScottie's.
If the sky doesn't drop on my head,
I shall be there from January till April
for a long-desired quest within the realm of the letters.

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Saturday, July 28, 2018

Saturday, July 21, 2018

Saturday Night Music

Bella Davidovich *16 July 1928

With thanks to Claude who sent me this and made me aware of that this week it was the lady's 90th birthday.

Friday, July 06, 2018

Friday is Skyday

Imagine the sunset of Omnium.
Eleven years seem a few too much, anyway.
Good night, and good luck!

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Saturday Night Music

Flash mob “Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9” was performed at Omotesando Hills, Shibuya, Tokyo, on Tuesday, September 13, 2016 Tokushima Prefecture is where Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 was performed for the first time in Asia. The flash mob orchestra is an event for publicizing the 100th anniversary of this first performance to be commemorated in 2018.
Conductor: Keita Matsui
Solo singers: Shoko Kumada, Naoko Fujii, Aigaku Kishinami, and Takahito Asai
Performer: Tokushima Kinen
Orchestra Chorus: Musashino Chorus

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

Saturday, June 09, 2018

Friday, June 01, 2018

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

Friday, May 25, 2018

Friday is Skyday

Sunset of a life.
Still plans. Still lots of desire.
And a status quo.

One has to change some things then.
Those, left behind might be shocked.*

* Someone recently said:
Those affected, those left behind, may it happen after two years or after 42, will never understand. You will always be the  bad woman, the bad guy.

Flashmob Friday

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Saturday Night Music

Friedrich Gulda (16 May 1930 - 27 January 2000)

From the Munich Philharmonic Hall Munich Piano Summer Festival 1989
From the Well-Tempered Clavier Part II by Johann Sebastian Bach
0:32 Prelude in A flat major
Fugue in A flat major

From the Well-Tempered Clavier Part I by Johann Sebastian Bach
Prelude in C sharp minor
9:06 Fugue in C sharp minor
Prelude in G major
Fugue in G major

16:52 Friedrich Gulda - For Rico
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart - Sonata in B flat major K 333
25:09 Andante cantabile
30:10 Allegretto grazioso

The Doors / Friedrich Gulda (arr.) - Light My Fire
44:40 Friedrich Gulda (arr.) - Die Reblaus (Traditional)

Inexpensive Progress

Inexpensive Progress

Encase your legs in nylons,
Bestride your hills with pylons
O age without a soul;
Away with gentle willows
And all the elmy billows
That through your valleys roll.

Let's say goodbye to hedges
And roads with grassy edges
And winding country lanes;
Let all things travel faster
Where motor car is master
Till only Speed remains.

Destroy the ancient inn-signs
But strew the roads with tin signs
'Keep Left,' 'M4,' 'Keep Out!'
Command, instruction, warning,
Repetitive adorning
The rockeried roundabout;

For every raw obscenity
Must have its small 'amenity,'
Its patch of shaven green,
And hoardings look a wonder
In banks of floribunda
With floodlights in between.

Leave no old village standing
Which could provide a landing
For aeroplanes to roar,
But spare such cheap defacements
As huts with shattered casements
Unlived-in since the war.

Let no provincial High Street
Which might be your or my street
Look as it used to do,
But let the chain stores place here
Their miles of black glass facia
And traffic thunder through.

And if there is some scenery,
Some unpretentious greenery,
Surviving anywhere,
It does not need protecting
For soon we'll be erecting
A Power Station there.

When all our roads are lighted
By concrete monsters sited
Like gallows overhead,
Bathed in the yellow vomit
Each monster belches from it,
We'll know that we are dead.
John Betjeman (28 August 1906 – 19 May 1984)

Friday, May 18, 2018

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Tuesday, May 08, 2018

Tuesday, May 01, 2018

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Tuesday, April 03, 2018

Saturday, March 31, 2018

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Laughing Lhursday* – The Atomic Theory

In case you wish to read the words: The Englisch text you find here, at the blog of my friend Jams who today would have become 55; the translation into German here. 
Like five years ago, I do like thinking of my friend Jams having a pint of plain tonight with Flann O'Brien [and perhaps a second with Father Jack whilst Ted (not Father Ted, obviously) is reciting an episode of The Master and Margarita; discussing with Sergeant Pluck the advantages and disadvantages of becoming a bicycle, whilst feeding Mimi with cheese; taking phantastic photos while strolling around in his new surroundings without feeling any pain in his knees, let alone longing for Garra rufa to nibble skin off his feet; organising a weekly poetry contest the winner of which will be rewarded with a bicycle-esque looking William Topaz McGonagall-statue and ... ah ... oh well ... enjoying his new alltemporaries with what he uses to call drivel, and now and then sending love to his not-wife Shirl, a smile to his Mum and Dad, a twinkle of his eyes to Tim, Li, Elahe and amongst others ... well ... to you and to me.

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.


Saturday, March 24, 2018

Saturday Night Music

24 March 1786, thus 232 years ago today,
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart completed
Piano Concerto No. 24

Friday, March 23, 2018

Dear Jams!

Sometimes... sometimes it still does seem not real.
Sometimes I am longing to joke with you, to swear with you...
ach! I miss you, my friend!
Yesterday, was the fifth anniversary.
And I am sitting here, writing this, and my eyes are filling themselves with tears.
Sláinte, Jams!

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Thursday, March 01, 2018

Laughing Lhursday*

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Wednesday, February 28, 2018

Saturday, February 24, 2018

Saturday Night Music

Composer: Verdi, Giuseppe
Libretto/Text Author: Piave, Francesco Maria
Libretto Source: Hugo, Victor
Conductor: Chailly, Riccardo
Orchestra: Vienna Philharmonic
Orchestra Chorus: Vienna State Opera Chorus
Chorus Master: Balatsch, Norbert
Borsa: Corazza, Remi
Ceprano: Bracht, Roland
Countess Ceprano: Kuhlmann, Kathleen
Duke of Mantua: Pavarotti, Luciano
Gilda: Gruberova, Edita
Giovanna: Barbieri, Fedora
Maddalena: Vergara, Victoria
Marullo: Otey, Louis
Marullo: Weikl, Bernd
Monterone: Wixell,Ingvar
Rigoletto: Wixell,Ingvar
Sparafucile: Furlanetto, Ferruccio

Thursday, February 22, 2018

Laughing Lhursday*

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Saturday Night Music

Don José: Plácido Domingo
Carmen: Elena Obraztsova
Escamillo: Yuri Mazurok
Micaela: Isobel Buchanan
Director de escena: Franco Zeffirelli
Director: Carlos Kleiber
Wiener Staatsoper 9-12-1978

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Laughing Lhursday*

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Thursday, February 08, 2018

Laughing Lhursday*

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Friday, February 02, 2018


I am late to the party.
Happy 136th!

James Joyce *2 February 1882

Thursday, February 01, 2018

Laughing Lhursday*

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Saturday, January 27, 2018

Saturday Night Music

Friedrich Gulda (16 May 1930 – 27 January 2000)

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (27 January 1756 – 5 December 1791)

Die Omama

Ludwig Hirsch (February 28, 1946 – November 24, 2011)

Da steh ma jetzt am Stammersdorfer Friedhof
regnen tut's
die Fiass tan ma schon weh.
Der Pfarrer sagt
sie war ein so herzensguter

und trotzdem fällt mir's Weinen heut' so schwer.
Die Omama
die Oma ist nicht mehr.

Wie ich klein war
hat's mir einegstopft die Knödln

hat's glauert mit dem Pracker in der Hand
hat's mir auch umdraht schon den Magen

es war ihr wurscht
sie hat mi gschlagen

so lang
daá i schon angfangt hab zum Beten
Lieb Jesukind
laá d'Oma doch verrecken.

Die sieben Raben
es warn nur sechs

die gute Fee
es war a Hex

der böse Wolf
a kleiner Dackel

der Märchenprinz
a schiacher Lackel.

In Stammersdorf hat s' gabt die kleine Wohnung
mit Spitzendeckerln und ein Hitlerbild

a Glasl Grammelschmalz am Fensterbrett

den Nachtscherbn unterm Doppelbett

so weiá
so dick
so rund und immer voll.
Vielleicht hätt ma'n in's Grab dazulegn solln?

Einmal hab ich s' gfragt: " Wo ist der Opa?"
Im Himmel auf an Wolkerl spielt er Geign.
Für Führer
Volk und Vaterland
aufghängt und verbrannt

auch das hat sie dem Adolf stets verziehn.
Er hat ihr ja das Mutterkreuz verliehn.

Die sieben Raben ...

In letzter Zeit da war s' schon bisserl komisch.
Das Grammelschmalz is gstanden unterm Bett

die Spitzendeckerln hat s' verbrannt

den Hitler hat s' an Pülcher gnannt

den Nachtscherbn hat s' plaziert am Fensterbrett.
Ganz Stammersdorf hat über sie schon gredt.
Am Muttertag da habn wir s' gführt in Prater
die Alte war auf einmal wieder jung.
Beim Go-Cart-Fahrn hat s' gjodelt
ein paar Langos hat s' verdruckt
nur beim Sturmbootfahrn
da geschah ein Miágeschick:
Da is s' an ihre falschen Zähn derstickt.
Die sieben Raben ...
mach's drüben besser
mach keine Knödeln für die Engerln
sei so gut!
Tu nicht die Heiligen sekkiern
tu nicht den Opa
und gehst zum Herrgott auf Besuch - ein guter Tip:
nimm's Mutterkreuz net mit!

Holocaust Remembrance Day

Saturday Night Music

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (27 January 1756 – 5 December 1791)

Iceland Symphony Orchestra

Arngunnur Árnadóttir

Cornelius Meister 

Friday, January 26, 2018

Thursday, January 25, 2018

Laughing Lhursday*

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Crying for Caruso

This evening visiting Sian's blog and enjoying her photos of clouds bringing snow to Graemsay/Orkney, when reading of her daily feeding the wild birds, I immediately thought of a dear friend in Milan I met in February 2003 when he and I were engaged with Poets Against War (PAW). Giulio used to write at night. And often his emails ended with regards from him and Caruso, the blackbird that had just begun singing on his balcony.
Last Saturday was my friend's birthday, and I wished him well and asked, if Caruso had already serenaded him.
The answer: "I miss our blackbirds. We can no longer be their friends, the condominium saw to that- you can’t feed wild birds!"
The peace of the night.

This photo, taken on his balcony,
was attached to my friend's recent email.
A photo taken in June 2008 of 'Mister'
who might well have been a descendant of 'Caruso'.

Monday, January 22, 2018

Perverted Minds

How perverted minds those must have
who would call a murderous aggression
Zeytin Dalı Harekâtı / Operation Olive Branch?

Saturday, January 20, 2018

Saturday Night Music

Jacqueline Mary du Pré (26 January 1945 – 19 October 1987)

Daniel Barenboim

London Symphony Orchestra

Cello Concerto in B minor, Op. 104, B. 191 by Antonín Dvořák

 A recently re-discovered recording of a concert held in tribute to the people of Czechoslovakia days after the Soviet Union invaded.
Filmed live at the Royal Albert Hall in September 1968.
1. Allegro 0:00
2. Adagio, ma non troppo 16:10
3. Finale 29:01

Friday, January 19, 2018

Thursday, January 18, 2018

Laughing Lhursday*


* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Monday, January 15, 2018

Enjoy 'Life on a Small Island'

Following her blog for almost a decade spontaneously ;-) I decided  to ask Sian if I may add her to my 'Seldom Boring's', and: The Lady gave her placet.
Thus, here we go: Enjoy Sian's and Button's Life on a Small Island.

I can vividly imagine the fabulous few friends of Omnium will soon ask how, by all means, I could be so lazy and introduce them to such a fine blog with ten years delay.
Just in time remembering why the devil beat his grandmother (she did not have a good excuse), I hasten to say that I only wanted to wait until there is enough stuff to discover – 1223 lovely posts, so far.
The peace of the night.

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Singing Cranes

Leaving late?
Or returning early

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Laughing Lhursday*

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Monday, January 08, 2018

Good bye! Not yet, though

Ah, sorry for causing irritation. All my fault.
This was a post, 'planned' for last June, after ten years Omnium.
But then I did not find the fitting words to say "Goodbye", and actually was not sure, if I would not soon regret and – instead of adding it to the other xxx drafts or, better, to delete it – I scheduled it for Januar 2018. Then I could still decide ...
And here I am.  Having no fitting words.
Out of sight, out of mind it went between all the other Laughing Lhursdays and Saturday night musics.
Thus, sorry again for confusing.
Be sure, unless I am suddenly quitting life, I shall not quit blogging without  a few or rather many words to the fine friends I was allowed to meet, to thank you for all your kindness and patience and – to bless Seanhenge et Orbi ... and thus: Omnium. ;-)

Sunday, January 07, 2018

A Beginning

O’Laughlins last order

Der Gitarrist bedankte sich mit einem Lächeln für den Applaus und nickte seinem Mitspieler zu. Dann stand er auf und bahnte sich einen Weg durch die Zuhörer zur Theke.
»Mal wieder prima Stimmung bei dir, Art.«
»Ihr seid ja auch prima in Form«, sagte der alte Wirt fröhlich und schob dem Musiker ein Glas Cola zu. «Schön, daß ihr zwei mal wieder den Weg hierher gefunden habt.«
»Aber irgend etwas fehlt.«
»Es wird immer etwas fehlen, Sam, solange die Zeiten sich ändern.«
Der Gitarrist lächelte fein. »Das meine ich nicht«, sagte er. »Ich meine, für einen Sonnabend bei dir, da fehlt noch etwas. Oder kommt sie nicht mehr?«
»Ach so!« Art lachte. «Du hast sie nicht vergessen, nein?«
»Wie könnte ich.«
Art sah auf seine Uhr. «Sie nimmt es genau mit der last order.«
»Ta cuid den tsaoghal agus is cuma leó ach iad héin a bheith ar bruach«, murmelte der Gitarrist, nahm sein Glas und kehrte durch ein Spalier von Worten der Anerkennung und zugerufenen Wunschtiteln zu seinem Platz zurück.
»Was hat er gesagt?« fragte der junge Mann, der, als er vor sechs Monaten seinen Stolz entdeckt hatte, ein Kelte zu sein, sein Studium der Jurisprudenz in Phoenix, Arizona, hatte sausen lassen und seither sein keltisches Leben mit Torfstechen und anderen Gelegenheitsjobs finanzierte.
Art lächelte: »ist Teil von-der Welt und ist gleich mit ihnen außer sie selbst zu sein auf Ufer.«
»Wie bitte?«
»Es gibt Leute, denen alles gleich ist, solange es ihnen nur gut geht.«
»Ich verstehe nicht«, sagte der junge Kelte. Bei nächster Gelegenheit müßte er unbedingt einen der Irisch-Kurse in Galway belegen, von denen er gehört hatte.
Art sah dem Gitarristen hinterher. Bestellungen wurden ihm zugerufen. Er nickte. »Die Geschichte ist mindestens so alt wie die Jeans von Sam«, sagte er, während er mehrmals bestätigend in die eine und die andere Richtung nickte und alsdann den Zapfhahn betätigte.  »Wenn sie dich interessiert, wendest du dich am besten an Cal.«
Er stellte zwei gefüllte Gläser vor einem Gast ab, strich die Münzen scheinbar achtlos ein und warf sie auf die Anrichte hinter sich. »Kennst du Cal?«
Der Kelte schüttelt seinen Kopf.
»Da hinten sitzt er. Geh nur hin und frag ihn nach Rory O’Loughlin. Keiner erzählt die Geschichte so wie er.«
»Da ist was Wahres dran«, dröhnte ein in zweiter Reihe auf seine Bestellung wartender Hüne und nickte dem Kelten augenzwinkernd zu. »Sie wird jedesmal besser. Muß mit Cals Haaren zusammenhängen. Immer wenn ihm eins ausfällt, nimmt er es und strickt noch etwas an die Geschichte dran.«
»Aber wie es ausschaut, wird sie Gott sei Lob bald vollendet sein«, sagte Art und hob seinen Kopf in Richtung des Hünen. »Wie immer, Seamus?«
Der Hüne hob bejahend seine buschigen Augenbrauen. »Wie optimistisch du bist, Art. Wenn er oben keine mehr findet, zupft er sich eben die auf der Brust aus.«
Dem Kelten gelang ein verlegenes Lächeln.
»Well, das ist eine Geschichte, die ist mindestens so lang wie die über den Seehund«, sagte der alte Mann und zeigte auf den Platz neben sich.
Der Kelte setzte sich, und der Alte begann bedächtig, seine Pfeife zu stopfen. »Du kommst nicht von hier, nehme ich an.« Und als ein Kopfschütteln ihm bestätigte, was er längst wußte: »Nun, in diesem Fall kennst du auch kaum die Geschichten über den Seehund.«
Wiederum war ein Kopfschütteln die Antwort. »Dann sei dir hiermit versichert, daß diese Geschichten über den Seehund hübsch lange Geschichten sind.«
Der Kelte schmunzelte. Dad würde jetzt sagen: Komm endlich zu deiner mission, Mann.
»Du läßt dich von gar nichts abschrecken, nein? In diesem Fall lohnt sich anzufangen.« Der Alte unterbrach das Stopfen und klopfte an die Manteltasche des Kelten. »Da ist auch kein so’n neumodischer Recorder drin, nein?«
»Ein Recorder? Nein. Wieso?«
»Weil dir sonst der Teufel beide Beine brechen soll.« Richtig fuchtig klang der Alte plötzlich. Und seine Stimme schwoll dermaßen an, daß einige Gäste sich trotz des Oilean-Solos in der hinteren Ecke des Pubs neugierig umdrehten. »Weil ich sie nicht ausstehen kann, diese kleinen, langhaarigen Affen, die sich verkleidet als Iren hier reinglucken mit so einem Ding auf ihren Knien, um, wie nennen sie es? etwas Authentisches zu haben, wenn sie zurück sind in ihrem Deutschland oder weiß der Himmel, von wo ein ungünstiger Wind sie hergetrieben hat. Dabei«, der Alte reckte sein Kinn vor und verzog nacheinander in Richtung jedes einzelnen Umstehenden, der ihn anstarrte, sein Gesicht, so daß die Gaffer, ohne sich freilich zu erkennen, in ihr eigenes Spiegelbild gafften, tippte sich an die Stirn und begann den Satz von vorn: »Dabei sind sie nur zu dumm oder zu faul, sich das, was sie hier sehen und hören und von dem sie ach so begeistert sind, zu merken, es sich hier und hier«, er klopfte sich an Herz und Schädel, »zu bewahren und daheim, wenn es ihnen doch so gefallen hat, mit eigenen Worten weiterzuerzählen.«
»So, und nun könnt ihr euch wieder umdrehen«, spottete er nach kurzer Pause und schleuderte zweimal seine Finger aus dem Handgelenk heraus in Richtung der ihn bedröppelt besichtigenden, teils sich dümmlich grinsend verbrüdernde Blicke des Einverständnisses zuzwinkernden Gaffer. »Calvagh O’Seanacháin, Professor für vorsintflutliche Fischfangmethoden und Philosophie, hat seine Vorlesung über ausgestorbene zivilisatorische Grundwerte beendet.«
Den Kopf senkend, lehnte er sich zurück und entzündete ein Streichholz.
Der Kelte hatte kein Auge von ihm gelassen. Ohne daß der Alte ihm den Kopf zuwandte, hörte er ihn sagen: »Wenn du mich nicht mehr anstarren würdest wie ein prähistorisches Fossil, könnte ich anfangen.«
»Entschuldigung.« Der Kelte lachte verlegen und stülpte seine Manteltaschen nach außen. »Und  so ein künstliches Gedächtnis hab’ ich auch nicht bei mir.«
Der Blick des Alten wanderte langsam aus dem Pfeifenkopf zu den ihm entgegengehaltenen umgewendeten Taschen, und der Kelte deutete das leichte, fast unmerkliche Zucken des ihm zugewandten Mundwinkels vermutlich zutreffenderweise als ein Anzeichen ebenso leichter Belustigung. »Tja«, sagte Cal, »dann fang ich am besten von vorne an.«


Friday, January 05, 2018

With a pinch of salt

That should do the trick ... ;-)

Thursday, January 04, 2018

Lauging Lhursday*

* [For first time visitors]:
Typo in the title?
It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Wednesday, January 03, 2018

With 175 days delay

Hardly a man takes a half-hour's nap after dinner, but when he wakes he holds up his head and asks, 'What's the news?' as if the rest of mankind had stood his sentinels. Some give directions to be waked every half-hour, doubtless for no other purpose; and then to pay for it, they tell what they have dreamed. After a night's sleep the news is as indispensable as the breakfast. 'Pray, tell me anything new that has happened to a man anywhere on this globe' - and he reads it over his coffee and rolls, that a man has had his eyes gouged out this morning on the Wachito River; never dreaming the while that he lives in the dark unfathomed mammoth cave of this world, and has but the rudiment of an eye himself.

And I am sure that I never read any memorable news in a newspaper. If we read of one man robbed, or murdered, or killed by accident, or one house burned, or one vessel wrecked, or one steam-boat blown up, or one cow ran over the Western Railroad, or one mad dog killed, or one lot of grasshoppers in the winter - we never need read of another. One is enough. If you are acquainted with the principle, what do you care for a myriad instances and applications. To a philosopher all news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit and read it are old women over their tea. Yet not a few are greedy after this gossip. There was such a rush, as I hear, the other day at one of the offices to learn the foreign news by the last arrival, that several large squares of plate glass belonging to the establishment were broken by the pressure - news which I seriously think a ready wit might write a twelvemonth or twelve years beforehand with sufficient accuracy.

Henry David Thoreau (July 12th, 1817 – May 6th, 1862)