Wishing long rotting testicles

You want to get rid of your husband/wife or any other rival; of a neighbour whose nose you dont't like, your mother-/father/brother-/sister-in law. Lucky you are when living in China.

It's people's war, folks. 'High noon' for 'informers'. Ah, denunciation. Ah, how wonderful. A highlight of civilisation.

The Dalai Lama? Oh well. (Almost) always smiling and friendly. Playing 'his role' almost perfectly.
What "His always smiling Peacefulness" would not say: Tibet was not heaven before 1950. Buddhism is not peace-loving 'per se'.

But it's quite logic what happens.

You can supress people for many years, many generations of them; it may last 50 years, hundred years, several hundred years - somewhen the day will come!

Well, I wish to the Chinese government and especially to all those regional criminals who are terrorizing what they think are 'their' people, the same I wish to Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld et. al.: may they become several hundreds years old and may their testicles be painfull rotting all the time.

Yes, I am humanist. Yes, I do like people. In general.
And I am still not swearing, would you agree? :)

A journalistic Hiroshima

What is another's accident, is the other's catastrophe.

No problem with this.

No problems either when people who would not care about (catch-)words, do call an accident 'catastrophe'.
Let alone they have not been taught/told: Very often such 'uneducated' persons are wiser than those who think they got the best education one could get under the sun.

But when journalists who - in my (in this case not) humble opinion - should know better, do call an explosion the Albanian Hiroshima and an Apocalyptic tragedy, they should give up their profession.

Mind: Those who lost beloved, may call what happened whatever comes to their mind. But journalists who would dare to write such rubbish are poor idiots*.

* not in the classical sense. May any idiot sue me. It will be my pleasure.

And be sure, I could give you thousands of examples for (embedded*) idiocy.
But please don't ask me to give them.. I am tired. Really tired.
On the other hand: As long as millions of those who are allowed to vote - come on, here's a chance to severely attack me :))) -, would spoil money to buy such excellent papers / to watch such super mega TV-channels, it's a market, would you agree?

* here I am not refering to those journalists who'd go in bed with the 'devil' for what they - or rather their masters call a good story, but to something general: education.

Ah, another trap I digged for myself. Okay: education is a 'hot field'. Who would set the canon? What if the pupil does not wish to listen to the teacher(s); to the parents (who may have had good or bad teachers)? Who defines what's a bad teacher?
Should teachers teach what has been thought, or should they teach inspire thinking?

Rhetoric question. Yes. Sorry about such a simplicity.

Anybody who thinks s(h)e has a simple / the one and only answer to the problem: Very welcome!

Two simple poems

I do remember our daughter asking in February 2003: "Do you think one million poems plus your's will change anything?"

What a wise young woman.

My answer: I could sit in front of the teli, watching the tales of Mr. Bush et. al., chips in one hand, bottle of beer in the other, muttering indecent words, and I'd change nothing. And I could write a poem.
It will change nothing, either. But at least I shall not have kept silent.

These were my second and my third poem I ever wrote in English:

[As an answer to Mr. Bush saying: 'Either you are with us or against us.'


New World Order

Those
pleading for peace
without diplomacy
are being taught:
You are an enemy.

And the second, refering to '"Enduring Freedom":

Enduring Peace
or: The Whore of war"

(Fiction)

Once upon a time
- not in the years of Babel, though, -
a puppet said with oily voice:
"I am a peace-loving person"
and offered "World"this choice:
"Either you are with us, or you are against us."

Thus, pushing forward to
the inmost inner of the roots of the core,
united peace-lovers found a visionary lore:
Short after unweaponed "World"
embraced the whore of war.
"World" would need no ...
... no; no ...: would HAVE no
enemies anymore!

As, some years later:
Goodman Death knocks:
"The game is over!"

The puppet’s life flees,
and so does the masters'
And 'World says: R.i.P.!

The rest is peace ...

(How naive? - I told you, it’s fiction.)

'Noble' criminals

Yes, yes, I do remember.

Today, five years ago the first 'noble' bombs fell on Bagdad.

'Shock and awe.'

Indeed.

Let me anticipate you do have all information I had during the past nine years.

It spares me repeating millions of words.

I'd like to say so much, though.

I won't!

Only this.

Bush, bin Laden et. al. are one side of the medal.

Cheney et. al. are the third (sic) side of the medal.

I wish these gentlemen will become 2003 years old, suffering from their testicles rotting off. - And I mean it. I mean it with all my heart!

Yes!

Just to make sure: Bush, Cheney, Wolfowitz, Rumsfeld, Pearle (please continue page 112) are (war-) criminals.

Nothing against soldiers. They are useful idiots. Example: Mr. McCain.

This does not mean I do expect any better in case Mrs. Clinton were going to enter the oral office (sic), or Mr. Obama with his adviser Brzezinski.

By the way, (latest) in case polls were 'telling' one of the so-called Democrats might be winning, I'd not be surprised if there were a new war (guess where) initiated*, as 'one does not change the horse during war times'.

* no! No! There will never (!) be an outbreak of war. A war would always (!) be instigated.

Experimental speed-blogging

What's this then?

:)

Well, as the title says: an experiment.

I shall be writing and posting fast tonight, as the thoughts come; not caring about typos, not looking up my dictionaries in order to - hopefully :) - find the proper word, trusting upon that those who have (virtually) come to 'know' me (a little) better will leniently smile, ...
... and perhaps even you who's just stumbling upon this site.

So let's go. Without filtres.

Hm, yes - one filtre will be on!

But that - a spontaneous decision :) - is already worth a post of its own.

Anticipating a question:

Why would you run the risk to make an exhibition of yourself?

Answer: Is there a risk? :)

In other words: Critizise my thoughts, negatively and/or posively. Correct my mistakes. Do whatever you wish. Your opinion is highly appreciated, the more when you do it in a friendly manner. :)

In this sense (as Robert Frost once said):

Go on talking
but don't take my style away,
it's my face - may be not good,
but anyway,
my face.

Rush to Croagh Patrick

A minute ago, Tetrapilotomos sent following photo and comment.

Seems your early afternoon post caused a spontaneous exodus. Bars and pubs empty. Traffic jam on all major roads to Mayo. The first topers ... err ... pilgrims arrived at 13:20. In five-minute-intervals RTE's repeating following message, sponsored by the Guinness Brewery and Bushmill's: 'People of Ireland: Return to your pubs. His Holiness will not be serving free Guinness and uisce beatha on top of Croagh Patrick.' Nobody seems to listen ...

St. Pat's crawling

Optimists would undertake climbing Croagh Patrick today as on top his Holiness might be serving free Guinness and uisce beatha.

Instead, more Irish will enter a bar and get pretty stone-drunk.

Which is why clever - one could also say:
optimistic landlords use to have two professions.

Sláinte!

Irish metamorphosis

Early this morning spake Tetrapilotomos:

'Until Wednesday then.'

'Oh, trip to Tibet?

'No, march to Mayo.'

'Ah, celebrating once again that St. Patrick worked wonder?

'What wonder?'

'Expelling all snakes from Hiberna.'

'It was no wonder, at all.'

?

'All Old Paddy did was quasi expemplifying a metamorphosis.'

?

Sean, did you ever notice that since there are no serpents the esmerald island is swarming with priests? :)

And off he went.

On the Ides of March ...

... 2054 years after Caesar rattled "You, too, my son Brutus?", 92 years after Austria-Hungary declared war to Portugal, 82 years after the first telephone-line between London and Berlin started to work, 52 years after the first performance of "My Fair Lady" in New York and on the 101st Birthday of Zarah Leander who once sang "Ich weiß, es wirrrd einmal ein Wunnn...derrrrr gescheh'n ..." (I know there will once happen a wonder ...) ...

... I went down in history by not falling off the ladder when being busy in garden. :)

Oh yes, and in Modica Lady Limoncello posted her 1000th 'articulo'.

What a day!

A very dear friend of mine

The Panther

His tired gaze - from passing endless bars -
has turned into a vacant stare which nothing holds.
To him there seem to be a thousand bars,
and out beyond these bars exists no world.

His supple gait, the smoothness of strong strides
that gently turn in ever smaller circles
perform a dance of strength, centered deep within
a will, stunned, but untamed, indomitable.

But sometimes the curtains of his eyelids part,
the pupils of his eyes dilate as images
of past encounters enter while through his limbs
a tension strains in silence
only to cease to be, to die within his heart.

Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming

Der Panther [Original]


Im Jardin des Plantes, Paris

Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf -. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille -
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.


Rainer Maria Rilke

When magic strikes

When
the woman of the south & the man from the north
will have united in love for eternity,
and have become one in flesh and spirit,
the children of Lir, who have been transformed
into swans by Aife, will be redeemed ...'

The Swan

This labouring through what is still undone,

as though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way,

is like the awkward walking of the swan.

And dying-to let go, no longer feel

the solid ground we stand on every day-

is like anxious letting himself fall

into waters, which receive him gently

and which, as though with reverence and joy,

draw back past him in streams on either side;

while, infinitely silent and aware,

in his full majesty and ever more

indifferent, he condescends to glide.

Translated by Stephen Mitchell

Der Schwan

Diese Mühsal, durch noch Ungetanes
schwer und wie gebunden hinzugehn,
gleicht dem ungeschaffnen Gang des Schwanes.

Und das Sterben, dieses Nichtmehrfassen
jenes Grundes, auf dem wir täglich stehn,
seinem ängstlichen Sich-Niederlassen –:

in die Wasser, die ihn sanft empfangen
und die sich, wie glücklich und vergangen,
unter ihm zurückziehen, Flut um Flut;

während er unendlich still und sicher
immer mündiger und königlicher
und gelassener zu ziehn geruht.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Wings of love

Once I heard a remarkable Moroccan woman say:

Imagine love to be a bird, and man and woman being its wings.

Only when both wings will move in harmony the bird can fly.