The Queen of the Night

Today 217 years ago, Mozart's Magic Flute celebrated its premiere in Vienna.

Voilà, here`s Diana Damlau as The Queen of the Night singing The vengeance of hell boils in my heart.
May all my dear readers enjoy a fascinating performance the title of which I dedicate to all cash-hungry bankers, greedy venturers and either stupid and/or evil politicians.

USA under martial law?!

This is just a quick post. It will get updated as soon as I do find more leisure to (hopefully) write a proper one. Meanwhile: Enjoy ... if you can.




H/t Little Nicky who on Bock's site offered this link. Thanks for that.

Just a thought 07

It's said:
A picture can tell more than thousand words.
Quite.
And one word can 'paint' more than thousand pictures.

And who's the dummy in the White House?

Forget all denials from Pyongyang (and Seoul).

Kim Jong Il, the dear leader and beloved father of his (sic!) people is dead, has been replaced by dummies for the past five years. Well, according to a certain professor Toshimitsu Shigemura.

And who am I to doubt the word of a scientist?

Now I am looking forward to learn who's been the dummy in the White House for the past 2.323 days.

Surely you all remember George W. Bush's last words, spoken in Austin, Texas on Januar 4th, 2002:

I want to thank you for your taking time out of your day to come and witness my hanging.

A very simple question

why does that preacher think that a bikini is a more serious challange against Allah rather than taking the life of another living creature? why just cant he simply preach that a true muslim should not stare at those women who wear bikini instead of totally trying to curse the bikini.

It's for (glorious) sentences like those above I'd not miss any post by this man, and why for me he is not Superhero, but A Turkish Seanachie.

Thanks for the correction, time

Last year, readers either did not notice, or they were too polite to advise me of that I had erroneously made Mr. Johnson one year older than he had become.

Fortunately - at least sometimes - time is a great corrector. :)

Only 366 days later, and what's been a mistake has turned to be perfectly correct.

So, once again: Happy 299th, Mr. Johnson!

That is the happiest conversation where there is no competition, no vanity but a calm quiet interchange of sentiments.

As mostly, Sir, I'd not disagree. :)

Darwin makes my blood boil

... err ... no ... please! In case you happen to be one of those primates being 'taught'/indoctrinated to believe (whatever this means) they are intelligently designed and promoting the idea there's a potter who's first name is not Harry who about 10.000 years ago took a clot of loam, designed a being, shortly afterwards took a rib of this being and formed a female so that it (ha ha ha) would always have something to beat up - don't applause half-cocked.

Darwin made my blood boil by sharing this.

Ought I to be worried?

In case one can rely on the saying I derived comfort from last year, I ought to be very worried ...

Another Last Night

Same procedure as every year.
As I just watched this year's 'Last night of the Proms', I thought you might also like a musical bed-time sweets.

Voilà, enjoy.

Two days after

Just in case anyone's conCERNed and fearing - or exulting - I might have been swallowed by a Black Hole.

Mrs. Bloom's 105th 33rd

I'd not easily offer links twice. However, exceptions exist to be made. And today there is a good reason to make one.

It's Mrs. Bloom's 138th birthday, thus she's now 100 years older than her husband uses to be since June 16th, 1904.

'Uses to be'? Well, in a most vivid dialogue I had the pleasure to witness some time ago, Mr. Bloom vehemently insisted on still being 38. Being asked to give evidence he said: 'cause June 16th 1904 I became immortal.

Thus, de facto the eternal Mrs. Bloom today is celebrating her 105th 33rd.

Happy birthday then, Lady Molly, and may I say: You're looking younger than ever. Younger than ever. :)

Molly Bloom's Soliloquy
Part I



Part II

In praise of ...

...

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbed
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rotted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.


My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy neat the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney

Nessun dorma

Time flies.