The inner clock

When he'd kissed her goodbye the old woman had smiled:
"Enjoy sleeping through, life-whisperer."

Leaving the hospital,
approaching his car
reflecting the past he was.
This was going to be the first night since October
there would no phone ring
at almost exactly 3:00 a.m.
He would sleep through.

He did not see his inner clock smiling.

Monochrome Monday

On the road.

Friday is Skyday

A heart full of love
arrowplane penetrating
emotionless sky

Cold comfort

Instead of a very long and detailed obituary.

 

 Oh well, after all this evil character might by now be re-united with her 'dear friend Augusto' – in hell.

Thanks for being, Jams

Words of sorrow and solace (from strangers) – however deep from the bottom of one's heart they may come – often, if not mostly, do sound shallow (for those who 'lost' a beloved one).

That is why I do rather wish that soon the moment may come when the memory of this and that episode, of a glance, a touch, a certain little gesture or quirk will conjure a smile on the lips of those who love [sic! present tense] him dearly ...  so that they may gain new strength ... for life.

I am glad that amongst many tears I shed during the past week, while re-reading this and that I found myself smiling, chuckling and sometimes even laughing. 

'The Poor Mouth' and 'Omnium', both blog names reminiscence of and homage to Flann O'Brien, met in 2007, and since we ... but I don't want to bore you.

To cut it short: Jams – I never called him Shaun – became a friend; intelligent, witty, generous, multi-talented and blessed with an honesty that would let him call a spade a spade whenever he'd feel the wish and the necessity.


I do like thinking of my friend Jams having a pint of plain 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 of 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.

Today (March 29, 2013), seven days after he died, is Jams's 50th birthday.

All I know is that Jams O'Donnell Esq. will always be part of Omnium.

Thanks for being, Jams. Sláinte .

PS: To give but one example of the fun we often had, follow the link to Rich Poetry at The Poor Mouth's and from there to The Tayside Tragedian on the Bard and 73 comments.

Enjoy!

Metamorphosis in Progress

You have this photo seen before here.

Still depanthering.

For obvious reasons it is posted again.

Having lots of time for not blogging I do also have a big heap of time for not taking photographs.

I do take the time, though, to let you know that I do seem to be on what you will probably think a 'good' way.
Depanthering will, however, take a while, and I do not wish to irritate anyone's sensibilities.
Which is why ... see above.

What did I learn living in the skin of the panther?

There is nothing I do have to fear!

The most wonderful feeling to feel: Love. – Well, that I knew before.

The sadest 'thing(s)' to do in one's life: not to give your feelings/ your love a chance. – Well, that I knew before.



Pah! And may no one ask how I do 'define' love.

Death is nothing!

The peace of the night!

Beginning Metamorphosis?

Sean's been eaten by the panther. Obviously ...
See here and here.

... but
there are more things in heaven and earth, dear readers,
than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Obviously. :)

The second shoe

While on Valentine's Day allegedly there was a rising of one (!) billion, for the past ten days the world (sic!)  held its breath, and thus – amongst others – almost seven (!) billion human beings.
Amazing, of course,  that so many survived not breathing for such a long time; well, apart from some civilians being so stupid to let themselves blow to pieces by a peaceful drone made in God owns peace-loving country and sent on its way by a peace-loving hero (!) sitting thousands of kilometres away; apart from some peace-loving Shiites blowing some Sunni to pieces and some peace loving Sunni blowing some Shiites to pieces (it is almost always a matter of perspective, isn't it?), and a few women that have been taught by four or six or ten masculine 'superiors' who's the pride of creation, before  being set on fire or pierced by an iron pipe etc. etc. pp., and apart from those who did not happen to learn that the owner of this blog has been eaten by a panther. Obviously.

 Obviously?

Canadian commenter Claude (Sean would have loved this tiny alliteration) from her experience as a nurse thought the bones are not human and thus not seanish. 
Don QuiScottie, according to Sergeant Pluck, "obviously" tried to scatter several red herrings within one comment.
sync wondered what happened to the second shoe.

According to Sergeant Pluck, only Mijnheer Pieters gave helpful hints, and commenter Susan's criminalistic instinct ("The game's afoot! Keep in mind conspiracy between panther and Quiscottie can't yet be ruled out.");
But I am digressing a tiny bit. Why would there have been no news for almost a fortnight?

Well, not to jeopardise or rather to pantherise the inquiery, Sergeant Pluck had imposed a gag order.  However, today I am able to show you some results.

By following Mijnheer Pieters' hint and thus scrutinising all treetops in and around Seanhenge, Sergeant Pluck and his colleague McCruiskeen found 

Sean's trousers

Obviously our friend tried to climb this beech to escape the panthers's fangs, but ...

Three quarters of a mile from here, the Sergeants detected ...

... the second shoe.

Was it possible, Sergeant Pluck and Sergeant McCruiskeen asked themselves, that the panther, anticipating Mijnheer Pieters' hint ("Panthers always drag their booty to a tree or another high place where hyenas cannot come.") buried his booty in this bunker?

Inspecting closer ...

the sergeants' attention was caught by a white flag.

Following their instinct approaching hole 7 of the very golf course ...

.... they detected ...

Sean's worrystone.

Asked Sergeant Pluck: "Who putted Sean? The panther or Don QuiScottie??

The case will be solved. Hopefully soon.

As missing Sean would perhaps have written:

The peace of the night.

One Billion Rising

http://www.onebillionrising.org

Laughing Lhursday*

Blogger eaten by panther

Victim's last photo: his killer

Relics of a blogger:
Camera, right shoe, three bones.
photo © Sergeant Pluck

As he would not have liked to see such headlines in the mass media the owner of this blog, before going on his obviously last quest left a notice for me with both the password for Omnium and the request to discretely inform his friends in case something mysterious would happen to him.

Despite being busy with proof-reading my 1669 pages short opus magnum "Pre-Assyrian Philately in a Nutshell" I consider it my duty to fulfill my quixotic friend's wish.

Quixotic? you may ask. Well, wasn't it quixotic an idea to go photo hunting just to provide a Scottish brother in spirit the evidence of a panther "on this side of the bars"?

Did anyone recently see this panther?
Not only some bones and one shoe:
The killer also spit out his own mugshot.
photo © Sergeant Pluck

It may in these hours of grief and mourning not be the time for finger pointing and assignments of guilt, but – yes! – I tend to agree with Sergeant Pluck, the chief investigator in this mysterious case, that my sometimes a bit hot tempered friend might have let provoke himself by a certain Don QuiScottie who commented on one of Sean's  latest posts: "Eh... The Panther would not be bothered about the little bird... he'd be too busy eating you mate, and spitting out the camera as he ate... Obviously. [see post and comment section here];

That 'obviously', obviously oozing with mockery, seems to have sent my friend to where he is now. Obviously.

"So, what did that Don Qui Scottie know in advance?" asks Sergeant Pluck. "How could he know that the panther would be so stupid to spit out the camera while eating his victim, and thus delivering his mugshot to the investigating authority?"  

Well, all this and more will be part of the investigation.
Fact is: At this point it can neither be excluded that Don QuiScottie kens the panther, nor that he is deeper involved into the case.

Apart from this, according to Sergeant Pluck, there might be hope, as at this point it is not clear: How many percent panther has Sean become? Or vice versa. Is it possible the panther has or will become 100 percent Sean?

We shall see. For now let's not cry but try to think that amongst everything else it is part of Omnium that nothing is impossible.

Tetrapilotomos
[after dictation out of town]

* Typo in the title? Nah. It's just that Sean [peace be upon him] would not (have) let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Time to say good bye

 As far as I see / remember everything I consider essential has been written.

Fear not. No résumé to follow.

Just thanks to those who, over the years, became kind of friends.
Good luck to you.

I may come back.

For now, though, off I go.

Following the panther.

Steps

Like ev'ry flower wilts, like youth is fading
and turns to age, so also one's achieving:
Each virtue and each wisdom needs parading
in one's own time, and must not last forever.
The heart must be, at each new call for leaving,
prepared to part and start without the tragic,
without the grief - with courage to endeavor
a novel bond, a disparate connection:
for each beginning bears a special magic
that nurtures living and bestows protection.

We'll walk from space to space in glad progression
and should not cling to one as homestead for us.
The cosmic spirit will not bind nor bore us;
it lifts and widens us in ev'ry session:
for hardly set in one of life's expanses
we make it home, and apathy commences.
But only he, who travels and takes chances,
can break the habits' paralyzing stances.

It even may be that the last of hours
will make us once again a youthful lover:
The call of life to us forever flowers...
Anon, my heart! Do part and do recover!

Hermann Hesse, Steps

with thanks to the translators

And here, in German, the original:

Stufen

Wie jede Blüte welkt und jede Jugend
Dem Alter weicht, blüht jede Lebensstufe,
Blüht jede Weisheit auch und jede Tugend
Zu ihrer Zeit und darf nicht ewig dauern.
Es muß das Herz bei jedem Lebensrufe
Bereit zum Abschied sein und Neubeginne,
Um sich in Tapferkeit und ohne Trauern
In andre, neue Bindungen zu geben.
Und jedem Anfang wohnt ein Zauber inne,
Der uns beschützt und der uns hilft, zu leben.

Wir sollen heiter Raum um Raum durchschreiten,
An keinem wie an einer Heimat hängen,
Der Weltgeist will nicht fesseln uns und engen,
Er will uns Stuf’ um Stufe heben, weiten.
Kaum sind wir heimisch einem Lebenskreise
Und traulich eingewohnt, so droht Erschlaffen,
Nur wer bereit zu Aufbruch ist und Reise,
Mag lähmender Gewöhnung sich entraffen.

Es wird vielleicht auch noch die Todesstunde
Uns neuen Räumen jung entgegen senden,
Des Lebens Ruf an uns wird niemals enden …
Wohlan denn, Herz, nimm Abschied und gesunde!

Monochrome Monday

Blogging gets boring.
Time to choose another road.
There is much to do.