Brave little birds

In early May they started to build.
Although most material fell
or was blown down by the wind,
they did not give up,
which is why I called them
Ms and Mr Sisyphos.

But finally they made it.
By now

Lady Redstart

and Mr Redstart are feeding their offspring.

Bluemonkerias

Before the night comes

16 hunters for evening meal

their's and their offspring's

and then returning home

Just in Time

Peonies in German are called ...

... Pfingstrosen (Whitsun Roses).

Saturday Night Music – Khatia Buniatishvili

Khatia Buniatishvili *21 June 1987
Franz Schubert (31 January 1797 – 19 November 1828)

Friday is Skyday

From my diary of May 29th, 1985,
which was my first of 66 evenings in Ireland
[Killarney]
"Having dinner in a restaurant
I hear about the desaster in Bruxelles.
One hour later entering a pub,
the game still has not begun.
Two hours later,
the "battle" not ended,
the dead bodies not yet driven away,
the teams are entering the pitch.
What a farce.
'The show must go on.'
Without me, though.
I empty my glass and walk to my B&B.
At 11 p.m. I am in bed."

Laughing Lhursday*

Old beholder:
Fine piece of artwork.
What is its title?
Young artist:
Storm.

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

World Champions

And the Winner is:
Nation of Procrasti!
Who cares about peace?!

On Convention

Today, while admiring the elegance of the swallows giving me the honour to again spending a summer under Seanhenge's roof, suddenly Chapter 5 [On Convention] in 'The Short Story' by Sean O'Faolain came to my mind.
I jumped up, took the book, opened page 173, finally put on my skirt in order to type the following:
'We forget when enjoying the pleasure of any art, of music, poetry, painting or the theatre, that a very great part of our pleasure has been dependent on convention. We are expected to forget it. In the theatre we have all tacitly agreed to see nothing odd about a room that, on the stage, has only three sides; or, in painting, it does not seem odd to us that we see a view as if our heads were held in a vice whereas in life we let our eyes wander east and west, shift position a dozen times and see the landscape under fifty changing lights. The point is elementary; that is why it so important; because it is so very obvious it is constantly forgotten, and this forgetting has, as I will show in this chapter, profound implications. I will here barely hint at one of them by recalling how a humourous philosopher once pointed to a cow in a field and said to me, 'What do you see there?'
I obligingly said that I perceived a cow. 'But you do not,' he replied. 'You deduce a cow. All you see is the appearance of one-half of the outside of a cow. And when you look at a portrait of your aunt all you see is a picture of the outside of one-half of your aunt. You go through a series of lightning processes before accepting this superficies as a portrait of your aunt. It is, for instance, the whole case against realism that it concentrates on giving us the outside of the one-half of everything.' In other words the convention of realism depends for its success on our forgetting that realism is a convention. So does every other convention.'

The peace of the night!

Chimneys

. . .

Those were the days – Dublin 1960s

Saturday Night Music – Max Bruch's Scottish Fantasy

Max Bruch (6 January 1838 – 2 October 1920)

Friday is Skyday

. . .