Seanhenge these days

 

Just a glimpse.

Balcony djungle.

Apples and prune plums.

Prune plums.

Apples.

Plums
[as an aside: super delicious]

Many people would not be able to imagine
what grows in and beneath this apparent chaos.

Potatoes, for example.

Friday is Skyday

Baboons ... observing Seanhenge ...

Laughing Lhursday*

As in any well-organised household, everything preserved at Seanhenge is labelled and dated.
So I was all the more surprised when I recently opened a tin of homemade tomato puree to prepare a tomato sauce “à la Sean”:

Instead of the usual date, I read: 
“The day before Goethe's 275th birthday”.
Sometimes I even make myself smile.

P.S.: Can any of my kind visitors 
tell me on which day I was in such a playful mood?

* [For first time visitors]:

Typo in the title?
Nah. It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration. 

Little dead swallow

Granddaughter sitting in the courtyard, observing three swallow nests and looking around. Suddenly a small cry. ‘Grandpa, oh no! A little bird.’ – On my way to the garage, I return and glance into the drain: ‘Ah, no, it's but a leaf.’

To cut a long story short:
Granddaughter's eagle eyes were right.
So I advised her to find a leaf.

We place the little swallow on it.
When I return from shopping, I hear
the little creature has been given a solemn burial.

On the road

Homeward ...

Just three thoughts

It is interesting to see how a psychopath can dominate the news.

It is interesting to see how journalists allow themselves to be dominated by a psychopath.

The smarter one gives in. ... That is why the stupid rule the world.

Coffeetime "À rebours". ;-)

A rebours.

 Joris-Karl Huysmans (5 February 1848 – 12 May 1907)

Saturday Night Music – Lluís Llach: L'Estaca

 

Lluís Llach *7 May 1948

Lyrics: Original and English translation

Friday is Skyday

On leaving the village.

Blimey! Fourty years!

Phew. Fourty years ago, the last Sunday in July was the 30th. One week after this agnostic had "made" Station Island, fulfilling a promise to myself, I climbed Croagh Patrick on my bare feet. 
At the time I am writing this, I was trying to get some sleep on the carpark at the foot of Croagh Patrick when I got awaken by both monotone and hysteric a voice, again and again shouting "Get out of it! Get out of it!"
Carefully I opened the car door, got out and – became witness of an exorcism.

Later I asked myself: Why would people do this?

He, f.e., kept a promise
he had given to himself.

Saturday night poetry: Joan Maragall

For my Català-speaking friends and visitors.
To spare you lengthy passages in German, I have listed below when poems by Maragall can be heard, recited in Catalan by Jaume Villalba, in German by Àxel Sanjosé.
• 05:16 – 08:12
• 24:27 – 27:20
• 34:10 – 35:38
• 41:45 – 43:39
• 50:58 – 54:41
• 58:39 – 1:02:04
• 1:12:52 – 1:15:52 

May you enjoy. 

 

Joan Maragall (10 October 1860 – 20 December 1911)

Good advice!

 "At 70 years old if I could give my younger self one piece of advice, it would be to use the words 'Fuck off' much more frequently".
Helen Mirren * 26 July 1945

Happy birthday, ma'am!

Laughing Lhursday*: Irish Metamorphosis

Early this morning spake Tetrapilotomos:
'Until Wednesday then.'
'Oh, trip to Tibet?
'No, march to Mayo.'
'Ah, next Sunday celebrating once again that St. Patrick worked wonder by climbing Croagh Patrick on your bare feet?'
'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 with the corners of his mouth twitching, off he went.

* [For first time visitors]:

Typo in the title?
Nah. It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.