... 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.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Two days after
Just in case anyone's conCERNed and fearing - or exulting - I might have been swallowed by a Black Hole.
Monday, September 08, 2008
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
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
Sunday, September 07, 2008
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
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
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