Monday, April 06, 2009
Sunday, April 05, 2009
The Indian Serenade
I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me - who knows how?
To thy chamber window, sweet.
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream -
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
Oh, beloved as thou art!
Oh lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white alas!
My heart beats loud and fast
Oh, I press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, April 03, 2009
100 Hours of Astronmy
Lucky who has an observatory in his neighbourhood, especially these days.
Those who haven't can let their eyes travelling around the clock via Internet.
http://www.100hoursofastronomy.org/
And here's, for a beginning, 'a bit more' about the International Year of Astronomy.
Well, actually it's quite a lot to discover. :)
Check around and enjoy.
Those who haven't can let their eyes travelling around the clock via Internet.
http://www.100hoursofastronomy.org/
And here's, for a beginning, 'a bit more' about the International Year of Astronomy.
Well, actually it's quite a lot to discover. :)
Check around and enjoy.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Eyes travelling 30 million light years
'Clear' sky. So our astrophysicist yesterday went on sightseeing-tour. Today he sent an email ("colours will follow").
Galaxy NGC 3628Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Rich Poetry at The Poor Mouth's
Who would not feel a great desire
to celebrate McGonagall & McIntyre?
There's a poetry slam right over here,
it's great fun though without beer.
So hurry soon over to Jams, please.
The winner might win a ton of cheese,
or even unlike Gordon Brown
get a statue in Edinburgh Town.
Bertus, et tu? :)
to celebrate McGonagall & McIntyre?
There's a poetry slam right over here,
it's great fun though without beer.
So hurry soon over to Jams, please.
The winner might win a ton of cheese,
or even unlike Gordon Brown
get a statue in Edinburgh Town.
Bertus, et tu? :)
The Taoiseach's New Clothes III
Once I don't do 'things' immediately, they would often vanish in the realm of oblivion.
That's why I am thankful to the very inner voice whispering: Carpe noctem.
Be it then: Some - do I need say?: very personal - thoughts before the chapter picture- respectively cowengate is going to get closed.
And some last words before diving in media res: I've been following with interest (and often chucking) what has been posted about this 'issue'. By the following, which I shall be writing 'without filtres', thus as the thoughts come, I do not intend to attack anybody.
A 'clever' chap (I promised to come back to this point) unasked nails some caricatures to some museum walls, and ...
... nothing happens.
So, after a while, the 'clever chap' - did anyone notice I did not call him 'artist'? - emails a newspaper.
[Comment: It would not make much sense to hit a nail into the wall of any museum's toilet, as long as noone takes notice, hm?]
Well, and what happens afterwards, meanwhile everybody (at least in the blogosphere) should / could know.
Thus, end of the beforegoing.
De gustibus not est disputandum.
Quite. Either you have it, or you have it not.
So, why would I publish caricatures of a naked Taoiseach?
Ladies, gentlemen, this is not about a "clever chap" trying to advertise his 'artwork'/name; this is about freedom of speech / music / arts / satire ...
... and - last not least - freedom from censorship!!
Yes, again, I am writing this 'without filtres', without caring about 'wrong' syntax, 'wrong' prepositions, 'wrong' idioms.
Satire is satire is satire.
Imagine all the flags burning if this were, f.e. about a naked Mohammed or any of the very genleman's afficionados.
Conclusion:
Ha, ...
... what a great fun to show a Taoiseach without clothes;
... what a fun to attack the 'fucking bastards' elected by a majority of most intelligent voters;
... what a fun we (bloggers) had while ...
... approximately 280,000 children died of starvation.
Oops. Did I spoil the fun? Sorry. Am I a fucking kill-joy? Forgive me.
After all, who cares, hm?
We - the great champions of the blogosphere had a splendid time, hadn't we?
Exactly the fun, Heinrich Heine once defined:
Der Knecht singt gerne Freiheitslieder
des Abends in der Schenke.
The peasant loves to sing songs of freedom (rebel-songs)
in the pub at night.
- - -
I am proud of myself ... as I knew before that I'd not be able to express my thoughts (in English).
So, please, forgive me and head on to read the very best post on this very topic.
The peace of the night.
The Taoiseach's New Clothes
The Taoiseach's New Clothes II
Brian, Borges & Bioy
Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?
Physiognomy of fine gentlemen
The Impossible Fact
That's why I am thankful to the very inner voice whispering: Carpe noctem.
Be it then: Some - do I need say?: very personal - thoughts before the chapter picture- respectively cowengate is going to get closed.
And some last words before diving in media res: I've been following with interest (and often chucking) what has been posted about this 'issue'. By the following, which I shall be writing 'without filtres', thus as the thoughts come, I do not intend to attack anybody.
*
What has happened?A 'clever' chap (I promised to come back to this point) unasked nails some caricatures to some museum walls, and ...
... nothing happens.
So, after a while, the 'clever chap' - did anyone notice I did not call him 'artist'? - emails a newspaper.
[Comment: It would not make much sense to hit a nail into the wall of any museum's toilet, as long as noone takes notice, hm?]
Well, and what happens afterwards, meanwhile everybody (at least in the blogosphere) should / could know.
Thus, end of the beforegoing.
De gustibus not est disputandum.
Quite. Either you have it, or you have it not.
So, why would I publish caricatures of a naked Taoiseach?
Ladies, gentlemen, this is not about a "clever chap" trying to advertise his 'artwork'/name; this is about freedom of speech / music / arts / satire ...
... and - last not least - freedom from censorship!!
Yes, again, I am writing this 'without filtres', without caring about 'wrong' syntax, 'wrong' prepositions, 'wrong' idioms.
Satire is satire is satire.
Imagine all the flags burning if this were, f.e. about a naked Mohammed or any of the very genleman's afficionados.
Conclusion:
Ha, ...
... what a great fun to show a Taoiseach without clothes;
... what a fun to attack the 'fucking bastards' elected by a majority of most intelligent voters;
... what a fun we (bloggers) had while ...
... approximately 280,000 children died of starvation.
Oops. Did I spoil the fun? Sorry. Am I a fucking kill-joy? Forgive me.
After all, who cares, hm?
We - the great champions of the blogosphere had a splendid time, hadn't we?
Exactly the fun, Heinrich Heine once defined:
Der Knecht singt gerne Freiheitslieder
des Abends in der Schenke.
The peasant loves to sing songs of freedom (rebel-songs)
in the pub at night.
- - -
I am proud of myself ... as I knew before that I'd not be able to express my thoughts (in English).
So, please, forgive me and head on to read the very best post on this very topic.
The peace of the night.
The Taoiseach's New Clothes
The Taoiseach's New Clothes II
Brian, Borges & Bioy
Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?
Physiognomy of fine gentlemen
The Impossible Fact
Monday, March 30, 2009
Meeting John McGahern
Almost exactly about this time 13 years ago, early in April:
Why not meeting halfway, he had suggested; at Blake's in Enniskillen.
So, on a bright and sunny (Satur-) day arriving in Enniskillen. Oh, what a wonderful world! Eleven years ago, summer '85: Each of the few noises reechoing; a voice here, a pair of stilettos there; at least one person sitting in each of the few cars parking in the main road.
Today: spring in the air, spring in the faces; no one sitting in the long row of parked cars, reading a newspaper. A cheerful laughter here, no supicious glances at the stranger with the strange bag. What a difference!
Blake's of the Hollow. He's not arrived, yet. After a while, I decide to rather wait in front of the entrance, enjoying the sun and - the very difference.
"May I leave my camera-bag?" - "There's no bomb in it, eh?" Laughingly the barkeeper nods, takes the bag.
Waiting. Waiting. For Godot? No. For John McGahern. Here he comes.
Two pints of Guinness, some sandwiches and two pots of tea later - apart from his work - we'd have talked about: history; many of his colleagues; the (then) political situation; abortion; the (ab)use of language, censorship, the Church.
At one stage he says: "One of the best things in my life so far has been to see the Church's influence fading."
"Well, I remember f.e. that [in autumn 1990] especially in rural western areas quite a few priests would call upon their flock by no means to vote for Mary Robinson becoming President."
"And, did it keep the majority from electing her?"
"Still, ...
"Still?"
"And you think that's irreversible?"
"Yes."
"Hm, that's what Gorbatchov said about Glasnost and Perestroika."
"Never again was said after the Holocaust, too, and still we are having our Srebrenicas and Rwandas. Yes. But we should never give up hope."
"Is that your Message to the Irish People?"
"À la Seán MacBride?" And again there is this tiny almost imperceptible smile.
And so we are going to talk about MacBride's 'testimony', finally coming to chapter 11 - Criminal Neglect of Forestry.
"Ah, yes, forestry", he says, raises his arm and asks the waiter to bring us another pot of tea.
Why would I've told this? Well, today three years ago John McGahern died.
Died?
Not really, hm?
You can meet him every day - in his books.
Oh well ... and whenever striving through his forest.
Why not meeting halfway, he had suggested; at Blake's in Enniskillen.
So, on a bright and sunny (Satur-) day arriving in Enniskillen. Oh, what a wonderful world! Eleven years ago, summer '85: Each of the few noises reechoing; a voice here, a pair of stilettos there; at least one person sitting in each of the few cars parking in the main road.
Today: spring in the air, spring in the faces; no one sitting in the long row of parked cars, reading a newspaper. A cheerful laughter here, no supicious glances at the stranger with the strange bag. What a difference!
Blake's of the Hollow. He's not arrived, yet. After a while, I decide to rather wait in front of the entrance, enjoying the sun and - the very difference.
"May I leave my camera-bag?" - "There's no bomb in it, eh?" Laughingly the barkeeper nods, takes the bag.
Waiting. Waiting. For Godot? No. For John McGahern. Here he comes.
Two pints of Guinness, some sandwiches and two pots of tea later - apart from his work - we'd have talked about: history; many of his colleagues; the (then) political situation; abortion; the (ab)use of language, censorship, the Church.
At one stage he says: "One of the best things in my life so far has been to see the Church's influence fading."
"Well, I remember f.e. that [in autumn 1990] especially in rural western areas quite a few priests would call upon their flock by no means to vote for Mary Robinson becoming President."
"And, did it keep the majority from electing her?"
"Still, ...
"Still?"
"And you think that's irreversible?"
"Yes."
"Hm, that's what Gorbatchov said about Glasnost and Perestroika."
"Never again was said after the Holocaust, too, and still we are having our Srebrenicas and Rwandas. Yes. But we should never give up hope."
"Is that your Message to the Irish People?"
"À la Seán MacBride?" And again there is this tiny almost imperceptible smile.
And so we are going to talk about MacBride's 'testimony', finally coming to chapter 11 - Criminal Neglect of Forestry.
"Ah, yes, forestry", he says, raises his arm and asks the waiter to bring us another pot of tea.
Why would I've told this? Well, today three years ago John McGahern died.
Died?
Not really, hm?
You can meet him every day - in his books.
Oh well ... and whenever striving through his forest.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
O Fortuna
As the originally posted video (bottom of this page) is no longer available, here's Carmina Burana in full length performed by UC Davis University Chorus, Alumni Chorus, Symphony Orchestra, and the Pacific Boychoir.
For those who like to take the time: Lean back and enjoy.
For those who like to take the time: Lean back and enjoy.
How do they know?
Your result for The 3 Variable Funny Test...
the Prankster
CLEAN | COMPLEX | LIGHT
Your humor has an intellectual, even conceptual slant to it. You're not pretentious, but you're not into what some would call 'low humor' either. You'll laugh at a good dirty joke, but you definitely prefer something clever to something moist.
You probably like well-thought-out pranks and/or spoofs and it's highly likely you've tried one of these things yourself. In a lot of ways, yours is the most entertaining type of humor because it's smart without being mean-spirited.
PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Conan O'Brian - Ashton Kutcher
The 3-Variable Funny Test!
- it rules -
Take The 3 Variable Funny Test at HelloQuizzy
H/t to The Poor Mouth
The Ode is not yet composed
He's still 20 years younger than John Major, I am still 28 years younger than Maggie Thatcher, only the proportional relation between our ages has changed a bit.
Wishing the best of Omnium which is - as everbody knows - everything!
As Tetrapilotomos hasn't finished his novel In-climbing-two-cats, yet, and McSeanagall is still composing his Ode to the Poor Mouth, and as no Third Policeman was available on you tube, here's to you, with kind regards from Flann himself.
And now, dear readers, head over to Mr. Jams O'Donnell Esq., as herewith I declare the bazaar for congratulations opened.
Wishing the best of Omnium which is - as everbody knows - everything!
As Tetrapilotomos hasn't finished his novel In-climbing-two-cats, yet, and McSeanagall is still composing his Ode to the Poor Mouth, and as no Third Policeman was available on you tube, here's to you, with kind regards from Flann himself.
And now, dear readers, head over to Mr. Jams O'Donnell Esq., as herewith I declare the bazaar for congratulations opened.
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