And? Did those born after change anything?

Below the video you find the text, both in German (in case you wish to follow Bertold Brecht's reading), and in English.

An die Nachgeborenen

I

Wirklich, ich lebe in finsteren Zeiten!
Das arglose Wort ist töricht. Eine glatte Stirn
Deutet auf Unempfindlichkeit hin. Der Lachende
Hat die furchtbare Nachricht
Nur noch nicht empfangen.

Was sind das für Zeiten, wo
Ein Gespräch über Bäume fast ein Verbrechen ist
Weil es ein Schweigen über so viele Untaten einschließt!
Der dort ruhig über die Straße geht
Ist wohl nicht mehr erreichbar für seine Freunde
Die in Not sind?

Es ist wahr: Ich verdiene noch meinen Unterhalt
Aber glaubt mir: das ist nur ein Zufall. Nichts
Von dem, was ich tue, berechtigt mich dazu, mich sattzuessen.
Zufällig bin ich verschont. (Wenn mein Glück aussetzt, bin ich verloren.)

Man sagt mir: Iß und trink du! Sei froh, daß du hast!
Aber wie kann ich essen und trinken, wenn
Ich dem Hungernden entreiße, was ich esse, und
Mein Glas Wasser einem Verdurstenden fehlt?
Und doch esse und trinke ich.

Ich wäre gerne auch weise.
In den alten Büchern steht, was weise ist:
Sich aus dem Streit der Welt halten und die kurze Zeit
Ohne Furcht verbringen
Auch ohne Gewalt auskommen
Böses mit Gutem vergelten
Seine Wünsche nicht erfüllen, sondern vergessen
Gilt für weise.
Alles das kann ich nicht:
Wirklich, ich lebe in finsteren Zeiten!

II

In die Städte kam ich zur Zeit der Unordnung
Als da Hunger herrschte.
Unter die Menschen kam ich zu der Zeit des Aufruhrs
Und ich empörte mich mit ihnen.
So verging meine Zeit
Die auf Erden mir gegeben war.

Mein Essen aß ich zwischen den Schlachten
Schlafen legte ich mich unter die Mörder
Der Liebe pflegte ich achtlos
Und die Natur sah ich ohne Geduld.
So verging meine Zeit
Die auf Erden mir gegeben war.

Die Straßen führten in den Sumpf zu meiner Zeit.
Die Sprache verriet mich dem Schlächter.
Ich vermochte nur wenig. Aber die Herrschenden
Saßen ohne mich sicherer, das hoffte ich.
So verging meine Zeit
Die auf Erden mir gegeben war.

Die Kräfte waren gering. Das Ziel
Lag in großer Ferne
Es war deutlich sichtbar, wenn auch für mich
Kaum zu erreichen.
So verging meine Zeit
Die auf Erden mir gegeben war.

III

Ihr, die ihr auftauchen werdet aus der Flut
In der wir untergegangen sind
Gedenkt
Wenn ihr von unseren Schwächen sprecht
Auch der finsteren Zeit
Der ihr entronnen seid.

Gingen wir doch, öfter als die Schuhe die Länder wechselnd
Durch die Kriege der Klassen, verzweifelt
Wenn da nur Unrecht war und keine Empörung.

Dabei wissen wir doch:
Auch der Hass gegen die Niedrigkeit
Verzerrt die Züge.
Auch der Zorn über das Unrecht
Macht die Stimme heiser. Ach, wir
Die wir den Boden bereiten wollten für Freundlichkeit
Konnten selber nicht freundlich sein.

Ihr aber, wenn es soweit sein wird
Dass der Mensch dem Menschen ein Helfer ist
Gedenkt unsrer
Mit Nachsicht.

To Those Born After

I

Truly, I live in dark times!
An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead
Points to insensitivity. He who laughs
Has not yet received
The terrible news.

What times are these, in which
A conversation about trees is almost a crime
For in doing so we maintain our silence about so much wrongdoing!
And he who walks quietly across the street,
Passes out of the reach of his friends
Who are in danger?

It is true: I work for a living
But, believe me, that is a coincidence. Nothing
That I do gives me the right to eat my fill.
By chance I have been spared. (If my luck does not hold, I am lost.)

They tell me: eat and drink. Be glad to be among the haves!
But how can I eat and drink
When I take what I eat from the starving
And those who thirst do not have my glass of water?
And yet I eat and drink.

I would happily be wise.
The old books teach us what wisdom is:
To retreat from the strife of the world
To live out the brief time that is your lot
Without fear
To make your way without violence
To repay evil with good –
The wise do not seek to satisfy their desires,
But to forget them.
But I cannot heed this:
Truly I live in dark times!

II

I came into the cities in a time of disorder
As hunger reigned.
I came among men in a time of turmoil
And I rose up with them.
And so passed
The time given to me on earth.

I ate my food between slaughters.
I laid down to sleep among murderers.
I tended to love with abandon.
I looked upon nature with impatience.
And so passed
The time given to me on earth.

In my time streets led into a swamp.
My language betrayed me to the slaughterer.
There was little I could do. But without me
The rulers sat more securely, or so I hoped.
And so passed
The time given to me on earth.

The powers were so limited. The goal
Lay far in the distance
It could clearly be seen although even I
Could hardly hope to reach it.
And so passed
The time given to me on earth.

III

You, who shall resurface following the flood
In which we have perished,
Contemplate –
When you speak of our weaknesses,
Also the dark time
That you have escaped.

For we went forth, changing our country more frequently than our shoes
Through the class warfare, despairing
That there was only injustice and no outrage.

And yet we knew:
Even the hatred of squalor
Distorts one’s features.
Even anger against injustice
Makes the voice grow hoarse. We
Who wished to lay the foundation for gentleness
Could not ourselves be gentle.

But you, when at last the time comes
That man can aid his fellow man,
Should think upon us
With leniency.

Another 1500 years?

Oh dear! One could, indeed, come to think that Omnium, - i.e. everything (essential) - has been posted (just check the label), and thus after almost three years it's time to break the habit's paralysing stances; and if it were to prove that not only each beginning bears a special magic, but also each ending.

Anyway, another March 17th, and once again quite a few Irish - yes, yes, and folks of other provenance - will keep the landlords busy, celebrating ... what?
And why?!

Alright, let's take for granted, a certain Patrick expelled all snakes from Hiberna.

And what's the outcome?

Since the Emerald Island is swarming with priests.

A reason to celebrate?
Obviously.

After all, the majority of the Irish people seem to be happy with the outcome of this wondrous metamorphosis.

Oh well, who knows what they would get, did they banish all bishops, monks, priests and nuns.

They might for the next 1,500 years or so be ruled by paederasts.

Sláinte!

Death still a master from Germany II

Germany doubled the amount of its arms it sold abroad in 2004-2009, compared to that exported during the previous five-year period, according to a report by the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI) released Monday.

Germany is the world's third leading exporter of conventional weaponry.
Full article here.

Well, so much for the chronicler's duty.

The rest has already been posted on this blog.
I do recommend following the offered links, in case you are interested and willing to take the time and read this.

Sometimes it's nice to imagine hell exists

The hottest places in hell are reserved for those
who in times of great moral crisis
maintain their neutrality.
Dante Alighieri

Hypatia and Medine

So-called International or World Days of whatsoever leave me cold.
Day of the book for me is on 365 days, and on 366 days in leap-years. Same goes for water, bread, animals, human rights etc. etc..

Thus it will not come as a surprise that the International Women's Day for me neither is anything special.

Do I hear anyone hissing "Damn macho!"?

Sshhh sshhhh ... :)

Anyway, Welshcakes over at Sicily Scene last Monday posted such a wonderful homage to a remarkable Italian woman (oh, just don't be too lazy to drop over; I am quite sure you will not regret) that I started to think about what woman in history I'd like to praise with an homage. Well, actually I did not have to think twice.

Thus, I checked the internet, ... and got delighted: Not only that I found a nicely done video about my heroine, but there got some other admirable women mentioned.




Just to make sure: To be admired (by me), a woman does not need to be scientist or famous for this and that. I have met and do meet many women who will never be mentioned in a history book, and still are lovely, remarkable, do admirable things. And some I know who are able to put better within one or two sentences what I would perhaps not be able to explain in 50.

And what is about the second name mentioned in your title? you might ask.

Well, yes, Medine.
Medine is not famous. And the sad realist in myself is sure she will not be mentioned in history books.
You see, Medine's no scientist, no artist, no philosopher. I don't know if she was a passionate reader; if she wrote poems. I don't even know if she was able to read, properly, ... if she was given the chance, if she got encouraged to discover the realm of the letters, numbers and symbols, supported to develop her talents.

And still I do wish that once she will be mentioned in history books!

Men who from generation to generation had been taught to believe (sic!), that - (perhaps) except of one's mother - girls and women are less worth, and that "a man who does not beat his wife is no man", suddenly perceived that it is of great advantage to have an excellently learned and educated daughter, to marry an excellently learned and educated wife, to get an excellently learned and educated daughter-in-law, as she will be able to excellently - with love and knowledge - support ... their son, their grandson to become an excellently learned and educated human being.

Medine will not have a son.
I'd like so much to know more about Medine.
Unfortunately, I do not know much more about her than that she's 16 and, that it's said she sometimes talked to boys, that complaining violence against her mother and herself she asked policemen for help and shortly afterwards disappeared - buried alive by her father and grandfather.

The peace of the night.

Whom the (snow-)bells toll

Well, actually I intended just to title '... and some more', but would first time visitors have known I were refering to the previous post? [Ha ha, no link here!]
After all, one does not need to be arrogant to not expect too much from the average 'stumblers upon', hm? :)

Anyway, why Whom the (snow-)bells toll?
Nah :), not primarily as this would offer the opportunity to mention en passant, that about thirty years ago colleagues used to call me Hemingway, but because Schneeglöckchen translated in English are not snowdrops but snowbells.

Ahem ... end of the beforegoing.

It's often said that nature is 'magical'. A few people in Haiti, Chile and Turkey, to name but a few countries, would perhaps / probably not wholeheartedly agree these days, especially not those who are dead; well, and those who had / have to learn that what humans use to call natural desaster (or so) does not necessarily increase fellow sufferers' ethic standards.
Oh, by the way, did you hear, watch anything about Haiti during the past fortnight?
Nothing? Ah, I am so glad! Isn't this global solidarity wonderful a thing? Some benefit galas, and before you could say f.e. religion or helpfulness, all Haitians got a new roof over their heads, enough to drink and eat; hospitals, schools, ah ... the whole infrastructure was renewed.
Isn't it a pity that good news are (considered to be) no news?
Still, isn't it wonderful to live in these times? In times when no wo/man feels so desperate to fall on her/his knees and cry "Oh, please, God, help me!", as there's always a fellow human not only willing to be g(o)od but really does help?
Brave new world!

End of the beforegoing.

What you are witnessing, in case you did not a while ago surf on to the next world-shattering important blogger(s) is, what a tiny step it is from taciturnity to logorrhoea as, of course, I could just have written:

This was what I saw on Saturday.

This was what I saw on Sunday.

And this when looking a bit closer.

Apropos, looking closer. Just thinking of everything's fine by now in Haiti, Chile, Turkey .... ah, and, of course, in China's democracy, I am. Liu Xiabo is free!! And so is Hu Jia. No priest or imam letting a little boy suck their holy pricks, no freedom fighter in Kongo or elsewhere raping a girl or woman together with his fellow heroes, and when after some seconds his manhood's getting limp, letting do his bajonet - oh, well or a fucking wooden stick - the rest to increase the woman's delight; Mr. Obama has declared Order 81 null and void, and consequently the Masters of Monsanto became bio famers; in Nigeria ... ...

... ah! Stop! This could have become such a lovely little post!! Lovely little flowers in snow. How cute! Harbingers of spring. Now, isn't there still hope?! I mean, it does not happen often that seasons change, does it? It's really surprising.

Forget it!

Rather than going on boring you, I quit and go on writing three or four pages more of what's going to become another glorious novel that will shatter the world ... not.
Who cares?! As long as readers shovel money upon me. I consider it better than shovelling snow, anyway.

Even better than wasting your time.

The peace of the night.

Tiny harbinger

On first sight there's nothing special,
when last Sunday I went to feed the birds.

Snow, birds- and cat tracks, some scrubs.
However, what a delight ...

... on second sight.

Tracks getting less deep

Comparing the tracks one could find in Seanhenge

during January,

those in March are less deep.
So there's hope ...

the snow shovel can soon be put asleep.

The Secret of Kiltish Powers

The "second sight" possessed by the Highlanders in Scotland is actually a foreknowledge of future events. I believe they possess this gift because they don't wear trousers.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

Cyclone Xynthia as terrific goalgetter

There will very probably be a replay. As the ref's decision ought to have been: corner.

Well, on the other hand, what do I know about football? :)

Her Voice His Eyes

Otherness is no sin

Suppose I should stick to silently writing

To think
I must be alone:
To love
We must be together.

I think I love you
When I'm alone
More than I think of you
When we're together.

I cannot think
Without loving
Or love
Without thinking

Alone I love
To think of us together
Together I think
I'd love to be alone.

Richard Murphy

Never wake a lazy lion

Ladies and gentlemen,
Dames en heren,
Bayanlar, Baylar,
Signoras e Signori,
Señoras y Señores,
Mesdames et Messieurs,
Friends,

I am so sorry to cause inconviences.

Some religious nutters cause me, in a first step to ask for word verification. As soon as the lady and the gentleman* (or the machine) get tired and thus decide to focus on other poor bloggers, I shall return to easy business as usual.


* My esteemed readers will notice that on my quest to become the politest blogger in this universe and those yet to discover, I did not call mentioned lady and gentleman names.
Otherwise, I'd say they are fucking idiots.

The peace of the night.

Perhaps, perhaps

Astronomy is perhaps the science whose discoveries owe least to chance, in which human understanding appears in its whole magnitude, and through which man can best learn how small he is.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

One cat a day ... ?

Yesterday a blackbird, used to find ...

(at least) one apple a day in Seanhenge,

looking left ...

looking right ...

hardly could believe its eyes.

Forest Bulb: Some thought I were Venus

Well, as promised for today's Laughing Lhursday, here's the metagrobolistic subject of Seanstronomy, observed in daytime.

I think from now on I shall call this star Forest Bulb.

As now :) can (perhaps) easily be seen it's neither Venus, Moon, nor Mars, but the good old bulb at the edge of our good old greenhouse which - mind you, the greenhouse, not the bulb - once, deep in the past millennium, was build mainly from old windows by our father (never would have come to my mind he was "but" my father-in-law) who whenever I'd admire his various skills (and how often I would!) accompanied by his unique tiny smile used to say (and still I do have his voice in my ear): "Sean, you can well be stupid as long as you know how to help yourself."

By the way: See the bright spot on the western side of Forest Bulb's northern hemisphere, pretty near to its equator? That's the sun.

Well, I am pretty sure that someone who on first sight knows to distinguish Mars from a bulb [see here, in the comment section] will probably insist on that it's rather a reflection of the sun, or to put it more precisely ... here's your turn, Andrew. :)

And now, getting hungry, I'll dedicate myself to something completely different. Bertus would call it minestronology.

Chill out with Chopin

Long live Heine

Our death is in the cool of night,
our life is in the pool of day.
The darkness glows, I’m drowning,
the day has tired me with light.

Over my head in leaves grown deep,
sings the young nightingale.
It only sings of love there,
I hear it in my sleep.

Heinrich Heine (13.12. 1797 - 17.02. 1856)

Same route - different views

Almost I had forgotten what difference blue sky and some spells of sun do make.
Well, ... and ... freshly fallen snow.

Remember but a few days ago?

Well, here's what it is looking like today.

One more example:

Ten days ago.

This morning.

Seanstronomy

Snowrotic

Metropolis

Those who might rather have expected the opus 'Megashovelling' will have to wait until tomorrow, as - after all the snow shovelling - I watched the restored version of Fritz Lang's silent classic that tonight had its premiere at the 60th "Berlinale".

Stunning!

And now, for those who can't wait until the film will be released in their country: Voilà.

The peace of the night.

Laughing Lhursday

Hostes alienigeni me abduxerunt. Qui annus est?*

* I was kidnapped by aliens. What year is it?

Nah! Neither was I kidnapped nor did I spoil a walk by breaking this or that extremity on icy path(s).


Just extremely busy with not blogging I was for a couple of days. And as you can easily see from above's title, still I would not let a tiny T spoil an absolutely amazing avantgardistic alliteration.

Apropos 'Laughing Lhursday': Visiting Stan, the master of Sentence First, the corners of your mouth will start quite a few expeditions to your ear-lobes.

Take your time, but don't miss coming back for Knatolee's hilarious hen-haiku(s) and ...

... Webwisewoman who caused me a bockety laughter.

The peace of the night.

Killing ... their power

“ ‘Gao Zhisheng! You mother****er! Your date with death is today! Brothers! Let’s show the bastard how brutal we can get. Kill the bastard.’ A leader of the group screamed. Then, four men with electric batons started to beat my head and body with ferocity. Nothing but the noise of the beating and my moaning could be heard in the room. I was beaten so severely that my whole body began shaking uncontrollably on the floor.

But one example. But one example.

How many journalists have been murdered in Mexico since 2000?

But one example. But some examples.

But one ... day ...

Forget it!!

There won't be the day that a (wo)man will not be bullied, imprisoned, tortured or killed by those who have not much more than their power.

Tell my ashes if I were wrong.

One apple a day ...

keeps ...

... the hunger away.

Catwalk

Home warm home

Anything else than triste

Cheers!

The heirs of today's birthday child who once finished his masterpiece in Triest will feel a bit triste when thinking of next year as then they can't suck any more honey / money from their ancestors' genius - in January 2011 the copyright expires.

How cometh I am looking forward to January 13th? :)

This cloak of white feathers

I do not sleep at night nor go out by day, I am sad because the world has disappeared, nor is there food nor bank left, nor open grounds nor fields. Nor will I be enticed out of my house by any girl's invitation while this plague continues, this cloak of white feathers sticking close to dragon's scales, but tell her that I do not want my coat made white like a miller's garment. After New Year one must go wrapped in fur, and during January God makes us start the year as hermits.

Now God has whitewashed the dark earth all around till there is no undergrowth without its white garment, no coppins that's not covered with a sheet: fine flour has been milled on every stump, heavenly flour like April blossoms. A cold veil lies over the woods and the young trees, a load of chalk bows down the trees; ghostly wheaten flour which falls till a white coat of mail covers all the fields of the plain. The soil of the ploughed fields is covered with a cold grit, lying like a thick coat of tallow on the earth's skin, and a shower of frozen foam falls in fleeces big as a man's fist. Across North Wales the snow-flakes wander like a swarm of white bees. Why does God throw down this mass of feathers like the down of his own geese, till here below the drifts sway and billow over the heather like swollen bellies big as heaps of chaff and covered with ermine? The dust piles in a drift where we sang along the pleasant paths.

This garment of snow holds us in grip while it remains cementing together the hills, valleys and ditches und a steel coat fit to break the earth, fixing all into a vast monument greater than the graveyard of the sea. What a great fall lies on my country, a white wall stretching from one sea to another! Who dares fight its rude power? A leaden cloak lies on us. When will the rain come?

Dafydd ap Gwilym

Rational free spirits ...

... are the light brigade who go on ahead and reconnoitre the ground which the heavy brigade of the orthodox will eventually occupy.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

C'est ça!

:)

"When vanity is not prompting us, we have little to say."
La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680)

Tonight I can write ...

PUEDO escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: " La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

English:

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

Candlelight music

High noon (not only) for photographers

The two previous posts with quotations by Lichtenberg (re prejudices) and Franklin (re liberty) may be taken as an intro to this one.

They were also a reminder for me before putting my head on the pillow last night, in case I'd happen to wake up again not to forget reminding of what fellow blogger and -flannophil, Jams O'Donnell , on December 14th announced for January 23, thus tomorrow:

A gathering of photographers, professionals and amateurs,
at Trafalgar Square at noon,
organised to defend (y)our rights and
stop the abuse of the terror laws.

More about the organisers and the(ir) very serious reasons to speak out you will find here.

So, if you, unlike myself, are living in or near London: Lift your backside and do it: Show those who are still not your leaders but nothing else but your representatives that you are fed up with their understanding of democracy, and that you are not willing to give in. Defend (y)our rights!
Cure your elected - and (still) diselectable (!) - representants from their prejudice that each photographer, each human being has to be treated as a potential criminal or even terrorist.
Defend your (essential) liberty!

Don't you deserve them?

Those who would give up essential liberty
to purchase a little temporary safety,
deserve neither liberty nor safety.
Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790)

Well, so to speak

Prejudices are so to speak the mechanical instincts of men: through their prejudices they do without any effort many things they would find too difficult to think through to the point of resolving to do them.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

Yes!

As I take up my pen I feel myself so full, so equal to my subject, and see my book so clearly before me in embryo, I would almost like to try to say it all in a single word.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

Brendel plays Beethoven

Of course, it's much more comfortable listening to Beethoven's sonata No 29 in five parts less than six, the more while sitting with a mug of coffee in one's chair and enjoying Scottish normality, but anyway:

Here's - especially to you, Andrew :) - the virtuosic Alfred Brendel.
Enjoy.

Another hypocritical idiot

From Mrs. Robinson to Pat Robertson. What an utter stupid scum. May all his teeth fall out, except of one ... for permanent toothache!

Oh, and what do you think when watching the lady's mimic?

Hey, Mrs. Robinson

Ha ha ha ha ha ...

Winter in Seanhenge

Different a view from sping, summer and autumn, hm?

One of our five rain barrels (water butts).

Blackbird through the window of the green house; ...

... and waiting for me to leave after re-filling fodder.

Snow relaxing (on chair).

Remember the roses of Seanhenge?

Sno(w)ivy

Icycles

Blackbird entering restaurant.

Hedgehog's hotel.

Seanhenge at night.

Shovelling new energy

Well, what did I do while being extremely busy with not blogging?

First of all: For a couple of days this newsholic did follow the advice of Mr Thoreau and ignore any news. No TV; no radio, no PC - ha ha, no! No laptop, either. - And: he did not smoke. Neither he consumed any alcohol. He drank and ate well, though, both of which gave him power to shovel snow.

What (else) did he do then?

Reading (details will / might follow), shovelling snow, writing, feeding the birds, reading, pondering, writing, listening, talking, watching black birds and sparrows, bull-, green- and gold finchs, blue- and great tits, a pair of spotted woodpeckers, a nuthatch, robins and, of course, Mr & Mrs Crow who do accept us to being their neighbours for the past 33 years, reading, writing, shovelling snow - by the way, shovelling with one 'l' or with two, Stan? :) - learning Blackbirdish, oh! and enjoying Fidelio, Carmen, La Traviata, Aida, Don Giovanni, Tosca, La Bohème, The Magic Flute.

Did I mention I was shovelling snow?

Hiatus interruptus II

Ladies and gentlemen,
Bayanlar, Baylar,
Signoras e Signori,
Señoras y Señores,
Mesdames et Messieurs,
Friends,

worrying what might be the long-term consequences of such a hiatus, I thought it's better to decide in favour of a hiatus interruptus.

May either those forgive me who would have loved this hiatus to never end, and consequently feel deeply dissatified, and those who felt ... well, let's say irritated. :)

I was irritated, myself, as I did not intend to have a break. It just happened, or rather I let it happen. Even more strange: I did not miss blogging (very much).
Why? Don't know. Summing up all possible reasons would probably take too long, and boring you is one of the last things I wish to do.

- - -

Reading the lines above some readers might have thought they had déjà vu.

:)

Well ... yes ... I just copied and pasted most of what I wrote after one of my former hiati.

And now, may this beginning, again, bear a special magic. :)

Mirrors do seldom err

A book is a mirror:
if an ape looks into it
an apostle is hardly likely to look out.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

After all, ...

even Father Jack's arrived in the New Year.

First steps done

Happy New Year!