On Robert Schumann's 200th

Today 200 years ago a child was born: Robert Schumann.

What could be more natural then than beginning Omnium's little homage à Schumann with his Kinderszenen / Scenes from Childhood?
Thus, take your time, cl... ah, no!

First of all let me wave farewell to all busy contemporaries by whom as it's noise-related, music is not appreciated, and / or to whom 17:37 minutes are a big heap of time 'within which I could easily visit appr. 35 blogs and leave 40 comments'.

Oh. You are still there? Fine.
Thus, close your eyes, remember (some of) those magic moments in your childhood of which I hope you had a plenty, or better: become again the child that once you were. And if when opening your eyes after 17:10 minutes you feel a salty drop in their corners like the ones you are detecting in the great Horowitz' eyes: there's no reason to regret ...    

Interesting, isn't it?

Money in German means Geld.

(To) geld in English means to castrate.

A gelded horse in German is a Wallach.

A Wallach in English is a gelding.



Therefore: money is a gelding, hm?

Last question for tonight: How do geldings reproduce?

No clue?
Ask your trusted banker.
And to verify your banker's answer, ask your repesentative.

I don't ask for empathy

... either you feel it, or you don't.

What a voice

Am I sad, tonight? Do I feel sentimental?
No.
How could one who'd now and then be considered (ice-)cold, heartless, selfish, feel ... Fado-esque?

Ah, don't wonder, don't ponder.
Just open your ears, listen ... and agree: What a voice.

I don't know the reason why ...

... but I'll (probably) continue blogging.

Hm ... a guitar's music does not mean more to me, than any other woman I have known.

Still, some of the following lyrics (latest when replacing songs by posts) will let sense those of you who know me why I thought this is not an ideal but quite a fitting post after three years blogging.

Sweet Nothings (?)

Why would one not be surprised that Luc Bondy's interpretation of  Arthur Schnitzler's Liebelei in Austria would get this (i.e. "Not more than a sweet Nothing") and that roasting(s).

As a man who is not immune against arrogance, purism, smugness. vanity etc., I am not.
After all, above mentioned traits are part of Omnium, hm? :)*

By the way, Judith Schmitzberger (author of above's this and Sophia Felbermair (author of above's that, are (now) part of Omnium, too. Congratulations, Myladies.

Well, arrogance, purism, smugness. vanity and utter stupidity aside:

I'd (have) like(d) to watch this, either in Northampton, Kingston, Coventry, Vienna, Recklinghausen, Madrid or ... in the Young Vic.

It seems to be a fine, an interesting approach.



* Sorry, Don QuiScottie.

Right Mum, Son

Just so, inspired by Andrew.

A tragedy, a shame

... that I'd distract your attention from today's events.
Who cares about what was up to date many many yesterdays ago, hm?
The more as tomorrow today's another yesterday, hm?
Anyway, as said. Sorry, and by all means: Don't let disturb your peace of mind.
Apart from that we can't solve each tiny problem on this beautiful planet: we just can't afford pondering too much, can we?
Pondering too much makes so bloody depressive, hm?
And life is much too beautiful, too precious to waste it on getting depressive, hm?
The more as us getting depressive, will not change anything, hm?
It's hard enough daily to watch all these (breaking) news while enjoying our most delicious dinner, hm?
Ah! No. Skip watching the vid that I am too lazy to delete.
Enjoy life. It's so fucking short.

The f... err ... the peace of the night.

BP would like to clarify that ...

... contrary to some media reports ...

Thank you so much for clarifying, Big Prother.

Troubleshooters

It's the time
of the year
when at night
listening to the silence
my heart feels so light.

The frogs are croaking.

Tiny question to billionaires

Gosh. No post for a couple of days.

And the stories lying on the street (at least this is what the avarage young would-be journalist will once, twice, thrice etc. been told in the beginning of what he's very probably sure will become a great career.

Three months ago I would not know how to spell shornalist, and today already I am one, eh?

Wow, ... writing German I could go on and on and on ...

Now did I decide to not blogging in German.

Thus, my fault, hm?

Ha ha ha.

Anyway. All this just to tell that there's much to learn about life when - after having rubbed her neck, back and knees with oinments - listening to a woman without teeth.

You're smiling? You don't believe?

Alright. But one example: You can be a billionaire. However, what do your billions help when you can't go on toilette?

The peace of the night.

[...] to be anything but ...

[...] the laboring man has not leisure for a true integrity day by day ; he cannot afford to sustain the manliest relations to men ; his labor would be depreciated in the market. He has no time to be anything but an earthworm*."
Thoreau, Walden

* Err, don't know how it could happen. Please replace an earthworm by a machine.

Same sight, different view

Well, for yesterday's post I chose a photo taken in April, around Eastern.
That's why the Osterglocken (Easterbells = daffodils) meanwhile are withered, and thus today it looks a bit different: Narcissi & Co. have taken their place, the hazeltrees have put on their foliacious skirt. Only Forest Bulb remains as it is.

Of warmth, worms and extasy

The sunshine bathes in clouds of many hues
And mornings feet are gemmed with early dews
Warm Daffodils about the garden beds
Peep thro their pale slim leaves their golden heads
Sweet earthly suns of spring—the Gosling broods
In coats of sunny green about the road
Waddle in extacy—and in rich moods
The old hen leads her flickering chicks abroad
Oft scuttling neath her wings to see the kite
Hang wavering o'er them in the springs blue light
The sparrows round their new nests chirp with glee
And sweet the Robin springs young luxury shares
Tuteling its song in feathery Gooseberry tree
While watching worms the Gardeners spade unbears

John Clare (1798 - 1864) Home Pictures in May

More poems by John Clare are to be found on this fine site.

I've been reading a lot

Much reading has brought upon us a learned barbarism.
Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

Instead of words

Phew! And nowadays?

Nowadays three witty turns of phrase and a lie
make a writer.
Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

Don Quiscottie & Seanso Pansa

...are not fighting windmills.

See?

It does not lack of irony

... when Mother's Day coincides with this very anniversary.

Re a knot in my hanky

Well, ...

almost three months ago, during a 'late night session' with
- in alphabetical order, but comme il fault, ladies first -
CherryPie, Claudia and Andrew, I promised CherryPie to make
a knot in my hanky* in order to not forget that she's looking
forward to pictures from the other seasons.

Voilà. And see, CherryPie?
No hanky spoils the view of the scenery.

Instead: two golfers. Joyce'n'Beckett?
Certainly not, as I realised at first sight.
Andrew'n'Calum, then?
Not sure.
None of the gentlemen cursed, sweared,
battered a club on the ground or
hurled it further than the ball.
Who knows, though?
Calum claimed nowadays to be
much much ..... much much fucking calmer!

PS: Claudia, you're not forgotten. My muscles do however need some exercise before being worth to be publicly shown. Therefore I suppose, the ideal moment will be, when the last potato has been digged up. ...

Just repeating yesterday night's comment*

Pyrrhus Cameron will not be able to get Clegg's support, hm?
Clegg would prove to be a turd**, did he support Cameron, hm?
Thus, as it looks like, Labour will have to become a bit liberal.
Whatever that means.
Guid nicht!
And what a disappointment it would mean for all those who call themselves Libertarians.

Anyway, this might cause trouble:
A statement said: "It is a cause for serious concern that many people who wanted to vote today were unable*** to do so by 2200 when polls closed."
And right so!
What a bunch of dilettantish bureaucrats!
Good night, Great Britain. And good luck!

* (hopefully) without typos this time.

** sorry. Certainly I had not written this baaahd word, had not been coming to my mind what once in the past millennium I saw on a wall in Derry's Bogside: "Thatcher lured Hurd to be a turd."
Obviously I am getting old, hm? My long-term memory works so fine.

*** many people were unable to vote?! Rather they were enabled not to vote, hm? Ah, language is interesting; and sometimes reveals a lot.

Mind you, I have no clue of politics.

Zwei Pfennige worth(less)

When in the Course of human Events, it becomes necessary for one People to dissolve the Political Bands which have connected them with an antiquated Constitution, an unfair electoral system based on a duopoly of greed and unbalanced outcomes for the subjects (called citizens elsewhere) … they should vote for change.

By pinching shamelessly above's quote I am adding meine zwei Pfennige to Mr. Grahn's two cents on today's general election in the UK.

Heaven - that was easy!

Of all the inventions of man I doubt
whether any was more easily accomplished
than that of a Heaven.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

One for both the naive and the liar

There are people who believe
everything is sane and sensible
that is done with a solemn face.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

Instead of a rant

about ...
[take your choice; you can hardly be wrong]

here's a glimpse of what pleases my eyes,
whenever on my walks I am reaching this spot.

He who stubbed virgin soil ...

... and planted a blue flower.

Born May 2nd, 1772 as Georg Philipp Friedrich von Hardenberg in Oberwiederstedt Manor / Harz mountains, when choosing his pseudonym he probably bethought himself of the name his ancestors in Großenrode had kept until the sons of Bernhard de Novalis decided to take Hardenberg as their family name. And 'stubbing virgin soil' (which is the meaning of Novalis) he intended to do, this Novalis who when in May 1789 meeting Gottfried August Bürger, felt taken with this ardent advocate of a folksy poetry, but distanced himself, after he had met the Bürger-critical Friedrich von Schiller.
'Everything must be poetic', henceforth is his maxim. Less romantic contemporaries shrug off his work as fustian, others (glorifying him) explain his desire for death (Hymns to the Night) with his not getting over the death of his great love (Sophie von Kühn); but Novalis arguably did more than inventing the symbol of romanticism – the Blue Flower dreamt up by the protagonist in his fragmental novel Heinrich von Ofterdingen:
Studies of law and mining, arts, science, love: the 'dreamer' , who in view of an accelerating celerity commended his contemporaries to exercise slowness, was eager for knowledge, was concerned about many things. Often disputed. Self-critical, too. And he is not given as much time as Goethe. Death comes quickly. March 25th, 1801 Novalis dies, not even 29 years old. Probably he got infected, while tending his from phtisis suffering friend Friedrich.

What remains from Novalis? Much more than Pollen (Blüthenstaub).

Night-in-gale

Three Queens in Seanhenge

Again three Queens and their households are residing in Seanhenge.

Nectarious times they are living,

and (almost) no doubt:

Sweet will be their reward.

Imagine: 100 Days of the Book

Today a month ago happened what does not happen often: I was ahead the times.

Therefore, I thought tonight I'd just have to set the very link, but alas:

By doing so I had to realise: I am almost one month behind the time to answer some comments.
Sorry.
Not that this would not happen now and then. It does.
And as I am at it: Mostly it's not due to the attribute I am (often) coquetting with (my laziness), but my (felt) inability to quickly/spontaneously express my thoughts. In this very case it's due to something else.
Ah, it's such a pity: to read an interesting comment/thought, and (feeling to) not having the words, (to) not having the time to answer properly and then - to forget about it.
Well, my problem. Why did I start blogging in English, instead of sticking to the language I sucked from my mother's breast?!

End of the beforegoing.

[...] and after having cancelled lots of further rubbish [...].
For those who did not follow above given link: Certain people do (the rest of their contempories wish to) think today - April 23rd - is 'The Day of the Book'.

These people are idiots; and not just in the classical sense.

What about an Orwellian Hate Week?
Coming to think of it. One week of hate would mean: there'd be 51 weeks of no hate at all. What a relief, hm?!
Analogue, there'd be 364 Days of no Book.
[Yes, yes! And 365 days in leap years.]
Take your choice.


Postscriptum for those who'd find difficult to understand: It's not as difficult as you think; it's much more complex.

Finally, my commendation for the next Day of the Book:

Some works of John McGahern.

They're easily read within 24 hours.
And re the other few authors worth being read: In case you're able to read immediately after your birth, and assuming you're going to live 100 years, there'll be 100 Days of the Book. Now that's a big heap of time, hm?
Enjoy.
And good luck with the other 36,400 (bookless) days.

No kingdom for more sleep

Not much sleep I'd get these days. However, the other morning, having a mug of tea and a cigarette on balcony, when ...

looking east, and ...

looking south ...

again I felt: I am privileged.

The peace of the night.

Pars pro toto

Spring, spring!
Spring in Seanhenge!

Night and Dreams

Having helped her to sit up on the edge of the bed, he says while kneeling in front of her and putting on her slippers:
- You look like I was again causing you nightmares.
No response. No smile. No eye sparkling.
- Did I again offer you tea all night until you were fed up with me?
- ...
- Hm, do you think you are ready to fly into my arms?
- Yes.
- Alright then. ... Ready?
- Yes.
- You know that you will never ever fall when the strongest of all sons-in-law's with you?
- Yes.
- Good. So let's do it, Mylady. One ... two ... three! Done.
A little scream. Her head leaning against his left shoulder; he feels her shivering.
- Did it hurt?
- No.
- You say when you are ready for the marathon?
- I am ready.
- Good. So give me your hands, Mylady.
Slowly, step by step, they cover the three metres to the bedroom door, its threshold.
- And now we are climbing Mt. Everest. ... Good.

Minutes later. The old woman sitting on the toilet, he sitting on the rim of the bath tub.
- Don't you feel well?
- No.
- Any pain?
- No.
- So, w...
- I'll tell you when I've the teeth in my mouth.
- So be it.
He smiles. Their eyes meet. She does not smile.

Half an hour later, having another marathon behind her, with climbing Nanga Parbat and Popocatepetl, surviving a breakfast containing of three tiny bits of bread - one with egg and fleurs de sel, one with walnut cheese, one with chaumes -, a cup of tea and three pills, she says:
- It was so horrible! Wearing white runners, on arriving with my bicycle at the grocer's suddenly there was a sandheap. I fell. While getting up, fortunately Mickey appeared. Mickey, I said, could you please pick up my bike? He did, and I asked him: Mickey, would you now, please, be so kind and slap me? - But, why should I slap you, Eireen? he asked. Oh Mickey, I said, Diarmuid's told me by no means to get up without him. I could call him at any time of the day and the night, and now I am here. He will ... In the next moment I awoke ... ah ... and so relieved I felt to be in my bed. Still, I was shivering with horror.
- White runners? Did you ever wear white runners?
- No.
- Did you really ask Mickey to slap you?
- Yes.
And he laughed and laughed and ... both they laughed.

Pitch'n'Putt with Andrew'n'Calum

Postscriptum:
Oh sorry. Just notice: Correct title, wrong video. Or ...?

[...] full of nuts [...]

Part two

Happy 104th, Sam

Cascando
1
why not merely the despaired of
occasion of
wordshed

is it not better abort than be barren
the hours after you are gone are so leaden
they will always start dragging too soon
the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
bringing up the bones the old loves
sockets filled once with eyes like yours
all always is it better too soon than never
the black want splashing their faces
saying again nine days never floated the loved
nor nine months
nor nine lives

2

saying again
if you do not teach me I shall not learn
saying again there is a last
even of last times
last times of begging
last times of loving
of knowing not knowing pretending
a last even of last times of saying
if you do not love me I shall not be loved
if I do not love you I shall not love
the churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable
whey of words

terrified again
of not loving
of loving and not you
of being loved and not by you
of knowing not knowing pretending
pretending
I and all the others that will love you
if they love you

3

unless they love you

Samuel Beckett, *April 13th, 1906

Enduring what?

There might follow an update.

Don't know when, though, as I am trying to help a dear person to get better - or at least - yes, although we do not want to, we do have to face this possibility - to die without pain ... peacefully and with a little smile on her lips.

Why would I mention this?

I think it's a fitting counterpoint to what you can see and hear in the following videos full stop

The peace of the night.






The following video is a short version. For the original 38 minutes video released by wikileaks.org please visit their special project website www.collateralmurder.com.

Ah, and by the way ...

... and just in case you didn't know, yet:
April, April! Flann fooled you, folks.

McSeanagall's outing

Remembering that once in the past millennium when discovering all counties of Ireland [causing anyone's reflexes here?], during the first three weeks - probably due to my face being tanned by the Welsh sun - I got asked whether I were French or Italian; that after four weeks, though, people seemingly thought 'Well, neither he's English, Irish nor American, but perhaps Australian?; remembering that after three months I got asked which part of Ireland I was coming from, and that on the very last day when - just to say goodbye - entering a tea-house in Laragh where several times I had enjoyed tea & scones & good talks, the landlord just turned round and said 'Another two weeks, and you're a fucking Paddy, yourself', I think it's time to reveal ...

... once for ever ...

with an April 1st smile

that - in fact - I am a Scot.

Moon, Light & Shadow

Clouds, clouds, clouds tonight. And rain. Nothing to be seen here of tonight's full moon, unlike some days ago, when the astro-physicist before for one night travelling a bit deeper into what humans commonly call our (sic!) universe, focused the observatory's telescope on the almost full moon.
If I remember correctly, the photo contains of 14 shots, and its original size is 80 x 90 centimetres.

Click to enlarge.

So much for the light, and here comes for the shadow.

Just a thought

Sometimes I wish I knew less
about violence in its various forms.
And when being in such a mood,
I wish I were a humble gardener,
fond of literature and poetry,
writing a poem now and then.

Not necessarily, hm?

When a book and a head collide and a hollow sound is heard, must it always have come from the book?
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

Supreme moments

The moment is supreme.
Franz Schubert

Hidden or not hidden ....

Birth & Death(lessness)

It's once again the (International) Day of the Book.
Well, and once again I do not care, but just repeat:
For me 365 days in any year are days of books,
and 366 in leap-years.

Anyway, on Shakespeare's 446th birthday
the 394th anniversary of either his dead
and the death of Cervantes
just to wish a very special literary evening.

May my voice not put you off the realm poetry.

Sparrows cussing like sailors

After their hibernation since last Thursday even my muscles enjoy a glorious soreness. It's good that spring comes! Still, I am glad - and I think my muscles are, too - that I decided to cut the fruit-trees in late autumn, as shortening parts of ...

... the hazels (one girl, one boy) and ...

one jasmine (the left one is an elder) ...

... by about 2,5-3 three metres was enough for a beginning, as - old sportsman's spirit - I don't use a motor-saw.

Cutting the jasmine I had been hesitating for five years. However, now it had to be done, although bad conscience was upon me; and not wrongly.
The longer I was busy with the jasmine, the more little visitors I got. They sat down on one of the few long branches which were left, and although I do not speak Sparrowish fluently, I knew the little fellows were cussing like sailors that, at least for a while, they will have to find another sleep-tree.
Which is why - to make up for -, immediately after my outrage, on the other side of Seanhenge I planted ...

... voilà: Seanwood Forest.

Bach in the Air

Regular readers might think "Why does he post the same piece twice?"
Well, is it the same?
Enjoy, and judge yourself.




Quasi a postscriptum: What a surprise, this morning to find Bertus' comment. Coincidence? I (had) saved Ton Koopman and The Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra for tonight - as a crowning finale on Bach's 325th birthday - for almost exactly the same reasons as Bertus' described, what I could, however, never ever have explained so well. Perhaps I'd been a bit more lenient with La Mutter. Nevertheless, I do see Bertus' point, and: I do agree - the more when putting on my sarcasm hat.

(Snow-) Shovelling's End

... but one tiny flake of snow.

And a historical treat ...

... on Johann Sebastian Bach's 325th birthday: The wonderful Pau (Pablo) Casals in 1954.

On Bach's 325th

Asking the mirror, Yoda replied

The other morning I asked:
"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who in the land is fairest of all?"

Spake Yoda:
"When nine hundred years old you reach, look as good you will not."