Thanks for the correction, time

Last year, readers either did not notice, or they were too polite to advise me of that I had erroneously made Mr. Johnson one year older than he had become.

Fortunately - at least sometimes - time is a great corrector. :)

Only 366 days later, and what's been a mistake has turned to be perfectly correct.

So, once again: Happy 299th, Mr. Johnson!

That is the happiest conversation where there is no competition, no vanity but a calm quiet interchange of sentiments.

As mostly, Sir, I'd not disagree. :)

Darwin makes my blood boil

... 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.

Ought I to be worried?

In case one can rely on the saying I derived comfort from last year, I ought to be very worried ...

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.

Two days after

Just in case anyone's conCERNed and fearing - or exulting - I might have been swallowed by a Black Hole.

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

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

Nessun dorma

Time flies.

Ears wide open

'cause I did it my way :)

Non, je ne regrette rien :)

Eros and the God of the little things ...

... could also have been the title of the previous post.
Means, there was no need of mocking about poor Mr. Phelps. On the other hand I thought, his joyless face in the perhaps greatest moments in his swimming career would give a nice contrast to my (our) joyful faces about such jerkwater muscular efforts like weeding between the cracks of a courtyard and planting a row of strawberries.

Anyway, utterly determined to not throw the title above into the vortex of oblivion, I take it for this post, and I am quite optimistic finally you will agree that it makes some sense.

Alright then.
At about seven we went upstairs, took a shower, prepared a lasagne and a little salad, enjoyed both together with a glass of red, talked about this and that, and around midnight, when Mrs. J. had gone to make herself bed-fine - 'sich bettfein machen' is an uncommon German idiom :) - I went on balcony to feed my lungs-worm.

What a sky. I could not remember to ever have seen so many stars with naked ... alright, spectacled eyes. Amazing. Beautiful. Really a bit excited I felt.

And so, when, after she had shared my delight for two or three minutes, Mrs. J. felt drawn to the warmth of the feathers, I switched off all lights, even the candles - yes, yes, the candles I 'switched off' by using a match to dip the wicks into the wax - and sat down on balcony staring into the past, which is our planet's future.

Ah, yes! It must be fascinating to live such a night inmidst a desert.

Ha ha, even in such wonderful seconds human beings tend to think of that it could be better - somehow, somewhere. :)

Well, at 1 a.m. the street-lights went off, I put my Aran on, tiptoed downstairs through the cellar into the garden, took a chair, carried it to the middle of the lawn (which is in fact a meadow) sat down, and watched what I got offered in my open-air planetarium. Ahh ...

... and ... I started to think of what - in a way - has already been subject of the previous post: those little 'things' around us that we'd often take for granted without appreciating them.
Why? Why would I? Due to education? Experience? Teaching myself? Or is it just a gift? Perhaps. Perhaps a 'mixture' of all.
All these stars up there. And down here, this tiny cosmos existing of apple-, plum-, hazelnut- and cherry-trees, red-currant, black-currant, Josta - a cross-breeding (Jo for Johannisbeere = currant, sta for Stachelbeere = gooseberry), ... ah ha ha - would take too long to list all. Did I write tiny cosmos? :)
All these stars up there. Chaos?
All the chaos-corners in this cosmos down here.
And still - it's (also) this chaos that I love. A contradiction that I'd call myself an aesthete? What is beauty? What's perfect?
The imperfectness ... sometimes ... let me feel: This is a perfect place.

A place that is mirroring the chaos in my head ... my heart? :)

Only those having chaos in their heart will be able to give birth to ... Oh dear, Nietzsche, is this true? Am I pregnant with a dancing star?

:) Has to be. All my faults, all my mistakes. Do I regret? Yes. And no, as without all my strange 'decisions' I had (very probably) not made all those experiences which - looking back - let me become what now I am.
Time to deliver the 'baby'. Otherwise I might not have enough time to enjoy watching it dancing.
What will my star look like? This "something" that I do love without having seen it, yet, of which I do not even know that it exists / will exist; that does exist / will exist, though, because I feel it.

Don't know why, suddendly I remembered this photo of Asteroid Eros.

courtesy NASA/Reuters

The potatoes! According to the forecast this Sunday would be the last of a two days lasting rainless summer-period.

Thus, time to put my head on the pillow.

Mind you, I had better 'little things' to dream of than ... (digging) potatoes. :)

The difference between Mr Phelps and me

Those who do know me a little would still sometimes be surprised that I could do things, which most people would consider most boring, such as weeding and chipping wood, for hours and hours.
Actually it surprises me, myself, now and then as I am pretty sure I could happily live without.
So, why would I do it, then? It has to be done.
Why would it - sometimes - take hours? Simply because I am too lazy doing it every day. :)

Anyway, while being busy with hunting weeds, I can let my thoughts travel, contemplate, connect dots, dive into the ocean of my fantasy or even stop thinking; not seldom out of this nothing an idea would appear.
In any case, after hours I can see the result of what my hands have been doing. :)

Exactly this is why Sunday evening I wrote: This month ended like it began - august.

And I added: More in September.

So here's for a start. Saturday, after a marvellous breakfast I got struck by the idea of weeding between the cracks on the courtyard (if that's the proper word).
About 90 minutes later, returning with the empty bucket I thought: This is, again, one of those things, once they are done noone would notice except of oneself.
People / Neighbours rather tend to take notice of things which 'ought to be done', would you agree? :)
Thus, I took my cellular and - a photo.


And another 90 minutes later a second one.


Done. :)

Nothing special. Still I felt pleased.

- Wow, like new, Sean!

Mrs. J. who had been busy with planting a new row strawberries smiled. I smiled. A hug, some kisses, eyes sparkling ...

- Seems what I've done is better than winning gold-medals in Doping.

- Of course, Sean. :) And surely you will tell me why.

- Well, did you see the gentleman with the speed-yogurt in his fridge ever showing joy and happiness in the seconds after his triumphs?

- Usaine Bolt?

- No, the water-bolt, Mr. Phelps.

- Ah, no. If one had not seen him winning in world-record time, one could have thought he had become eightth.

Later, while digging up potatoes Mr. Phelps reappeared in my mind. Probably eight terrible years lying ahead. And any day 'they' may find the magic ingredience in his probes.
Probably? How political incorrect. Perhaps. Perhaps! Presumption of innocence. Ha ha, what a curiously shaped potatoe. I picked it up, showed it Mrs. J., and both we laughed.


Somehow I felt pity with Mr. Phelps.

Pitch 'n' Putt with Joyce'n'Beckett

La vie en rose

A symbol of beauty

Either in Canada and in England - they are seen as a symbol of beauty.

It's even sung that life is a ...


Well, and this one is symbolizing my wish that you all may live a rosy, i.e. beautiful September. :)

August ending

Isn't this a strange world?

While German soldiers by defending Germany at the Hindukush (according to Germany's former war- ... err ... defence-minister) and thus doing their duty and nothing but their duty, are killing a woman and two children, while probably about 100.000 children died of starvation, while ...,

... I lived three splendid days.

To cut it short: This month ended like it began - august.


More in September. :)

Oh well, who cares

What difference does it make to the dead,
the orphans and the homeless, whether
the mad destruction is wrought under
the name of totalitarism or
the holy name of liberty and democracy?

M.K. Gandhi,
Non-Violence in Peace and War, 1948

Quis leget haec? :)

March 23rd, 2010:
better late than never, hm?

Dear visitors, as almost daily several visitors from all continents stumble upon Omnium while (obviously) searching for the meaning of Quis leget haec?, exactly 19 months after the original post, here an UPDATE: and thus the answer you are looking for:

Quis leget haec? in English means: Who will read this?

Hope I could be of help. Perhaps you let me know?
Anyway, all the best to you.
S.J.




Lingua Latina mortua est! Omnibusne locis? Minime! Nonullis orbis terrarum locis lingua Latina adhuc vivit et floret. Ante diem decimum Calendas Septembres (nostra lingua 23. August) statio televisifica, quae 3sat appelatur, etiam relationem telefisificam nominis "Kulturzeit extra" totam Latine versam per aetherias undas transmittet - sic!

I can imagine that at least Mr. Deogowulf and Laudator temporis acti might find interesting to watch

this.

Prague - freedom - spring

The past three posts very probably would not have been written if - being on my way to become 15 - there had not been Alexander Dubček, the Prague Spring, and its end on August 21 1968, when as Václav Havel later put it, the ("brother"-) state(s) behaved like a girl blaming the mirror for being ugly, and therefore smashed it.

It have been those few months twelve years after the Hungarian Revolution, the photographs of Josef Koudelka, the later Magnum photographer, and the reaction of the western governments that let me start becoming a political thinking human being.

Fourty years have 'flown by' since, and still I do remember these events as vividly as I do remember the tongue of the girl who happened to become the first girl ever to whisper words of love into my ears ... :)

Mother-Cross for McSwagger

Mr. McCain* says he would pursue Obama ... err ... Osama bin Laden “to the gates of hell”.

Mr. McCain* - peace be upon him - is a swaggerer**, i.e w/talking with an air of overbearing self-confidence, conducting himself in an arrogant or superciliously pompous manner.

Mr. McCain* would pursue any terrorist as much as any Pharaoh took part in building a pyramid.

All he'd do were sending thousands of (young) people*** not only to what he calls the gates of hell. Many of them would step through.

As Mr. McCain* like all Cheneys on this planet can't get enough human recources for his chessbord games, the pious follower of the legendary Jesus Christ votes against abortion.

Tetrapilotomos suggests the world-wide invention of a certain mother-cross.


* the name is exchangable. I do, f.e. remember Vladimir 'Ras' Putin once saying (to the Chechen): 'We shall squelch these animals/critters/vermin'.

** One could also say: Mr. McCain* is a bloody liar.

*** mind you, no sons of members of Congress and Senate, of course!!

Hoi georgoi - or sacrificing pawns

It was not (primarily) my intention to remind of what happened on August 13th, 1961. Why should I try to remind anyone on this planet of something that most Germans would not at all (seriously) care about?

What I was looking for was a 'pars pro toto' - one good example for a politician's/criminal's falsehood.
As to be seen in the previous post, less than two months before the Berlin Wall got erected, being asked if a border at the Brandenburg Gate were planned, Walter Ulbrich, head of the so-called German Democratic Republic, answered:
"I understand your question like there are people in the West who wish that we mobilize the construction workers of the capital of the GDR to erect a wall, yes? He he he, I am not aware of such an intention, the construction workers of the capital are mainly busy with the construction of homes. [...] Nobody has the intention to build a wall."

Well, and now try to compare what f.e., U.S.-proconsul Saarkashvili and Vladimir 'Ras' Putin's presidential spokesman Medvedjev recently said and what 'actually' happened.
?
Right!
In other words:
The first casualty when war comes is the truth.

*

As there is another Sean* posting about what's happening in the Caucasus-region, in quite an interesting way, I do restrict myself on but a few thoughts:

If I felt fancy to enter my local pub and trounce the village's assembled carrousers, I ought not to be surprised of the result, hm?
:) That's why I prefer staying at home and posting a bit.

So, why would Saarkashvili make his move?

Did he make the move? Or did somebody else let him make the move?

Remember:

hoi georgoi = the farmers.

Standing on the chess-board the farmers are called 'pawns**'.

And not only for Zbigniew Brzesinski (at present advisor of US-presidential candidate Obama), this planet is a Grand Chessboard.

Apropos chess: Years ago during a grandmaster tournament a Georgian grandmaster invited me to Tiblisi. The tournament, by the way, was won by a Russian - Anatoli Karpov. :)

Back to the big 'game' which is not at all just a 'Caucasian'.

Who's to blaim for what's happening in Georgia? Who's the aggressor? The hen or the egg? Or, completely another scenario: If you were to be the President of Russia, would you give a kopek to what the coming Ex-President of the U.S.A . is demanding?

Isn't it just laughable when the US-(war-)criminal admonishes the reaction of another (war-)criminal by saying "Bullying and intimidation are not acceptable ways to conduct foreign policy in the 21st century"?

Well, and following the logic of the mentally disabled 'leader of the free world' the N.A.T.O. cancels contacts with Russia. Says Russia, i.e. Putin & Co.: We cancel contact with the N.A.T.O..

Kindergarden.

Hohoho. (As an alternative to laughing I recommend being very very scared).

Anybody fancy to criticize? Wait a minute. I do appreciate the fact I was not born 100 kilometres eastwards, so that I could (so far) enjoy life thanks to the power of the Washington-warlords.

If anybody's not able to get the (self-) irony: Her/His problem.

Last thought for now:

"Why don't you [the West; sj] not invite us [Russia;sj] to join the N.A.T.O.?" Ten years have flown by since Valentin Falin and I were sitting at a corner table in a tiny hotel, and the former Soviet ambassador in Germany would ask this question.
"Hm, I suppose I am not the the first you're asking this question. Did you ever get an answer?"
Falin's answer: smilingly reaching for his cup of coffee.


* I recommend reading his latest postings (including all comments).


** and then there are the pawns of the pawns: they who'd just like to live in peace ...

Today 47 years ago

As I do prefer this, for a change,

although I'd have much to type on the topic

only that,

with thanks to the bloke who produced it.

Just a thought 06

Sometimes
it's good
to have a friend
who'd not speak much
but just ...
listen

How to ward off an award - or ...

Fall of a principled man

A while after I had given birth to Omnium ...

[pause to award not only those scientists amongst my esteemed readers whose attempts to find the world formula, i.e. 'The Theory of Everything', up til now all were in vain time to measure the paramount importance of this subordinate clause*]

... and started to visit not only online newspapers but other bloggers as well, soon I'd stumble upon a 'phenomenon' - awards: Here the 382nd best conservative political blogger of his country, there the 94th best left wing blogger of her country; the 169th funniest of all etc. etc. , ... cont. page 1066, where you'd find: The Best Cardiff Bay Gossip Blog.

[pause to award readers time to savour this]

And - as if this were not enough - people would design more or less felicitous awards and dedicate them to five, seven or hundred of their best / sweetest / schmoozest /cutest /etc.etc. fellow bloggers who'd in turn (have to) choose seven or hundred of their ...
Oh dear I thought, like in kindergarten - an award for everyone, so that noone's unhappy. And since, whenever reading the word 'award' in a title, I'd 'turn tail and run'.
Not to get misunderstood: I am not mocking about the quality of any blog(ger), I am mocking about the 'awarditis'. By the way, by typing 'award', google awarded me 343 million hits.

Having written all this, need I say I am glad that nobody ever awarded me an award, or, at least, I never became aware of having been awarded an award, as then I'd be confronted with the next conundrum: How to ward off the award without being (thought) to be arrogant and/or impolite?

And now - with thanks to the Monty Python - for something completely different.

As Fritz Weigle alias F.W. Bernstein once rhymed (it was Bernstein, indeed, not Gernhardt! :) At least Gernhardt told me so.)

Die größten Kritiker der Elche
waren früher selber welche.

The greatest critics of the elks
in former times were elks themselves

Varying this, it reads:

Die größten Kritiker der Elche
werden dereinst selber welche.

The greatest critics of the elks
once will become elks themselves.
[McSeanagall]

In other words:
Herewith the 'enigmatic Sean' - smilingly and with great joy - does accept an award by nobody important. :)


Thanks, dear jmb. I take it as a lovely compliment.

Well,and now it's my turn. As with Cherrypie, Crushed, James, Jams and Mutley already five of 'my' Seldom Borings are 'sharing this burden' with me, I am going to spread the award around the planet. :)

When clicking their names, and reading you will know why I'd call following bloggers brilliant.

Ardent at Ardent Observations,
Colin at Adelaide Green Porridge Cafe
Hans and his team at Internation Musing
Superhero, my Turkish Seanachie at me and others,
and Erkan at Erkan's field diary.

Champagne!! :)


* which, again, will give experienced readers time to wait for the corners of their mouths returning from an expedition to the ear-lobes.

On manners

Ná cuir do chorran angort gan iarraidh.

Do not bring your reaping-hook to a field
without being asked.

Life, laughter and the unexpected

This morning Miss J. and the astrophysicist returned from a trip to the Baltic Sea, bringing fresh warm rolls for breakfast, plus - not for breakfast, though - twelve sea-washed pebbles and two beautiful stones they had found at the beach and carried more than one kilometre to their tent. They will embellish our stone garden, and one is supposed to become my worry stone. :)


Well, collecting pebbles and stones was not really a reason for making this trip. The astrophysicist thought the partial eclipse might not be observable where we do live, but did not want to miss it. Right he was, as here we had clouds, clouds, clouds.


The breakfast? Oh yes, it was marvellous. And Mrs. J. decided that we'll have a trip to the Baltic Sea to watch the next eclipse - in 73 years.

We shall be 128 then, Miss J. and the astrophysicist 99 respectively 103. No doubt it will be great fun, the more as our mother will be accompanying us.


Well, unless something unexpected is going to happen, 'cause life, laughter and death not seldom are close-knit, as we got reminded by a tiny noise on balcony.

August beginning

:)
Variatio delectat. Instead of replying (to the first seven commenters) in the comment-section,
here's an update.

Prologue:
Do you sometimes have so many thoughts/posts in your mind that you just can't decide?
Well, I do. Often. Plus: Words (not only in English) often don't come easy to me. The proper words I mean. The words which are able to exactly tell what I mean.
All I 'knew' was the title of this month's first post: August beginning. - the adjective/the month and the beginning.
To cut it short: At last - in my despair - I decided to post one of those ten photos I'd take with me on the legendary island.
And never I'd thought, let alone intended it could incite quiz-like questions.
A lovely surprise. Thank you all.

Well, jmb, it was not winter when the photo was taken. It was middle of May. Minutes later it would rain cats and dogs. Not somewhere in Australia, Ardent; not 'edge Dartmoor', Crushed;
closest got Chris and Jams.
The photo was taken 1991, in the West of Ireland, Connemara, a couple of miles behind Leenane, driving in direction of Kylemore Abbey, on the left hand side.

Why would I have spontaneously stopped, jumped out of the car, climbed over a wall? Two thoughts: What a motif. And: 'Soon nobody will know you've existed. In my photo you will (at least for a while) live on.' :)

Yes, jmb, it's a dead tree. And - indeed - you'd not find it anymore. It remains existing ... in this photo.

Ha - the 'tartly' Sean; the one who'd call a bastard a bastard, a cretin a cretin, a criminal a criminal?
:)
Hm, that's why there's this very header - it's part of Omnium.

Epilogue:
Mostly I do trust on that my (constant/regalar) visitors* do feel 'it', but tonight I do feel the wish to write it 'black on white': It's good to have you.

* do I need say that I do not 'only' mean those who commented on this post? :)

PS:
Cherrypie, I did not know where to put you(r comment), as it was rather a statement than a question. Will you forgive me? :) - The photos you posted tonight, once again do incite my desire to visit the Lake district which is one of the (few?) 'spots' in England I did not 'happen to' visit up til now.

D'accord

Hypocrisy is the homage which vice pays to virtue.

La Rochefoucauld, Maxims, 1665

Counterstatement :)

First thrilling story:

[Tucker Bounds, a] spokesman for Republican presidential candidate John McCain blasted Barack Obama for cancelling plans to visit wounded US soldiers while in Berlin, adding that the Democrat prioritized "throngs of fawning Germans."
Continue here.

Second thrilling:

A German politician has called on US presidential candidate John McCain to take back disparaging remarks made about Germans by his campaign after Barak Obama visited Berlin last week.
Alexander Graf Lambsdorff wrote that he, and the German public, was surprised and dismayed by the comments, according to the newspaper.

Full article here.

Well, being part of the German public I do herewith declare: Mr Lambsdorff does not speak for me. I am neither surprised, nor dismayed.

Mr. Bounds may have missed the bounds of diplomacy, a tiny bit. So what? A subaltern babbler is truthfully babbling what his would-be-president babbled. It's his job, isn't it?

Does anyone know how often this poor soul is being called a stupid mothertucker?
Human beings sometimes are cruel, and do not care about 'No jokes about names'.

It's interesting to see, however, that Mr. Bounds - and thus Mr McCain - some might say: the disabled doter who'd like to succeed the current criminal cretin - obviously would have prefered a demonstration of 'Anti-U.S.Aism'.

Very interesting, indeed. The German public should remember this, in case Mr. McCain once were to visit Germany.

Oh, did I say that Mr. Tucker Bounds did tell nothing but the truth? I watched the faces of Walter Steinmeier, Klaus Wowereit et. al.
Absolutely euphorized, one could say. Or, near an orgasm.
Mr. Bounds prefered other words.

Thus, to end with Robert Frost:
Go on talking,
but don't take
his style away.
It's his face,
may be no good,
but anyway - his face.


P.S.
Spake Tetrapilotomos: I'd not be surprised if once in Berlin Mr. Bounds would love collecting wet thongs of euphorized German (wo)men.

That's politics.

Verses on a cat

A cat in distress,
Nothing more, nor less;
Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye,
As I am a sinner,
It waits for some dinner
To stuff out its own little belly.

You would not easily guess
All the modes of distress
Which torture the tenants of earth;
And the various evils,
Which like so many devils,
Attend the poor souls from their birth.

Some a living require,
And others desire
An old fellow out of the way;
And which is the best
I leave to be guessed,
For I cannot pretend to say.

One wants society,
Another variety,
Others a tranquil life;
Some want food,
Others, as good,
Only want a wife.

But this poor little cat
Only wanted a rat,
To stuff out its own little maw;
And it were as good
SOME people had such food,
To make them HOLD THEIR JAW!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Whodunnit?

Praised be my laziness. It has its advantages. :) When Sunday I happened to read the first news of the bomb attack in Istanbul I intended to write a post but didn't as I was pretty sure that one of the many Turkish 'opinion-tellers' soon would get close to what I am thinking, and thus save me lots of time*.
And, voilà:

It did not take much time for Turkish officials, and even less time for the Turkish media, to put the blame of Sunday evening's deadly blasts on the outlawed Kurdistan Workers' Party, or PKK, terrorist gang. The explosions in Istanbul killed at least 17 people -- five of them children -- and wounded scores of others. Although Istanbul Governor Muammer Güler stressed that investigations were ongoing, he also said the blasts appeared to have been the work of the PKK. It also did not take much for the PKK gang to issue a denial. The pro-PKK Kurdish news agency, Fırat, quoted Zübeyir Aydar, one of the senior chieftains of the gang, as saying that the PKK “has nothing to do with this event … this cannot be linked to the PKK.”

Irrespective of who might actually be behind the deadly Sunday evening attacks, I am confident that sooner or later one of those creative prosecutors – who have successfully demonstrated their rather superb skill in literature with the 2,455-page “Ergenekon indictment” masterpiece – will find a way of incorporating this tragedy among the heinous crimes they believe a cocktail of hardcore leftists, Maoists, Kemalists, patriots, nationalists, ultra-nationalists and fascists have committed with the aim and intention of disrupting public peace and order, creating conditions for a military takeover, or provoking a national outburst and thus getting rid of the elected government of the country.
Full article here.

* Saturday evening I had asked a friend in Turkey to translate a sequence in a Hurriyet article about the 'Ergenekon affair'. She did, after following introducing words which now do again let me chuckle:

You don't mean all 2455 pages but only this article hm? :)
Believe me these silly plays are not worth your giving time.

Well, at least sometimes ...

Is maith an sgathan súil charad.

The eye of a friend is a good looking-glass.

Thanks for the lecture, Mr. Pausch

Life.

Since it is not granted to us to live long,
let us transmit to posterity
some memorial that we have at least lived.
Plinius the Younger, Letters

Yesterday while we were celebrating the 84th birthday of my mother(-in-law), Professor Randy Pausch died.

There's much I could write; even wish to write, but why when (almost) everything can be put into six words?

Thanks for the lecture, Mr. Pausch.

More hype than substance

I wonder why so many people who live in fear of the pest would be delighted of the cholera.

Didn't they listen to Mr. Obama's speech(es)? Don't they care who are the self-styled (?) saviour's advisors?

Once, now and tomorrow

War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight,
The lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade,
And to those royal murderers whose mean thrones
Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore,
The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean.

Krieg ist des Staatsmanns Spiel, des Priesters Lust,
Des Richters Scherz, das Handwerk des feilen Meuchlers,
Und für die gekrönten Mordbuben, deren Throne
Durch Verrat und Blut und Frevel jeder Art erkauft,
Ihr täglich Brot, die Stütze ihrer Macht.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab, Canto IV

Praise of taciturnity

Binn béal 'na chomhnuidhe.

The mouth that speaks not is sweet to hear.

:)

The peace of the night.

Habermas on a "post-secular' society

“Tolerance” is of course not only a question of enacting and applying laws; it must be practiced in everyday life. Tolerance means that believers of one faith and another and non-believers must mutually concede one another the right to those convictions, practices and ways of living that they themselves reject. This concession must be supported by a shared basis of mutual recognition from which repugnant dissonances can be overcome. The required kind of recognition must not be confused with an appreciation of an alien culture and way of living, or of rejected convictions and practices (n18). We need tolerance only vis-à-vis worldviews that we consider wrong and vis-à-vis habits that we do not like. Therefore, the basis of recognition is not the esteem for this or that property or achievement, but the awareness of the fact that the other one is a member of an inclusive community of citizens with equal rights, in which each is accountable to everybody else for her political contributions (n19).

Extract from an essay* presented by Jürgen Habermas at the Istanbul Seminars organized by Reset Dialogues on Civilizations in Istanbul from June 2nd to the 6th 2008.

* A "post-secular" society - what does that mean?



On a personal note:
I intended to offer my Turkish readers a link, so that they could read this essay in their language. To my surprise and regret I could not find one.

It would make sense if the organisators of a 'Dialogue on Civilisations' taking place in Istanbul made the effort to let translate such contributions into Turkish, wouldn't it?

Obama in Wales: Ich bin ein ...

As everybody knows this year the people of Kuwait, Afghanistan, Iraq, Israel, Jordan, Germany, France and the United Kingdom are to decide who will become the next President of the U.S.A..

This is why Mr Obama is travelling a lot these days, meeting Mr. Karzai, the US-proconsul* in Kabul, Mr. ... oh well, you will know his program.

What you perhaps wouldn't know: It is rumoured that Mr. Obama, by following an advice of the great strategist Zbigniew Brzezinski will not speak in front of the rotten Victory Column in Berlin, but give his eely eloquence a platform in Anglesey.

The name of the historic place is still subject to utmost confidentiality. Only Mr. Obama's most moving last words one of his many right hands was willing to divulge ex ante:

"Ich bin ein Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogocher."





* an administrator in a modern colony, dependency, or occupied area usually** with wide powers

** usually, dear readers, usually.

Maniacs won't die off

Prologue:
The title does not refer to Messrs. Ahamadinejahd, Berlusconi, Brzezinski, Bush, Cheney, Gadaffi, Hu, McCain, Mugabe, Obama, Pofalla, Putin, any scalpers, masters of Monsanto & Co., members of any sect, secret and/or surveillance service etc. etc..

However, in case any person mentioned above feels fancy to feel addressed by the title: Very welcome.

And in case anybody misses her/his name and/or the name of her/his organisation: Just let me know, and your name will immediately be added.

End of the beforegoing.

Actually, the title does nothing but mirror the dominating thought while I was reading this article.

Set book for good people

You are sure you'd never (be able to) commit atrocities? I am not.

[Hannah; sj] Arendt's phrase 'the banality of evil' continues to resonate because genocide has been unleashed around the world and torture and terrorism continue to be common features of our global landscape. We prefer to distance ourselves from such a fundamental truth, seeing the madness of evildoers and senseless violence of tyrants as dispositional characters within their personal makeup. Arendt's analysis was the first to deny this orientation by observing the fluidity with which social forces can prompt normal people to perform horrific acts.

One passage in Philip Zimbardo's book The Lucifer Effect: Understanding how good people turn evil (the title of the German edition, published this month, reads: Der Luzifer-Effekt: Die Macht der Umstände und die Psychologie des Bösen.
Instead of writing a review, I do recommend by following the links above to develop your opinion on your own. One tip, though: don't miss the offered quotations; afterwards - the more in case you did not happen to hear about the Stanford Prison Experiment - you might like to visit Professor Zimbardo's homepage and afterwards hardly can await Monday morning so that you can hurry to the bookshop round the corner and order the book.

Yes, I am aware of that the effect would almost be the same were my recommendation addressed to the birds which right now are sleeping in the trees. :)
Who'd read such book, anyway?
Some scientists? - Fine.
Those who for almost all their life have been trying (sic!) to understand how (good?) people (get) turn(ed) evil? - Fine.
And who else? - Quite!
Or does anybody think that any leader(s) of any state will make "The Lucifer Effect" a set book for their people, at least for all those who want to join the armed forces?

The Peace of the Night!

Counterparts

Rather than reading this at Internation Musing, watching the voyeur in the photo made me think that there exists a certain likeness between anonymous commenters and burqa wearers.

Cage as Cage could

As everyone knows July 5th was 'Changing of the Tone' in Halberstadt. Just in case you happened not to be amongst those round about 1.000 connoisseurs in St Burchardi who all excitedly earwitnessed the thrilling moment, and therefore feel inconsolable: the spheric sound will not change until - remember, remember! - the 5th of November.
So when arriving on November 4th you will be able to kill two b ... ahem ... to hear two tones of the John-Cage-project ORGAN² ASLSP within 24 hours.

Well, and in cage case you can't get enough, what about booking one of the remaining 631 years? Personally, I intended to book the year 2525, but then I thought I should retreat in favour of Zager and Evans. Since I have been ranging between 2632 and 2320, the more as 2639 is already sold, but right now I think I shall ask them to offer 2640. I'd really like listening to the silence, after 639 years.



PS:
In honour of John Cage I have been writing this post though not as slowly as possible, but at least very very slowly.
And I am quite sure that not only those amongst you who can't read fast will appreciate my gesture.

PPS: For those who wish to buy one or more of the words above: There will soon be a price-list available.

PPPS: Solvent Omnium-lovers who wish to book one or more posts to be published from October onwards, with immediate effect can offer their bids. Just don't be shy - bid high.

Bitter for Mr. Vitter

As everybody knows 219 years ago a few French stormed the Bastille because they were sick to death of their king and wanted to get what they deserved. 15 years later they got an emperor.
For sure a grand reason for a national holiday.

I could go on and on praising the French and their (sic) revolution*, but ... sorry ... right now I wonder what has happened to the famous David Vitter, who almost exactly one year ago claimed 'he had asked for and received forgiveness from God and his wife - undoubtedly the greatest story for the past 2020 or even 10.000 years, which the BBC gave away though, by mentioning it in a subordinate clause.

Well, googling 'Vitters, prostitute ring, trial', and voilà ha ha ha ... so ho ho ho rry ... hardly ca ha ha han't write.

Help yourself.

Back? And? Isn't this a most touching photo? And wouldn't you say: Yes, this is undoubtedly an intelligently designed couple?

What I cannot entirely understand: As Mr. Vitters has already received forgiveness by Mr. and Mrs. God - and who would doubt his words? -, why would there be an earthly trial? Isn't God any longer boss in his own country?



*French Revolution: another term for replacing a king by an emperor

Not by Dafydd ap Gwilym :)

Good Night

GOOD NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severes those it should unite;
Let us remain together still
Then it will be a good night

How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight
Be it not said, thought, understood,
That it will be good night.

To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good-night.

Percy B. Shelley

Just so

Voilà, in case anybody's interested in what German newspapers focused on in their feuilletons, this week.

I'll focus on my dreams.

The Peace of the Night

Summits of pleasure

"It was nice to see you", said the deaf to the blind.

"The pleasure's all mine. You were a wonderful listener."

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

No joke here

Seems every blogger, regardless if woman or man is posting jokes today.

To make a difference, here's reality news.
This morning, near the graveyard I stumbled into a young man, or rather he hastened into me. Last time we met - it must have been late February, or so - he had just finished his studies for the teaching profession and got taught there's no need for him as a teacher.

The more delighted I was to see him smiling and in the best mood.

After both we had murmured our 'Sorry', he recognised me.

"Ah, Sean."

"An espresso at Vincenzo's?' I asked.

"Would be great, but I'm in a hurry."

"I see. What's her name?"

"Sorry, but ..." And off he speeded. All I could understand from what he shouted over his shoulder: "... 'll ... you ... ail."


Five minutes ago I received an email:

Sean,
sorry about this mornings' hurry. There was a very important press conferance at the chemistry. They are going to have an 'Open Door Day'. With bouncing castle for the kids and many more attractive sensations.

Imagine, Sean. End of March I'd not hardly know how to spell shornalyst, and only three months later I happen to be one. I could huck the whole world. Shornalism is the most wonderfull profashion in the world.

But now I have to stop. I am in hurry. In ten minutes I have to email the article (220 lines) to the lady owner, for authorisation.


In hurry,
Yours ...

Well, what can I say. I am so happy for the young chap. It's not easy to find a job in these times.

Every baby will be delighted

Every German citizen should have the right to vote in national elections, even those under the age of 18, says a group of parliamentarians. They've proposed a law that would allow parents to vote for their children.

In case anyone does feel the wish to continue, voilà, here you are.

As I am determined to spend this day far from the madding crowd I shall not comment on mad crowds' proposals.

There is but one tiny word attracting my attention.

Did your eyes detect it, too?

Right. Every.

And what does every mean? ... Correct: Every.

So, what's the following? ... Rubbish?

Well, I'd not go as far.
Let's agree to that the whole article consequently lacks of sense.

How could any accident like this
ever happen? What's amiss?

Frankly, I don't know, as to my knowledge only the brightest brains would nowadays get offered the chance of trying to become a journalist and, after a 6*-education only the crème de la crème of these brightest brains would ...

Hm ...

hm ...

why would I suddenly think of the White House?

Mission truthfully accomplished

Isn't it strange that sometimes we would feel embarrassed for people we do not even know? Only this afternoon it happened to me again.
Having un espresso doppio at Vicenco's I was forced to hear a dialogue between two strange looking men who may praise the fact they were another weight category than me.
What they said, was so disgusting that - truth be told - I'd never ever speak about, had there not been a voice speaking to me the other moment: Sean, write it down. Word by word. Share it with the blogosphere!

Well, so be it. This is what I heard:

It is well known that children and drunkards always are telling the truth, isn't it?

No soul that would not know this.

That is why it is hard to understand why the White House would apologize for telling the truth about Silvio Berlusconi, distributed in a press-kit at the so-called G8-summit.

Egads! They apologied for telling the truth?

Aye. Basically they said: Sorry, dear Silvio, for insulting you by telling the truth.

Who said so?

Spokesman Toni Fratto.

Ha ha, Toni Fratto?

Not all descendants from Italian immigrants would work for the US-Mafia.

Well, when you can get a job in the firm of the bigger rival organisation. Anyway, back to the apology. Seems like all alcoholics they did regret the morning after. Why would the White House employ a bunch of alcoholics?

Presidential order? After all, like will to like.

Wait. George Walker Bush does not drink a drop since he had an audience with his god. It's insulting to call him an alcoholic.

Who would doubt that Mr. Bush jr. stopped boozing his brain out of his head after the mission was accomplished. However, it's no insult to call him an alcoholic. Once an alcoholic, forever an alcoholic. Ask your doctor. Your doctor will also be able to tell you that alcoholics use to meet the strangest people in delirium tremens.

In this moment I got up and went home. Can't tell you, dear readers, how embarrassed I felt.