Enough

The older I get, the less time I have to be diplomatic, which is why I'm not ill-disposed to (at least largely) put an end to blogging at the end of this month.
Time to write! Without scissors in head.
To put it with Seamus Heaney:
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests. ...

Today ten years ago

Today ten years ago, "out of the blue" my friend Jams died, seven days before his 50th birthday.
I am still sad. And grateful.

Thanks for being, Jams.

Snail's Dream

Had I followed my intention you would now read a short story, afterwards watch a short film and then ...
Anticipating the then, I decided to not manipulate your thoughts and feelings with my writing, but leave you alone with the film. Voilà.

 

Beers & Books XI

Although it is most unlikely they do exist,
to all those who happen to not being
in possession of the master's complete œvre:
Saddle your ponies, folks, and hurry up.
The friendly, most well-educated
and -sorted bookseller just round the corner
will be happy to fill the gaps of your education
and in your bookshelf.

Flann O'Brien (5 October 1911 – 1 April 1966)

Already "Changing of the Tone" again

As everyone knows yesterday, September 5th, was 'Changing of the Tone' in Halberstadt. Just in case you happened not to be amongst those connoisseurs in St Burchardi who all excitedly earwitnessed the thrilling moment, and therefore feel inconsolable: the spheric sound will not change until February 5th, 2022.
So when arriving on February 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 quickly booking one of the remaining 620 years and get your name "eternised" on a metal plate. Costs only 1200 Euro.

As mentioned twelve years ago, 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 2222, but right now I think I shall ask them to offer 2641. I'd really like listening to the silence, after all the noise.


PS:
In honour of John Cage I have been writing this post, as I did in 2008, if not as slowly as possible, 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 written 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.

John Cage (5 September 1912 – 12 August 1992)

Organ2/ASLSP (As Slow as Possible)

The official website

New York Times article from May 2006

Flann fooled you all

I'll not tell which pseudonym he does currently prefer, but I may again say those few people still taking for granted Flann O'Brien died April 1st 1966, can look back on a remarkable long career as April fools.

Fact is, furthermore, that only last midnight Flanny, Tetrapilotomos and I as well as a certain chap who asked to remain incognito met in, at and around Seanhenge, having some pints of plain and, of course, at one stage of our vivid conversation Flann would raise his voice and not only enjoy our ears, hearts and grey cells but animate the rami zygomatici and rami buccales of nervus facialis to massively innervate our musculi risorii by declaiming following legendary dialogue:

The Plain People of Ireland: Isn't the German very like the Irish? Very guttural and so on?

Myself: Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: People say that the German language and the Irish language is very guttural tongues.

Myself: Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: The sounds is all guttural do you understand.

Myself. Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: Very guttural languages the pair of them the Gaelic and the German.

* * *

And now - although it is most unlikely they exist - to all those who happen to not being in possession of the master's complete œvre: Saddle your ponies, folks, and hurry up. The friendly, most well-educated and -sorted bookseller just round the corner will be happy to fill the gaps of your education and in your bookshelf.

A Fart in the Wind

Nine years of blogging
are like a fart in the wind.
What are four days more?

Seven

Don't know how many people
got murdered since,
got tortured since,
got raped since;

don't know how often when opening their mouths
certain politicians and business(wo)men did not deliberately tell lies.

I do know, though, that in the past seven years I met a few interesting and nice people.

Thankfully raising my glass: Sláinte. 

One year more?

(C)old (b)log.
This one has become 6.

Thanks for being, Jams

Words of sorrow and solace (from strangers) – however deep from the bottom of one's heart they may come – often, if not mostly, do sound shallow (for those who 'lost' a beloved one).

That is why I do rather wish that soon the moment may come when the memory of this and that episode, of a glance, a touch, a certain little gesture or quirk will conjure a smile on the lips of those who love [sic! present tense] him dearly ...  so that they may gain new strength ... for life.

I am glad that amongst many tears I shed during the past week, while re-reading this and that I found myself smiling, chuckling and sometimes even laughing. 

'The Poor Mouth' and 'Omnium', both blog names reminiscence of and homage to Flann O'Brien, met in 2007, and since we ... but I don't want to bore you.

To cut it short: Jams – I never called him Shaun – became a friend; intelligent, witty, generous, multi-talented and blessed with an honesty that would let him call a spade a spade whenever he'd feel the wish and the necessity.


I do like thinking of my friend Jams having a pint of plain with Flann O'Brien [and perhaps a second with Father Jack whilst Ted (not Father Ted, obviously) is reciting an episode of 'The Master and Margarita']; discussing with Sergeant Pluck the advantages and disadvantages of becoming a bicycle, whilst feeding Mimi with cheese; taking phantastic photos while strolling around in his new surroundings without feeling any pain in his knees, let alone longing for Garra rufa to nibble skin of his feet; organising a weekly poetry contest the winner of which will be rewarded with a bicycle-esque looking William Topaz McGonagall-statue and ... ah ... oh well ... enjoying his new alltemporaries with what he uses to call drivel, and now and then sending love to his not-wife Shirl, a smile to his Mum and Dad, a twinkle of his eyes to Tim, Li, Elahe and amongst others ... well ... to you and to me.

Today (March 29, 2013), seven days after he died, is Jams's 50th birthday.

All I know is that Jams O'Donnell Esq. will always be part of Omnium.

Thanks for being, Jams. Sláinte .

PS: To give but one example of the fun we often had, follow the link to Rich Poetry at The Poor Mouth's and from there to The Tayside Tragedian on the Bard and 73 comments.

Enjoy!

For your imagination

After two and a half years ... there could be told some more episodes about the lady and her life whisperer. Alone, these are no days for writing.
These are days for preparing favourite meals; days and nights for trying to anticipate the very next wish [ the German idiom – 'to read all wishes from her eyes – sounds much nicer, would you agree?]; days and nights to speak about past 88 years, about present, death, dreams and future; days and nights to clean and caress, to hurry and hush; days and nights to enjoy a whispered thank you, an "oh, that was delicious"; days and nights for love and laughter,  for sparkling eyes and smiling silence ... dum spiro spero.

The peace of the night.

Herewith the end of Omnium

is declared postsponed ...

Five years ought to be more than enough, however as I did neither take the time trying to find proper words to explain the Why, and  – more important – to thank all those I do not wish to wish farewell ... I decided to postpone the end ...

... until ... next year.

This might turn out to have been no wise decision. Who knows? I might not find time to say bye-bye before moving to my last dwelling six feet under.

I do know, though, that it is a good feeling to have met a few people.
Thank you!

What Omnium needs

oxygen – air supplying device – laughing gas.

Obviously.

 

Laughing Lhursday

Ominous pursuer.
It took a while to shake him off.

Laughing Lhursday

Mouse's End

Suntimes

Cul-de-sac.
Point of return.
I hesitated.

 

Six Days in 88 years

New Year's Day.

A man, his elbows leaning on kitchen's sill;
his head resting in his palms;
himself: lost in thought;
in many thoughts ...

Suddenly his eyes notice:
A woman in a wheel chair.

Pushed by a man.

Walking fast.

Escorted by a an Australian shephard.

Behind this trio:

A couple in their 30s.
She: pregnant in the 36th week, leading a 14 years old mongrel, somehow a mixture of a Romanian Mioritic Shepherd Dog and an Irish Wolfhound.

He: Leading another Australian shephard.

Both, respectively the four of them:

Walking fast, too.
Somehow too fast.

As if running away, trying to escape.

Trying to escape what?

Like a procession. Somehow surreal. Described by García Márques or Borges.

The man does not dare to move.
Hoping brother-in-law, niece and her husband will not look up and ...
think: bloody voyeur.

January 6th.:

The 62nd anniversary of the old woman's marriage.
Oh, how does she love him; him who died almost 12 years ago.
They will never understand.
A 16 year old girl in love with a 20 year old boy who soon will be forced to fight a war.
Flight/expulsion/displacement;
waiting for him: ten years lost!
Their youth!

She had loved her son's girl from the first moment.
Why?!

Why will she not be allowed to hold her grandchild in her arms?
Nine months.
Nine months ago it began.
Pain in the back.


She? She who four months ago has thought she'd not see her great-grandchild now, after she has got this pacemaker will – probably – not only have to follow the coffin of her daughter (-in-law), but about two weeks later hold her (the daughter's) grandchild in her arms.

'Life's not fair', the old woman says.

The man, his elbows leaning on the kitchen table,
his head resting in his palms,
does nod. Imperceptible. Almost.


'However, love, mother ...'
It is not exactly to understand what he murmurs.

The longer Omnium exists ...

the less worth it is.

The peace of the night.

What a magic discovery ...

to see that my erected middlefinger
is able ...

 

to cause a lunar eclipse.