Uncensored

Back from the English Lakes. With a sprained ankle and wonderful memories.

Vacances

All it takes is faith and trust
But the thing that's a positive must
Is a little bit of pixie dust

You can fly! You can fly!

Arevik is going on holiday today, and it's the first time she doesn't take a camera with her, but pencils, pastels, indian ink and pure blank paper. She'll have no other choice than to draw what she wants to keep in sight.
She's also very glad to let her computer behind, so this place will be closed a month or so.

Déménagement

...or how I helped a friend get rid of her old house today.

Spawn

Augenrund zwischen den Stäben.

Flimmertier Lid

rudert nach oben,

gibt einen Blick frei.

Iris, Schwimmerin, traumlos und trüb:

der Himmel, herzgrau, muss nah sein.

Paul Celan, Sprachgitter

Photo Pro Natura Suisse

A clear midnight

This is thy hour O soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

Walt Whitman

Yesterday

Un après-midi à Genève

Where will we be
When summer's gone

Morning found us calmly unaware
Noon burn gold into our hair
At night, we swim the laughin' sea

When summer's gone
Where will we be

We had some good times
But they're gone
The winter's comin' on

Summer's almost gone

The Doors


I love this song. For some reason, it always comes to my mind at the beginning of July, as a soft remembrance of last year's cold, as a gentle warning of the cold to come, as a kind of "carpe diem". It used to make me sad, now I see it as a chance. "They are lucky, who don't notice whether it's winter now, or summer", Chekhov wrote.

I say, they're lucky, who have a song.

And summer's not gone, anyway.

On my way to work

Sad steps

Groping back to bed after a piss
I part thick curtains, and am startled by
The rapid clouds, the moon's cleaneliness.

Four o'clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lie
Under a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.
There's something laughable about this,

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow
Loosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart
(Stone-coloured light sharpening the roofs below)

High and preposterous and separate -
Lozenge of love! Medallion of art!
O wolves of memory! Immensements! No,

One shivers slightly, looking up there.
The hardness and the brightness and the plain
Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare

Is a reminder of the strength and pain
Of being young; that it can't come again,
But is for others undiminished somewhere.

Philip Larkin

N'est pas pauvre celui qui n'a rien, mais celui qui n'a personne.

Proverbe africain

Old friends...

...are a great thing.

Cabane Bella Tola, 2346 m above sea-level

... as if every love story were going to end here.

(one of my favourite films)

Dreamy

Marc Chagall, Au dessus de la ville

Monty Python's Flying Circus - Dead Parrot Sketch

A reason why I booked a super intensive English course in Cambridge for the summer to come.