lacrimosa and labor

Yes, I do not speak on this blog very often anymore. You see, there is no friends or siblings to entertain or update, people who might live far away. There is no urgency. As for my "virtual friends" - I'm just damn lazy and tired at the end of the day. So feel no ill intent if I do not frequent your online mutterings. They do interest me, but my energy only goes that far ...

Here are the trivia tidbits of the week:
I was building a staircase while the "Rastaman" co-worker attended a fire of left over scrap wood and such, construction debris.Life on the island goes well. There is no parameters who seek change. But the burden is on me. I need a sailboat soon. A sailboat because it floats without diesel. The ocean is endless and covers about 70% of our earth. Islands are just focal points of stationary but also temporary matter.
Oh, by the way, the "Rastaman" just bought 600 fruit trees, mostly apple. He intends to plant them. Why not. The successful future of mankind is embedded in decentralization, may it be agriculture or other things ...
Believe me!
Lacrimosa from Mozart sort of sums up the mood I have these days. My spiritual companion and teacher died a week ago, a jolly Scottish person with lots of insight, suddenly, without warning. May his journey to the spiritual world be less agitating than the circumstances and journeys we presently face in our earthly surroundings!

Sun Child

This is an early sculpture of mine, named : sun child.


When I was young (50th birthday coming up) I modeled quite a few reliefs in clay and cast them in white cement with blended in stones. Polish and chiseled them after they had hardened.
But remember, you can't make a living as a sculptor (or visual artist) - unless ...

confusing "downloads"

Finally spring has arrived to the island. I am glad. The sun is actually warm. Last bits of snow vanish on Vinalhaven. The complexity of the last "north-eastern" storm was stunning, but now it's all gone, electricity is back, no more work with humming generators.
The present situation describes itself as surreal beautiful and divine.
Who can resist?
But then I drive to work, my radio on. The chief justice of the US stutters while being fried by lawmakers from both sides of the isles in the US senate. That mole has to go and face yet the other side of the wall. He is not an immigrant punk (which would be honorable), he is a looser. Gonzales go home, pick avocados or some kind of cactus plants and distill tequila instead.
That brings me to the issue of walls.
America, the US that is, sports to be a grand wall builder these days, rivaling Israeli stupidity.
In Iraq, precisely Baghdad, neighborhoods are being separated by 12 foot walls. What about that? Why build them? Is this how you introduce Democracy?
And so I stare at my computer while I am downloading free music from the internet and wonder: Where is this all going to lead too!?
The US is nuts, the Arab league is nuts (the Palestinian "speaker" to the government there announced last Friday, that it would be a preference to kill all "Americans" and Jews to the last person and that Allah will be conjunct to this and that this motion will show true faith).
Give me a break.
As much as I despise and condemn the present US enterprise in Iraq, I also speak to condemn the "Muslim World" for hiding behind statues of religious manifests that once belonged to the Middle Ages.
And now I am downloading more songs from the internet, sweet songs, bursting through firewalls.
So what are you doing on this so called "earth day" - fixing up your patio walls perhaps?

Bridges

I don't have the energy
to whisper sweet nothingness
to your ear, or other receptacles.
It has always been a muted song anyway, why change it now.

Bridges were build, but eventually they collapse
Yesterday I crossed a bridge that connects states.
Today I found myself sneaking underneath an other bridge perhaps,
driving home, loose electrical wires abound, weaseling on the ground.
And then there were those kids in the news,
dead they were found
after insanity hits
even the sane
get the blues.

I am not even talking about bridges in Bagdad, though that could be a fair topic as well.
So where is the bridge to your heart, or should I simply assume - that only strings are attached?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

Charles Bukowski

Rachmaninoff - nah, Beethoven

Is it interesting to say that I came across an absolutely gorgeous Steinway? Probably not that interesting. Anyhow, this thing is in some rich persons home, and I have nothing to do with it, unless you call the person who let me in, my friend. As I was touching the keys, I realized how little I remembered, from way back then ... when I had a few lessons.
But the sound was magic, you didn't even had to know how to push the keys. Some instruments just lend themselves to virtuosity without the baggage of proficiency.
I forgot the lines, but then I remembered the tunes.
Life is a bag, then you empty it's contents on the table of "today" before you go further. Vinaigrette or Russian?
I'll take plain vinegar, salt and olive oil at this point.

... interesting how and why this post stirred some compulsive reactions and comments

Easter eggs, The Pope and Snow

So yeah, I haven't communicated for a while. Perhaps I just don't feel like it, or I must be tired working my ass off. Who knows.


Anyhow, the hunt for the easter eggs was doomed, too much snow. A freak storm hit here last Friday and left a blanket of white nuisance.































The Pope? Ah, he has nothing much to say besides that Iraq is a mess. Who wouldn't have known!
Snow? Hmm, that Friday storm was pretty outrageous - so much for global warming.

Eggs?

Do me a favor and hatch your own, I'm tired of inseminating.
Does that make sense? No! It wasn't supposed to either ...
On the political front - ah, should I really go there? There is not much to state. Some blindfolded British sailors make good stories, but truthfully I don't give a flying crap to whom they are selling their story to. It's just an other routine day in the works of the Empire, who cares...
As for me, I am pounding nails into wood, what else is there to do.