Holiday for holiday's sake?

Many of us have learned about the guy who nailed a pamphlet on a church door somewhere in Germany or whatever that neck of the woods was called back in the 15th - or was it 16th - century, thus setting off a new movement which resulted in humans killing other humans for no reason other than those others appeared to believe in something else than themselves, thus invariably proving once again that humans are nuts.

(excuse me, my friend, for borrowing the words you borrowed from someone else; and apologies to the other reader who has no clue what this is about – it doesn't really matter)

Anyhow, October 31, the day Martin Luther is considered to have presented his 95 theses by nailing them on the door of the church in Wittenberg (the year, by the way, was 1517), thus starting the Protestant Reformation, has been acknowledged as the Reformation Day and is celebrated by the Lutheran church on the Sunday before or on October 31. However, Slovenia, as the only country in Europe apart from some German states, and although predominantly Roman Catholic, has proclaimed this day a civic holiday, back-to-back with the Catholic holiday, All Saints' Day, which befalls on November 1.

It is true that the Reformation contributed to the cultural development in this region, but what's the point in making this day a national holiday? A way of making up for the past injustices? I don't mind having a day off but I suspect I'll never understand the duplicitous ways of the politicians.

What do you see?

anything funny, smutty, angry, sad?

Autumn rain

grey clouds
the drip drip drip
of raindrops
against the windowsill
turn the lights on
in the middle of the day
monochrome world
monochrome words
in the sunday paper
where are the colours?
there...
spring onions
beans
cauliflower
persimmon
ah, persimmon!
ripe
soft
sweet
juicy
the colour
of sunrise
still
the rain patters
against the windows
in a monochrome world
outside

Cranes

Cranes are large, long-legged and long-necked birds of the order Gruiformers, and family Gruidae. Unlike the similar-looking but unrelated herons, cranes fly with necks outstretched, not pulled back. Most have elaborate and noisy courting displays or "dances". While folklore often states that cranes mate for life, recent scientific research indicates that these birds do change mates over the course of their (considerable) lifetimes. Some species and/or populations of cranes migrate over long distances, while some do not migrate at all. Cranes are gregarious, forming large flocks where their numbers are sufficient.

Most species of cranes are at least threatened, if not critically endangered, within their range.

They are opportunistic feeders that change their diet according to the season and their own nutrient requirements. They eat a range of items from suitably sized small rodents, fish, amphibians, and insects, to grain, berries, and plants.

(Wikipedia)

A colony of cranes has settled upon the city. They can be seen from every nook and cranny raising their necks high into the sky. The one picced below is still a juvenile and hasn't yet reached its full size. It appears they are here to stay the winter.

Fly With Us V

A Pan Am 727 flight, waiting for start clearance in Munich, overheard the following: Lufthansa (in German): "Ground, what is our start clearance time?"
Ground (in English): "If you want an answer you must speak in English."
Lufthansa (in English): "I am a German, flying a German airplane, in Germany. Why must I speak English?"
Unknown voice from another plane (in a beautiful British accent): "Because you lost the bloody war!"

Vera

The following text could use some revising but I'm posting it as is. The woman described in it really exists.

The sun lay low above the horizon when a dark slim figure appeared from one of the houses at the outskirts of the town. The warm late afternoon light softened the contrast between almost white, unkempt hair framing a creased visage of an elderly woman and her pitch black clothes. The woman paused for a moment, looked towards the setting sun, then crossed the street with a few measured steps and stood with her bare feet on a small mound of earth amidst the parched grass. She closed her eyes, turned her face towards the setting sun and took a few deep breaths. Then she opened the eyes directly into the sun and stared unblinkingly at the fiery globe for a full minute. She closed her eyes again, turned away from the sun, which was now almost kissing the edge of the hill, kept still for another minute, then descended towards the house and disappeared inside.

Vera has lived on the island for decades. She knew the town, its character, its inhabitants, their customs. But she knew she would never become one of them. She grew up in the plains of Panonia where fields of corn stretched to infinity. She lived there until her husband-to-be brought her to the island. They married and brought up two children, a boy and a girl. She was reasonably happy there but missed her fields and the friends she had left behind, so she sought the company of visitors, she sought word from the outside world. She would visit her relatives and friends back in Slavonia on occasion but less so in the latter years.

Things went for the worse, though. Her son, now a father of two adolescents, became gravely ill. She watched him wane and there was nothing she could do. When they buried him, she was overwhelmed by grief and never fully recovered. The trauma affected her eyes and the doctors told her they couldn’t help her and she might go completely blind.

Soon after she was faced with that fact, she woke up one night and couldn’t fall back asleep. So she turned on the TV although she could hardly see anything, and there was a show about people who practiced the ritual of looking into the sun and what beneficial effects that ritual had. Vera thought she had nothing to lose and if she was destined to blindness she could as well try performing the ritual as she had heard on that show. To the her own and her doctors’ utter surprise her condition not only ceased to deteriorate but started to improve significantly.

Every morning and/or evening Vera can be seen emerging barefoot from her home, stepping on the mound of earth she had made for her ritual and looking into the sun for a measured period of time. She believes the ritual has improved her eyesight and general condition and it gives her the energy to continue fighting.

A poem

I am inclined to post some poetry, hence the following poem. Song About Man is a poem by Edvard Kocbek, a 20th century slovenian poet I value very much.

*

Incapable of being, except in our body, collected, girded, suffering force:
Each of us convulsively clings to himself, even asleep
we contract like worms under stones.
Something always compels us, we vibrate
in all directions, and at rest we are perplexed.
The longer we live, the more we are tangled in gravity,
we acknowledge encounters only when they have passed.
We pulse constantly, the human race contains limitless
movements, whatever occurs is completing itself.
Wind tires us, a song makes us anxious, a tree unsettles
us, the earth puts us to sleep.
Looking is marvelling, running is fear, solitude is
nostalgia and speech solemn vows.
Extending beyond our own selves, time sips, space
extends us, we are stretched taut on the earth’s magnetic field.
When we come back together we are drunk with each
other, our faces are changed, someone else is among us.
When suffering lets go we look at our hands and play
with them, we lift them, reverently moving
the fingers, all of it equally dear.
In the expanse of the world we are a trembling of leaves
or the shadows of clouds over brightly colored hills.
We cannot abide by either morning or evening, at noon
we deny ourselves, and at night we shiver from strangeness.
We can find neither beginning nor end in ourselves, in
the great silence we hear perpetual music and bow our heads.
We are placed among lines and figures for convenience’
sake, some are horizontal, others stand vertical, it is assuring to grasp them.
Objects jut silently into space, maintaining their taut
forms. They neither collapse nor contract, they will
endure to the end with us.
Outside animals respire, their meekness overwhelms us,
and in their huge eyes we lose our balance.
Everything is the foundation of what is higher, the
crown to what is lower, bindweed to whatever is at hand.
The mark of man is in dualities that attract and affirm
one another, the game outruns its own speed.
The transitions and joints make sense of each other like
a word pronounced in the ear, truth seethes like a troubled ocean.
We move our bodies ritually and deliberately like priests
chanting, each side gives way, humility and splendor complete one another.
Man’s heart beats audibly, it hears and deciphers more
all the time, man’s heart is one fruit among many,
the tithe from the harvest of dying time.
Each thing in its proper place, earth and sea, night and
day, sorrow and joy, oblivion and the gift, within them man, unique.

(translated by Michael Biggins)

Fly With Us IV

I'm sorry but nothing better to post...

One day the pilot of a Cherokee 180 was told by the tower to hold short of the active runway while a DC-8 landed. The DC-8 landed, rolled out, turned around, and taxied back past the Cherokee.
Some quick-witted comedian in the DC-8 crew got on the radio and said, "What a cute little plane. Did you make it all by yourself?"
The Cherokee pilot, not about to let the insult go by, came back with a real zinger: "I made it out of DC-8 parts. Another landing like yours and I'll have enough parts for another one."

Murphy's laws in practice

The moment I was left alone in the apartment things started to go awry.

The heater wouldn't ignite. I only had cold water. Damn, how am I supposed to wash the dishes? To take a shower? Wash my hair? How could people not so long ago live without instant supply of hot water? How do they still do it in many places? Have the benefits of the progress really spoiled us so much?

Next, the key to the closet broke. Somehow I managed to open the door but had to leave it open or at least ajar in order to not have trouble opening it again.

Then the light in the refrigerator went out. I remembered all too well the return from vacations a few years ago when a terrible stench awaited us as soon as we opened the door. Turned out the fridge had broken and all the food left in the freezing drawers started to rot. It took months after the repair for the fridge to stop smelling. But luckily this time it was only the lamp.

Eventually the locksmith made me spare keys and as for the heater, it sprang to life just as sudden as it had died. So, in the end, everything was in order.

Fly With Us III

Sorry for the lack of creativity but my mind is full of other things at the time. Hope to be back soon. Meanwhile, I shall bore you with another joke.

The German air controllers at Frankfurt Airport are renowned as a short-tempered lot. They not only expect one to know one's gate parking location, but how to get there without any assistance from them. So it was with some amusement that we (a Pan Am 747) listened to the following exchange between Frankfurt ground control and a British Airways 747, call sign Speedbird 206.

Speedbird 206: "Frankfurt, Speedbird 206 clear of active runway."

Ground: "Speedbird 206. Taxi to gate Alpha One-Seven."

The BA 747 pulled onto the main taxiway and slowed to a stop.

Ground: "Speedbird, do you not know where you are going?"

Speedbird 206: "Stand by, Ground, I'm looking up our gate location now."

Ground (with quite arrogant impatience): "Speedbird 206, have you not been to Frankfurt before?"

Speedbird 206 (coolly): "Yes, twice in 1944, but it was dark, -- And I didn't land."

Colours

Ok, I know it's time I produced something more creative than a simple copy/paste from a file of old jokes that may not even be funny. But damn, I have spent almost 12 hours at work today, although not all were actual work, and that's enough to make the few synapses in my brain burn out.

But I did get to take a little walk to the park where I was greeted by an explosion of autumn colours against a clear blue sky.

Here's a sample of how it all looked:

Fly With Us II

Ouch!

While taxiing at London's Gatwick Airport, the crew of a US Air flight departing for Ft. Lauderdale made a wrong turn and came nose to nose with a United 727.

An irate female ground controller lashed out at the US Air crew, screaming: "US Air 2771, where the hell are you going?! I told you to turn right onto Charlie taxiway! You turned right on Delta! Stop right there. I know it's difficult for you to tell the difference between C and D, but get it right!" Continuing her rage to the embarrassed crew, she was now shouting hysterically: "God! Now you've screwed everything up! It'll take forever to sort this out! You stay right there and don't move till I tell you to! You can expect progressive taxi instructions in about half an hour, and I want you to go exactly where I tell you, when I tell you, and how I tell you! You got that, US Air 2771?"

"Yes, ma'am," the humbled crew responded.

Naturally, the ground control communications frequency fell terribly silent after the verbal bashing of US Air 2771. Nobody wanted to chance engaging the irate ground controller in her current state of mind. Tension in every cockpit out around Gatwick was definitely running high.
Just then an unknown pilot broke the silence and keyed his microphone, asking: "Wasn't I married to you once?"

Fly With Us I

I came across some funny (to me at least) stuff and thought I would share it. Supposedly these are recordings of actual conversations between pilots and air traffic controllers. And apologies if you have read this before.
Here's one for warm-up:-

Tower: "Delta 351, you have traffic at 10 o'clock, 6 miles!"
Delta 351: "Give us another hint! We have digital watches!"

Life and art

This glassy building is part of the National Gallery. I saw a number of people of all ages spilling out of the building and embarking on a coach waiting for them at the main entrance today. I haven't been inside since the school years. And that was many many years ago. Perhaps it's time I rectified that.

The reflection is quite nice, though, isn't it?

Hey,

don't open that window now!

This bench...

...is standing in an underpass between the city centre and the Tivoli park. It wasn't there the last time I passed by but greeted me yesterday in this rather dismal place. An empty pizza wrapping and a can of one soft drink or another is evidence that people, possibly students, have actually used the bench as a diner of some sort.

Gosh, I couldn't eat in a place like that when there's a whole lot of open air and greenery with a number of benches just a stone's throw ahead.

Remnants

The whole island of Vis was a military base for about 45 years and remnants of the army's presence can still be seen everywhere. The island was closed for visitors until late 1970s although the locals were allowed to travel off and on. Foreign tourists were not allowed to set foot on the island until the late 1980s.

The amazing thing is that when Croatia (along with Slovenia) proclaimed independence and the war in the former Yugoslavia broke out the army left the island without a single shot fired. They did leave behind a few mine fields, though, and although most mines were subsequently removed, one cost a reckless Dutch tourist his foot a few years ago.

Timing...

...has a lot to do in making of a good photo (and on many other occasions).

I wish I had waited one second longer when taking this shot. In which case the express train coming into the frame would have been in just the right position for a good shot. But I didn't react quickly enough and the train was moving too fast to give me another shooting opportunity before it swooshed by.



I thought B/W would work well with this photo

Sunday

So, after the wet and cold and windy Saturday the sun came out and the day seemed perfect for a walk, or so it seemed. The pond glistened in all the splendour of autumn colours, the ducks paddled across the murky water, the swans preened on the shore showing off to the many (too many) passers-by.

I wanted to avoid the crowd and trod into the forest. Wrong move! There was mud everywhere. Slippery sticky mud. It didn't take long before I was covered in mud up to my knees. And when I met a canine buddy (or was it she met me), I was soon covered in mud up to my chin. But it was still fun and nothing a hot shower and washing machine couldn't mend.

So...

...the rain and the wind blew away my planned trip to the coast and I stayed at home instead and it kept raining and blowing and the leaves and the conkers kept falling; some staying on solid ground, others dropping into a rain-filled pool.

Chestnut

What's happening? Why am I not swaying gently in the darkness of my soft cosy home anymore? That stuff beneath me - it looks hard and scratchy! And what is this thing glaring at me? I don't want to look at it! I want to go back! Go ho... Oh nooooooooo........ bump!

I browsed through old emails (an activity that demands extensive use of DELETE key) today and found this. It's sort of an urban legend and you have probably heard or read it but... well... I still think it's funny and clever, all the more if there's any truth in it.

So here goes:

A crowded United Airlines flight was canceled. A single agent was rebooking a long line of inconvenienced travelers. Suddenly an angry passenger pushed his way to the desk. He slapped his ticket on the counter and said, "I HAVE to be on this flight and it has to be FIRST CLASS."

The agent replied, "I am sorry, sir. I'll be happy to try to help you, but I've got to help these folks first, and I'm sure we'll be able to work something out."

The passenger was unimpressed. He asked loudly, so that the passengers behind him could hear, "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO I AM?"

Without hesitating, the agent smiled and grabbed her public address microphone, "May I have your attention please," she began, her voice heard clearly throughout the terminal. "We have a passenger here at Gate 14 WHO DOES NOT KNOW WHO HE IS. If anyone can help him find his identity, please come to Gate 14."

With the folks behind him in line laughing hysterically, the man glared at the United agent, gritted his teeth and swore, "Fuck You!".

Without flinching, she smiled and said, "I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to get in line for that too".

Prekmurska Gibanica - photo

It doesn't look too pretty, I know, but it's yummy alright.

I have sacrificed myself for blogging sake and brought it home to take this pic after which I got rid of the corpus delicti by consuming it. I'll have to work out three times a day and go on a diet till the end of year to get rid of all the calories.

Prekmurska Gibanica

A Spanish blogger who spent some time in Slovenia reminded me of prekmurska gibanica. It is one of the best pastries I have tried and is possibly one of the most renowned Slovenian dishes. It consists of two kinds of pastry: flan for the bottom and filo for the layers, and four kinds of filling: ground poppy seeds, cottage cheese (with or without raisins), ground walnuts and sliced apples.
The whole recipe can be found here.

I must admit I have never made this one before and it's unlikely that I ever will. It's simply too complex and time consuming to prepare at home. But it is absolutely delicious stuff although somewhat heavy and if you ever get a chance give it a try.

OK, this is kind of a lazy sort of post and I was hoping at least to be able to provide a photo of gibanica. But, incidentally, the shop that sells the stuff (and has it almost always in stock) ran out of it by the time I came by. So, no photo today but I hope to produce it tomorrow if I'm not too busy.

One more thing perhaps, silly though it may be, and which has become some sort of an inside joke among Slovenes (although some even take it seriously). Some smart-ass once wanted to translate the name of the cake into English and this is what came out: Over-Mura moving cake. Makes no sense, eh! Mura is the name of the river that runs through the region where this pastry is originally made. 'Gibati' in Slovene means 'to move' but also, in a more archaic sense (but in this case definitely more appropriate), 'to fold'. But the fact is, no matter the name, the thing is damn good.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled

Now, what do I think about eccentricity, about buffoonery?

I don't mind it, even welcome it to an extent, but I'm terribly ordinary myself, ordinary in both appearance and manners.

Well, that's not entirely true. There is one thing that makes me stand out from the crowd. See, I am a tall girl and my figure makes me almost impossible to blend in. It was frustrating at a time, my height. Embarrassing, too. I was always left behind at dance parties, no boy would pick me up. And that hurt an adolescent that I was. I am a terrible dancer as a consequence and hate dancing to day. But I don't care anymore and even enjoy being above others in the most literally sense.

Surely, there are other things, too, that make me different, that make me special, but they are hardly apparent at a glance and hardly important in this context.

But there is something, a thing common enough and yet not quite so. I like walking around with a camera, snapping away as I go. A few years ago I couldn't have imagined me doing so, I would have felt too embarrassed. But now I enjoy it and only feel slight discomfort when others stare at me too overtly.