Espantos #634

Up from 1.7m on Saturday when I started following

Desde 1.7m no sábado (26/2) quando comecei a seguir

Espantos #633

Meanwhile in Lisbon...

Sem título #221

Ukraine vs Russia

Coisas que mudaram #14

Kyiv, Lviv, Kharkiv, Dnipro, Donetsk, Luhansk

Moldova, Romania, Hungary, Slovakia, Poland, Belarus, Russia

how we all got familiar with the geography of Ukraine

Coisas que mudaram #13

Dnipro, Ukraine

photo from the New York Times

Coisas bonitas #95

The beautiful Coombe Abbey

and its sequoias

Espantos #632

Zelensky rising up to the occasion: I need ammunition not a ride.

Coragem de Zelensky: preciso é de munições, de boleia não.

Foi neste dia #381 (2022)

 Foi neste dia que a Capital da Ucrânia foi invadida pelo Exército Russo

Historicamente com conflitos, avanços e recuos nas fronteiras, o Hino da Ucrânia poderia ter sido escrito hoje

Sem título #220

Theory and practice...

Pormenores #174

musgo / moss

Palavras lids #505

Coventry Cathedral after the blitz of 14-15 November 1940

The Lamb
by Linda Gregg

It was a picture I had after the war.
A bombed English church. I was too young
to know the word English or war,
but I knew the picture.
The ruined city still seemed noble.
The cathedral with its roof blown off
was not less godly. The church was the same
plus rain and sky. Birds flew in and out
of the holes God’s fist made in the walls.
All our desire for love or children
is treated like rags by the enemy.
I knew so much and sang anyway.
Like a bird who will sing until
it is brought down. When they take
away the trees, the child picks up a stick
and says, this is a tree, this the house
and the family. As we might. Through a door
of what had been a house, into the field
of rubble, walks a single lamb, tilting
its head, curious, unafraid, hungry.

Ditto #504

History is a pack of lies about events that never happened told by people who weren’t there.

--George Santyana

Primavera #145

Primavera abrigada

Sem título #219

Worry eaters, where are they?

Primavera #144

Primavera molhada

Espantos #631

Pieces of the Library of Birmingham

Primavera #143

Já vai aparecendo...

Coisas bonitas #94

Double rainbow -- Arco-íris duplo

Num país a fingir #63

Num país a fingir, faz-se (e bem) um enorme esforço para automatizar o recenseamento eleitoral aquando da renovação do cartão de cidadão aumentando e muito o número de residentes no estrangeiro que podem votar por correio, pesem embora os serviços demorados dos correios internacionais.

No entanto, neste mesmo país a fingir ninguém se entende quanto ao processo de escrutínio dos votos do estrangeiro. Misturando-se os boletins de voto que cumpriram a lei (e as instruções escritas na documentação que acompanhava o boletim de voto incluindo uma cópia do cartão de cidadão a acompanhar o envelope fechado com o voto secreto e anónimo) com aqueles que não o fizeram, deixam de se poder distinguir os votos válidos dos não válidos.

Remédio, anular 157.205 dos 195.701 votos do círculo da Europa, o que equivale a OITENTA VÍRGULA TRINTA E DOIS POR CENTO dos votos enviados do estrangeiro por este círculo. Houve um erro? Houve. Será a melhor solução desrespeitar quem leu as instruções e cumpriu a lei? Não me parece. Se assim não fosse, atrasar-se-ía a tomada de posse da Assembleia da República? E depois? Os erros não teem consequências para quem os comete mas só para os que não podem reclamar?

Sabendo que há 80% de probabilidade de o meu voto não ter contado sinto tristeza por o meu país ter amadores em posições de responsabilidade que me afectam e afectam a minha voz sobre os destinos do meu país. Lastimável sim, mas seria de mais esperar um mínimo de seriedade? Ficam apenas as lástimas, num país a fingir.

Sem título #218

This year...

Palavras lidas #504

“Neck Broken, Resourceful Cyclist Walks to Emergency Room”

—from a news bulletin

by Carolyne Wright

Too late the bus slammed on its brakes—the rider

thrown over her mangled handlebars, against

the bus grille’s bent metallic grimace. Her neck’s

seventh vertebra ruptured, the woman gripped her

head between her palms, and stood, and walked

to the ER, a block away—noon darkness aglow

with the accident’s split-second flash: to let go

would kick the stool out from under the noose-necked

prisoner. “But I wanted to live,” she told

reporters later. “I didn’t dare to break

that wishbone with myself.” How else to command

each cell hold its balance—inner fire cold

as knowing Her own life: could she ever again take

it so—completely—in her hands?

Ditto #503

I think this one will make a noise in the world.

--Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, wrote to a friend upon hearing teenaged Beethoven play the piano for him

Sem título #217

Ahhh the stupidity...

Espantos #630

Scotch egg: open top scotch egg wrapped in seasoned breaded sausage meat, on a bed of warm basil puree served with toasted focaccia... and proof that some foods are truly works of art!

Caprichos #668

Bolo de maçã

se não me tivesse esquecido a canela e o açúcar a polvilhar a forma

então é que ficava mesmo bom... ainda assim ficou bem bom :-)

Parece que estou a ouvir #354

Giving up
by Ingrid Michaelson

What if we stop having a ball?
What if the paint chips from the wall?
What if there's always cups in the sink?
Oh what if I'm not what you think I am?

What if I fall further than you?
What if you dream of somebody new?
What if I never let you win,
And chase you with a rolling pin?
Well what if I do?

'Cause I am giving up on making passes and
I am giving up on half empty glasses and
I am giving up on greener grasses
I am giving up

What if our baby comes in after nine?
What it your eyes close before mine?
What if you lose yourself sometimes?
Then I'll be the one to find you
Safe in my heart

'Cause I am giving up on making passes and
I am giving up on half empty glasses and
I am giving up on greener grasses
I am giving

'Cause I am giving up
I am giving up
'Cause I am giving up
I am giving up
I am giving up on greener grasses

I am giving up for you, oh
I am giving up for you, oh
I am giving up

Palavras lidas #503

Adrift in Winter

by Tom Hennen

All anyone wants to know is when spring will get here. To hell

with dripping icicles, cold blue snow, silly birds too dumb to

go south, and sunlight gleaming off rock-hard snowflakes. I’m

sick of breathing air sharp as razor blades. I’m tired of feet as

hard to move as two buildings. I refuse to be seduced by the

pine tree blocking my path. Even though…just now, look how

it moves, its needles rubbing the sky-blue day. The glow it has

around its entire body. How perfectly it stands in the snow-

drift. The way both our shadows cross the noon hour at once,

like wings.

Ditto #502

A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of.

--Jane Austen, born in 1775 and the 7th of 8 children