Obsidian is a naturally occurring volcanic glass formed as an extrusive igneous rock.
"It is produced when felsic lava extruded from a volcano cools rapidly with minimum crystal growth. Obsidian is commonly found within the margins of rhyolitic lava flows known as obsidian flows, where the chemical composition (high silica content) induces a high viscosity and polymerization degree of the lava. The inhibition of atomic diffusion through this highly viscous and polymerized lava explains the lack of crystal growth. Obsidian is hard and brittle; it therefore fractures with very sharp edges, which had been used in the past in cutting and piercing tools, and are still used as surgical scalpel blades."
(Thank you Wikipedia)
These two stones always are in my pockets. Don't ask me why. When I stumbled across this stone, I was petrified by its intense blackness. It's darker than onyx (sometimes one can see through onyx). But, if you look two pictures down, you'll see that it can have an iridescent sheen. The stones I possess are quite dark, having only a dark green tinge to them when you look at them in full sun (due to iron and magnesium).
I wish the dark green/purplish tinge would come out better on
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By: Rodolphe,
on 1/23/2012
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"Whatyou leave behind is not what is engraved on stone momuments, but whatis woven into the lives of others."
Pericles,Statesman, orator, general of Athens, promoter of the arts, cultureand literature (495 - 429 BC)
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/25/2011
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“Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.”
Marilyn Monroe, actress, model, singer, film producer (1926-1962), Marilyn: Her Life in Her Own Words.
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/19/2011
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Just because I quoted him to a friend of mine reminded me of his sombre genius. Here is a bunch of quotes from the master of the absurd, collected here and there from the Internet (yes, I know that some of them already feature on this blog...whatever).
"In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness."
"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."
"Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick."
"Estragon: What about hanging ourselves?
Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection."
"We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench."
"Don't wait to be hunted to hide."<
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/15/2011
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Vous avez sûrement remarqué un déclin certain dans les publications ces derniers temps. La raison est à la fois simple et complexe : je mets la dernière patte à mon roman. Pas mon premier roman écrit, mais peut-être le premier roman publié. À grands coups de théières fumantes, je traque les espaces en trop, les virgules qui se sont fait la malle et autres redondances. Ensuite, je vais devoir m'attaquer à la structure de la première partie qui pose problème. Il y aura une énième relecture, peut-être une autre soumission à de fidèl(e)s lecteurs(trices) - que je salue au passage. Ce n'est qu'après tout ceci que je pourrais enfin l'imprimer et l'envoyer aux diverses maisons d'éditions que j'ai pris soin de sélectionner. En parallèle, je travaille sur un recueil de poèmes et un autre de nouvelles (tout ces travaux sont en français).
Voilà pourquoi vous voudrez bien excuser l'absence de constance dans les posts...en espérant pouvoir vous annoncer une bonne nouvelle prochainement !
Prenez soin de vous et à très bientôt.
You must have noticed a certain decline in the recent publications. The reason is both simple and complex: I am finishing my novel. it is not the first novel I wrote, but perhaps it will be the first novel I'll publish. Propped by steaming pots of tea, I am on the hunt for double spaces, for on-the-loose commas and other redundancies. Then I will have to tackle the structure of the first part which is problematic. An umpteenth reading shall be done, perhaps another submission to trusted (proof)readers - whom I thank in passing. Only then shall I be in the capacity to print it out and send it to the publishers I have carefully selected. I am also working on a collection of poems and another of short stories (all of the above is in French).
This is why you'll have to be kind enough to excuse the absence of regularity in the posts...I hope I can announce something good in the near future!
Take care and see you very soon.
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/15/2011
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γνῶθι σεαυτόν (gnōthi seauton)
Nosce te ipsum
Connais-toi toi-même
Know thyself
Conócete a ti mismo
Conosci te stesso
Erkenne dich selbst
汝自身を知れ
I live by a handful of axioms, this is one of them. Back in the days, this aphorism was sometimes used to warn people who boasted unnecessarily and not to pay heed to the opinion of other people. It was written on the forecourt of the Temple of Apollo in Delphi, Greece, according to Pausanias, the great traveller. I take it now as a maieutic process (the giving birth concept developed by Socrates, without the irony) that enables me to walk further down the road. Socrates also 'said' (all of
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/14/2011
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"One must pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while still alive."
Friedrich Nietzsche, philosopher (1844-1900)
Quoting Nietzsche twice in a month...Is it viral?
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By: Matthew Cheney,
on 12/13/2011
Blog: The Mumpsimus (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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Questions of literary canonicity have been stalking me for the past few months, mostly in relation to teaching. Some I began thinking about because I was designing a course called Currents in Global Literature, and when faced with giving English majors perhaps their only taste of writings from beyond the U.S. and U.K., I had to figure out my priorities.
One of the things I decided to do was try to provoke the students to think about why they have read what they have in school, why they have the assumptions they do about books and writers, and how they can learn more. So I had them watch TED Talks by Chris Abani and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, listen to Stephen Snyder on "The Business of International Literature", and read Dan Edelstein on "Gerrymandering the Canon", Binyavanga Wainaina on "How to Write About Africa", and Manijeh Nasrabadi on her experiences trying to write and publish a memoir. Additionally, our poetry textbook challenged the templates of Romanticism they had previously encountered in other courses and complexified their understanding of literary history -- not just the history itself, but how it got to be that way.
Global literature in our class, then, was presented not as some ethereal essence floating through the ether, but as a system of literary production, distribution, and reception. It's too easy to gain a feeling from our curriculum that U.S. and U.K. fiction, poetry, and (to a lesser extent) drama are Literature and everything else is some exotic offshoot. The department has done a lot to try to mitigate that, but there are huge disciplinary systems in place that make it difficult.
Last week, I was part of a panel discussion for English majors about canonicity. Various questions had been raised by majors this term about what they were learning -- particularly for the English Education majors. Hearing these questions, one of my colleagues decided to put together the informal discussion, and so a group of us created 5-minute statements about canonicity and education, then we had a free and wide-ranging discussion of all sorts of things related to it all.
In my opening statement, I tried to differentiate between the practical and the theoretical/ideal. After saying that canons are forms of discourse and not just lists, and that they are, at heart, expressions and codifications of power, I said that there is a canon of books taught in high school English classes in the U.S., and lists do a good job of showing us its borders and imperatives. For instance, the 1989 study reported by Arthur Applebee in "Book Length Works Taught in High School English Classes" (PDF) updates a 1964 study of the same thing and discovers that very little has changed. In my experience, those books remain common in high schools, though there has in many places been a strong push to sprinkle in more texts by writers who are not white men.
But for about fifty years now, the core books taught in most high schools in the U.S. have generally remained the same. The high school canon achieved its canonicity mostly through inertia: these books were taught because they wer
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/11/2011
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Words are timeless. You should utter them or write them with a knowledge of their timelessness.
Kahlil Gibran, mystic, poet, artist (1883-1931)
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/8/2011
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Tout le monde ne le connaît pas. Et c'est bien dommage. Un jour, il y a peu, je suis tombé sur ce tableau.
Here's someone who isn't so famous. Shame. One day, not so long ago, I stumbled across this painting.
J'ai eu un choc. Voilà quelqu'un qui a compris quelque chose à la nature humaine. Pas étonnant, me diraient certains. Mossa était un peintre (d'origine Niçoise) inscrit dans la mouvance symboliste, mais très influencé par Baudelaire, Huysmans, les Préraphaélites, Mallarmé, l'Art Nouveau entre autres. Ses peintures et ses écrits sont imprégnés de ses lectures et de sa vision assez lucide de l'art de son époque.
Voici un lien qui regroupe un nombre certain de ses oeuvres picturales.
I had a shock. Here was someone who understood something about human nature. This isn't surprising, some may tell me. Mossa was a French Symbolist painter from Nice who was clearly influenced by Baudelaire, Huysmans, the Preraphaelites, Mallarmé and by the Art Nouveau, amongst others. His paintings and writings are steeped in his reading and his quite lucid vision of the art of his time.
Here is a link which gathers a fair number of his paintings.
J'espère vraiment que vous aimerez ce peintre aux oeuvres mésestimées.
I really hope you'll like this painter and his undervalued masterpieces.
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/8/2011
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Itall started when I first put on a woollen hat in the middle ofSummer. Dunno why – I just felt like it. Middle of June, but I'm losing my marbles. Could've been May.
ThenI started pulling all of my grey hair from my eyebrows –they were bush-like. They mightn't have been all grey and perhaps Idid pull one hair too many.
Peoplestarted glaring at me, me who never had a single glance fromanyone before. From the murky cranny of ignorance to theglaring blaring lights of onstage sympathy.
Oneday I felt like cutting my hair, they were neanderthal-like. Andseeing how the clipper literally ate through the blackish massfelt exhilarating I had to shave my head.
Italso coincided with me starting losing weight. I had stopped junkfood first thing when I read in a magazine that there was so manycancer-prone things in it, then food altogether. Because you never know andthen it was all so bland.Fruits and veggies tasted like water, meat had the consistency ofrubber. The only thing that had taste left was soy milk. BoyI love soy milk. I used to drink gallons of soy milk a day.
ThenI guess I thought Ifelt I became photosensitive. I shunned the sun and the dayaltogether and started living at night. So I had to have anex-colleague of mine buy the soy milk and deliver it to me. I thinkshe got scared shitlesswhen she discovered the bags under my eyes. Or perhaps it was myface, she didn't say and I didn't have the opportunity to ask. Butman, there's nothinglike the night to soothe you, to take your time to listen to your ownheartbeats and try and slow them downto a trickle.
Cometo think of it, all of this must have happened during the sameweek or the following weeks. I lost track of time. Anyway.
By: Rodolphe,
on 12/7/2011
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"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them."
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882) Poet, essayist and lecturer
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/7/2011
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Hey guys,
I know it's been a while and that it's only the second post in this series, but I hope the wait was worthwhile. Here comes:
What Really Irritates Me In Men, Women and Poodles and Other Sartorial Considerations Very Late at Night - Part 2
I met a poodle the other day, at a relative's. I write 'met' because I was led to disbelieve that it was a normal dog and had a persona of its own. That she - for it was a she - literally had a character quite peculiar to her and the tenacity of a dog on a bone. This one rather had a hangdog look, with lots of hair and an indecently long fringe covering its/her eyes. I was wondering how it/she made its way between people's legs without bumping into them. Fact is, it/she couldn't. Not all the time. But with eponymous dogged determination it - she, SHE - pursued calculating angles of approach at the last second and avoiding collision, not avoiding collision. Worst thing was that when someone just patted her on the head, she couldn't help herself and had to relieve the content of her bladder on the floor. So you could follow her path in the house by leaning at light's angle and spot the tiny, light-yellow droplets. Well, I guess my aunt was right, this...dog definitely has a character of her own.
Delicacies abound in our world.
I particularly distaste the people who do not smash their cigarette stubs underfoot. I always think they could save a few atoms of oxygen.
Pigeonsthat fly right above your head could drive me to buy a gun and start an aviary war.
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/6/2011
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Poem dated 03/08/2011, inscribed Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
Tonight, my dear, tonight
Tonight we shall meet, and God nilling,God willing,
We may never look upon one anotheragain.
For leave I must, for find myself Imust.
Here was full of promises of hope andauguries of deceit –
I fulfilled them all.
You, my dear, whose lips I seetrembling,
Whose face is see paling, ask me:
“When shall we two meet again?
I already yearn for thine eyes.”
All I can say at present is
Tonight, my dear, tonight.
For after tonight, the future holds
Far too many uncertainties.
And then you don't ask me,
The iris of your eyes as dark as thenight,
The white of your eyes as clear as day:
“When shalt thou return to God?
He yearns for thy faith.”
All I can say at present is
Not now, my dear, not now,
For God has tried my faith
Beyond what it could hold.
You ask me, my dear, with your unbrokenvoice,
Showing me how good you have been atschool,
Concealing your apprehension:
“When are you going to leave usagain?
We live in fear of you dying far awayfrom us.”
All I can say at present is
Later, my dear, later,
For living here and now is all I cando,
There and before I hold no regard to.
For live I must, for trust only myselfI must.
Here dwell promises of hope andauguries of deceit –
I must fulfil them all.
Finally you ask me, my dear, shaking myhand:
“When was the last time we met?
It seems that we haven't aged a day.”
Suffice it to say at present that itwas
Yesterday, my dear, yesterday,
For time waits for no man and neverstops,
Carves its way until the last mandrops.
Only love and friendship survive us,
Even as lengthened shades of memories.
I have to find a place that either
Quells the fire raging in the pit
Of my stomach, or that responds to it.
And this silent or violent land, Godnilling, God willing,
3 Comments on Tonight, my dear, tonight, last added: 12/7/2011
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/2/2011
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"He who has a why can endure any how." Friedrich Nietzsche, philosopher (1844-1900)
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By: Rodolphe,
on 12/1/2011
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Udaipur was built in the midst of two very large lakes, which lends it airs of aloofness. The fort, which I do not recommend unless bored witless - and please don't buy the photo permit, it's way useless - occupies a large part of the tip of the land which spears the lake. Several palaces spots its surface and are enchanting at night when all lights are lit.
The city in itself is pleasant to wander in and through, a bit busy at times, but by nightfall quietness prevails and watching the sun setting and the moon rising in the wavelets of the lake has soothing effects. Food, tea and spices are bargained with passion, but according to your skills you might end up striking very good deals.
There are a few temples and places worth visiting, but the main thing apparently when you come to Udaipur is to do volunteer work for one or two of its abounding associations, especially the ones concerned with waste sorting, water pollution and animal treatment.
You will notice that there are less and less pictures per album as time unfolds. Well, I guess I preferred enjoying what I had before me. Memories of sensations rather than buildings, remembrances of what I felt in a place rather than shooting it top to bottom, which I tend to do. Souvenirs of the senses. I hope you'll enjoy them anyway.
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By: Rodolphe,
on 11/29/2011
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The blue city is here.
No jodhpurs to be seen - 'too expensive to make and out of fashion' was what I was told by a tailor.
The most beautiful and best preserved fort I have seen in India.
The indigo blue used in the whitewash was first used by the Brahmins (the highest caste) to differentiate their house and subsequent area where they lived from the rest. It also apparently served the purpose of keeping the mosquitoes at bay, of keeping the house cool and few other things. I think it's just beautiful and now everybody uses it - or so it seems to me.
Very old city where time has stopped, especially early in the morning. I had the impression of being catapulted back to the Middle-ages. Also, it's a really nice city to get lost in. Nice markets, nice people, nice skies, nice nights.
In a word, I loved Jodhpur.
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By: Rodolphe,
on 11/28/2011
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Do you remember this guy? Created quite a buzz a couple of years back - or was it more - must definitely be more. Anyhow, I happened to stumble on the video. This guy is a happiness generator. It mightn't be the dancing the people notice first, it might be the energy this man is radiating - which they mistake for -well- dancing. Read Matt's bio, it takes about a minute and a half, not thereby implying there's nothing in it, but that you must necessarily have time to read it. The video is really worth it, in fact it made my day. Enjoy!
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By: Rodolphe,
on 11/26/2011
Blog: Le MoNdE dE RoDoLpHe (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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...is where the Dalai-Lama actually resides, not in nearby Dharamsala. My guess is that it's only because the town is slightly bigger than McLeod Ganj that people retain the name, which means 'guest house' or something similar. Perhaps also because the name 'McLeod' was already taken by another divinity.
I haven't taken a lot of pictures of McLeod Ganj, and these are not very uplifting. This is too bad because it is a nice and quiet mountain village and the atmosphere very early in the morning, especially in the market on the main square (which is so small) is pleasant and soothing. No one is trying to sell you stuff, the food is very good, especially the Tibetan momos, and there are very nice walks around. I was so taken up by the teachings of the Dalai-Lama that I forgot to take my camera and when I did my mind was elsewhere. Sorry!
I'll do better next time. Enjoy anyway!
1 Comments on McLeod Ganj..., last added: 11/29/2011
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By: Rodolphe,
on 11/26/2011
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Missingout on love
Tonight,at the rebuke of darkness
Raisedover an eyebrowlike mountain
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By: Rodolphe,
on 11/25/2011
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Only one thing prevented me from climbing any further up the Langtang trail: a flat stone devilishly poised on the equally treacherous tip of a stone buried underground, much like an iceberg does underwater. The aforementioned flat stone was seemingly laying flatly on the ground, therefore on it I stepped. The instant my foot touched the surface, it tilted to the right. My right ankle could bear a decent enough straining angle, but not to be plied like an origami, as it appeared it did. The snap I heard wasn't my bones breaking, but rather them being strained and dislodging themselves to come back into position soon after.
Anyhow, the two days I spent up there were fantastic. Wonderful scenery, demanding trail but not so difficult, great people and an unequalled feeling of freedom.
I also have taken what is probably one of my best sunset pictures so far. Let's hope you don't forget that I am no professional!
Ultimately, I know I'll go back to Nepal and finish what I started during this trek (and wear hiking boots that cover the ankles!).
Enjoy the pictures!
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By: Rodolphe,
on 11/21/2011
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You can find them there.
The place is Nellore, North of Chennai. There I met with Dalits, or Untouchables, in the middle of nowhere. They were angry because another group of Dalits were beating them up over a sombre issue of land. That's why they drew this big figure on the road, some magical entity meant to scare them off. They were very nice to me though. They showed me around. They wanted to share their meal with me.
Next I went downtown, by and under the railway bridge at first, then to the covered market. I soon became a local attraction. Apparently not so many tourists wander off in these parts.
Nellore looks like a large village made up from a cluster of villages huddled together. I have been told that the population is nearing a million. Still, it looks like a village to me.
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By: Rodolphe,
on 11/20/2011
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Iwas woken up by the faintest sound, like a fluttering of wings. Itwas about noon. I was taking my preprandial nap. It was a butterfly.I was astonished. I said so. “My, there's a butterfly stuck in theroom.” That's what I said, word for word. Out of the few days orweeks this butterfly had to live in this physical world, he wasdoomed to spend a few hours here with me, banging and crashing on thewindowpanes, circling the wooden beam in the middle of the room. Idid open the doors. Wide open. A full-grown baby elephant could havemanoeuvred in there without but brushing past a hinge. Thelepidoptera didn't find the way out, though. I couldn't leave thedoor open too long – it was getting cold, you see. November can becold after a cool summer. So it remained in the room – I stillwonder how it entered it in the first place – until I saw it not.It was perhaps laying flat in some nook or cranny amid the junk andmiscellany stored in here, waiting for something we can't understandthe value of. I wish I had been a butterfly, or I wish I could beone, as much as metempsychosis would allow me, so that I couldunderstand what it meant by that.
Iunderstood then that much of men's behaviour could find an equivalentin the animals' behaviour. I was a butterfly. Some were snakes. Somewere bulls or sheep or fish or worms. Some were giraffes and otherselephants. The desert mole rat's behaviour might mirror that ofIndians'. Europe is full of black-backed jackals. Some species aresedentary, some are nomadic. People who live on their own are abloody pain. They never know what they want, pass it by withoutblinking and, being offered something else, discard it with acantankerous wave of the hand. Perhaps a snicker. And then I knew thebutterfly in me was dying. It was one of those nights when you couldalmost see the links between the stars, drawing the constellationsfor the naked eye. I decided to leave.
Itook the first ship out of the continent, then learnt to ride ahorse, learnt the rules of the desert and became aware of thirst andhunger. I rode and rode. I went to Samarkand. Mingled with themerchants for seasons unaccounted. On being attacked by a swarm ofbandits, I left the caravan and joined the thieves. We roamed thedeserts of Persia, assailed, plundered, haggled the stolen goods,caroused, slept with the glossy, tenebrious dome over our heads andbought whores and drank tea.
Onenight I stole the captain's horse and rode for ten days and tennights. The stallion died and I pursued on foot. I arrived at dawn,dusty and tired, in Merv, in Turkmenistan. There I hid in thesuburbs, stole fruits and vegetables from the back of stalls, washeddownstream in the river, bidding my time. One day, I spotted thepalanquin of a prince. I knew of him through legends and hearsays. Hewould ride in his palanquin, all curtains drawn. No one had ever seenhis face for he constantly concealed it under a shawl. He was allmystery. I sneaked in his palace under the cover of darkness and hidunder his bed for two full weeks, stealing occasionally from thevarious fruit bowls laying here and there. There I eavesdropped hisevery habit. He was a man of few words. He received no visitors. Onenight, I stabbed him in his sleep, pierced his heart with my daggerand unveiled his visage. Amidst tormented flesh and disfiguring scarswere set a pair of pale green eyes.
By: Rodolphe,
on 11/5/2011
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I
Closed palms counting what the open hands contain
Phalanges figuring heads by the dozen
When pointing fingers can only tell ten
II
As I lay floating above the treetops
Tawny eagles swooshing underneath my feet
- This morning's chai tastes really sweet!
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By: Rodolphe,
on 10/12/2011
Blog: Le MoNdE dE RoDoLpHe (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: English, The Blog-Trotter, Voyages/Travels, Add a tag
Namaste guys!
I know it's been quite a while since I last published anything on the blog, but being on Indian and Nepalese roads isn't quite as blog-enticing as I thought it would be. A great many things to see and do, especially here in Nepal. Many people to meet and to learn from and to listen to. Mountains to behold. Morning dew to play with. Temples and shrines and festivals to contemplate. Brightly-coloured prayer flags and snake-like incense wisps floating in the breeze.
'Tis fun, I have to admit, to have to stay in one place and getting to know the people. Spraining my ankle up there in Langtang wasn't such a bad thing, after all. Everyday I sip a cup of black tea with Krishna, help him at the shop (taking care of the shop for 5 minutes and then closing down yesterday night was quite something) and meet and greet the newcomers. Sometimes guiding some, like Shota, one of my Japanese friends.
Strange to say, I am not sad to leave them all on the 15th. Pokhara - and then Lumbini, the historic Buddha's birthplace - promise to be of note on my way back to India (Uttarakhand). Perhaps it is so because I know I'll come back to Nepal, sooner than later, and that like the Himalayas, some people remain immutable.
For a stranger reason still, Japan has never seemed closer to me than now. I really should busy myself learning the language. Natsuko, Shota, and even more importantly Yoko, domo arigato gozaimasu!
In the meantime, I hope you are all keeping well, and enjoying whatever you are doing, wherever you are. For those who are embarking on a trip around the world, the Irish people would say:
Go n-éirí an bóthar leat.
Go raibh cóir na gaoithe i gcónaí leat.
Go dtaitní an ghrian go bog bláth ar do chlár éadain,
Go dtite an bháisteach go bog mín ar do ghoirt.
Agus go gcasfar le chéile sinn arís,
Go gcoinní Dia i mbois a láimhe thú.
Which loosely translates:
May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind always blow at your back.
May the sun shine softly on your forehead,
May the rain fall lightly on your fields
And until we meet again
May God keep you in the palm of his hand.
If any Irish wants to tighten my translation and/or correct the text (not sure about the accents and it would be even more surprising if I haven't mis-spelt a bunch of words), you're heartily welcome!
Namaste everyone, and take care.
I know it's been quite a while since I last published anything on the blog, but being on Indian and Nepalese roads isn't quite as blog-enticing as I thought it would be. A great many things to see and do, especially here in Nepal. Many people to meet and to learn from and to listen to. Mountains to behold. Morning dew to play with. Temples and shrines and festivals to contemplate. Brightly-coloured prayer flags and snake-like incense wisps floating in the breeze.
'Tis fun, I have to admit, to have to stay in one place and getting to know the people. Spraining my ankle up there in Langtang wasn't such a bad thing, after all. Everyday I sip a cup of black tea with Krishna, help him at the shop (taking care of the shop for 5 minutes and then closing down yesterday night was quite something) and meet and greet the newcomers. Sometimes guiding some, like Shota, one of my Japanese friends.
Strange to say, I am not sad to leave them all on the 15th. Pokhara - and then Lumbini, the historic Buddha's birthplace - promise to be of note on my way back to India (Uttarakhand). Perhaps it is so because I know I'll come back to Nepal, sooner than later, and that like the Himalayas, some people remain immutable.
For a stranger reason still, Japan has never seemed closer to me than now. I really should busy myself learning the language. Natsuko, Shota, and even more importantly Yoko, domo arigato gozaimasu!
In the meantime, I hope you are all keeping well, and enjoying whatever you are doing, wherever you are. For those who are embarking on a trip around the world, the Irish people would say:
Go n-éirí an bóthar leat.
Go raibh cóir na gaoithe i gcónaí leat.
Go dtaitní an ghrian go bog bláth ar do chlár éadain,
Go dtite an bháisteach go bog mín ar do ghoirt.
Agus go gcasfar le chéile sinn arís,
Go gcoinní Dia i mbois a láimhe thú.
Which loosely translates:
May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind always blow at your back.
May the sun shine softly on your forehead,
May the rain fall lightly on your fields
And until we meet again
May God keep you in the palm of his hand.
If any Irish wants to tighten my translation and/or correct the text (not sure about the accents and it would be even more surprising if I haven't mis-spelt a bunch of words), you're heartily welcome!
Namaste everyone, and take care.
1 Comments on Lull, last added: 10/14/2011
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Elles sont magnifiques. C'est vrai que ce noir profond, cette matière lisse donnent envie de les caresser.
Tu as l'air d'avoir un beau bazar dans tes poches, ha ha !
Même pas de bazar dans mes poches o_O' J'ai fait le ménage de pré-printemps/post-hiver.