October 13, 2010

Harvesting potatoes with Conor. Making potato salad for dinner with Conor. Watching 'Goodbye Pork Pie' and eating the aforementioned potato salad, with Conor.




































So, we FINALLY tended to our garden (it was in a terribly embarrassing state), and I am very excited about planting the winter seeds that Conor is growing on her windowsill. Feldsalat for all!
Also, I think Goodbye Pork Pie is a gem of a movie. Beautiful NZ slang such as 'She's gonna crap out'.
Also, the potato salad was DELICIOUS.
Also, we love to hang with Conor, we really do! 

Monday and an afternoon/evening of painting with Paula. Go the Lady Painters!


http://ladypainters.blogspot.com/
Tell your rich and big apartment living friends!

A lovely Sunday afternoon adventure to Teufelssee and Teufelsberg with Sam, Conor and Nicolas. Not so many nudes this time.


































We saw 1 reclining nude (and one guy with just his pants off), several snuffling wild white pigs, many people peacefully strolling around the old spy base, and no mushrooms.

October 08, 2010

We ate eventually. Sorry Sam.

Herbst. That's autumn to English speakers.



Last night I had to wear thermals in bed.
The slow slide into winter begins.

October 07, 2010

Odes to Common Things - Pablo Neruda

I have a crazy,
crazy love of things.
I like pliers,
and scissors.
I love
cups,
rings,
and bowls -
not to speak, or course,
of hats.
I love
all things,
not just
the grandest,
also
the
infinite-
ly
small -
thimbles,
spurs,
plates,
and flower vases.
Oh yes,
the planet
is sublime!
It's full of pipes
weaving
hand-held
through tobacco smoke,
and keys
and salt shakers -
everything,
I mean,
that is made
by the hand of man, every little thing:
shapely shoes,
and fabric,
and each new
bloodless birth
of gold,
eyeglasses
carpenter's nails,
brushes,
clocks, compasses,
coins, and the so-soft
softness of chairs.
Mankind has
built
oh so many
perfect
things!
Built them of wool
and of wood,
of glass and
of rope:
remarkable
tables,
ships, and stairways.
I love
all
things,
not because they are
passionate
or sweet-smelling
but because,
I don't know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine;
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers
love has scattered
its blossoms
glasses, knives and
scissors -
all bear
the trace
of someone's fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness.
I pause in houses,
streets and
elevators
touching things,
identifying objects
that I secretly covet;
this one because it rings,
that one because
it's as soft
as the softness of a woman's hip,
that one there for its deep-sea color,
and that one for its velvet feel.
O irrevocable
river
of things:
no one can say
that I loved
only
fish,
or the plants of the jungle and the field,
that I loved
only
those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive.
It's not true:
many things conspired
to tell me the whole story.
Not only did they touch me,
or my hand touched them:
they were
so close
that they were a part
of my being,
they were so alive with me
that they lived half my life
and will die half my death.

(Translated from Spanish)