Á 2.300 metra dýpi rákust menn á þennan sérkennilega humar.

  
Bandarískir sjávarlíffræðingar hafa nú með dvergkafbátnum Alvin uppgötvað áður óþekkta, ljósa humartegund með löng, ljós hár á klónum. Þessi sérkennilega lífvera fannst á 2.300 metra dýpi um 1.500 km suður af Páskaeyju. Humarinn hélt sig hér í grennd við hitauppsprettu á hafsbotni, svonefndan svartstrók.
Enn er ekki vitað til hvers dýrið notar hárin, en vísindamennirnir geta sér þess til að þau sigti fæðu úr sjónum. Þeir telja einnig hugsanlegt að bakteríur sem eigi sér samastað í hárunum hjálpi humrinum við að losa sig við eitruð steinefni úr sjónum í kring og þannig gert honum kleift að halda lífi í þessu umhverfi. Í sjónum kringum svartstrókinn er reyndar svo mikill brennisteinn að humarinn væri líkast til eins og fúlegg á bragðið.

My Shadow

  
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
Robert Louis Stevenson

My Life Closed Twice Before Its Close

  
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

Emily Dickinson.

My Pretty Rose Tree

  
A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said "I've a pretty rose tree,"
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

William Blake.

Miracles

  
Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the
water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with
any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--
mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old
woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the
same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships,
with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
Walt Whitman.

28 september verður afar merkilegur

  
28 september mun borgin verða myrkvuð til þess að hægt sé að sjá stjörnurnar betur. Frábært framtak og tækifæri til að njóta himinhvolfsins! Hvet ég alla til að notfæra sér þetta tækifæri og verða sér út um sjónauka. Á einni útvarpsstöðinni verður svo stjörnufræðingur til hjálpar í ferðinni til stjarnanna...
Lítill fugl hvíslaði í eyra mitt að rithöfundurinn Andri Snær hafi átt þessa hugmynd!

Benkovic skjaldarmerkið

  
1715 var forfaðir minn, Stefán Benkovic aðlaður af keisara Austuríska-Ungverskakeisaradæmisins greifatign. Það var fyrir frábæra framistöðu gegn tyrkjum. Varnir vestur Evrópu stóðu og féllu með þessum vörnum á Balkan, svo það skyldi engin taka vesturEvrópska menningu sem sjálfsagðan hlut. Hitt er annað mál að tími er kominn á Evrópu að sameinast núna og fagna innbyrgðis fjölbreytni!

Love

  
If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love,
I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal...
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it
does not boast, it is not proud. It is not self seeking,
it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs...
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.......
(Corinthians 13:1,4)

Póstkort frá Krít

  

Me! Come! My Dazzled Face

  

Me! Come! My dazzled face
In such a shining place!

Me! Hear! My foreign ear
The sounds of welcome near!

The saints shall meet
Our bashful feet.

My holiday shall be
That they remember me;

My paradise, the fame
That they pronounce my name.

Emily Dickinson.

Let It Be Forgotten

  
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.

If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.

Sarah Teasdale

I Am Not Yours

  
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love - put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Sarah Teasdale.

  

L'Envoi

  
When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it -- lie down for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from -- Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!Rudyard Kipling

En stille dans

  
Har du nogensinde set på børn på en karrusel?

Eller lyttet til regnen, der slår mod jorden?

Nogensinde fulgt en sommerfugls elegante leg?

Eller kigget på solen, mens den gik mod nat?

Tag en stille dans. Ikke så hurtigt. Livet er kort.

Musikken varer ikke ved.

Farer du gennem dine dage meget hurtigt?

Når du spørger "Hvordan går det?"

Hører du så svaret?

Når dagen er forbi, ligger du så i din seng med de næste hundrede opgaver

kørende i hovedet?

Tag en stille dans. Ikke så hurtigt. Livet er kort.

Musikken varer ikke ved.

Har du nogensinde sagt til dit barn, vi gør det i morgen?

Og nåede du ikke at se, hvor det sårede ham?

Har du nogensinde mistet overblikket, mistet gode venner, fordi du ikke

havde tid til bare at ringe og sige "hej"?

Tag en stille dans. Ikke så hurtigt. Livet er kort.

Musikken varer ikke ved.

Når du farer sådan af sted, mister du halvdelen af glæden ved at nå det.

Når du bekymrer og skynder dig hele dagen, er det som en uåbnet gave

- Bare smidt væk.

Livet er ikke et væddeløb.

Tag det med ro. Hør musikken inden sangen er forbi.....

ROSEN

Leda And The Swan

  
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
William Butler Yeats.

"Soulforge"

  
You choose to go voluntarily into the fire. The blaze might well destroy you. But if you survive, every blow of the hammer will serve to shape your being. Every drop of water wrung from you will temper and strengthen your soul.

- Margaret Weis,

Spagettístrákur...

  
Það er fleira gott að bíta í en kjöt!

Í baði...

  
My name, if I were French,
would be Jean-Louis
and if I were Frank and you
were Grace Kelly I'd sing
"You're Sensational" before
my big duet with Bing
I think I'll go get a haircut
and celebrate by dozing
off in the barber's chair
but what are you celebrating
well let's see there's that
amazing bottle of red wine
(Chateau Calon-Segur
Saint-Estephe Medoc, 1988)
Bill and I quaffed at Sarah's
there's the expression on your
face when I photographed you
in the bathtub there's spring
which came a month early
this year but is sticking around
for the celebration

David Lehman

It Is An Honorable Thought

  
It is an honorable thought,
And makes one lift one's hat,
As one encountered gentlefolk
Upon a daily street,

That we've immortal place,
Though pyramids decay,
And kingdoms, like the orchard,
Flit russetly away.

Emily Dickinson.

Adrian Henri

  
If you think you can do it and you want to do it - then do it.

Is There Any Reward?

  
Is there any reward?
I'm beginning to doubt it.
I am broken and bored,
Is there any reward
Reassure me, Good Lord,
And inform me about it.
Is there any reward?
I'm beginning to doubt it.
Hilaire Belloc.

Irreparableness

  

I have been in the meadows all the day
And gathered there the nosegay that you see
Singing within myself as bird or bee
When such do field-work on a morn of May.
But, now I look upon my flowers, decay
Has met them in my hands more fatally
Because more warmly clasped,--and sobs are free
To come instead of songs. What do you say,
Sweet counsellors, dear friends ? that I should go
Back straightway to the fields and gather more ?
Another, sooth, may do it, but not I !
My heart is very tired, my strength is low,
My hands are full of blossoms plucked before,
Held dead within them till myself shall die.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.