Thursday, July 31, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
How To Burn Cd That Will Play On 1999 Mazda
Townhouse Impressions
p. birthday. If I had known, I would be gone in the city, instead I make a book in a deck chair cozy. The weather is glorious.
S. is not the real problem, but rather mom, dad and grandma in front of everything. But this is now probably only once a declaration is necessary.
As you can see the title of this entry is my parents' house is a terraced house. Specifically, it is part of a series of row houses. Four, to be exact, one after another. No real estate, but then there are too few. Two rows together to make the gardens, two surround a courtyard type. Our house is in the front row and S. lives in the row behind it, ergo it is against our garden.
I - and all the neighbors who were in my presence, or that of my parents, commented on this - have never experienced such a loud family. (L. might have been excluded, but the child was a really extreme case of ADD.) Especially in the summer when the windows are left open in order to draft convection cooling.
The arrangement of the houses near the outer walls will create a relatively large acoustic space. Long-established S. and know this family know that since last summer, after my mother has called for shortly before 7 clock on Sunday morning unnerved there because we were once again unwilling witnesses to the complete morning ritual (including the lining have breakfast cksbrötchen) but it does not seem to have absorbed one hundred percent.
short, we understand every word, especially if one yells from the third floor to the ground floor to the terrace beyond. What has the family of S. preferably done until last summer at the latest shortly before seven clock on Sunday.
Birthdays are a special case.
I stress again, it is not S and M, ie the Children that drive you to the brink of insanity. They are the parents. Especially the grandmother. M.
on his fifth birthday. Dad wanted to keep this great day for posterity. Certainly. But he had to help mom and so did Grandma took over the job of the birthday photo shooting.
Grandma: (a full half hour in the garden) M. a look at the camera! M. grandma looking for, look for Grandma M. Look for Grandma. Now a look for Grandma, M. Look for Grandma. Yes look into the camera, M.; look at the camera, look into the camera at the camera. Look in the ... yes, look here. Look here. In Camera, M. Camera, look, camera!
etc pp.
you got a new "Dudu." (= Dummy)
Granny: Where kummt Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi! *
kummt Where Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi!
kummt Where Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi!
kummt Where Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi!
kummt Where Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi!
kummt Where Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi!
And so on and so forth.
An hour? Feels hundred on each case. It's nice if the grandparents deal with their children. But I really want to involuntarily every time be in the middle there when I would turn next.
is S. At least now older - I think she is now four - so they will not get paid more Dudu. Photos wanted to do any more, that is cause for hope.
know But I after only one quarter of an hour in the garden that they
- got a doll
- Uncle H. has the stomach flu and are therefore not
- the strawberry cake is that has baked the grandmother and which are still to be thawed
- M. strawberry pie like no
- M. invite a friend could
- S. has thundered the doll after three minutes on the floor because the bell rang at the door
- Grandpa's coffee with three lumps of sugar drinks
- Mom is afraid that the cake is not enough.
Will I know? No. I know it anyway? ... No comment.
But if tomorrow they have breakfast at the crack of dawn out there and Dad again can not decide between strawberry or plum jam and, therefore, on the ground floor terrace his wife on the third floor have to ask what they had would like - I call this time. Or maybe I just yell out the window, they will anyway still snapped to the said last time, when my mother pointed out that it really their internal family life is not interested.
Boring it is not here, leisurely Sleeping in on weekends but is not, unfortunately. The latter is clear to me before but at least in my holidays.
* For all non-Palatinate: She said: What comes in the pacifier? Since (or there) comes in the pacifier.
p. birthday. If I had known, I would be gone in the city, instead I make a book in a deck chair cozy. The weather is glorious.
S. is not the real problem, but rather mom, dad and grandma in front of everything. But this is now probably only once a declaration is necessary.
As you can see the title of this entry is my parents' house is a terraced house. Specifically, it is part of a series of row houses. Four, to be exact, one after another. No real estate, but then there are too few. Two rows together to make the gardens, two surround a courtyard type. Our house is in the front row and S. lives in the row behind it, ergo it is against our garden.
I - and all the neighbors who were in my presence, or that of my parents, commented on this - have never experienced such a loud family. (L. might have been excluded, but the child was a really extreme case of ADD.) Especially in the summer when the windows are left open in order to draft convection cooling.
The arrangement of the houses near the outer walls will create a relatively large acoustic space. Long-established S. and know this family know that since last summer, after my mother has called for shortly before 7 clock on Sunday morning unnerved there because we were once again unwilling witnesses to the complete morning ritual (including the lining have breakfast cksbrötchen) but it does not seem to have absorbed one hundred percent.
short, we understand every word, especially if one yells from the third floor to the ground floor to the terrace beyond. What has the family of S. preferably done until last summer at the latest shortly before seven clock on Sunday.
Birthdays are a special case.
I stress again, it is not S and M, ie the Children that drive you to the brink of insanity. They are the parents. Especially the grandmother. M.
on his fifth birthday. Dad wanted to keep this great day for posterity. Certainly. But he had to help mom and so did Grandma took over the job of the birthday photo shooting.
Grandma: (a full half hour in the garden) M. a look at the camera! M. grandma looking for, look for Grandma M. Look for Grandma. Now a look for Grandma, M. Look for Grandma. Yes look into the camera, M.; look at the camera, look into the camera at the camera. Look in the ... yes, look here. Look here. In Camera, M. Camera, look, camera!
etc pp.
you got a new "Dudu." (= Dummy)
Granny: Where kummt Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi! *
kummt Where Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi!
kummt Where Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi!
kummt Where Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi!
kummt Where Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi!
kummt Where Dudu de noi? Thurs kummt Dudu de noi!
And so on and so forth.
An hour? Feels hundred on each case. It's nice if the grandparents deal with their children. But I really want to involuntarily every time be in the middle there when I would turn next.
is S. At least now older - I think she is now four - so they will not get paid more Dudu. Photos wanted to do any more, that is cause for hope.
know But I after only one quarter of an hour in the garden that they
- got a doll
- Uncle H. has the stomach flu and are therefore not
- the strawberry cake is that has baked the grandmother and which are still to be thawed
- M. strawberry pie like no
- M. invite a friend could
- S. has thundered the doll after three minutes on the floor because the bell rang at the door
- Grandpa's coffee with three lumps of sugar drinks
- Mom is afraid that the cake is not enough.
Will I know? No. I know it anyway? ... No comment.
But if tomorrow they have breakfast at the crack of dawn out there and Dad again can not decide between strawberry or plum jam and, therefore, on the ground floor terrace his wife on the third floor have to ask what they had would like - I call this time. Or maybe I just yell out the window, they will anyway still snapped to the said last time, when my mother pointed out that it really their internal family life is not interested.
Boring it is not here, leisurely Sleeping in on weekends but is not, unfortunately. The latter is clear to me before but at least in my holidays.
* For all non-Palatinate: She said: What comes in the pacifier? Since (or there) comes in the pacifier.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Broken Cappillariesand Effexor
: Cat Massage
Actually, I'm so against the humanization of animals, but this is just ....
The text, images and above all the tone and the expression of the cat combined so well. I could look at that for hours and enjoy myself. Herrlich.
Actually, I'm so against the humanization of animals, but this is just ....
The text, images and above all the tone and the expression of the cat combined so well. I could look at that for hours and enjoy myself. Herrlich.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Broken Capillaries Herpes
R & R Borges
Memo of myself: Never write again after two Clock at night, a review. So many typos as in the past I had long gone there. And I've even required before I posted it. This is really embarrassing to it. Ash over my head, and further in the text.
I can finally read again. Unfortunately, I now had to find it often enough that you can have not only a writer's block, but also a regular reading block. At least I have now and such. I want to read, have a good book within reach. Even have time to read. But it's not the same. After two sets, I realize that I can not remember what was in the first. Then there is this strange uneasiness. The real blockade, this time not to communicate inhibit the fingers to tap and the head with the ideas seem, but a layer of cotton wool packed full of nerve tingling, crawling ants between the brain and eyes. A few sit in the stomach and scurry around there, faster and faster if I even think I sit down and take a book in his hand.
But as I said, I can read again. And I read, plus one of my favorite authors: Jorge Luis Borges . have And I owe my acquaintance with him and his lyrics just a happy twist of fate:
I was not really to Borges, but he came to me. By mail.
My mother is a member of Büchergilde Gutenberg. If this is just, this is a more upscale version of the Bertelsmann clubs. Here you can buy jewelry, especially issues and special editions. Hardcover books bound in real cloth with this illustration of a more or less known artists. Together, these two have
publishing trade, that required regularly to enter something to buy. Coming to the do not get sent to the Club's proposal. " Binding, but subject to an urgent reminder. No pat on the back of the head, more like a stab in the eye. I digress.
nuts had ordered anything and was now so that draft. It was an illustrated, cloth-bound edition Borges' short story collection, "The Aleph."
you would not. Now it is with me so that I books, which are located practically in my possession, or in this case in which a family member who does not like to give her back. It does not matter if I know the author or the title or not. Before she could send it back I intervened and bought it there. So over the bill, they had not yet paid, yes.
Borges once stood on my shelf. Six months, probably longer. Until I was about to turn off or move in search of relatively thin, yet unread books. They had to be thin, so they do not so much Place and took away especially not caused so much weight. "The Aleph" one hundred percent corresponded to these criteria.
However, it was caused by a blockade and further reading the latest work by Stephen King, more than a month until I put myself on the way to my school in his pocket. For the web, so I'm short stories are particularly suitable.
borrowing a lot more demands than we are in a perfect pass to the crowded train in the situation, I was soon recognized. But just as soon he was handcuffed me and pulled me into his maze of confusion, his kingdom of mirrors and tigers. He accompanied me through the coldest hours of the darkest stations. Drove the longest minutes of the day when he would swallow them easily. Long I was a writer not so bound.
first I woke back before language. Borges writes simple. Then I realized he just writes great. No word is too much. The language seems simple, but it is so clear and sharp and so damn accurate. I vacillate between astonishment, adoration and biting envy.
Not to forget the plot. The most fantastic of the area. Caution, not to be confused with the now absolutely standard fantasy genre! Borges pulls one into a labyrinth, a seemingly clear track and put them at the end you realize that you missed the other three have and are running in the wrong direction. Or he can equal the reader completely in the dark and at the end you're still not quite sure where the top and now was out lower.
addition to the "Aleph" I have now risen to "universal history of infamy" and "fiction". All short stories. It still wait a few lyrical novels and volumes to me.
Can not wait. ;)
Memo of myself: Never write again after two Clock at night, a review. So many typos as in the past I had long gone there. And I've even required before I posted it. This is really embarrassing to it. Ash over my head, and further in the text.
I can finally read again. Unfortunately, I now had to find it often enough that you can have not only a writer's block, but also a regular reading block. At least I have now and such. I want to read, have a good book within reach. Even have time to read. But it's not the same. After two sets, I realize that I can not remember what was in the first. Then there is this strange uneasiness. The real blockade, this time not to communicate inhibit the fingers to tap and the head with the ideas seem, but a layer of cotton wool packed full of nerve tingling, crawling ants between the brain and eyes. A few sit in the stomach and scurry around there, faster and faster if I even think I sit down and take a book in his hand.
But as I said, I can read again. And I read, plus one of my favorite authors: Jorge Luis Borges . have And I owe my acquaintance with him and his lyrics just a happy twist of fate:
I was not really to Borges, but he came to me. By mail.
My mother is a member of Büchergilde Gutenberg. If this is just, this is a more upscale version of the Bertelsmann clubs. Here you can buy jewelry, especially issues and special editions. Hardcover books bound in real cloth with this illustration of a more or less known artists. Together, these two have
publishing trade, that required regularly to enter something to buy. Coming to the do not get sent to the Club's proposal. " Binding, but subject to an urgent reminder. No pat on the back of the head, more like a stab in the eye. I digress.
nuts had ordered anything and was now so that draft. It was an illustrated, cloth-bound edition Borges' short story collection, "The Aleph."
you would not. Now it is with me so that I books, which are located practically in my possession, or in this case in which a family member who does not like to give her back. It does not matter if I know the author or the title or not. Before she could send it back I intervened and bought it there. So over the bill, they had not yet paid, yes.
Borges once stood on my shelf. Six months, probably longer. Until I was about to turn off or move in search of relatively thin, yet unread books. They had to be thin, so they do not so much Place and took away especially not caused so much weight. "The Aleph" one hundred percent corresponded to these criteria.
However, it was caused by a blockade and further reading the latest work by Stephen King, more than a month until I put myself on the way to my school in his pocket. For the web, so I'm short stories are particularly suitable.
borrowing a lot more demands than we are in a perfect pass to the crowded train in the situation, I was soon recognized. But just as soon he was handcuffed me and pulled me into his maze of confusion, his kingdom of mirrors and tigers. He accompanied me through the coldest hours of the darkest stations. Drove the longest minutes of the day when he would swallow them easily. Long I was a writer not so bound.
first I woke back before language. Borges writes simple. Then I realized he just writes great. No word is too much. The language seems simple, but it is so clear and sharp and so damn accurate. I vacillate between astonishment, adoration and biting envy.
Not to forget the plot. The most fantastic of the area. Caution, not to be confused with the now absolutely standard fantasy genre! Borges pulls one into a labyrinth, a seemingly clear track and put them at the end you realize that you missed the other three have and are running in the wrong direction. Or he can equal the reader completely in the dark and at the end you're still not quite sure where the top and now was out lower.
addition to the "Aleph" I have now risen to "universal history of infamy" and "fiction". All short stories. It still wait a few lyrical novels and volumes to me.
Can not wait. ;)
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