Vindobona.
Father's Day was nearly two days past here in the UK. I spent it as any dutiful son should; eating Sunday roast complete with overcooked Yorkshire pudding. We had store-bought trifle, though, so all was not lost. My mother regaled me with stories of my infancy and my father's general ineptitude with infants. He watched the telly while I went outside to water their plants. I watched birds peck gingerly at the Yorkshire remains, only to turn and fly away at the revolting taste.
Final stages of mixing are in progress. I'm having all sorts of friends over from London to stay or to have a bit of tea during breaks while I work. If anyone is interested, do let me know! I have the most delightful pumpkin scones recipe that I've been dying to try out on some hapless victim or other. Most of my longstanding friends won't go for my new dishes, however harmless they may be. Not since I had a temporary love affair with horseradish a few years back. I don't know what overcame me.
I'm enjoying this last leg of the journey. The days of sparkle and champagne in Vienna are over, and the days of fog and local stout are at present. I keep part of a Lorca poem at my side to remind me of my experience. Previously I had not seen much in Austria, and after I spent some length of time recording there, I fell in love. The beauty lingers still, even outlasting the memory of some time spent in illness. The true test of a place is some sort of stomach flu; if you can drag yourself out of sickbed (draped in a sheet to keep out the draft) to watch the sun rise, it is a place worth visiting.
En Viena hay diez muchachas,
un hombro donde solloza la muerte
y un bosque de palomas disecadas.
Hay un fragmento de la mañana
en el museo de la escarcha.
Hay un salón con mil ventanas. From Pequeño Vals Vienés, Federico García Lorca.
It means:
In Vienna there are ten little girls,
a shoulder for death to cry on,
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrow
in the museum of winter frost.
There is a thousand-windowed dance hall. (Little Viennese Waltz.)
I prefer the Spanish version, and of course the great Cohen put his own translation to music. Of course. Apologies for another tawdry display of poetry, but this slip of paper at my side is rather hard to ignore.
Final stages of mixing are in progress. I'm having all sorts of friends over from London to stay or to have a bit of tea during breaks while I work. If anyone is interested, do let me know! I have the most delightful pumpkin scones recipe that I've been dying to try out on some hapless victim or other. Most of my longstanding friends won't go for my new dishes, however harmless they may be. Not since I had a temporary love affair with horseradish a few years back. I don't know what overcame me.
I'm enjoying this last leg of the journey. The days of sparkle and champagne in Vienna are over, and the days of fog and local stout are at present. I keep part of a Lorca poem at my side to remind me of my experience. Previously I had not seen much in Austria, and after I spent some length of time recording there, I fell in love. The beauty lingers still, even outlasting the memory of some time spent in illness. The true test of a place is some sort of stomach flu; if you can drag yourself out of sickbed (draped in a sheet to keep out the draft) to watch the sun rise, it is a place worth visiting.
En Viena hay diez muchachas,
un hombro donde solloza la muerte
y un bosque de palomas disecadas.
Hay un fragmento de la mañana
en el museo de la escarcha.
Hay un salón con mil ventanas. From Pequeño Vals Vienés, Federico García Lorca.
It means:
In Vienna there are ten little girls,
a shoulder for death to cry on,
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrow
in the museum of winter frost.
There is a thousand-windowed dance hall. (Little Viennese Waltz.)
I prefer the Spanish version, and of course the great Cohen put his own translation to music. Of course. Apologies for another tawdry display of poetry, but this slip of paper at my side is rather hard to ignore.