the grain growing plains, the pine tree woods, the bricks built villages over the sand and by the lakes left after the wall of ice.
Es muss ein kleiner Fischerort mit Reetdach geschmückten Häuschen sein, aber es soll nicht nach Fisch riechen. Es soll einen Fischmarkt geben, wo es frischen Fisch zu kaufen gibt. Selbstverständlich soll es kein Fisch aus dem Westpazifik sein, sondern regional. Er soll Substanz haben. Doch nur die, die dem Ort die Substanz geben, sollten nicht da sein, maximal nur dekorativ.
*England, England (Julian Barnes, 1998)
the air is still cold and the sun already cozily warm for a ride down the Altmühl along the cycling path. A church made of bushes is still growing to completion in Pappenheim, the roofings still a bit thin, the tower naked yet.
an overcast cold spring day is possibly the best time to visit the bogs. Nature still asleep, people still asleep, all is still in the bogs.
not far from Munich near the old salt trading hub city of Rosenheim the Simssee with the Alps in the background stands modestly apart from the Chiemsee; its overrun neighbour lake.
Sebastião Salgado’s exhibit of misery and pain at the Kunstfoyer in Munich throw us the hopeless nature of humanity’s problem in the face, namely corrupt power and specifically corrupt government.
in a swirl of colour, a blur of movement
behind the fields and the forest, in the middle of the bogland, over the half-broken planks bridge stands the old forgotten mill east of Markt Schwaben.
she comes and goes, the lights of the city behind, spare a thought, what is that light?
museums are closed. museums are still there for the people. city is people. city is light at night. city is stone reshaped. under a soft mantle of snow. and a myriad footsteps tell stories. stories of people in the city.