I raise my furcap-sobrero to salute you and cheer: Bravissimo, senor Dungloader!
I raise my furcap-sobrero to salute you and cheer: Bravissimo, senor Dungloader!
Last edited by yanni; 01-17-2010 at 10:18 AM.
Yanni, thank you. I’m happy that you enjoyed it, but for god’s sake we must remain quiet. The reverberations from your audible clapping may collapse the tenuous firmament supported by the intricate lattice of eighteenth century phantoms.
With the burning of the Mozartgeist I fear that we have only awakened a sleeping giant. The Jesuit Sith Lord may cut the tethers to untold numbers of phantoms in the guise of eighteenth century Illuminators, Freemasons, Flat Earth propagandists, Venetians, Gothic period Gargoyles, global warmists, Franciscan marionettes, a pub owner from England, French revolutionaries and shape shifters all answering to a sundry of aliases.
In fact it may be too late, for look yonder beyond the birch copse. Towering cumulonimbus gather over the Forums where the burning was just held, gorging themselves on the manufactured words suspended on threads. Soon, critical mass will be attained resulting in a torrential rain of conspiracies.
"Riders on the Storm"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKbPU...eature=related
We have only one small hope to forestall the phantasmagorical onslaught. According to the Western Union I received from the Terrier, we must collect the ashes of the Mozartgeist and sprinkle some at the threshold of Mozart’s home in Salzburg, a portion shall go to the Fabio Luisi in Vienna for rosining bows and the remainder must be returned to Dumas and presented to the shaman.
The shaman will place a pinch between his cheek and gum and the remainder shall be thrown to the wayward currents playing out the measures of music on the sea of grass blanketing the Llano Estacado.
Oh, I nearly forgot, since we are here in La Mancha, I had promised my wife Boots of Spanish Leather -
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Asjz6...eature=related
Adios,
Gilliatt
Having replaced my computer early January (last one broke down December 22nd) I can return the courtesy.
Here is a old greek song by the name "Subtarranean birds" or "Poisoned times await":
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbboH...eature=related
Adios to you too, gringo!
Last edited by yanni; 01-23-2010 at 12:57 PM.
Yanni, thanks for sharing Του κάτω κόσμου τα πουλιά (Νίκος Δημητράτος). I truly enjoyed that, but the name “Subterranean Birds” or “Poisoned Times Await” has me scratching my head. As I watch this, I am reminded of your earlier response where you recalled the “shocking” days of your youth listening to your relatives sing and play. Does this video paint the picture of Yanni’s youth and could that be Yanni himself coming in at about 2:00 serving food to the family?Originally Posted by yanni
I would enjoy more traditional Greek music and songs if you have any.
Well, Yanni, looks like I better cut the chit chat. Your “Poisoned Times Await” is a perfect segue back to the sonata at hand. The missus is biting her nails in anticipation since I ended with a cliffhanger last week.
Aside (quietly): The missus is easily amused and besides she has no where else to turn for entertainment since I cut off her harlequin novel account.
Let’s see…where were we?...oh yes;
There is no time to waste, the next flight out of La Mancha leaves in one hour. I must get this urn back to the Dreary Beery, but first let us pour some of the ashes in this empty Copenhagen snuff tin for you. Hold on, I’m having trouble getting the lid off due to damage from the bombardment by the British.
My fiacre will arrive shortly and deliver you to Leopold’s Geburtshaus in Salzburg to sprinkle some of the ashes along the threshold. Don’t let Andiamo detain you. From Salzburg, you are to proceed directly to Wien to see Fabio Luisi. On the way to Vienna, you must remain vigilant especially on the low road between Bergern and Schrattenbruck, near the intersection at via Gioacchino Cocchi de la Gieseke. Lurking about this intersection is a blind Venetian who goes by the alias of Abbie Hoffmann but answers to “Guillaume Raynal”.
Raynal is a man of letters, most often seen etching them into the bark of trees along the low road. Pay close attention to the single letter carved on each tree. If the sequential order of letters spells out; “LONG LIVE THE JESUITS”, (heading east of course) we are truly in dire straights. On the other hand, if the letters spell out “CORONADO” then it is a sign that the auto de fe had some sway.
Of course you could just take the high road and avoid all of this.
I should be in Dumas by the time you arrive in Wien. These are dark times my friend, but I firmly believe that all will end well and the world will come to believe the true source of genius behind “Mozart’s” music.
We must leave now! The clouds are turning to Cumulonimbus mammantus.
Farewell,
Gilliatt
Overtime, song titles are often "taken over" by another part of the lyrics the audience likes better, hence the two titles.
One should really ask and examine when, how and why the change in peoples view of things affected any song's title but I'd rather leave it alone for this one.
No, the video does not at all paint my youth (wasted in pursue of... etc etc) only my weak moments and music preferances eversince.
Here is another, with one and only title however: "There are no angels", sings Caterina: She means there are no faithfull men lovers but, in this case, the audience has just broadened the scope to include everybody else too!
No real angel has ever disputed her or the public, so the original song's title stayed unchanged .
As for your "better days ahead" suggestion: Even during this "deleveraging" century, every cloud will keep its silver lining and the sun will keep on rising fom the east, as always.
Cheers.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2elu2w8IzU
Last edited by yanni; 01-31-2010 at 02:44 AM.
It was a rough take off, but we just made it out of La Mancha ahead of the squall line. The sudden down burst of hot air from all the phantoms, ghost writers and aliases actually aided in my escape by pushing the craft along.
I must first tell you of an incident that took place as I was boarding the plane. The size of my Cocchi leather Bagge, in which I had stowed the ash urn and the Boots of Spanish Leather, was in violation of the airline overhead stowage policy. I refused to check it knowing the airlines proclivities toward losing luggage. In our best Ben Stiller style, the stewardess…oops, sorry, the flight attendant and I struggled over the bag and we exchanged a few heated words. However, when I explained the contents of the bag, she suddenly changed her tune and allowed me to hold the bag in my lap.
Once seated, I took a quick survey of my fellow refugees. Directly across the aisle were Mrs. Brown and her daughter. Seated directly behind me were the hermit minstrel’s; Hermann’s Hermits and well…looks like that’s all. We eventually reached cruising altitude which calmed my nerves a bit. Looking back I was astounded at the phantasmagorical display taking place over Spain. I confessed my sins to St. Augustine and asked St. Christopher to intercede on your behalf, realizing that you must be in torment bounding along the drenched, muddy road to Wien in my convertible fiacre. I’m certain the fabric roof must have been shredded from all the words hailing down.
Poe came to mind, so I began reading “The Unparalleled Adventures of One Hans Pfaall”. It didn’t take long for the soothing drone of four Wright Cyclone engines, supplemented by the minstrels serenading Mrs. Brown’s lovely daughter to lull me to sleep.
A soothing sound
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2d4HQ...eature=related
“Mrs. Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lv8k0VI9tBc
Then it started!
A new sound that broke the unvarying tone of the engines, wrenched me from sweet slumber. It was a raucous sound of banging combined with that of sheet metal being torn from fasteners. I peered out of my port side portal and noticed a humanoid form pounding on the plane with a Freemason’s brick and ripping stressed aluminum panels from the no. 2 engine nacelle. Fuel lines were wrenched igniting the fuel creating a plume of flames flowing across the wing. The creature realized that I was peering at it and immediately ran up to the portal and began pounding on the acrylic glazing. Now being able to make out the features, I gasped and screamed out; “Myslivecek!” it is “Myslivecek” the “Moravian Monster”.
He must be after the Mozartgeist ashes! Being half Czech and recognizing the origins of the Monster, I immediately recalled the Lomcovák. Yes, the Lomcovák will certainly get rid of this ghost writer. Grabbing a barf bag from the seat pocket, I scribbled a diagram of the Lomcovák and directed the flight attendant to deliver it to the pilot with orders to carry out the indicated maneuver immediately.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6SrF5...eature=related
Will the Lomcovák loosen the grip of the Moravian Monster?
Will Gilliatt make it safely back to Dumas with the ash urn?
Find out next week when we turn to the next page of this thrilling Sonata.
In the meantime, we would like to share a few words from our sponsors: Glade and Chuck Wagon dog food:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8CTscW3dpI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9BBqg...eature=related
Gilliatt
Yes, but the plot is much thicker!
The plane's pilot was Sir Walter Scott, uncle of the stuardess who served you a plate of expired musli. Muslivecek spirit's efforts failing, you passed out, unable to notice they were carrying the british crown jewels, stolen from Ford Knox.
When you wake up, they'll be gone with the jewels, and you, a half-czech, will be arrested, brought to Buckingham Palace's Royal Court, to be accused for the heist.
You'll loudly protest, only your lower half is czech afterall, but the Queen is furious and won't hear a thing.
Her Prince however, upper half greek as you know, supports your case but wants the Mozart urn in exchange. He is a genuine Mozart geist fan from birth and as rumors want, has ordered the heist himself .
The nauseating possibility the British Royal House will end up with their crown jewels and the Mozart urn both, highly disturbs your already upset stomach, the expired musli, having developed in the meantime their full downward-outward irreversible momentum, sound repeatedly their, definitely mozartean, warning signals.....
Apres moi le cataclysm, you are heard shouting among the pandaemonium, with a slight, yet immediately noticed, lower bohemian accent...
Enters the court jester, a world famous musicologist, suitably equipped.....
Last edited by yanni; 02-08-2010 at 04:01 AM.
Yanni that is remarkable! Do you realize the significance of the events you’ve just described?
What you have just related regards my alter alias; Václav Jan Dusík baptized in Čáslav.
(aka – Dussek, Duschek and Düssek).
My alias and Myslivecek were at odds with each other as a result of a long standing family feud over the rights to a kolache recipe.
It is true that Dusik’s greatest weakness was his love of muesli. Dusik would devour the stuff any time he chanced upon some, knowing full well that it did not agree with his irritable bowel syndrome (IBS).
However, I must correct you on one detail. The pilot was actually Louis Burton Lindley, Jr (the alias of Slim Pickens), a proud descendent of the famed Edinburgh bard. Coincidentally, the copilot’s name was Ivanhoe who kept a box of Waverley crackers wedged between the throttle levers. My alias must have split off into his parallel universe somewhere over Scotland, likely from the jostling we experienced during the Lomcovák maneuver. I’m certain it was Scotland since I caught a glimpse of Loch Katrine and Ellen’s island below as we were flipping and rolling.
I can assure you the sentient portion of Gilliatt landed in Amarillo, the details of I will share with you now.
The Lomcovák was successful in separating us from the Moravian Monster. Looking back from the port side gunners position, I could see the Moravian Monster descending to earth riding on the no. 2 engine nacelle. The scene was very much like this:
“Slim Pickens riding bomb”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wcW_Ygs6hm0
The old Fortress was still airborne, but only by a thread. The nose of the fuselage was torn off, the outer third of the port wing was torn off, the fin and a portion of the rudder had gaping holes, the aerial mast was torn off, leaving us with no communication to the outside world. Myslivecek really did a number on the old bird!
We were on final approach into Amarillo “Comin’ in on a Wing and a Prayer”
“Comin in on a Wing and a Prayer”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuNq6...eature=related
Under the circumstances, Pickens performed an admirable job landing the injured bird keeping those on board unscathed. The hermit minstrels helped Mrs. Brown and her daughter out of the craft. I followed with the Cocchi Bagge containing our last hope for survival.
As I was desperately pushing my way through the rioting Gordon’s, Catholics, and members of the Flat Earth Society, I couldn’t help but overhear a reporter interviewing the local sheriff talking about ghouls and how to dispose of them. I shuddered from the realization that the plagiarist ghouls, phantoms and aliases had made it to the States. Here is an excerpt from the interview. You only need to listen to the first two minutes. The actual interview starts at about 0:45 seconds:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTu4H...eature=related
Rowdy and a couple of other “ginners” from Dumas skidded their pick up toward me, stopping just short of my boots. Time was of the essence so I jumped in the bed of the truck and we headed north to Dumas. As luck would have it, I found myself rolling around in a pile of BS that Rowdy had loaded in the bed of the truck!.....
Stay tuned next week folks and find out how the Athenian fared back in Austria and which road he decided to take. How will Gilliatt’s triumphal return to Dumas turn out?
Now let us take a moment to hear a word from our sponsors; “9 Lives” cat food and “American Tourister” luggage:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kYkOa...eature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=749iU2Zv1kw&NR=1
Gilliatt
Man is free, but his freedom ceases when he has no faith in it; and the greater power he ascribes to faith, the more he deprives himself of that power which God has given to him when He endowed him with the gift of reason. Reason is a particle of the Creator's divinity. When we use it with a spirit of humility and justice we are certain to please the Giver of that precious gift.
(By Casanova -Rousseau etc)
Meaningless twaddle, Yanni !
How is man free ? He makes myths. He tells himself he is in control of that which, in fact, he has no control over. Man is free without faith to make a fool of himself before other fools.
What IS faith ? It is not something we are born with in the natural world. In fact faith is the opposite of human reason. Faith is something we either have, or do not. It is not based on an abstraction but upon a revealed reality. The fruits of human 'reason' take the human race nowhere except in more and more circles. The reason of God and the reason of the natural man are incompatible. Because one is the mind of the divine and the other that of a sinful brute. Who, at his worst, tells himself he is free.
Laugh at Rousseau, who says everything and nothing at the same time.
Touche Yanni, if that was in fact a jab at my sanity or lack therof. Ha
I am taking medications in the liquid form.
"I don't know whether it's the result of your flattery or wheteher it's the truth - I'm not sure. This struck me suddenly, and I haven't thought enough to decide how far to believe it. Are you wondering what I'm talking about? What do you think? You've almost persuaded me, not that I'm happy - only the wise are happy - but that there is a sense in which I'm happy. It's the same as if you were to call someone a "man" when he is a man only "in a sense" when you compare him with the Platonic ideal; or when we describe things we can see as "round" or "square" when they differ greatly from the perfect shapes that a few minds perceive".
From "The Letters of St. Augustine" - To Nebridius, His Friend"
Gilliatt
I only quoted Casanova for our flyer friend Gilliat who, endowned as he is with the gift of reason, functions herein as a mythcreator, aiming for the "common good" (constrained as it may be within the narrow borders of litterature).
Last edited by yanni; 02-15-2010 at 11:38 AM.
Well thank you Yanni, but I can assure you this is no myth. I'm pinching myself as we speak and it hurts!
______________
We had been on the road heading north for some time. I was laying down with my head on the Cocchi Bagge, I was suddenly aroused by a new distinct odor permeating the air overpowering the manure surrounding me. It was a smell vaguely familiar…then it struck me; Dumas! I leaned over the bed of the truck looking ahead. Sure enough, tharr she blows…the skyline of Dumas, that diamond in the rough, the “dusty delirium on the Llano Estacado! “
"A view down main street Dumas"
Rowdy slowed the old Ford down as we entered town. A chorus of cheering, applause and shouts of praise resounded from both sides of Main Street. A shower of Cholla bouquets descended upon the truck all the while the masses were chanting in unison; “All hail Gilliatt”
“A cholla bouquet”
We pulled up to the Dreary Beery and I immediately jumped out of that stinking bucket of bolts!
A couple of stray dogs scampered up sniffing the manure embedded in my crinoline pants and to add insult to injury, one of them hiked a leg on me and soiled my boots. No matter, we have matters far more important to worry about. Rowdy and Dusty Rhoads pushed the crowds back allowing me to enter the Dreary Beery.
Passing through the swinging doors of the bar opened up the gates to a flood of mixed emotions. I collapsed on the floor sobbing. I felt shame for the rude and abrupt way I departed Dumas back in September convinced that these people were a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. There was a feeling of anxiety; how long will the manufactured terror last? Lastly, I felt a feeling of warmth in my soul from the unconditional love and acceptance bestowed upon me by these simple, apple pie folks. In fact I was the embodiment of their Anthony Quinn, there Judah Ben Hur…their Pale Rider!
The shaman, looking quite lugubrious, shuffled up to me wiping a dribble of schnapps from his mouth and placed his hand on my shoulder coaxing me to stand up. I regained my composure and took a visual survey of the old joint. There was a Haggard looking bloke from Scotland leaning over the juke box that took up temporary residence in the bar. He was wearing a kilt and holding a riders crop in one hand. His face was bathed in the blue glow of the juke box illuminating his mumbling lips. He plunked in 20 pence:
“Swinging Doors”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bxfgk...eature=related
Billy Aristotle was sitting at the bar along with Rusty Springs who was proof reading his latest children’s primer; “Pee in the Pot, Not on the Cot” and back in the stock room, I could see the dung loader listening to garbled messages from Austria on the HAM radio. The town Priest and teacher, Padre Martini remained seated at the table where he and the terrier had been discussing the ominous events over the past few weeks. There was a strong Bond between Jack Russell and the Padre. Padre Martini looked quite shaken but not stirred.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUUq5mRCimo
“Sit down Gilliatt. Rowdy would you please fetch Gilliatt a Wild Turkey and don’t shake it.”
“Is that the Cocchi Bagge with the urn?”
“Yes, along with a pair of Boots of Spanish Leather for my old lady back home.”
“We have bad news Gilly. While you were in Spain, “Prairie dog day” had come and gone.”
“What in tarnation is Prarie dog day?”
“It is our equivalent to Ground hog day up there in Puxa…Pawxi…oh, hell somewhere up in Pencilveineeuh.”
The shaman continued; “There is a paddock behind the Dreary Beery that encloses a prairie dog village. If Puxadumas Phil sees his shadow on February 2nd, then we will have six more weeks of manufactured terror”
“Well, I suppose we could hold out another six weeks”
“You don’t understand. Here in Texas, you can’t have just one prairie dog, there’s thousands of those varmints! Puxadumas Phil is the collective name. Here, I’ll let Dusty explain:”
“Prairie dogs must uh bin two hund erd of ‘em! Hell thays so many dern prairie dogs an shaduhs scurry’n about, we couldn’t make hide ner hair of which one seen thay shaddy or not.
The way I figur, let’s jus say at lease half of em seen thays shaddy well that ud be bouts 100. Rowdy’s the only one who knows figgurin numbuhs on is fingers. What’s uh hundred shaddies times six weeks come out to?”
“Well Dusty that would be six hundred more weeks of manufactured dialogue” answered Rowdy.
Suddenly the dungloader yelled from the stock room; “I picked up the Athenian’s frequency! The signal is a bit garbled”
“I made it to Salzburg…stop”
“Ashes were placed on threshold…stop”
“I took the low road to Vienna and saw the blind Venetian; Abbe Raynal…stop”
“Why the hell did he take the low road?” I interjected.
”shhh…quiet, he’s still speaking;
“I saw the letters carved in the trees. They spelled out: “LONG LIVE THE JESUITS…stop…over and out”
The shaman’s head dropped in despair and he quietly whispered; “Our only hope lies in the ashes of that urn, but we’ll have to wait until the next installment to find out. I’m tired”
“A Tribute to Frank McCourt”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3x0XtaE4Li0
Gilliatt
Where did everyone go?
The village idiot is left high and dry playing alone in his sandbox, his only companions now being the “gatti di Roma” looking for a place to deposit last night’s trash can buffet.
I believe it was Vitruvius (or Da Vinci?) who postulated one of life’s theorem’s that goes something like this:
“The pure proportions of a man become distorted when he resorts to enigmatic soliloquies and responds to his own posts.”
So what d’ya say we make an attempt to round this thing up and close the gate?
Panza walked over and gave me a waking nudge and handed me a cup of joe and a few strips of fat back. I wiped the gravel from my eyes, hopped off the table I slept on and stepped outside the Dreary Beery for some fresh air. Crowds were flocking into town to witness the great spectacle this afternoon. What spectacle am I referring to? It turns out that the prairie dogs behind the bar saw their shadows just before sundown yesterday; indicating that there will be a blue norther the following day (today) at 3:00 pm. In order for the Mozartgeist ashes to take full affect, they must be disbursed on the gales of a blue norther while standing on the sacred ground where Coronado first transcribed the music born of the wind.
( later that day)
A pilgrimage lead by the shaman, headed north up Main Street toward a virgin patch of native prairie grasses, sage, cholla and yucca just outside of town.
The entourage included:
Old man Jack Russell aka the “terrier” and his alias; “the shaman”
The kind Athenian:
Count Robert of London:
Dusty Rhoads
Rusty Springs
Rowdy Yates
The Dungloader
Billy Aristotle
Mrs. Brown and her lovely daughter
The Minstrel hermits; Hermanns Hermits
Panza
The haggard bloke from Scotland
The shaken Padre Martini
The flight crew from the B-17
Inhabitants of Dumas
And yours truly
We reached an area encircled by twenty cow chip cairn’s defining the hallowed ground. A brisk wind emanating from a wall of dark slate blue clouds to the north, pressed against us. The shaman gazed at me pensively, providing the cue to hand over the urn. The shaman removed the lid releasing a horrific gurgling scream from within. Inside the urn lay a small piece of paper along with the ashes. The paper was removed and handed to Hermann, the minstrel with the melodic voice. At this point the wind velocity escalated to a point that we began to hear the most wonderful music:
(Play both at the same time for the full effect)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hD0AaAqlyJo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B3i1f...eature=related
The shaman wore a necromancer’s cloak
Mambrinos helmet was placed on his head.
He began to pour the ashes out
The minstrel hermit lay down and read…. :
“Not that, in sooth, o’er mortal urn
Those things inanimate can mourn,
But that the stream, the wood, the gale,
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those who, else forgotten long,
Lived in the poet’s faithful song,
And, with the poets parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.
The maid’s pale shade, who wails her lot,
That love, true love should be forgot,
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear
Upon the minstrel’s bier:
The phantom knight, his glory fled,
Mourns o’er the field he heaped with dead,
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain
And shrieks along the battle plain;
The chief whose antique crownlet long
Still sparkled in the feudal song,
Now, from the mountains misty throne,
Sees, in the thanedom once his own,
His ashes undistinguished lie,
His place, his power, his memory die;
His groans the lonely caverns fill,
His tears of rage impel the rill;
All mourn the minstrel’s harp unstrung,
Their name unknown, their praise unsung.”
(Sir Walter Scott – “Lay of the Last Minstrel”; Canto V, Part II)
Gilliatt
Allow me, in count Robert's absence, to mount the musicology podium and announce that Anton Eberl was the same person as Mozart (who staged his Vienna death, vanished from Vienna for a while to serve as Nissen in Tripoly, 1801-1807, and attempted to publish his own biography later):
There was no composer whose works were more frequently passed off as Mozart's than Eberl. Even more surprising was the documented fact that there was no protest from Mozart against the use of his name on Eberl's compositions. Eberl, a friend and student of the great man, did mind but was too timid to take action until after Mozart had died. Finally, he published the following notice in a widely read German newspaper, "However flattering it may be that even connoisseurs were capable of judging these works to be the products of Mozart, I can in no way allow the musical public to be left under this delusion." Despite this, his works still continued to be published under Mozart's name.
This in itself was a reliable indication as to the contemporary opinion of the quality of Eberl's works but we also have contemporary critical reviews of his works such as that of the influential Berlin Musical Journal which wrote in 1805, after a performance of his new symphony, "Since the symphonies of Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven, nothing but this symphony has been written which could be placed alongside theirs." Indeed, Eberl's Symphony in E flat major was premiered at the same concert as Beethoven's Eroica Symphony on 7 April 1805, and it received rather more positive reviews than Beethoven's did. [3] .
Anton Eberl was a friend of Mozart and he was probably also his pupil. As a pianist he toured Germany, accompanied by Mozart’s widow. From 1796 till 1800 he was Kapellmeister in St. Petersburg, Russia.
So the question is: Where (what part of Germany) was Mozart 1791-1796?
Last edited by yanni; 02-28-2010 at 01:33 PM.
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