ancient beefcake (for PhoebeFay)

This is part of the Pergamon Altar built in the 2nd century before the Common Era. So even way back then, they liked perving at nice bums. This picture should keep you all occupied while I am away in Townsville in Far North Queensland for the next few days.

Some museums keep their star attraction as far from the entrance as possible, so that you pass through many galleries to get there. At the Pergamon Museum in Berlin, I was completely unprepared to walk through the front door immediately into the room which houses the Altar. The force of this astonishing work is such that we were grateful for the stone benches, as our knees were literally (yes, anaglyph, literally) buckling. My companion this day was Barbie, who was enjoying Cissy's Marvelous Berlin-In-Four-Days tour. She had always wanted to see the Ishtar Gate, another piece of the Pergamon's extraordinary loot.

things are not what they seem

Say you had a small side business making handmade greeting cards. And say your business partner was called Angelo Glass. Say Angelo was not very computer-savvy. Indeed, Mr Glass doesn't even own a computer. He has an email address only because you set it up for him.

Now. Say you have a modest blog. Say you have a small, but loyal & fun coterie of readers and commenters with whom you enjoy the flow of chat & a sense of community.

Now, say a commenter popped up one day out of the blue. You'd never seen his name anywhere else on the blogosphere. You wondered how he found you, this man from Vancouver with a love of flowers. Oh yes, Vancouver. Because often Michaelangelo Optica would mention the weather in Vancouver.

Say one evening your business partner cooked you a delicious meal after an afternoon planning meeting. And say you were once again banging on about your blog & the blogs you visit. And you said to your business partner for the umpteenth time "Not that you ever read my blog." And your business partner asked, all inocent like "Who are the people who read your blog?" And you started to name them. He seemed particularly interested in where they were from. "Oh yes, one is from Canada. His name is Michaelangelo Optica". And your naughty, clever business partner Angelo Glass turns to you and asks "And who do you think Michaelangelo Optica is?" then blushes to the roots of his hair.

Well played, my friend. Well played.

I did always wonder why I never saw the name elsewhere. And he left some good clues - including his (real) initials in capital letters. I went back over all his comments and, really, who else could it have been?

So I say again - well played Michaelangelo Optica. How's the weather in Vancouver?

Fete Nationale

Heureux Fete Nationale à tous mes amis français. And happy Bastille Day to the rest of youse. (There you go, Pil, more men in uniform. Though some of them are women.)

Bougainvillea spectabilis

If you look closely at this glorious bougainvillea I photographed in Altea last year, you will see a wee frog. I do not know his name.

indiscreet where I live

Continue past the paperbark and the church, and at the first corner you come to behold the Royal Sovereign. (The pub, not the Queen). And as I always say - nothing improves a view like a big yellow crane.

Melaleuca quinquenervia

If you leave my apartment building and turn to the right, a few steps will bring you to this magnificent paperbark (Melaleuca quinquenervia) which the Gadigal people call Bujor. Its many uses include lining cradles, wrapping food for cooking, making bandages and disposable raincoats. The young leaves can be chewed to alleviate headaches. I think I'll stick to Aspro Clear.

Also striving towards the sky is the spire of St John's Anglican Church, and a street light.

Anemone hupehensis

I found this flower in the grounds of the Kathe Kollwitz Museum in Berlin. I like the work of this artist very much. Her drawings are rather stark & can be overwhelming. They speak of the horrors of war, and in particular its effect on women & children. Her work is full of mothers.


On Unter Den Linden, her sculpture "Mother With Her Dead Son" is enclosed by walls, but open to the sky. Instead of the usual formal pieta with the dead son stretched horizontally across his calmly sad mother's lap, Kollwitz has the grown child enfolded vertically in the bulk of the grieving mother.