sábado, 8 de junio de 2013

NASA: Germany - Flooding in Eastern Germany - 08.06.13



Flooding in Eastern Germany
acquired June 6, 2013 download large image (2 MB, JPEG, 1600x1200)
acquired June 6, 2013 download GeoTIFF file (5 MB, TIFF)
Flooding in Eastern Germany
acquired May 5, 2013 download large image (2 MB, JPEG, 1600x1200)
acquired May 5, 2013 download GeoTIFF file (6 MB, TIFF)
Unseasonably heavy rains brought serious flooding to Germany, Austria, and the Czech Republic in early June 2013. In some areas of eastern and southern Germany, the flooding was described as the worst since 2002. At least 16 people have died and thousands have been displaced. Further downstream along the Elbe, Vltava, and Danube Rivers, residents prepared for the rising water.
The Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectroradiometer (MODIS) on NASA’s Terra satellite observed flooding in central and eastern Germany on June 6, 2013 (top). For comparison, the lower image shows the same area on May 5, 2013. These false-color images use a combination of visible and infrared light to make it easier to distinguish between water and land. River water appears navy blue to black and vegetation is bright green. Clouds are pale blue-green and cast shadows.
On June 6, the Associated Press reported that floodwaters were cresting in Dresden, Germany, swamping much of the city but sparing the historic center. The Elbe River reached 8.76 meters (28.75 feet) that day in the area; the norm is 2 meters (about 6.5 feet).
Flooding had already peaked and left severe damage in the Czech Republic, northwestern Austria, and southern Germany, including Deggenfdorf, Passau, and Prague. However, satellite images of those areas have not been available due to persistent cloud cover. Visit NASA’s EOSDIS Worldview page and turn on the flood tool (under “my layers”) to observe false-color views of Germany and the rest of the world.
NASA image by Jeff Schmaltz, LANCE/EOSDIS Rapid Response. Caption by Michael Carlowicz, with input from Dr. Anke Friedrich, Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, München.
Instrument: 
Terra - MODIS
NASA: Germany - Flooding in Eastern Germany - 08.06.13






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Filosofia: Cioran - El Inconveniente de Haber Nacido - Parte 21 - (De l'inconvenient d'etre ne - 1973) - Links






 «Todo está lleno de dioses», decía Tales en los albores de la filosofía; hoy, en su crepúsculo, podemos proclamar, y no únicamente por necesidad de simetría, sino por respeto a la evidencia, que «todo está vacío de dioses».

     *

 Me encontraba solo en este cementerio que dominaba al pueblo cuando una mujer encinta entró. Salí de inmediato para no tener que ver de cerca a esa portadora de cadáver y rumiar el contraste entre un vientre agresivo y unas tumbas borrosas, entre una falsa promesa y el fin de toda promesa.

     *
 El deseo de orar no tiene nada que ver con la fe. Surge de un agobio particular, y durara tanto como él, incluso si los dioses y su recuerdo desaparecen para siempre.

     *

 «Ninguna palabra puede esperar otra cosa que no sea su propia derrota.» (Gregorio Palamas).
 Una condenación tan radical de toda literatura sólo podía provenir de un místico, de un profesional de lo inexpresable.

     *

 Entre los filósofos de la Antigüedad se recurría voluntariamente a la asfixia por retención del aliento, hasta que sobrevenía la muerte. Esta forma tan elegante, y tan práctica, de terminar ha desaparecido por completo y no es nada probable que pueda resurgir algún día.

     *

 Se ha dicho y repetido: la idea de destino, que supone cambio, historia, no se aplica a un ser inamovible. Así, no se podría hablar del «destino» de Dios.
 En teoría no, sin duda, pero en la práctica sólo eso se hace, sobre todo en las épocas en que las creencias se disuelven, en que la fe se tambalea, en que nada parece capaz de desafiar al tiempo, en que Dios mismo es arrastrado hacia la delicuescencia general.

     *

 En cuanto uno empieza a querer cae bajo la jurisdicción del Demonio.

     *

 La vida no es nada; la muerte es todo. Sin embargo, no existe algo que sea la muerte independientemente de la vida. Y es justamente esa ausencia de realidad distinta, autónoma, lo que hace a la muerte universal; no tiene un dominio propio, es omnipresente como todo lo que carece de identidad, de límite y de decoro: una infinidad indecente.

     *

 Euforia. Incapaz de concentrarme en mis humores habituales y en las reflexiones que engendran; empujado por no se que fuerza, estaba eufórico sin motivo, y me decía que ese gozo de origen desconocido es el que deben sentir los que se ocupan en algo y bregan, los que producen. Ni quieren ni pueden pensar en lo que los niega. Y aunque lo hicieran no sacarían ninguna consecuencia, tal como me sucedió a mí durante esa jornada memorable.

     *

 ¿Para qué insistir en lo que excluye los comentarios? Un texto explicado no es ya un texto. Se vive con una idea, no se la desarticula; se lucha con ella, no se describen sus etapas. La historia de la filosofía es la negación de la filosofía.

     *

 Queriendo saber, por un escrúpulo bastante dudoso, de qué cosas exactamente estaba cansado, hice una lista: aunque incompleta, me pareció tan larga y tan deprimente que creí preferible plegarme a la fatiga en sí, fórmula halagadora que, gracias a su ingrediente filosófico, le devolvería el ánimo a un apestado.

     *

 Destrucción y estallido de la sintaxis, victoria de la ambigüedad y del poco más o menos. Muy bien. Pero intentad redactar vuestro testamento y veréis si el difunto rigor era tan despreciable.

     *

 ¿El aforismo? Fuego sin llama. Se entiende que nadie quiera calentarse en él.

     *

 No podría alcanzar la «plegaria ininterrumpida), tal y como la preconizan los hesequiastas, ni aunque perdiera la razón. De las piedad sólo comprendo sus desbordamientos, sus excesos sospechosos, y el ascetismo no me retendría un solo instante si no se encontraran en él todas las cosas que le son propias al mal monje: indolencia, glotonería, gusto por la desolación, avidez y aversión del mundo, conflicto entre tragedia y equívoco, esperanza de un hundimiento interior...

     *

 Contra el desaliento monástico no recuerdo qué Padre recomendaba el trabajo manual.
 Admirable consejo que siempre he practicado espontáneamente: no hay tedio, ese desaliento secular, que resista al esfuerzo físico.

     *

 Desde hace años sin café, sin alcohol, sin tabaco. Por fortuna ahí está la ansiedad que reemplaza con provecho a los más fuertes. excitantes.

     *

 El más grave reproche que se puede hacer a los regímenes policíacos es que obligan a destruir, por medida de prudencia, cartas y diarios, es decir, lo que hay de menos falso en literatura.

     *

 Para mantener la mente despierta, la calumnia se revela tan eficaz como la enfermedad: la misma inquietud, la misma atención crispada, la misma inseguridad, el mismo enloquecimiento que fustiga, el mismo enriquecimiento funesto.

     *

 No soy nada, es evidente, pero como durante mucho tiempo he querido ser algo, no acabo de ahogar esa voluntad: existe porque ha existido, me atormenta y me domina aunque la rechace. De nada me vale relegarla al pasado, se resiste y me aguijonea: no habiendo sido nunca satisfecha, se mantiene intacta, y no acepta plegarse a mis órdenes. Copado entre mi voluntad y yo, ¿qué puedo hacer?

     *

 En su Escala del Paraíso, San Juan Clímaco observa que un monje orgulloso no tiene necesidad de ser perseguido por el demonio.

 Pienso en Fulano, que echó a perder su vida en el convento. Nadie como él estaba tan bien dispuesto para distinguirse en el mundo y brillar. Incapaz de humildad, de obediencia, escogió la soledad y se hundió en ella. No había nada en él para convertirlo, según la expresión del mismo Juan Clímaco, en «el amante de Dios». Con sarcasmo no se pueda alcanzar la salvación, ni ayudar a los otros a alcanzar la suya. Con sarcasmo sólo es posible esconder las heridas, sino las decepciones.

     *

 Es de una enorme fortaleza, y una gran suerte, poder vivir sin ninguna ambición. Me constriño a ello. Pero este hecho tiene ya que ver con la ambición.

     *

 El tiempo vacío de la meditación es, en realidad, el único tiempo lleno. No deberíamos avergonzarnos nunca de acumular instantes vacíos. Vacíos en apariencia, llenos de hecho. Meditar es un ocio supremo cuyo secreto se ha perdido.

     *

 Los gestos nobles son siempre sospechosos. Siempre se arrepiente uno de haberlos hecho. Son falsedad, teatro, pose. Es verdad que igualmente se arrepiente uno de los gestos innobles.

     *

 Si vuelvo a pensar en cualquier momento de mi vida, en el más febril o en el más neutro, ¿qué ha quedado de ellos, cuál es ahora la diferencia entre ambos? Todo se parece, sin relieve ni realidad, y me encontraba más cerca de la verdad cuando no sentía nada. ¿Qué sentido tiene haber experimentado lo que sea? No hay ya ningún «éxtasis» que la memoria o la imaginación pueden resucitar.


Filosofia: Cioran - El Inconveniente de Haber Nacido - Parte 21 - (De l'inconvenient d'etre ne - 1973) - Links



Desgarradura:


El Inconveniente de Haber Nacido:




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Mis blogs son una casa abierta a todas las culturas, religiones y países. Se un seguidor si quieres, con esta acción usted está construyendo una nueva cultura de la tolerancia, la mente y el corazón abiertos para la paz, el amor y el respeto humano.

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Photos - Fotos: August Sander (1876-1964) - Part 13 - 13 photos - A cartography of Germans of early twentieth century - Una cartografía de los alemanes de principios de siglo XX - Links




 August Sander -  The Notary
1924, printed 1990

August Sander - Dr. Fritz Husten und Mathilde Husten

August Sander - Passbild

August Sander - Self-portrait 1925

August Sander - Street Musicians 1922-8, printed 1990

August Sander - The Arbitrator 1919

August Sander - Turkish Mousetrap Salesman 1924-30, printed 1990

August Sander - Village Pastor and Family 1920-5

August Sander - Village Schoolteacher 1921

August Sander - Widow with her Sons c. 1921

August Sander - Writer and Theatre Critic [Franz Paul Brückner] c. 1926

August Sander - Young Boy on a Toy Horse c. 1922-5, printed 1990



Photos - Fotos: August Sander (1876-1964) - Part 13 - 13 photos - A cartography of Germans of early twentieth century - Una cartografía de los alemanes de principios de siglo XX - Links








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Mis blogs son una casa abierta a todas las culturas, religiones y países. Se un seguidor si quieres, con esta acción usted está construyendo una nueva cultura de la tolerancia, la mente y el corazón abiertos para la paz, el amor y el respeto humano.

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Poetry: Lord Byron - Domestic Pieces - Part 1 - Fare thee well... - A Sketch - Bio - Links






      DOMESTIC PIECES.
             ________

         FARE THEE WELL.
0
"Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny, and youth is vain:
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain;
.     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining --
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been."

                               Coleridge's /Christabel./
               ________

Fare thee well! and if for ever
  Still for ever, fare /thee well;/
Even though unforgiving, never
  'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee,
  Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
  Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
  Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
  'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee --
  Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
  Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults deface me,
  Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
  To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not:
  Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
  Hearts can thus be torn away;

Still thine own its life retaineth --
  Still must mine, though bleeding, beat:
And the undying thought which paineth
  Is -- that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
  Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
  Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
  When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
  Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,
  When her lip to thine is press'd,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
  Think of him thy love had bless'd!

Should her lineaments resemble
  Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
  With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
  All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
  Wither, yet with /thee/ they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;
  Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee -- by thee forsaken,
  Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done -- all words are idle --
  Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
  Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well! -- thus disunited,
  Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
  More than this I scarce can die.

                              /March 17, 1816./

             ________

          A SKETCH.

"Honest -- honest Iago!
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."
                                          Shakspeare.

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next -- for some gracious service unexpress'd,
And from its wages only to be guess'd --
Raised from the toilette to the table, -- where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie --
The genial confidante, and general spy --
Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess --
An only infant's earliest governess!
She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
That she herself, by teaching learn'd to spell.
An adept next in penmanship she grows,
As many a nameless slander deftly shows:
What she had made the pupil of her art,
None know -- but that high Soul secured the heart,
And panted for the truth it could not hear,
With longing breast and undeluded ear.
Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind,
Which Flattery fool'd not -- Baseness could not blind,
Deceit infect not -- near Contagion soil --
Indulgence weaken -- nor Example spoil --
Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down
On humbler talents with a pitying frown --
Nor Genius swell -- nor Beauty render vain --
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain --
Nor Fortune change -- Pride raise -- nor Passion bow,
Nor Virtue teach austerity -- till now.
Serenely purest of her sex that live,
But wanting one sweet weakness -- to forgive,
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know,
She deems that all could be like her below:
Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend,
For Virture pardons those she would amend.

  But to the theme: -- now laid aside too long,
The baleful Burthen of this honest song --
Though all her former functions are no more,
She rules the circle which she served before.
If mothers -- none know why -- before her quake;
If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake;
If early habits -- those false links, which bind
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind --
Have given her power too deeply to instil
The angry essence of her deadly will;
If like a snake she steal within your walls,
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls;
If like a viper to the heart she wind,
And leave the venom there she did not find;
What marvel that this hag of hatred works
Eternal evil latent as she lurks,
To make a Pandemonium where she dwell,
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells?
Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints
With all the kind mendacity of hints,
While mingling truth with falsehood -- sneers with smiles --
A thread of candour with a web of wiles;
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming;
A lip of lies -- a face form'd to conceal;
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel:
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown;
A cheek of parchment -- and an eye of stone.
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale --
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face) --
Look on her features! and behold her mind
As in a mirror of itself defined:
Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged --
There is no trait which might not be enlarged:
Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made
This monster when their mistress left off trade --
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

  Oh! wretch without a tear -- without a thought,
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought --
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black -- as thy will for others would create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, --
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,
Look on thine earthly victims -- and despair!
Down to the dust! -- and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear --
Thy name -- thy human name -- to every eye
The climax of all scorn should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers --
And festering in the infamy of years.

                                  /March 29, 1816./


George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron, later George Gordon Noel, 6th Baron Byron, FRS (22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824), commonly known simply as Lord Byron, was a British poet and a leading figure in the Romantic movement. Among Byron's best-known works are the lengthy narrative poems Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage and the short lyric "She Walks in Beauty." He is regarded as one of the greatest British poets and remains widely read and influential.

He travelled to fight against the Ottoman Empire in the Greek War of Independence, for which Greeks revere him as a national hero.[1] He died at age 36 from a fever contracted while in Missolonghi in Greece.

Byron was celebrated in life for aristocratic excesses, including huge debts, numerous love affairs, rumours of a scandalous incestuous liaison with his half-sister, and self-imposed exile.[2] It has been speculated that he suffered from bipolar I disorder.[3][4]




Poetry: Lord Byron - Domestic Pieces - Part 1 - Fare thee well... - A Sketch - Bio - Links




Ricardo M Marcenaro - Facebook

Blogs in operation of The Solitary Dog:
Solitary Dog Sculptor:
http://byricardomarcenaro.blogspot.com
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Para:
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enviar materiales para publicar,
propuestas comerciales:
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My blogs are an open house to all cultures, religions and countries. Be a follower if you like it, with this action you are building a new culture of tolerance, open mind and heart for peace, love and human respect.

Thanks :)

Mis blogs son una casa abierta a todas las culturas, religiones y países. Se un seguidor si quieres, con esta acción usted está construyendo una nueva cultura de la tolerancia, la mente y el corazón abiertos para la paz, el amor y el respeto humano.

Gracias :)