An announcement from the front desk


Motel de Moka wishes you and yours a very happy holiday.

Christmas Day

Tomaso Albinoni – Adagio in G minor
John Helmich Roman – Violin Concerto in F minor
Walton: Henry V – Passacaglia (Death of Falstaff)
Arcangelo Corelli – Concerto in G minor Christmas Concerto Op.6. no.8

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Daniel Lanois – Oaxaca

(Belladona, 2005)

[Buy it]

This is a test post.

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still moving a couple of things but the new motel is fully functional now. Need to transfer the staff and keep on modyfing diverse design and template stuff. If you use worpress and know of any interesting plug.ins for the motel please leave a comment with an address to the plug.in in question.

Also the look of the blog will be changing, make yourself comfortable and tell us how you like it so far. The new header will be commisioned by a good friend who has some wonderful artwork under his sleeve but I still can’t tell his name in public because I don’t want to compromise him. Expect usual posts by tomorrow.

Remember to update your links and bookmarks

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With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down. [1]

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! `I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. `I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--' (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a very good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) `--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) [2]

O long-silent Sybil,
you of the winged dreams,
Speak out from your temple of light
as the serious constellations
with Greek names
still stare down on us
as a lighthouse moves its megaphone
over the sea
Speak out and shine upon us
the sea-light of Greece
the diamond light of Greece

Far-seeing Sybil, forever hidden,
Come out of your cave at last
And speak to us in the poet's voice
the voice of the fourth person singular
the voice of the inscrutable future
the voice of the people mixed
with a wild soft laughter--
And give us new dreams to dream,
Give us new myths to live by! [3]

So our princes who have lost their principalities after many years’ of possession shouldn’t blame their loss on fortuna. The real culprit is their own indolence, going through quiet times with no thought of the possibility of change (it’s a common human fault, failing to prepare for tempests unless one is actually in one!). And when eventually bad times did come, they thought of •flight rather than •self-defence, hoping that the people, upset by conquerors’ insolence, would recall them. This course of action may be all right when there’s no alternative, but it is not all right to neglect alternatives and choose this one; it amounts to voluntarily falling because you think that in due course someone will pick you up. If you do get rescued (and you probably won’t), that won’t make you secure; the only rescue that is really helpful to you is the one performed by you, the one that depends on yourself and your virtù. [4]