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16th May 2014

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The wind blew her back up

—I ever tell you about that time years ago I was on this ledge uptown trying to pull the damn psycho inside?
—You mean where the guy jumped and you almost fell? No, you never told me that story.
—[laughing] No, you never listened. So there I was. I put everything I had into saving this dumb-ass, low-life suicidal that when he went down, it was like I wanted to go with him.
—That happened once in Ireland. This girl jumped off the Cliffs of Moher and the wind blew her back up.
—The wind blew her back up?
—Yeah, the wind.
—No, that was Jesus, son.
—It was also the wind.
—The wind, my black ass. That was Jesus.

Bringing Out the Dead (1999)

Tagged: filmsmovieshumourIrelandstoriesreligioncomedyMartin ScorsesePaul Schraderwind

17th February 2014

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An old folk belief in Ireland held that there were 12 different winds and each had a different colour. (Also, pigs can see the wind, and it’s red.)

Tagged: IrelandfolklorewindnaturepigscolourIrish folklore

18th July 2012

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The community of the wind

The community of the wind is worldwide and works best when it serves those species that are winged, light, and have some natural resistance to low temperatures and high radiation, and perhaps already live in open windy habitats where take-off is easy. But it touches all the rest of us all the time. We all depend to a greater or lesser extent on windblown water, soil, nutrient and seed, and none of us can ignore the constant flow of information.

The air is alive with news. Each breath of wind carries tales of fruit and flower, of moose and moth in search of mates, of old dust, new rain and the constant ebb and flow of busy genes.

Lyall Watson, Heaven’s Breath: A Natural History of the Wind

Tagged: windnaturebiologybooksLyall Watsoncommunicationzoologymeteorology

4th May 2012

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Elizabeth Rendall, The Wind

'The Wind'

Why does the wind so want to be
Here in my little room with me?
He’s all the world to blow about,
But just because I keep him out
He cannot be a moment still,
But frets upon my window sill,
And sometimes brings a noisy rain
To help him batter at the pane.

Upon my door he comes to knock.
He rattles, rattles at the lock
And lifts the latch and stirs the key –
Then waits a moment breathlessly,
And soon, more fiercely than before.
He shakes my little trembling door,
And though “Come in, come in!” I say,
He neither comes nor goes away.

Barefoot across the chilly floor
I run and open wide the door;
He rushes in and back again
He goes to batter door and pane,
Pleased to have blown my candle out.
He’s all the world to blow about,
Why does he want so much to be
Here in my little room with me?

Elizabeth Rendall

Tagged: poetrywindweatherElizabeth Rendall

13th April 2012

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The Night Will Never Stay

The night will never stay,
The night will still go by,
Though with a million stars
You pin it to the sky;

Though you bind it with the blowing wind
And buckle it with the moon,
The night will slip away
Like sorrow or a tune.

Eleanor Farjeon

Tagged: poetryEleanor Farjeonnightstarswindmoon

11th November 2011

Post with 24 notes

Look what they do with the wind

And look what they do with the wind! At first sight, you, poor human being, think that the storm is playing with the birds, like a cat with a mouse, but soon you see, with astonishment, that it is the fury of the elements that here plays the role of the mouse and that the jackdaws are treating the storm exactly as the cat its unfortunate victim. Nearly, but only nearly, do they give the storm its head, let it throw them high, high into the heavens, till they seem to fall upwards, then, with a casual flap of a wing, they turn themselves over, open their pinions for a fraction of a second from below against the wind, and dive—with an acceleration far greater than that of a falling stone—into the depths below. Another tiny jerk of the wing and they return to their normal position and, on close-reefed sails, shoot away with breathless speed into the teeth of the gale, hundreds of yards to the west: this all playfully and without effort, just to spite the stupid wind that tries to drive them towards the east. The sightless monster itself must perform the work of propelling the birds through the air at a rate of well over 80 miles an hour; the jackdaws do nothing to help beyond a few lazy adjustments of their black wings. Sovereign control over the power of the elements, intoxicating triumph of the living organism over the pitiless strength of the inorganic!

Konrad Lorenz, King Solomon’s Ring

Tagged: booksKonrad Lorenzwindnaturebirdsjackdawsethology