How is a horse taxidermy carried out

The Hermetic Cafe.

Friday 25th September 2020





Today we come to an unfortunate incident in the yeast-nourished sourdough dish, as it is only passed on under the hand on odd days, by vital, young nude swimmers cultically revered series With dead animals through the year. "Only dead birds fly into the stream," they say. But this life-restricted specimen did not fall victim to an overhead line or an upload lock, and certainly not to a wind turbine, but to motorized road traffic on a Hamburg route. The zip now lies on the wall like a warning sign, it has sung out Turdus philomelosbecause, behold, it is the time when the birds fall from the sky and the fish swim upside down. The season of the Melancholia breaks.

We can usually foresee and avoid epidemic diseases; Our astrologers predict storm, plague and dear time; Earthquakes, floods, collapsing houses, devastating conflagrations come step by step, or are announced by their din; But no art in the world can circumvent injustice, deceit, insult and villainy of people.

This is what Robert Burton (1577-1640) wrote in his famous treatise The anatomy of melancholy (1621 ff.). Hissing winds creep around the house, something cool is reaching under your clothes. People wear masks and keep their distance. Now it is time to harden, fill the memory, stop the singing. Our circles are getting closer. Watch out, watch out, watch out.

>>> Sound of the day: Titanic Orchestra, Songe d'Automne


 

Monday 1st January 2018





In the series With dead animals through the year, which is parareligiously revered by the hormone-clouded pubescent youngsters like a teenage singing troupe, we come to the smoked fish right at the beginning of a new one.

So-called "funny" fellows decorated him on the street. As it is here in Northern Germany. But in this way the notoriously mute fellow speaks all the louder. Not at all like the proverbial one fish out of waterbut like a singing siren from the dark depths of the sea of ​​frivolous human desires, like a critically printed pack of cigarettes, it warns of the deadly dangers of smoking. And only the grace of a camera has shrouded all of his retrospectives in a soft blur.

Fortunately, some readers will think that their heads are heavy and sad from wild celebrations and alcohol con gaz and confetti rubble, not to mention the poisonous gas fumes of leaden times at the New Year's Eve oracle. Now they want a rollmop and a cigarette so that they can look less blurry. Yes, skewer a dead fish on a wooden stick instead of granting it one last cigarette of grace with which it can exhale its life, that is of course ok. But woe, you write New Year's Eve with y. You are awake there.

My review of 2017 doesn't need a fog. For me it was a really nice, sometimes crazy and also nice, exhausting year, to put it mildly. Open doors, people who are, something spooky, actually interested in me, very strange and exciting constellations of missing and finding again, of new strength and old ideas and a certain calm. As if you were standing in front of a new house and a new life and had first infected one for pulse control. Just don't turn around, they say yes. Not too much, anyway. 2018, can come.

>>> Sound of the day: PJ Harvey, Down By The Water


 

Wednesday September 16, 2015


In the end, everything is smurf



In the loose series With dead animals through the year, revered like a water source energized by miraculous powers and considered by school-age children with praising songs from the annual cycle performed in the canon, we come to the smurf here today in the silly café (Smurfette smurfette).



I do not have a clue either.


 

Tuesday June 16, 2015


Don't go so high, my little friend



In the like a loud "Gelati! Gelati!" shouting and tinkling with a bell through the hot summer streets from the Dolomites by overheated teenagers in shorts frenetically cheered row With dead animals through the year we come to the little bird (Regaliosus).

This sharp-beaked specimen was found on a warm spring day at the foot of a Hamburg office building, apparently, according to the forensic crime scene investigation carried out by a Mr. Kid Mulder, crashed from a great height, a window probably on the upper floors. Further investigations and interviews with witnesses revealed that it was a high flyer, a high performer who reached the end of his personal flagpole while trying to reach his personal limit challenge and as a real high-flyer the decision-makers at the top to impress. However, the roadmap to which the small entrepreneur committed had an insurmountable milestone. A Deadline.

Or self-righteousness, maybe he let himself be roused, climbed up with hot air and wild rumors under the wing, forgot where he came from and where his friends were. Perhaps he wanted to go to the tables away from cheap crumbs and stale water, to the promises of oysters and champagne. Maybe he was just getting too close to the sun. Icarus' hubris.

So it was snatched, peeped, end of business, and the only thing that matters now is what remains. The last message he clawed on the floor as a shadow play. Slightly distorted like a so that it cannot be read by soulless machines. But clearly. A toad? A warning? A shaky one 37.


 

Friday June 27, 2014





It's raining. Wonderfully warm from the gray clouds that wrap around ship chimneys and loading cranes at the harbor. Finally summer has arrived. With its shorter days, the senselessness of flowing clothes, dreams and thoughts, the dressings on picnic salads. Memento-Moris must be a warning to me, threatened by cheerful expressions in shady corners. Push the dark friends closer to you, human! Every day cannot be a flip-flop day.

But you are never too old to look for sensible hobbies. Like the eighty-year-old Elinor Wrobel, former nurse and ambitious art collector. It once pulled an extensive, forgotten medical collection from the dusty nooks and crannies of a Sydney hospital pathology. She is now curating her own "Morbid Anatomy Museum" in the hospital's valiantly won rooms, impressed by the beauty of the exhibits and her reminder of our impermanence.

>>> Here is a short film.


 

Sunday March 30th 2014



Come home /
Little mouse/
We pull ourselves /
The things out

(Folk tune)



Cut off from paths, hiking and discovering by hazards and events, the series With Dead Animals, popular with virgins of all ages and candied with sweet-hearted kindness, celebrated frenetically by teenagers but remained modest, was neglected for long and too long a year. So it is high time to tie in with tradition freed from the dust and anointing virtue, before the present has become the dying past that we no longer want to talk about in the future.

As soon as the temperatures rise in Hamburg, the residents tear their clothes off, throw themselves backwards on the meadow, stretch out all fours and show off their spring-loving inventory. As an older and, above all, morally stable person, one may shake one's head, alone, the complaints go unheard.

Some at least, like this little mouse (mus musculus miniaturis) shyly reach for the fig leaf, barely covering the cleavage and things. Here you can clearly see how body hair is sprouting again, uninhibited in a fashion that was believed to be long gone, probably, so the strong assumption, because there is no app for shaving. A full body hipster beard, one would guess. But this mouse gives no information in fashion matters.

In the air of mild spring, death has crept up on it, an autumn leaf bedded over the early frivolous thing. A careful act, a gentle process and a sweet reminder. Beware, you tender creatures, he may say. Do not chill on nights early in the year when winter fingers grope you with the last of their strength.


 

Saturday 14th July 2012


IGEL performance must be worthwhile again



In the milk of the pious way of thinking, which is milked by hand like happy cows and greedily drunk by sensation-hungry mouths, hot thirstily coveted milk of the pious way of thinking, with dead animals through the year, we come today to the hedgehog [Erinaceus europaeus].

It is difficult for a hedgehog. Nothing rolls off his spiked robe, like dirt and sour cream do on a duck. She can waddle through the leaves and look, and get wet without damage, nothing sticks to her, no accusation, no bad dream, no rain, no tears, nothing. The hedgehog as the sand rake of memory rakes up everything, written as well as blank slate, holds fast and organizes and toil in this way until autumn, after which an exhausted nap beckons him. The careless ones in the garden, however, do not thank him. They don't sow, they don't rake, but lo and behold, they lie all day long on the tidy lawn, take this for granted and only have scorn and shrugs left for the evening puffing of their colleague in their spiked work suit.

Probably our hard-working journeyman gets prickly about it, makes sharp remarks like a rebellious joke that crawls backwards through the balloon party of a health insurance company. Which quickly pushes him out of the generally accepted, pleasing inclusion. Before he knows it, the hedgehog is extra. And before you know it for yourself, do you have to rake leaves? That costs extra. Because the hedgehog makes the offended diva populated with a catalog, sticks out his middle finger for the last greeting and says: "Comrades, we could have been friends. But now do your shit alone, I'll do the bend", and takes refuge in his final hibernation.


 

Wednesday June 6th 2012


Stories that Google tells me

search request cats pasture fence from electricity pictures
search request art with dead animals


 

Friday December 16, 2011


The blogger and the dear cattle



Once you begin to study a topic in more detail, everything just happens automatically at the beginning. One book inevitably leads to the next, one expert to another and soon everything has been saved on 80 disks and distributed in the research laboratory. Free General pathology for veterinarians I can safely assume that I am familiar with it, a standard work without whose knowledge I do not need to continue my lectureship here.

Less well-known is Otto Kraft's work, which points the way to pasture fences: The criminal investigation of animal poisoning. Published in Berlin in 1965, it was previously only accessible to a select group of people ("... may not be passed on to unauthorized persons"). Valuable knowledge about pigeon poisoners and calf shrugs are recorded here. Since I am currently prohibited from extensive alcohol abuse by the doctor, I am particularly interested in this complex. The majority of alcoholism addicted to lawbreakers, we find out on page 71, had no completed school or vocational training. There was also a lack of "areas of interest promoting character formation" (that's like today, where I always tell people, folks, you are really not interested in anything either). Alone here, so force on, the effects of the former capitalist-Junker conditions in the countryside, which have been detrimental to personality, are clearly recognizable.

Kraft explains: The drunkards live in the country. For example, "in the Schwerin district (...) in 1963 the consumption of spirits per head of the population was 2.37 liters higher than in the Dresden district (mainly an industrial area)." A circumstance that can have dire consequences, as in the case of the drinker K., who separated himself from the collective through "unteachable behavior" and "did pest work by deliberately souring skimmed milk [. ..] fed to the calves. (p. 72) Dare, look, who is it, not only in love, but also in agriculture.

In chapter 4.5. ("The animal corpse inspection") you come to the detective game part. Whether Sherlock, whether Fox Mulder or as his own CSI team, criminalist trained crime scene investigation methods (it's like in the real estate industry: Location, location, location) are a prerequisite for a successful education. Barbed wire in the feeding trough? Empty, brown medicine bottles in the enclosure? All indications of malicious manipulation.

And why, I hear you ask, is that needed? Prodesse et delectare: Will the beekeeping in New Zealand be useful to me for the future of beekeeping in New Zealand that will one day be taken from the realm of professional and self-realization dreams? In view of the fact that the bee deaths are always somehow surprising, I am almost certain. Anyway, I am ready.


 

Tuesday November 29, 2011


Do something with dead animals



No. I didn't run off into the sunset with Emily Blunt, I'm studying. Arrived in my new life, I prepare for the future: the crisis is here, they say. Pig capitalism with its grunt will do one last grunt, money will disappear, performance will again have to be borne by oneself and everyone will be allocated a small plot of land on which sugar beet, potatoes, beetroot and celery will grow. And a pig. In Cuba, the pigs are kept in the roof gardens of the houses, but we could use our adjoining rooms or empty bank lockers for this.

In any case, in our future of self-sufficient and micro-suppliers, house slaughter will be the new neighborhood festival. Big, small, old and young will gather while the few bloggers who still know how to kill animals transport pigs and small cattle from animals to meat, hang them on hooks, bleed and gutt them, cut and distribute ... Stop! Moment!

Before the greedy pack can pounce on the salty pieces, it goes without saying that a meat inspection is required and not the one that you usually do on the Internet. It is important to rule out illnesses and ailments, even if you are only standing at the meat counter in the supermarket and wondering what is so green in the cold cut bowl or why the cellophane packaging bulges into vulgarity. So a lucky coincidence played this fertile textbook into my hands at the flea market.

After the evening cheese sandwich, I now eagerly study the basic details of ribs, hips and knuckles, knowing that green is not a viable alternative on fresh pork halves and that everything that is very small and alive usually makes the meat inedible . (Do vegetarians still read along?)

Many things come to mind that most people have probably already forgotten: The beef tongue (in contrast to the horse's tongue) has a strong bulge in the back, a slender tip of the tongue and on this numerous warmth that feel sickle-like and are directed backwards, so that when you stroke the beef tongue over the runway you have the feeling of stroking one rigid brush. Interesting and realistic is the observation that "male animals [...] after they have reached sexual maturity [can] show an irregular odor (boar odor, buck odor, in rare cases also a bull odor)."

James Herriot fans (The doctor and the dear cattle) will remember one or the other (lung disease! Swine fever!): With one arm up to the elbow in a cow, listening to the purring wisdom of ossified farmers from lovely Yorkshire and always keeping an eye on the welfare of the farm animals and their consumers. A book for every medicine cabinet and for internal preparation for upcoming festivities, when mother has left the goose on the worktop for too long again. Don't forget to wash your hands.

(R. v. Ostertag, V. Goerttler. Textbook for meat inspectors. 27th edition. Berlin, Hamburg: Parey, 1958.)