Smileys und Emoticons - ausgefallene Kreationen, interessante Variationen. 2. Juli Wofür stehen die ganzen Emojis wie die drei Affen, das Hotel mit Herz und der weiße Kreis mit rotem Kringel eigentlich? TECHBOOK verrät es. Du findest hier Ausmalbilder von Smileys, Emojis, Emoticons, Gesichter mit Augen, Smileys mit verschiedenen Gesichtsausdrücken Gähnender Smiley.
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smiley gähnender -Eine Berlinerin hatte zum Beispiel erfolgreich für die Einführung von Kopftuch-Emojis gekämpft — und wurde so berühmt: Mit Material von dpa. Speziell bei einigen japanischen Symbolen steht man vor einem Rätsel. Das muss man dann belegen , etwa mit Auswertungen, wie oft der Ausdruck auf YouTube oder woanders vorkommt. Techbook Für gibt es auch schon wieder mehr als Symbole, die diskutiert werden. Symbol für Benommenheit, wenn jemand betrunken ist oder nach einem Sturz Sterne sieht. In der Regel kennt allerdings bei den neueren Bildchen jeder die WhatsApp-Smiley-Bedeutung, da sie nicht aus der traditionell-japanischen Schiene kommen, sondern sich an Netztrends orientieren. Für gibt es auch schon wieder mehr als Symbole, die diskutiert werden.
Gähnender smiley -Themen Tech , Emojis , Smartphone , News. Und das rosa Haus mit dem darüber schwebenden Herzen zeigt weder, wie gerne man zuhause ist, noch, wie sehr man sein Haus liebt. Speziell bei einigen japanischen Symbolen steht man vor einem Rätsel. Aber bei regelrechten Flut von verschiedenen Mini-Bildchen ist es schwierig, den Durchblick zu behalten. Wird oft als Emoji mit herausgestreckter Zunge interpretiert und in lustigen Situationen verwendet. Wenn ihr übrigens noch mehr schräge WhatsApp-Smileys mit seltsamen Bedeutungen gefunden habt, lasst es uns wissen. Symbol für Benommenheit, wenn jemand betrunken ist oder nach einem Sturz Sterne sieht.
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Paysant; not to mention the more proximate possibility that, although Mr. Paysant has come closer to the truth, the suggesters are still within measurable distance of it.
Between and , he had refrained from discussing his own Aspie-ism in deference to the wishes of his son, a fellow Aspie who released the elder Page from the gag order only on turning eighteen.
As for Gould, he receives only a few passing mentions, none of them incorporating a sub-mention of the diagnosis.
Salinger—and I read everything that I could find about them. They were all greatly gifted men who seemed to share some of my paralysis but had also managed to make the world accept and acclaim them on their terms.
The most charitable explanation is that in true Gouldian fashion he is being tactful—that while he is comfortable enough airing his own dirty neurological laundry he is not about to presume that his friend would have been equally comfortable having his set of knickers in that pattern so aired.
More cynically, one might conjecture that in this one-time sidelining of Gould Page is trying to have it both ways, by jealously safeguarding the capital he has accrued courtesy of his association with an Aspie-proof urbanite and yet keeping it well to the background for the nonce lest it give rise to scruples over the legitimacy of his own weenie-ishly-certified claim to the title of genius.
In any case, whatever the efficient and final causes of this Gould-shaped lacuna may be, for a Gould admirer-cum-Aspien skeptic such as the present writer it clearly constitutes both a substantial debt to be discharged and a windfall to be exploited.
So legion and manifold are the registers of incoherence in Parallel Play that its exegete is hard-pressed to know which way to have it, to get a purchase on only one of its shortcomings at a time in the interest of speedy and intelligible demolition.
The symptoms themselves—whether described by Page or by some cited authority—are difficult enough to reconcile with any existing or hypothetical state of human affairs; and the pertinence of the biographemes as manifestations of these symptoms is often debatable, even when the connection between symptom and Page-ism is explicitly drawn; to say nothing of the relevance of the biographemes in the middle chapters, which must be inferred by analogy or induction.
The only remotely practicable way of approaching this gallimaufry of a morass, it seems to me, is to itemize it by symptom-cum-conjectural manifestation s , and hope against hope that one of the feeble gleamlets comprising the internal incoherence of the symptoms will occasionally illumine some corresponding gleamlet in one of the manifestations and vice versa, natch.
To begin with, in the very formulation of this symptom, one is confronted—as one so often is in the world of pop-neurologiana—with a jaw drop-inducing ignorance of the established meaning of common English words.
By its very nature, a norm is not innate; hence one logically cannot but be born ignorant of a norm and remain ignorant of it until one has been taught it.
Perhaps all of these people were Aspies after all; if so, it is a decidedly tiny non-Aspien minority who are the authentic parallel players.
Now let us move on to Aspien Symptom No. This is admittedly both quite impressive for a second-grader and fairly weird for anyone not in the employ of a regional transportation planning quango.
Did you know, for instance, that we are blessed to be contemporaries of an English lad not a day older than six who can tell you how to travel between any two points in Greater London England not Canada using the local bus service?
Throughout the half-dozen minutes of a radio phone interview I heard with him, he seemed a perfectly well-adjusted and amiable little tot with typically tottishly heterogeneous interests: The field-trip essay is the only concrete, detailed, and even marginally impressive testimonial of his hoarding prowess furnished in Parallel Play ; the remainder are either general, equivocal, unexceptional, or all three.
For the love of fudge, these were textbooks pitched at semi-literate American teenagers, not Ciceronian orations or Cartesian meditations; and naturally from the mere fact that he was able to read them we are hardly entitled to assume that he understood so much as a word of them.
Granted, these home movies were apparently more ambitious in scope than the average reel of s Disneyland vacation footage, in featuring characters and plots and spliced-in pre-talkie Hollywood—style intertitles.
I am sorry if I seem unduly party-pooping in bringing this up; but after all, Page is the dude trying to prove that he is a neurologically organic genius here, and discovering rather than imitating is the sort of thing that bona fide geniuses actually do or did.
I do not think it likely that Page wanted us to regard his misery in face of these events as preeminently Aspergerian in provenance.
But in the absence of more freakish instances of metamorphaphobia in Parallel Play , what choice do we have?
Louisian trustee well knew—is possibly the most popular piece of classical music of all time. Tell him or her that Tim sent you.
Seriously, guys and gals, can we not all pull together as one gender-neutral mass and provisionally agree that the wardrobes of our past lunch-partners constitute a certifiable sort of trivia, towards the noble end of granting poor Timmy a passport through at least this one risible checkpoint en route to Normalia?
Last and certainly not least, we have Symptom No. The sun is melting my eyes! Page dutifully conveyed him to the nearest hospital emergency room.
But they are far more impressive as a case-history in soft-touch parenting. Or why was this hypothetical fit of hysteria never suffered to become an actual one, as a regrettable but inevitable preliminary to weaning little Timmy off his godawful horehound-drop diet?
Why, as far as we know, upon fetching Tim from the emergency room did Mrs. Regardless of their age, children in their native state are like housecats: In other and more specific words, I am perfectly willing to grant that whatever so-called battery of so-called tests that was administered to Tim Page on that glorious day in registered some neurologically-extant state of affairs, but I am strongly averse to conceding that a biography that was in its essential points identical to that presented in Parallel Play could not have been written by someone of a neurological constitution radically different from that of Tim Page.
It is a story that has been lived by and told of countless clubbable, unautistic individuals long before Bob Asperger was ever born, and it will doubtless continue to be lived by and told of legions more long after all flavors and magnitudes of autism have been banished by international legal fiat from the human genetic code.
If Tim Page had seen fit to make Parallel Play follow the lineaments of this classic plot which was, after all, good enough for the likes of Sophocles and Shakespeare , it might have made for an absorbing and instructive read.
In my capacity as someone other than Tim Page, I am merely entitled to yawn without comment on the first of these performances; but in my capacity as a fellow clever person I am not only entitled but positively obliged to demur at length to the second of them, as I am whenever someone shits please forgive me, reader, for shifting to a coarser metaphor ad libitum on the intellect.
It is not the quasi or even fully autistic who have the most trouble holding down customer service jobs, but the lazy, the unpunctual, and undependable—those most signally lacking in the Aspergerian virtues, such as they are.
Thus, the typical customer service worker is someone of no specific neurological complexion who either lacks the aptitude, experience, and patience to engage in some higher-brow occupation; or who, in spite of such qualities has not managed to produce anything that people are willing to remunerate him for—at least not for more than, say, 1.
In my case, the turn took the form of a half-baked theory that the anus rather than the vagina was the natural kipping-out spot for the tensed yard or erect penis , and that accordingly every last man, woman, and child who had ever lived was the product of incompetent marksmanship.
I had matriculated at the preeminent institution for the inculcation and dissemination of this theory, and if I had been able to persuade myself that it was fully baked, I would not improbably at this date be the ninth-most eligible bachelor in Bismarck or Las Cruces or whichever sub-provincial trouette hosted the fourth-tier college or university at which I would be assistant or perhaps even associate professor of English.
Not that I even suspect that this journalistic bichromaticism is the best that Page is capable of, but that the whole Aspergerian gambit constitutes a pretty piss-poor departure from it, although the same cannot quite be said of Parallel Play in toto.
What do I mean in those last two gnomic and irritatingly coyly potentially mutually contradictory clauses? Why, merely that occasionally in PP , Page lets slip some fragment of prose that obviously bears no relation to his Aspergerian case history—that cannot, indeed, be assimilated, however willfully to a case history of any kind.
This is not to say of such fragments that they are always unassimilable to some other, equally scornworthy, genre of history; indeed perhaps the better part of them would have creditably served as voiceover tracks to The Wonder Years or any other audiovisual treatment of the by-now quadragenerean topos of growing up in the quietest, tranquillest town in America during the turbulent, troubled sixties.
Better are the moments when, insouciantly heedless the of pop-psychiatric demand for matoority , Page evinces a kind of Rabelaisian earthiness of humor, e.
But the best bit is unencumbered by any intrinsically Pagean baggage whatsoever, and reads as follows: Mine was the last generation to inhabit a time when old films, old photographs, and old recordings inescapably looked and sounded just as old as they were.
Setting aside any fashion considerations, pictures of my grandparents or even my parents in their youth seemed to originate in another world—the big, cardboard-like prints, the formal poses, the mezzotints.
Snapshots from the s and the s looked somewhat better but were mostly over- or underexposed, and home movies were brief, silent, fuzzy, and fragmented.
But I grew up as media grew up, and by the time video recording was easily accessible to consumers, in the s, life could be preserved pretty much as it happened PP This single half-paragraph could serve as the germ of a book five times the length of Parallel Play and worth every strike of the multiplication key, a book that I myself moderately clever minds think alike!
The very identity of his arch-pet obsession, the cinema, bespeaks an orientation to the world that is far too social to be more than quasi-autistic, inasmuch as more nearly inevitably than any other artistic medium, movies are about people.
It would perforce be difficult to classify, and require Page to plumb the whole oilfield of his interests—from cinema to music to literature to history to you i.
It would also, in appealing to neither professional academics nor amateurs of any given cultural field, be most unlikely to sell well, or even to attract much in the way of a so-called cult readership.
What, then, would be the point of writing it? It would have done Glenn proud. Posted by Douglas Robertson at Links to this post Email This BlogThis!
Essays , Glenn Gould , Tim Page. He was in the right: A year [in the] Ludwig Pavilion. HE, an old actor. A chair at stage left, a chair by the wall at stage right.
A window at stage right, a door at stage left. A table and chair. A tape-recorder on the floor. Early in the day. HE in a shabby black suit and oversize felt slippers with buckles, and with a pair of spectacles hanging from his neck, is kneeling on the floor and nailing down a plinth.
If anybody sees me here. Contemplates the nail he has most recently hammered down. A contempt for craftsmen. We have all allowed our talents. Guest of honor on the Isle of Man.
Devoured along with the viceroy by Indians. Who would have imagined. How we have dwindled here. The mice are holdovers.
First a phobia about hats. I had always been punctual. Brought punctuality to a science. Either we go to seed. I have outrun stupidity.
But if we had not had our seizures. My heart made into a den of thieves. No temperament for ministration. We concoct ourselves our own unhappiness.
Like an unappetizing soup. A matter of taste he said. I have figured out his game. We love our brother to the end of our life.
Up in my head. I have always been a gourmet. Everyone has died off. I am a genius. I have always said to myself. We despair quite early on.
When falsehood dominates everything. I am no idiot. Studied in France at the Sorbonne. A despiser of books. A degenerator of knowledge. A demolisher of character.
Always played the role of the maker of unhappiness. A conspiracy first against my parents. They all died off. I walked with a vigorous gait.
I bought myself a book. But reading is supersensual. We tolerate nothing else. Tries to stand up, but remains kneeling.
Did not abandon pleasure, naturally. At the age of eighteen. Made a show of myself with Schubert. Italian arias with great sympathy.
They naturally did not think. That I would go ahead with everything. They shook their heads. And had left them behind me.
Stands up and stretches. I have always loathed. Goes to the window and looks out and turns around and glances at the door. Given up my desires.
But I have not. We owe nothing to anyone. Everyone owes everything to us. But we owe nothing to anyone. We could do everything for ourselves.
You go your way. I will go my way. To cook their own chicken soup. We want to go to bed. We have uncovered ourselves in the night.
Childhood shoved us off. Ordinarily on Sunday she wore. At the age of seventy-six she accused me of lying.
Later on in the spring an incessant compulsion to talk. Looks around, looks at the writing-pad. Practically nothing more to do with it.
It is no longer of any concern to us. We have not been left unpunished. Paper war horribly conclusive. Led astray yet again to lechery.
It makes no difference. If we inherit from our grandfather. When we are not even in a position. Because we have inherited.
A lifelong philosophical malheur. If we still had a manager. Mr Manager, I say. If we give names to the mice. D Und noch eine kleine Bitte an euch: Kopiert nichts von meinem Blog und gebt es nicht als euer eigenes aus.
Ich bin da zwar noch nicht so erfahren, aber trotzdem gefällt mir sowas nicht. Also mein Blog mit Text und Bildern steht unter Copright.
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I did not respond to. I have been to Moscow I said. I have been to Helsinki I said. I have been to New York I said. I have been to Saõ Paulo.
At large gatherings I invariably stopped all conversation in its tracks. I do not understand the slightest thing about surrealism.
Bertrand Russell is a charlatan I said. Don't even mention Beethoven around me. Bankers are all vultures I said. In my youth I played the double bass.
I talked about Polish seeds. Allude to Schopenhauer as little as possible. I always thought to myself. Walks to the table, picks up the hammer, kneels before the plinth that he has just nailed down, and hits the nail that he has just hammered down.
Inspects the plinth and says very quietly. If we no longer answer letters. Hotel in Black Forest. HE is sitting at the table, in shirtsleeves, with an old blanket wrapped.
The element of the perverse in my thoughts. If I walked quickly. If I walked slowly. You a cripple and an actor. In Badgastein the thunder of the waterfall drowned out.
Out of fear we drip. I shall put it on. I shall put on the crown. I last put it on in March. On the twenty-seventh of March.
First we get upset. Then we calm down. No it was not by chance. I was already an actor. In my mother's belly.
I was already Richard the Third. Running in the wrong direction means death. When my head begins to bleed.
Never thrust myself into the foreground. We undertake a journey. We leave the house. Nor do we make telephone calls anymore.
Kept the newspaper subscription. Too much pallor in my face. Everyone has always time and again. The art of acting.
We have believed nothing. Learned how to cough. Always time and again made a grimace. And then suddenly the entire grand.
Looks into the mirror again and sticks his tongue out. If we are so to speak. Always put the crown on. Even though I did not know. Thought too much about Shakespeare.
We are not permitted to think about the art of acting. A wretched dog that thinks. It is a wretched dog. Cogitated much too much. Recapitulated much too much.
Traveled around much too much. I had to get to know the continent. Fell ill for the whole year. On account of this single scene.
And can never explain what the art of acting is. Under the crown I calm down. I would have even acquired the costume.
I wanted the crown. I would die at seventy. I wanted to have the crown. I am myself alone. I had expressed the desire. When we walk along the street.
But injustice is everywhere. When I am hardly capable anymore. Of making myself a cup of tea. Twenty years I have thought.
I shall paint one more time. It really is all the same. Whether it is painted again. I no longer notice. Whether it has been painted.
After her death I shall paint. That nobody comes anymore. Two days before her death. She was still saying. I had become malicious.
I was by now not only weird. But also malicious to boot. But Rodrigo I said. They left me behind. Tries to stand up but does not succeed. The catastrophic thing of course was.
I was thoroughly ill. In the Thuringian forest. We do not forgive them. The crime of being born. There is a knock at the door. It is not without.
I have broken off all. We wish to be left alone. We burn all our bridges behind us. Grew old before their time. Is that you Katharina.
Ah yes my child. Walks to the window and looks out the window and turns back around. I am just reading in a book. Tries to take the crown off his head, but he does not take it off.
I am just putting on my jacket. I have read Schopenhauer. Why do you come now. Katharina enters with a half-full jug of milk. We think it is our evil genius, child.
I am the old actor. Human beings are the cause. HE still standing at the door. Human beings are horrible my child. The whole of humanity is megalomaniacal.
The crown yes the crown. I played him in Duisburg. It was not a success. I loved the role. For my seventieth birthday.
The municipal government of Duisburg presented me with. We enjoy no success. In Duisburg my child.
In the theater at Duisburg I have played. People who work in the theater. Are you afraid of me. In Duisburg I played. As well as Don Carlos. Every now and then.
All actors are crazy. Won't you sit down. HE sits down on the chair at the window. The actor has a crown on his head.
Has your mother given you permission. To The Magic Flute. That is the most wonderful experience for a child. Human beings are human agents of destruction.
For over ten years. I have put on. Do you like the crown. But it is thoroughly nonsensical. That means nothing to you. I fear nothing more.
Fear is perverse my child. Would you like some juice. HE stands up and walks to the icebox and asks.
HE opens the icebox and takes out a bottle of black-cherry juice and fills a glass with it and places it on the table. And don't gulp it down all at once.
It all looks very simple. Presses the crown firmly down on his head. Human beings do not forgive. Du kommentierst mit Deinem Twitter-Konto.
Du kommentierst mit Deinem Facebook-Konto. Benachrichtigung bei weiteren Kommentaren per E-Mail senden. Hey und Willkommen auf meinem Blog! Ich hoffe, dass euch mein neuer Blog gefällt!
Dieser Blog ist noch neu und baucht noch ein paar Fans. Damit bist du immer auf dem laufenden! A boy lying on a blnket. A beautiful little girl shyly smiles a toothless smile Artsiom Petrushenka Fotolia.
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