Saturday, October 19, 2013

The Life of Pi

I was sitting outside of the cafe this afternoon, reading 'The Life of Pi' (highly recommended by my daughter, and now, by myself) and I thought about a few religious friends of mine and how they might react to it.  I decided I would approach them with the idea, telling them it's a book to read without forming opinions or making judgments, just read, enjoy the flow of the language, smile every once in awhile.  When you're done, okay say something to yourself about it.

That's the way I approach all literature, prose or poetry, wait for the gestalt to form and then feel it.  As I was formulating this thought, I had visions of the one pointing to heaven and shouting blasphemy or another pointing to hell and shouting something easier to spell and I chuckled.  Good fiction should bring you into the world of the characters, lifting you out of your physical location and setting you down in theirs.  It should be lived, loved, and most of all, enjoyed for what it is: language, the only magic left in the world.

My Sense of Humor is Broken

I woke up earlier this week in an odd mood.  Maybe I'd dreamed something that bothered me, or maybe it wasn't a dream that was bothering me, but some other subconscious inclusion that had festered long enough in the gray matter and had forced itself to the surface.  I couldn't remember dreaming and whatever the thought was, given the date of October 16th, it was between new and nine years old.  I had a sense of impending doom, existential angst, fear of failure, fear of success. And nine years is a lot of thoughts.

I ate two wiener wurstchen and finished my coffee.

I went for a walk.

It didn't go away.

I took a nap, calling upon my ability to force vivid dreams on my way in to the inner world.  The dreams were fast and furious.  I woke an hour later and couldn't remember any of them.  I just knew they were good ones.

Off to the Cafe.  Coffee.  Reading.  People watching.  I opened a new page in the notebook.  I scribbled furiously.  I came up with a poem.  It wasn't very good.  I went for another walk.

It's three days later.  I'm okay, but my sense of humor is broken.  I laugh at my toilet every time I flush it.  Maybe it's symbolic.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Just Another Sunday Morning without the Benefits of a Healthy Breakfast

Kirmes (for those of you who don't know, it's a fair, a fest, kiddie rides, beer, bratwurst, and other delicacies) is on since Thursday night, which is when the rain started.  Today is the closing day and the weatherman promises skies that will alternate between clear and cloudy.  No chance of rain.  We'll see about that.

I'm not the greatest fan of Kirmes.  I don't drink beer that has alcohol (more than 0%, which means trace), rarely eat the brats (although I'm fond or Riesen Krakauer, or giant Polish bologna) and I don't ride the kiddie rides.  There've been enough photos of our fair city made from the top of the ferris wheel.  What I am fond of, is watching people enjoying themselves, which means I'll make a round or two to smell the smells and hear the sounds and watch the kids trying to weasel another euro out of mom and dad.  Kirmes occupies the Alter Market, Linenbauerplatz, Rathausplatz, and a little bit of the Neuermarkt.  It doesn't extend to my neighborhood, the Gaensemarkt.  In order to compensate, the Gaensemarkt will be the home of the Herbstmarkt today, a collection of stalls selling produce, meat, potables, and other stuff to get you through the coming winter.  There will be some fotos to make and some stories to fashion.  Which is why no healthy breakfast.  I'll be eating out today, and I can assure you, whatever it is, it will contain a week's worth of fat.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

I Like October

October is, to me, the fairest month.  It is a new year, a new love, a new life, each and every October.  I don't remember when it started, this October infatuation, maybe it's always been like this.  Something about the weather and the way the Sun goes down makes me happy.  I've started love affairs in October, written some of my best poetry, begun my most interesting wood carvings, and taken some of my best walks.

October smells of wool and flannel and burning leaves.  In my youth, it was spent in hunting grouse and rabbit, and flipping the best of my flies at the biggest trout.  And of course, a month into the school year, there was always love, if not of women, at least of new knowledge.  October makes me smile more than any month in winter, spring, or summer. It may just be the light, or the air.  It may just be the way a woman looks in a wool sweater, or the way a trout rises, or a grouse flies.  It may just be October.