A Cold, Dark Sunday in November

It's wet and the darkest of grays on the other side of my living room windows.  I passed on the opening of a photo exhibition in the Mehgenerationenhaus today.  It's a three kilometer walk and even goretex is uncomfortable on the city streets in persistent rain.  I've got a couple of friends exhibiting and would have loved to see them, but it's is proving to be very comfortable here at Stone Street.  I've got cookies and coffee and plenty to read.  The direction the mind is taking is a good one, with doodles and sketches and a stirring of the wood carver's muse.  Some days, just getting a word or two on the page is enough to frame a story.  Some days, it's enough. 

The intersection of certain memories when the weather is like this brings Neruda to mind, the gray beret and its time and place, cafes and theatres.  One of the interesting aspects of mind is its ability to formulate vignettes on the recollection of a word or phrase, a scent or sight. 

I like my mind and all of its peregrine wanderings.

Christmas is on the way.....

There's a big tree standing in the Gaensemarkt, the one in the Altermarkt is coming today, I believe.  It compares in size to our Gaensemarkt tree as the Altermarkt compares to it in terms of foot traffic, which means, it's a BIG tree.  I'll take a walk on Christmas Day, just like I would on any other, but instead of trying to empty my mind, I'll fill it-with my kids, my Mom and Dad, my Brother and Sister, and, of course Gideon the Great.  I'll think about some German families I've spent Christmases Past with, and of my aunts and uncles and cousins and I'll smile about it all.  That's the nice think about Christmas, unless you're stinking drunk, you love everybody.  I try to make it Christmas in my head for a few minutes each day.  Even the Big Buddha enjoyed a holiday.....

What next?

So far this morning, I've awakened from my sleep, brushed my teeth, cooked the coffee, read, thought, and performed bodily functions of a nature which need not be described on this page.  Because of the exigencies of internet, I've browsed fine art and coarse, caught up on the news, and been invited to two photography exhibition openings.  No one has offered to publish a book, or even a collection of short stories or poetry.  All of this is in keeping with the notion of the great karmic wheel.  What I'll probably do next is walk.  Alone. Given the grayness of the November sky, the temperature in the single digits (centigrade single digits are nowhere near the cold of Fahrenheit single digits) I will probably not meet anyone along the way who'll stop long enough to converse. Which is why I'm talking to you now.  How are you?  Do you have plans for the day?  Will you be travelling soon, and if so, where will you be going?  Well, enjoy yourself, wherever you go, whatever you do.  Pay attention to the autumn leaves and if you see a snail, tell it the Scheckenbuddha says hello.

Enough of you, then, let's talk about me.  I am fine.  Thank you.

The Oppressive Silence of Contentment

It's been quiet at Steinstrasse 1a the past few months.  I've taken a few licks off of a few blocks of wood, scribbled a sentence here, a paragraph there, but I've accomplished nothing more than to amuse myself.  When you realize there's nothing to prove to yourself or the rest of the world, that there's nothing wrong, but everything right with just being, it doesn't matter if you're 16, 66, or 96.  You've still got plenty of time to finish the job of living, even if it's just a year or a month or a day.  You can't tell a book by its cover, say the less than sage, who may be sager than the buddha in my copious self.  I am not Hemingway, or Rodin, or Robinson Crusoe, or even John Zavacki.  I am a buddha who lives five stories above the ground and stares from his balcony into the moat.  When I sit quietly, or walk at a snail's pace around the city wall or in the fields and forests that surround it, I am at peace with myself.  I realize that all of the failures and sins and omissions of the past are just the paths of particles in space that I may encounter again.  If I do, I am better prepared.  If I don't, I remember them with compassion, compassion for my self that was and the selves of others with whom I interacted.  I no longer need readers or admirers or lovers or even friends to complete me.  The kernel of the universe, the fractal that is infinitely recursive, recursive enough to be all of space and all of time, starts here, ends here, and depends on nothing.  It's okay to have a lapse in productivity.  The universe survives without reading my words or seeing a piece of my sculpture, but it survives differently.

Crooked Cucumber

I've switching between two texts for the past few weeks. One, of which the title is the title of this post, is a biography of Shunryu Suzuki, a great Zen Master. The other is 'Branching Streams Flow in the Darkness', Suzuki's commentary on the Sandokai, an ancient poem by Sekito Kisen. Suzuki gave the talks shortly before he died, something Zen Masters are known to do.  I don't know why, but I'm trying to find out.

At 66, I don't think my chances are very great at becoming a teacher of Zen, so I hope my actions in the last section of a life that has swung from being a promising poet to wearing a coat and tie and creating wealth for the captains of industry to be an unofficial zen monk who sits and carves and walks and sees will be enough to lighten my load in the next round. If I've learned anything form zen practice, it is that all creatures deserve compassion and that all creatures are capable of giving it.  If I can be a positive infuence on one other creature, it will be a start.  I'll be putting more thought into this blog, become everthing happens on Stone Street.

Poland: the Motherland Discovered

This is going to be a long one.  My first trip to Poland was an adventure for me, a great adventure, and the impressions I've made are (unashamedly) poetic.

My good friend Maciej Janowski, with whom I worked for a few years here in Herford, invited me to visit him in Poznan.  He was coming to Herford and we could drive there together.  I accepted, and we went.

Note from my journal:
Tomorrow - Poland

I've been close for years. A six hour drive. By American standards, a day trip. Something always held me back. Books and websites gave a good enough picture. It's a hundred years later (fifty since the last letter). Germany's the same thing. My Polish is pathetic.

It is the Summer of 2012. My 66th birthday is next week. I won't live forever and Maciej's in Herford extending an offer. Poznan, Warsaw, Lipno-the  Americans are coming. At least this one is.



Welcome to Poland
Just after crossing the border into Poland and about 50 kilometers from Poznan on the recently completely A2 (E30) autobahn, everything stopped.  We were in a line of traffic two lanes wide, 2 kilometers in front of us, and before we started moving again, at least another 2 behind.

A2 Traffic Jam

It cleared after an hour or so and on we went.  We dropped our things at Maciej's apartment and went to town.  

Poznan

Poznan has a good system of buses and streetcars and we took advantage of it, even though it's easy enough to drive and park.  It's only a few minutes from Maciej's apartment  near the  the center of the city by tram, and so we go.  Poznan's Old Town is a beautiful one.  The very large market square is dominated by the whimsical city hall with it's head-butting goat clock.  It is surrounded by restaurants and cafes where one can sit under the umbrella and sample pierogi of every sort, bigos, kielbasa, pork, beef, beets, all within an atmosphere of cabbage and mushrooms.  I was at home, in heaven, in short, I ate......

Over the next few days we walked and we walked, through the city's churches, cathedrals, monasteries, and museums.  We sampled at least half of the restaurants and meandered in out and of shops.  

Note from my journal:

Poznan is a sprawling city. Remnants of the Communist years are scattered across the cityscape like randomly generated anomalies in an otherwise pleasant dream. At the center of it all, some of the richest church art and architecture in central Europe, the whimsical representation of the Prussian era, the beginning of Polish monarchy, and the humor, and the pride of the new Poland.

Background

Bamberka

Poznan is called Posen in Germany.  It was a part of the German territory of East Prussia until the end of the Second World War when it was receded to Poland.  It has always been a crossroads of Germanic and Slavic culture.  The Bambrzy or Bambergs are a prime example of the constant flux in the constitution of the folk of Poznan.  


Polish, Prussian, Soviet, the people are the people and Poznan survives and flourishes.  If you speak German or English, you can get around in the city with little trouble.  Of course, it helps if you speak a little Polish.

Poznan was the last stronghold of German resistance against the oncoming Soviet Army at the end of WWII and the story is told at the Cytadela, a beautiful park and museum of Polish Military History as well as a cemetery where, along with Polish heroes, the graves of Russian soldiers of WWII and British soldiers from WWI can be found.

There's a lot more to tell about Poznan, and Warszawa is another story, but for now, it's Sunday, I need to take a walk.....(to be continued)

Poznan Continued
There is not only a sense of history in the city, but a sense or irony and humor.  One evening, Maciej and I met a colleague of his in the city and in our touring they took me to a cafe that was done up in the finest of Communist Time decor: white walls and black and white photos of butcher shops and grocery stores with bare shelves, newspaper articles about Stalin and company, bright light, and, or course, lots of vodka.

For Sunday lunch, Maciej took me to a restaurant of the same genre, where the food came to the table on a well-worn wooden cart.  Despite the austere appearance, it was delicious (not to mention, ample)!! I don't photograph inside of cafes or restaurants, but I did get this example of the wistful humor with which the city remembers the Communist Time:

Comrade Lenin's New Tie

Poznan's churches are a treasure trove of art and architectural delights with open catacombs for the historian, with the different styles of stone work dating the stages of construction and/or destruction. The devotion of the Polish Catholic Church to Mary the Mother of God is everywhere visible with reproductions of the Black Madonna of Czestochowa abundant in both fine and folk art. The first documented ruler of Poland, Mieszko I and his son Boleslaw the Brave (the first crowned king) are believed to be buried in the Poznan Cathedral.

Warszawa

Warszawa is a large city with over 2 million inhabitants.  It is the capital of Poland and a center of art and culture.  I won't try to give any history lessons.  You should know enough about Chopin, Copernicus and Marie Curie to know that a lot of good stuff happened and is still happening in this city.  You should also know about the Warsaw Uprising during the Second World War and the involvement of John Paul II in the solidarity movement which eventually forced an end to communist rule.  Even if you don't know these things, you would do yourself a favor by learning them.  Again, this isn't a history lesson, it's an essay about my summer vacation, so I'll get off the soap box and onto the streets.

One of the most impressive sites is the Palace of Culture.

Day and Night Views

The story goes like this:  in the 1950s, the Soviets wanted to give a gift to Poland.  They offered a subway system or this building.  The Poles chose the subway system. Because of the sandy soil, construction did not go well, frustrating our Communist friends to the point where they gave up and built the Palace. At any rate, it's an impressive edifice.

When I've got the photos all sorted out, you'll be able to see more of the city, the Presidential Palace, the beautiful old town, parks, art, and more.  There are a lot of photos, some of which need to be discarded.  Warsaw is VERY big, with over 2 million people in it and two four hour shifts of photo wandering force some hasty shots!!  

I talked to a few artists in the old town, painters, wood carvers, and a maker of little angels and really enjoyed myself being able to pronounce almost one hundred words with only a slight Russian accent.....

On Monday morning, Maciej had some business to attend to, so I roamed to old town through a park where I lingered under the trees for almost half and hour listening to a student in one of the buildings on the edge of the park playing Chopin.  It was magic for me, Poland, Summer, and Chopin!

I met Maciej back at the Palace of Culture, waiting on a bench and watching people while I waited, there were old folks, children, an angry sounding Russian folk guitarist, and the cool breeze blowing off of the fountain.

The Fountain

We drove back towards Poznan to pick up Kasa and the boys and visit a bit with Kasa's family.  The hospitality was wonderful and we ate kotelety and grzybki and ogorki and it was delicious!  We went from the apartment to their garden and I was a kid again in Babchi's garden-grape arbor, fruit trees, flowers and a whole family of people talking and examining the plants!  Unfortunately, my camera was in my backpack in Maciej's car and I was so completely engrossed with these lovely people that I forgot all about it!!

We drove back to Poznan in the dark, with a hellacious thunderstorm in front of us.  There was a lot of enormous lightning striking in the distance, but always ahead of us.  When we got to Poznan, it was gone, but the next day, it was obvious that it had been there.  Workers were sawing through branches and cleaning up the debris all over the place!  

Maciej drove me to town and spent the afternoon with his family while I visited the Musical Instrument Museum, some more churches, and made more photos.  Late afternoon, Maciej, Kasa, Julian, and Marcel came to town.  I met them another fountain (landmark navigation, I love it) and we strolled around the Old Town, ate, and spent the evening at their beautiful apartment.  The next morning, the whole family drove me to the train stations and by five in the afternoon, I was back in Herford with enough material for a few good short stories!

Tomorrow, I'll complete the web albums and insert the links at the top of this page.

Thank you for your patience....

Maybe I Should Have Said Nice

You're not just what you eat. If I were, I'd be a fish swimming in a sea of rice and vegetables. If you've got a Higgs boson handy, you can throw it my way and see for yourself. Having a boson of any sort around takes a lot of work, so I'll assume you don't, and save you time by admitting it: I am not a fish.

I am however disturbed by concepts of good and evil, god and satan, Illuminati, the zeitgeist of the new millennium  politics, religion, and economics. Let me talk for awhile before you hit the back button. I'm not a conspiracy theorist, fundamentalist preacher, new age prophet, or guru of any flavor.
The question of context keeps coming up. And the context is often dreams.

Dreaming of bridges and tunnels and lights and shadows is vague.  Amorphous ideas resound in dreams, at least in mine.  They are always things becoming.  The big ones are most difficult to retrieve.  Some small detail which might give me a clue as to why I think the way I think, the things I think, is always missing.  No small matter.  Although matter, without energy, is nothing to think about.  It's the energy that keeps it all in motion.  So I eat the fish, the rice, the vegetables in order to stay in motion.  Since matter without energy.....