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It is a whirlwind in here

Author

Dale Estey

I owe my life to Hitler, though I never met the man. My father was paid to stop Hitler, so there is no conflict of interest. I was given a thunk on the back o' the head by God when I was fifteen, and within a week began to write. I haven't stopped. My first novel was accepted 'over the transom'. My first editor/author luncheon in New York included a naked man with roller skates at the next table. For the sake of research I have lain on Kafka's grave, but I did not weep. I wish upon my own gravestone the phrase "Thank God He Didn't Die A Virgin". There is truth in every truth - so watch out. My published novels include the popular fantasy A Lost Tale and the thriller The Bonner Deception. I also have two editions of humorous and spiritual short stories, The Elephant Talks to God, which are appreciated by both young and old. My manuscripts range from stories about unicorns and druids in the 'Passing Through Trilogy' to the 9/11 destruction of New York. I have filled in the missing diaries of Franz Kafka; recounted the first person dementia of a serial killer; explored the outrageous lifestyle of the famous; and listened in while an elephant and God converse. I currently switch my attention between the saga of a family of onion farmers, from Fourth century Italy to the present day, and a contemporary NATO thriller. I live in Canada and make Nova Scotia my home. I prefer to travel by train, but embrace the computer age with passion. I am always on the hunt for unique onion recipes.

Alison Alexandra Attends A Party & Starts A Novel

 

192771-131-00e5aa76

 

Alison Alexandra had asked her partner, with far more innocence than the result entailed, when people were going to pair off and head for the bedrooms. It was such a lackluster gathering she figured it would take quite a jolt to generate any interest.

            And, she had asked her partner. It wasn’t as if she was angling for a tryst.

            But, out of the blue – and out of other people’s boredom? – within twenty minutes or so, she had a woman sidle up to her. Drink in hand. Held at a professional tilt, though there was no raised pinky finger. Voice low, though not as low as the woman thought.

            “Are you the one who asked if we are going to start to go to bed?”

            Alison Alexandra, used to fine drink since her university days away, knew the lady’s finely-tilted glass was but a prop and barely touched. The scent of whiskey came solely from the glass. As for the lady herself, butter would freeze in her mouth.

            “Is it making the rounds?”

            “Do you want to make the rounds?”

            “That was not my intent – no.”

            “Then I don’t know if you are successful or not.”  The glass touches teeth. “Your question is making the rounds with alacrity.”

            Alison Alexandra likes the word “alacrity”. It sounds like its own action.

            “Have there been any answers?”

            “Not to me.” There is a fleeting melt of the ice that is not in her glass. “Not that I’ve asked.”

            “Have you made a head count?”

            “I have not pointed and gone ‘eeny meeny miny moe’ – no.” The woman leans closer to Alison Alexandra, her lips now a conspiratorial distance from an ear. “But I do keep a select few in my vision.”

            “Has there been movement?”

            “There has been – if not corralling – some sidling up beside, with a ‘nicker’ into an attentive ear.”

            “Anything for a pair of knickers, perhaps?”

            The woman straightens with enough speed to lose a few drops of her conversational whiskey. She looks at Alison Alexandra in surprise and appreciation. A translucent mask is peeled from her face. She is animated. Her eyes are expectant.

            “You are new here.”

“You’re the observer.” Alison Alexandra smiles.

“But I never say what I really see.” The woman finally takes a real drink. “None of us do.”

“But you come up to me – with your observations.”

“In truth -”

The woman stops. She realizes how rarely she tells the truth. She is startled that she is about to do so. She is apprehensive.

“In truth, it is on a dare.”

“Someone has dared you to ask me?”

“Actually, a number of people have put money in a pot to see if this will happen.”

“To approach me?”

“Yes.”

“How much am I worth?”

The woman raises her glass and laughs. “A bottle of Scotch.”

“Good Scotch?”

“Not really.” The woman is apologetic, yet she laughs. “It’s not that caliber of party.”

Alison Alexandra can see a friendship in the offing. So much more important than a partner for the night.

She takes the glass from the unprotesting woman and has a drink.

“Better than this?”

“Not even as good as.”

“Then no one is going to get me out of my knickers.” This does not stop Alison Alexandra from taking another drink. She hands the glass back to the woman. “There. I’ve had my limit.”

“That surely won’t get you into bed.”

“I’ve been looking around.” Alison Alexandra looks slowly around again. “Not even a bottle will accomplish that.”

The woman looks at her glass. It is still nearly full. She takes a deep drink.

“I am not so pure.”

“Oh – purity has nothing to do with it.” Alison Alexandra does take a bit of care with her next sentence. “But I am very picky.”

(image) https://cdn.britannica.com/300×500/71/192771-131-00E5AA76.jpg

Octoberfest/Oktoberfest In Munich/München, 2020 – Alas, The Beer Won’t Flow, It Is Cancelled

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Octoberfest in Munich this year of 2020 has been cancelled. You just know there will be many drunk folk, and they won’t keep their distance.

However, since I start my novel, Fame’s Victim, at Oktoberfest in München, I will abridge the first chapter.

ST is famous for his discoveries about Space and Time – hence the initials. He is fodder for magazine and movie fantasy. His is the life from which envy is made.    

Fame is a seductive life sentence. ST suffers consequences as he strides the red carpet.

In Fame’s Victim, ST ends one century attending Oktoberfest in Munich,  the biggest party in Europe, and starts the next hiding away from the world’s Press that hound him for his opinion

~~~~~******~~~~~

UM PA PA! UM PA PA!

Tuba sounds assail ST as he forges through the clogged streets and packed alleys of Munich during these last hours of Oktoberfest. This, and the thousands upon thousands of revellers apparently heading to his own destination.

ST  worries what will happen when he reaches the Kafer’s Wiesnschanke tent. Because it is situated on the very edge of these huge Oktoberfest fairgrounds, ST is in one of his impeccable disguises. However but will it prove so effective (as it is proving now), that he will be unable to gain entry? Without immediate entry and quick access to his reserved table, he is not going to get to his waiting bottle of Glen Grant scotch.

ST has never had to deal with this problem. He uses camouflage to get from one private destination to another, and always has the luxury of removing his disguise in the comfort of some bath or bedroom. Here, he will have to prove who he is in one public place, so he can get out of another public place.

ST passes the Hofbrauhaus, with still a long way to go. He regrets he consented to spend these last two hours of the week deep in the gemutlichkeit of Bavarian sausages, chicken and beer – horse-drawn wagons of which trundle past even as he aims unerringly for Kafer’s Wiesnschanke tent.

This dramatic scene is foreign to him, though he supposes he is no longer foreign. It is through his inheritance of vast tracts of land and chattels along the coast of the North Sea (to say nothing of the interesting pockets of real estate and apartments still being revealed across the face of Europe, America, Australia, and the Bahamas) that his special invitation to this evening arrived. And the obligation to attend.

The acres of vibrant lighting cast a multi-hue glow across ST. He notes his roughly-shaped beard (one of three dozen – each cropped differently), takes on such bizarre colouring that he doesn’t remember what it really looks like. He probably could have gone without disguise and passed unmolested. That is what his hosts had told him, but he has had such assurances before.

Under a set of flashing amber and yellow lights, ST looks at his watch. The crowd is slowing him, and he should have used another entrance, instead of the broad way through the tents. He tries to get closer to the edge of the crowd, but the edge in an ever-moving mass is difficult to find. It is analogous to the boundaries of Space/Time, which he can never actually discern either. ST rarely gets such a chance to put his world-famous theories to a practical test. Head up and elbows to the ready, he begins a vigorous forward thrust. This attitude alone is enough to make more people give way, plus he is not without practiced skill at dodging and pirouetting among crowds.

As ST advances the garish lights become more extreme, and he has difficulty distinguishing the various tents. The one he wants is in the upper corner, and supposedly not easy to miss. But it is also one of the smallest (holding slightly over 2000), and for all he knows it may get lost in this absurdest hurly-burly. He may succumb to this incredible throng, and get carried away on its tide to the more boisterous Spatenbrau, or whisked back to the very beginning of his trek at the Hippodrom.

In an attempt to fit in, when ST first arrived at the fairground he had purchased one of the large gingerbread cookies, which so many people are wearing around their necks. This is now proving a mistake, for it keeps bumping back and forth across his chest. As he has never actually seen anyone eating the damn things, he hesitates to take this course of action. On the other hand he is concerned that if he just tries to remove it from his neck, the cord might get tangled in his fake beard.

ST clamps a hand over the cookie as if he was taking an oath, and continues through the noisy revelry. He is just passing the Winzerer Fahndl tent and thus is not far from his destination. A turn to the right and some more well placed elbows, and he might be able to arrive in another five minutes.

Just as ST can lose Time when he attempts to track it, equation by equation, through the vast quadrants of his computer programs, so it begins to elude him here. The overwhelming chore of Oktoberfest becomes surprisingly addictive. Although he still wants his scotch and reserved place at table, he looks longingly at the Winzerer Fahndl tent with a desire to enter. As he stares overhead at the amusement park rides, he wonders if he would find them as thrilling as the screaming participants indicate they are. ST is even tempted to gravitate to the nearest thundering band, and settle in close to the tubas. Perhaps he might risk an inquisitive munch of his over-large gingerbread cookie.

These thoughts put him in a better frame of mind as he eases himself into the slowly moving crush. He gets behind a trio of husky teen-agers, and lets them unknowingly clear a path.

It seems their goal is to sample beer from each of the fourteen tents, but so far their boisterous gung-ho remains good-natured and useful. ST keeps just the right distance behind the three so he is not considered a part of their group, yet manages to glean the benefit of their passage. Much as the stern of a ship glides through the wake of the prow.

When he comes within sight of his own goal at Kafer’s Wiesnschanke, he wonders if his trio of outriders is going to steer in its direction. An argument can be made that it is next on the list of any pub-crawl, but the youths are loudly debating the merits of either the Sportschutzen or Lowenbrauu.

ST has the temptation to clap them boisterously on their shoulders and invite them to his more rarefied destination. His popularity with youth is particularly high right now, as he appears to be quite the rebel with his contention that the year 2000 is not the Millennium. This is not his desire, but who is more going to be asked all the questions about this momentous event than the expert on Space/Time?

Even his obvious equation – obvious to ST, at least – that if someone owes you $2000, you are not going to be satisfied in only getting $1999 back – has become an embedded catch phrase in nearly every article now written about the Millennium. It has even become a refrain in a contemporary pop song.

ST starts to hum “Don’t Shortchange Us”, having no fear of ever being heard over the din of Oktoberfest. The decision as to whether or not he will befriend the teen-aged trio is made for him as they abruptly link arms and make a wide swing toward the Lowenbrau tent. ST may be mistaken about the sound of his own voice, for the trio of teenagers breaks out in a thundering rendition of the refrain to “Don’t Shortchange Us”. They create a wide path through the packed revellers, many of whom applaud and join in.

[image] https://knnit.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/1200x630_963488-munich-oktoberfest-2020.jpg

The Harvest Of Autumn

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They put their hands into the rich earth – dark, moist loam which clung to the vegetables while it caked under their fingernails – and dug at the hills of firm potatoes.

They pulled the limp stalks, were satisfied when the bulky vegetables came out of the ground and rolled to a stop by their feet.

They shook the roots, loosening clods of earth and any remaining potatoes, then threw the dead plants onto a pile at the end of the row.

They scraped the excess dirt from the vegetables, placing the large ones into a barrel, and the smaller – even tiny – ones into a basket.

They wasted nothing.

They dug further with a hoe to make sure none were missed, then moved to start on the next hill.

(image) https://q961.com/files/2017/10/Drawing-potatoes-Woodstock-N.B.-.jpg?w=630&h=449&zc=1&s=0&a=t&q=89

               

A Hurricane, The Elephant, And God

The elephant was lost to the wind.

He stood foursquare against the tumult, head lowered as if ready to charge. It wrapped his body in its flags and banners, and then as quickly ripped them away. He had to close his eyes in some of the gusts, and occasionally his tail stuck straight out behind.     Many of the other animals found shelter, and even the monkeys came down to the lower branches of their trees. But the elephant flapped his ears in ecstasy as the wind battered against him, and trumpeted as loudly as the rowdydow would permit.

“I hear you,” said a frolicking cloud, as it whipped past his head. It turned a summersault back over the elephant’s back, and positioned itself with much dexterity in the elephant’s line of vision. “And I hazard the guess I’m the only one who can.”

“It’s like flying.”

“Now, now. You’ve tried that before.”

“But I’m staying on the ground, this time.”

“Well,” conceded God. “You’re standing on the ground. And it’s probable you will be staying on the ground. But, as you know, nothing in life is certain.”

“It certainly isn’t,” agreed the elephant, who then attempted to nod his head in agreement. But the wind took a particular bend, and not only could he not nod his head, but his trunk got thrown back into his face, hitting him in the eye.

“Ouch,” said the elephant.

“A cautionary God,” said God, “would go `tsk tsk’, and tell you to come in out of the wind.”

“And is that what you’re going to tell me,” shouted the elephant over the roar.

“God, no,” said God. “This is great stuff.”

“You’re a reckless God, then?” asked the elephant.

“Reckless. And cautious. There is a time for both. There is a need for both. Life demands that you run with it. And sometimes you run scared, and sometimes you run joyful.” The cloud was now tangled in the elephant’s tusks. ” And sometimes you get so caught up in it all that you can’t tell the difference.” The cloud shouted. “And sometimes you get hit in the eye. And sometimes you don’t.”

“And sometimes both,” suggested the elephant.

“You’re catching on.”

“But to you,” protested the elephant. “It is all so simple.”

“But …” The cloud sounded perplexed. “It is as simple as it sounds. Everything is everything. What you seem to do is pay too much attention to the individual parts. Concentrate on the whole.”

“I can hardly think of everything when I’m in the middle of this.”

“This is the perfect place.” The cloud played tag with the elephant’s ears. “Race with it. Race with it. Race with it. You

will never dance a better dance than here. With me.”

And the elephant watched the cloud tumble around his head, and bounce against his back, and twist around his tail.

And the elephant laughed, and laughed so loud that it broke through even the racing wind, and made the other animals peek from their shelters to watch.

And the elephant bobbed and weaved with the cloud, and the cloud held the elephant in a wispy embrace, and the wind turned to music.

Happy Birthday To Me / Hippo Bird Day Two Ewes

 

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There will be scampi on a plate with breakfast for my birthday.

     Quarts of wild strawberries will float in flagons of cold Rhinish wine. Blueberries will be hidden by thick cream, and golden honey shall trickle from plates of buttered toast. Braces of quail and brown roasted turkey will be surrounded by steaming heaps of new potatoes and tender ears of corn. Joints of beef and lightly curried lamb will stand between bottles of red Anjou wine and jugs of red Italian fire.

     A smoking, suckling pig will have bowls of dry, yellow squash at its feet and stacks of cheeses at its head. Pastry and pies and a foot high chocolate cake will stand among jars of brandied fruit. A cask of aged port will remain, to do justice at the end.

     Then I shall settle back to patiently await my dinner.

[Image] https://image.slidesharecdn.com/brthdy-1225815250925041-9/95/happy-birthday-1-728.jpg?cb=1225786507

The Slow Curved Moradia Eel on Twitter

“The Slow Curved Moradia Eel”
Is the answer
I gave
To one of those
Constant,
Inane,
Questions
That pop up
So often
In my
Twitter feed.
 
The question was:
“What sea creature do you find the most fascinating?”
 
Now
My true answer
Would
Have been
A
Seahorse
 
But
Really
My answer was more
To the insufferable
Stream
Of time-filling
Questions
Posted
Solely
To waste time
 
(And, probably
Glean information
For some advertising
Algorithm
I can’t even
Fathom.)
So – I made up a sea creature
Sue me!
Oh, dear
Oh – Dear!
Someone just
Asked:
“If you could hang out
with any cartoon character,
who would you choose
and why?”
 
Oh, oh, Dear!
 
Lemme think.
 
Algernon
The punk-haired
Tuba.
 
That should blow
All those inquisitive
Algorithms
To Hell.
 
[BTW]
The slow curved moradia eel”
Got
A
*like*.
 
D.E BA U.E.L
[Image – real eel]   static6.depositphotos.com/1075116/574/i/950/depositphotos_5748956-stock-photo-spotted-snake-eel-at-the.jpg

Take a sip – or two:  Know Your Amari – The ONLY Way to Finish an Italian Meal

Source: Know Your Amari – The ONLY Way to Finish an Italian Meal

Out in the woods. Wood Farm: The Royal Family’s secret home at Sandringham — Royal Central

Buckingham Palace announced The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh will cut their summer break short in Balmoral to spend time at the Sandringham Estate in Norfolk starting on Monday. A palace spokesperson said in a statement: “Subject to the finalisation of the autumn programme, Her Majesty’s intention is to return to Windsor Castle in…

Wood Farm: The Royal Family’s secret home at Sandringham — Royal Central

The Cruise Ship And The Bride’s House

I once lived in a mansion that even had its own ornate wooden sign; “The Bride’s House”. The house was built in the time of Queen Victoria and had an unique history (sometimes disputed)..
In those day,s the riverfront land was the location of a shipbuilding industry.. The daughter of the shipbuilder was getting married. As a wedding present, the father built The Bride’s House. In those days, new ships were built within tall wooden fencing, so competitors could not see the type of ship being constructed. Thus, it was assumed that a ship was being built. A wonderful surprise was revealed to the bride and groom when the fencing was removed after the wedding.
Sounds good to me.
Regardless, it is a very fancy mansion/house, and proved so to be by the international tourist industry. To my surprise.
One summer, I started to notice small buses stopping at the mouth of the driveway, just a few steps from the ornate wooden sign. They would stop for about five minutes, and then be on their way. Odd behaviour, and irregular. They generally came at the same time, early afternoon. And, there were odd lights coming from the interior of the buses.
Over the course of a couple of weeks, I realized the buses.were part of the tours that passengers on cruise ships were offered, when their ship came into port for a day. There was a seaport a half hour away.
Looking at a web site or two, I saw various sightseeing trips were offered, generally for no more than an hour distant from the port itself.If passengers didn’t want to tramp around the city,they could see some of the local sites. The Bride’s House fell into one of those tours..
This explained the odd irregularity of the buses, yet their consistent times of visit. The odd lights from inside the buses were folk taking photos. However The Bride’s House was not interesting/important enough to let them off the bus.
I confess, I sometimes made a point to be outside in the garden when the tour buses made their stop. I was diligently nonchalant in my activities, though I did wave a couple of times.. I could see no response through the tinted windows. But, I did wonder then – and I do wonder now – how far-flung some photographs of myself might have traveled. And did my cheery appearance  garner any comments.
(image) https:www.busesforsale.com/assets/images/catthumbs/activity-buses-for-sale.jpg

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