~ I take credit for everything.
~ Thank you. Thank You!
~ You’re welcome.
~ Let me shake your hand.
~ Of course.
~ I suppose a hug is too much?
~ Not at all.
~ Oh. Oh. You are Death’s dream.
~ Any chance you can take out Biden?
~ Oh, I am but a foot soldier. Anyway – he wears a mask.
~ Coward.
~ I love it when you talk like that.
~ He’s keeping his distance.
~ But you don’t.
~ I got guards. No one will get closer than six feet.
~ Of course.
~ I like that – six feet.
~ Why?
~ That’s how deep they bury you. Ground Zero.
~ But aren’t you worried about your followers?
~ Why?
~ Well – you’ll lose their votes.
~ Nah – that doesn’t matter.
~ But you’ll need every vote.
~ Oh, we just get them from the graveyard, too.
One of the major characters in my first published novel, A Lost Tale, came from Regensburg. He was a member of this choir.
Pope emeritus Benedict XVI is making a private visit to Germany to see his ailing brother Msgr. Georg Ratzinger.
An Excerpt from my Kafka In The Castle, where I fill in all of his missing diary entries. Perhaps because the summer heat is getting to him, his patience is thin with those whose hope outstrip the realities of life and – particularly – death.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
17 June 1917
I am told that you can’t lose people, that “…they will always be with you in memory.” Max is heavy with this type of comment – as if the hand of sentimentality brushed off his coat before he set out on each day.
Both the intelligent and the slow of wit seem to be struck dumb by this nonsense. Emotion, I suppose – hope, I suppose – has no place for reason among its folds. But, if you can not touch, or have expectation of being touched, then the people and places are as gone as yesterday.
There is no way to travel back, and the future beckons with only an empty gesture and a hollow laugh. Bowing low at the open doorway to usher you in, but the room is empty. And will remain ever so.
When they are no longer there to hold their hand out to you – well, then they are no longer there.
I have noted of late that charities are obviously using a third party to encourage donations. However, it seems that this third party is using the same devices for all charities. And that if a person gives to one or two (or more) charities, their name is going to be on the mailing lists of many clients of this third party (let’s call it the Mail Out King).
Upon my return, not only did I have reminders from the charities I do support, but a host of other requests from those I have not considered. Thus, I am awash in the enticements the Mail Out King supplies as inducements.
I now have twelve (12) pens at my disposal. Six (6) are black with gold trim; four (4) are garishly multi-coloured; one (1) is light blue; one (1) is tartan. Only five (5) have the name of a charity upon them.
More numerous than the pens, I have notepads of various sizes. These I actually use.
I have five (5) zippered pen&pencil cases to hold them.
I have three (3) large (and garishly-coloured) shoulder bags.
I have dozens of Christmas cards and envelopes.
I have hundreds of stickers containing my name and address to put upon these envelopes.
I have no idea what all this material is worth, nor what it must cost to send them.
PLEASE STOP
(image) thirdforcenews.org.uk/images/uploads/articles/229302/web_fundraising_image.jpg
The surface of the lake is so smooth, the flow of the differing currents are clearly seen as shimmering streaks reflecting the sunshine.
Breaking through these jewelled bands, like shadows over unrecognized borders, are three loons. Two black-capped Common and one red-throated. They stray apart, become lost in shafts of sparkling water, and as unexpectedly re-appear further along the shore.
The red-throated loon keeps a slight distance from the other two. Usually, it is the first to dive. Dive and disappear so cleanly there is only the barest ripple to betray it.
The other two then quickly go without a sound, a liquid dive that leaves the water empty, save for the dancing sunshine.
And then a head.
And then two more bodies break the surface, far from where they went under. They move with an ease that makes them seem part of the water.
One of them wallows slightly on its side, then reaches far down its breast to preen. After a few nibbles, it rights itself and unhurriedly joins its companions.
They become a distant trio of sleek shapes, and disappear in the haze of horizon and glinting sun.
I crossed the border yesterday, in this time of Pandemic. On an intercity bus. Restricted to nine passengers. At least I had a seat to myself.
The last time I crossed a border under threat of reprisal was decades ago. I entered (and left) Czechoslovakia (as it was then called) by train. I had gone to Prague to follow the footsteps of Kafka. Then the concern of authorities was all about smuggling. Dire consequences that could put you in prison. And, on my way back out of the country, I was subject to a random search. Open my luggage, and spread what items the soldier decreed upon the seat and aisle, as he poked and prodded. He took interest in an object ( I forget what it was) which quite quickly could be seen to be a commercial souvenir. Thankfully. My careful packing had then to be shoved helter-skelter back into my luggage. Better a jumble than a jail.
So, crossing the border in the same country in this time of Pandemic was not as filled with anxiety, though anxious I still was. Although travel restrictions are being loosened and (at least in this neck of the woods) the Curve is being flattened,
Death stalks the Land / and keep washing your hands.
I did change my seat once, because a passenger changed seats to “have a better view”. That seat was across the aisle from me.
I was handed a form to fill out by the bus driver at a transfer station (nearly empty of people) to give to the border guards if they asked. Apparently they did not ask for it all that often. Where are you coming from/where are you going to. Name. Full address. Reason for travel. Do you have any symptoms?
So, with mask in place (well … a lot of the time – though always when off the bus) I had a reasonably pleasant trip on a reasonably pleasant day. Lots of elbow room. There was an hour’s delay at the actual border. When it was the turn for the bus, no officer actually did board to check us out. Or take our forms. However, the driver handed his PA microphone out the window so the officer could tell us that: “Anyone breaking the fourteen (14) day quarantine upon arrival was subject to a $1,000 fine.”
I’ve got thirteen (13) days left.
It is difficult to be,
Or, to do,
(Hard to say which is more accurate)
A Flash Mob of One.
Particularly the alto parts.
But that is all
Which is allowed
In these times of
Pandemic.
Six feet (two meters)
Apart.
Multiplied (x)
By who knows
How many people.
So,
Ya gotta be community safe
(So much better than sorry),
And do it all yourself.
This does, however, make those
High-kick routines
Much easier to
Choreograph.
(image) https://reputationtoday.in/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/flashmob.jpg
WHEN IN ROME!
There was:
an Abyssinian (I made her),
an Albanian,
a Bolshevik,
a Brataslzvian (he was worst),
a Brazilian,
a Canadian,
a Cannibal (uh-oh),
a Colombian (smoking hot),
a Cynic (she didn’t believe the Canadian),
a Dominican,
a Druid (he prayed for the Dominican),
a Druze,
an Eatonian,
an Estonian,
a Fool (ha ha),
a Freizen,
a Gazian,
a Graduate,
a Haligonian,
a Helgolandian (he was and gone),
an Israeli,
an Iranian,
an Iraqi (they three went into a bar),
a Jamaican,
a Japanese,
a Kazistanian,
a Kurd,
a Lithuanian,
a Lush (one in every crowd),
a Mongolian,
a Monster (them is the odds),
a Nederlander,
a Norwegian,
an Olympian (he was game),
an Opportunist (coulda been me),
a Pole (he vaulted over the rest – *joke*),
a Quebecois (I’ll never forget her / Je me souviens),
a Russian (great dancer – he had the steps),
a Scandinavian,
a Southerner (I melt when she says ‘Y’all) ,
a Stevedore,
a Transvalanian (out for blood),
an Ukrainian,
an Unitarian,
a Vulcan (he was eerie),
a Waalloon,
a Wisenheimer,
an Xanaduian (and on her dulcimer she played),
an Xaverian (he shot daggers at the Dominican),
a Yugoslavian
and
a Zarahthustain (thus he spoke a lot)
The Canadian won the first game.
(image) cdn.makeuseof.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/qwerty-keyboard-840×420.jpg?7497b8
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