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A Year Goes Past And The Writing Continues

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(image)http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O43_czTkQ_I/VCFhPJYIfII/AAAAAAAAKHM/yq9FuImgLDI/s1600/SPOFEC-RR-Ghost-Tune-160.jpg

A year ago I started (returned to, actually), writing something every day.

“Every day” is not exact, and perhaps not even wise. I have settled into six days a week, with a day (Thursday) off. When advised to write every day, a writer should know that they should write regularly, at least four or five days every week. And try for a decent amount of time per day, at least one to two hours. Find a rhythm that works and stick to it unto death.

I began last year with the intent of finishing my novel, a thriller called The Bonner Prediction. That I have done, and edited twice. One more edit remains. That should be completed in a couple of months.

However, in the intervening year, I returned to a story I had started in the previous year. It’s genesis was less as a short story, and more of a character sketch. By that I mean my main interest was to write solely about this particular character which, other than for my novel about Franz Kafka, I don’t believe has happened to me. Setting was also well-established. Other than that, I follow the character, Alison Alexandra.

Alison Alexandra is taking me on a wild, unplanned and exciting ride. It is some of the most purely enjoyable writing I have done. Fifty or so pages so far. Obviously not a short story, but I don’t know to what extent it will go. Alison Alexandra is chock -a-block full o’ surprizes. Today she is taking a ride in a Rolls Royce “Ghost”. Oh – what will happen?

So – let me tell ya – write every day. 

I wrote the following a year ago.

Perhaps my creative stream is bubbling away

I did not plan a New Year resolution. What I had planned was to write something on my current novel the first day of the new year.

This is also not planned, but – so far – I have written every day of the year except two – one a travel day, and one a deliberate ‘take-a-day-off-day’. I am two or three chapters from the end of thisThriller. I have not written fiction so steadily for months. I hope it keeps on.

This is the part which I do nor know is related to my writing situation.

I have never dreamt about any of my writing – never. I know many artists dream about their work, get ideas about their work in dreams and such, but not me. So, I did not have a dream about my writing. However, I recently awoke from a dream where I was talking to my publisher. She said I should do another book of short stories about the Elephant. Is that close?

And, finally, the incident below. On Twitter, I came across an announcement of a restaurant/bakery in Calgary. The Corbeaux. This means The Ravens. They have a store sign which has noted similarities to one which I have described in a manuscript. And you can see their sign in this photo.

https://fbexternal-a.akamaihd.net/safe_image.php?d=AQCKukhRj63heHlL&w=470&h=246&url=http%3A%2F%2Ftoquesandtruffles.files.wordpress.com%2F2014%2F12%2Fimg_8531.jpg%3Fw%3D1200&cfs=1&upscale=1

And then you can read what appears in my unpublished second Satan novel, where ravens play an important part.

Perhaps my creative stream is bubbling away.

From Places Of Evil

Mr. S. does rehearse what he plans to say to Breeze, both while he waits for the taxi, and then in the twenty minute ride to her restaurant. He is surprised Dorkas and Caleb made as such little protest. He suspects they agree with his concerns about the twins, even if not enthusiastic with his solution.

Mr. S. has the taxi stop a couple of blocks from the restaurant. Breeze has installed a new sign, and she wants his opinion of how effective it will be attracting customers. Although he helped – at her insistence – to choose the design, he has yet to see the finished object.

He walks along the street, pretending to be someone looking in shop windows for a gift. He actually wants to purchase Breeze a celebratory present, but that is for later. He tricks himself enough, that when he finally does look up at the sign, it is with a degree of surprise.

Breeze has not purchased a painted sign, as he had supposed. The design is similar to the ones they discussed, but she has not chosen an image imposed upon a wooden background. Instead, there are carved and painted shapes jutting from the front of the building, parallel to the wall.

A thick piece of wood, chiseled into the shape of a tree top, is attached over the lintel. Two branches sprout from the trunk of the tree, which tapers to an uneven and jagged tip. At the very top, a life-sized carved raven sits, its head tilted up. On each of the protruding branches sits another raven, their bills open as they look at each other.

Nailed to the bottom of the tree, a metal chain hangs to the door, holding a wooden sign printed in Old German script. It announces the name of the restaurant: The Hungry Ravens.

“As black as black can be.”

Mr. S. hums as he walks across the narrow street. He has reservations about her sense of humour, with this reference to the ravens. Their unfathomable connection to the work of the Organization, and their role of `familiar’ to Satan’s intentions, are beyond – in his opinion – the wryest of humours.

As he steps toward the front door, he notices a more subtle change. Breeze has sand-blasted the brickwork facing the street. The dark red hue enhances the outline of the tree and its occupants. They look as if they are silhouetted against a sunset.

DE

Franz Kafka And His Kafkaesque Life

Source: Franz Kafka And His Kafkaesque Life

Alison Alexandra Gets Tugged Into Fashionable Sex

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(image) http://discovermagazine.com/~/media/import/images/4/0/8/sex.jpg

Although a gal has just gotta do what a gal gotta do, it is far far better when she gets to do what she wants to do. And Alison Alexandra has always been that kinda gal, too.

Alison Alexandra is in no way a tease, but the author can have his moments. And the tweets to prove it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Dale Estey @DaleEstey 1m1 minute ago

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) finds she is the cause of a dare. Whiskey is involved. #character #story #writing

Dale Estey @DaleEstey 31s31 seconds ago

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) takes the offered drink of whiskey. It is inferior stock. #character #story #writing #plot

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) wants to jump out of this party and go to another century. #character #story #writing #plot

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) drinks the poor whiskey, for she likes who offers it. #writing #plot #character #beginning

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) would just as soon not have a partner at the party. #writing #plot #character #beginnings

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) raises a glass of (inferior) whiskey to the sailor with a spyglass.#writing #plot #character
 
Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) is enticing sailors from their crows’ nest. They have some naughty thoughts. #write #plot
Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) discuss sailors & their spyglass with naughty Amanda. Girls, decorum please! #write #plot
Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) plans an outing to a seedy bar & a roast beef buffet with naughty Amanda.  #character #plot
Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) meets a bartender named Tug. He is full of surprises. #characters #plot
@DaleEstey 1m1 minute ago

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka )finds that the bartender, Tug, is a fair seaman himself. On to the ship!. #characters #plot

Alison Alexandra (one time known as Hermione Kafka)  finds when with a man named Tug, that’s what he does to your clothes. #character #plot

DE

 

 

Eleanor Roosevelt,Upton Sinclair, Fidel Castro & Me

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(image) Ihttp://autographsttm.weebly.com/uploads/6/5/3/5/6535909/8132659_orig.gif

While reading some literary site about Amazon, I came across the fact that “Harriet Klausner, an esteemed Amazon reviewer who wrote more than 31,000 book reviews, died”. All power to her, thought I, that is quite a feat. However, I took more note of her last name, one I had not thought of for a long time.

In my tenure as an author in the world, I have had four or five agents. And I am currently looking anew. At the far beginning of my time, before I was published, I had the New York agent Bertha Klausner – at the start of my career and near the end of hers. She started her agency before I was born and was working two months before she died in 1998 at the age of 96.

Back in those over the transom days, one stuffed typed pages into an envelope, sent them off with return postage on another envelope, and waited up to three months for a reply. And when it came back, you sent it out again. One of my envelopes went to the Bertha Klausner Agency.

However, when it came back, it had other people’s manuscripts in it, and (to my memory) little hand written notes politely saying no. Mistakes happen even at revered agencies, so I sent it all back explaining what had happened. She replied, with neither apology nor thanks, annoyed that mistakes do happen and adding, “Say, you must have something. Do you want to send it to me?” Which I did. Again.

As I said, communications were through slow mails (slow on her side, as with literary agents to this day).  I now assume she initially was both being polite, plus did see some promise in what I had. But after a year or so she said – in effect – ‘thanks but no thanks’, and I sent things to other agents, and eventually had my first novel sale by, indeed, sending it over the transom directly to an editor in New York, who purchased it.

I don’t think I knew that Bertha Klausner had such a stellar career until I looked her up. An agent for decades, she had famous names like Upton Sinclair, Israel J Singer, Eleanor Roosevelt and Fidel Castro. She even represented actor Basil Rathbone.

I imagine I would have become a lost tale.

 

DE

2015 in review/ Seen Around The World

Folk from 52 countries across the globe took a look this year – which  surprised me when I saw the stat. There are 196 countries in the world today (OK – Taiwan is kinda iffy), so I have 144 to go. My fingers aren’t nimble enough to make this a daily affair, but I’ll see what I can do.

2016 awaits.

DE

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,500 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 25 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Alison Alexandra (one time known as Hermione Kafka) Begins To Live

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Alison Alexandra (one time known as Hermione Kafka) began her paged existence over a year ago. And then she rested for a year. And then she returned, if not exactly demanding, then more than pleased to have a new name.

She has acquired a whisky-drinking new friend and an accelerated interest in sailors. She meanders into the past, not at a whim but certainly at her pleasure. She has two military grade binoculars and looks out to sea with her new, whiskey-drinking friend. They both admire the sailors they see.

Alison Alexandra is about to embark on a relationship with The Mission To Seafarers. I say  she is about to embark, but she really has been doing so for years. She just decided to let the author know. She might even fly the flag of The Mission To Seafarers over her house upon the cliff looking out to the harbour and the sea, even though it might not actually be legal.

Alison Alexandra (one time known as Hermione Kafka) is having her progress described through tweets as the days and – one suspects – weeks pass. She finds this a tad rude but – it must be admitted – allows her author a broad degree of leeway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dale Estey @DaleEstey Dec 1

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) does not know if she wants a second chapter, or a new short story.#writing #character

  Dale Estey @DaleEstey Dec 2

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) ponders the beginning of a new day … over the centuries.#writing #character #storytelling


Dale Estey @DaleEstey Dec 4

Alison Alexandra (one time known as Hermione Kafka) has an unbidden naughty story to tell. Should she? #write #storytelling #sex


Dale Estey @DaleEstey Dec 4

Alison Alexandra (one time known as Hermione Kafka) decides to utter her unbidden naughty story. Why not? #write #storytelling #sex

Dale Estey @DaleEstey 1 day1 day ago

Alison Alexandra (known once as Hermione Kafka) is not the focus of her naughty tale, though its source.#write #storytelling #sex #character

Alison Alexandra (known once as Hermione Kafka) is innocent in her naughty way. There is but one truth. #write #story #truth #character


Dale Estey @DaleEstey 3 mins3 minutes ago

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) is propositioned at a party. She ponders source and reply. #character #storytelling #writing

Alison Alexandra (once known as Hermione Kafka) enters a strange conversation with a stranger. Leading … where? #character #story #writing

DE

A Boy And His Dog And A Bear // [Exit, pursued by a bear]

black-bear-snow-237327(image) http://4everstatic.com/pictures/674xX/animals/wildlife/black-bear,-snow-237327.jpg 

I suppose I’m too humble to class this as a Christmas miracle, for it is not up there with a Virgin Birth and all. But still, I do think God was in His heaven and all, in this instance (for me), was right with the world. 

One December I looked after a dog whilst her owners went out of town. Tibbit is a big, friendly dawg who likes inspecting piles of leaves. She has a long lead which her benevolent human allows to go as far as possible. She knows (better than her accompanying human) that there are treats at the end of each walk.

On Saturday I didn’t get Tibbit out until after dark. We skirted the university (where her masters work) and went up a street bordering the campus. We both liked the Christmas lights. Near the top of the street we met an inebriated gentleman warning us of a bear in the surrounding woods. “Flush him out,” said he, “And I’ll get my 3 aught 3.” “Get the rifle first,” I replied, and we went our respective ways. Now Tibbit and I doubted the veracity of the gentleman, so when we came to a trail through the woods, we took it. I will admit I did peer more intently into the gloom than usual, but one trail led to a larger trail which led back to the university. We advanced without incident.

On Sunday I again walked Tibbit toward the university, though from a different direction. It was a crisp, clear day and she gambolled (as much as the leash allowed ) through the new fallen snow. Sunshine gleamed. This time we were on the other side of the campus, but our walk eventually led to a position about half a mile away from where we were the previous evening. We followed another trail into the woods and admired the sun through the fir trees. The path was wide and sloped. It came to turn some distance away which would lead us even closer to where we were the day before. At the top of the slope Tibbit stopped dead in her tracks. She stared and stared. She glanced briefly into the woods but mainly kept staring along the trail. I saw nothing nor heard anything (and I was intent upon both). Tibbit did not move and made not a sound. She just kept staring. After a solid two minutes of this I started to backtrack and she made no complaint.

You betcha she got her dog treats.

DE

 

A Unicorn Greets Jesus On The Day Of His Birth

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Annunciation – as the Hunt of the Unicorn by Erfurt St. Severi (1470-80)

Excerpt from the manuscript A Lost Gospel

“We are all replaceable.” Glarus shrugged her shoulders. “The world has yet to stop for any man or beast which has ceased to be.”

“Even the gods?”

“Gods become replaced by other gods, yet the world continues.” Glarus slowed her pace. “Changed, of course – but generally for the better.”

“Will Yeshua change the world?”

“If he has not become too much a man.”

Glarus entered a path and started along it to her house. The two women followed her closely, still full of questions.

“What was it like seeing Yeshua?” asked Bettine.

“It was an adventure.” Glarus stopped at her door. “And it was frightening.” She turned to Bettine. “I was younger than you, and had never left the mountain longer than four nights travel.”

“How much younger?”

“I had yet to bleed as a woman.” Glarus opened the door but did not enter. “I was surrounded by strangers, and really had no companion except the unicorn – the sire of these two.” She walked into the house, and the young women followed. “I was given a gift to carry – myrrh – and was treated well.” She took a pitcher of water, and poured some into a metal pot. “I was one of many in the group with the kings.”

Glarus hung the pot over the hearth, and placed a block of wood into the fire.

“I was treated differently because they had gone out of their way to fetch me. No one could speak my language.” Glarus noted the young women were still standing, and bade them onto the bench near the window. “Even with our different accent, Bettine, we have little trouble understanding each other.”

“I have no trouble at all.”

“Their tongues were completely foreign. The man who spoke to me seemed to know the words, but could not put them in proper order.” Glarus paused in memory. “He could say `house’ for instance, but then had to use hand gestures to show me what I was supposed to do about the `house’. Had either of us been particularly stupid, we might still be trying to get into a house.”

“It must have been difficult.” As Bettine spoke, she looked around the house.

“Not really.” Glarus laughed. “I found it more humorous than anything.” She peered into the water. “They were people of good will. I did not mind the hardship.”

“What was he like?”

“The man who could say `house’?” Glarus smiled and pointed her finger. “What are you thinking, Sirona? We did not speak those types of words.”

“Not him.” Bettine was impatient. “Men think so much of themselves, we don’t have to take the time. Sirona was asking about Yeshua. What happened when you finally saw him?”

“What happened is that I slipped in cow shit. I think his father laughed.”

“That’s what you remember?”

“No. That’s not all I remember about Yeshua.”

Glarus eased the lid from the pot, and threw in a handful of spice and dried flowers, plus some dried apple slices. She nudged a burning hunk of wood into place, and returned to her seat.

“The kings had some information, but the rest they had to figure out. They had surrounded themselves with astrologers, navigators and philosophers. They knew from the Jew’s Holy Book that the baby was to be born in Bet Lehem, and the Star helped lead them to that town. It was a virgin birth, and – ”

“Virgin?” Bettine and Sirona squealed the word together.

“Yes – virgin.” Glarus laughed. “So both of you watch out.”

“You make us doomed either way.” Bettine exaggerated a shiver.

“Then you don’t have to worry at all – never fret about the inevitable.” Glarus paused a moment in memory. “We didn’t need the Star the last couple of days, but it had given us comfort during a hard and uncomfortable trip. That last night we waited on the outskirts of the town, and went in after sunset.”

“Were you afraid?” Sirona leaned closer.

“No. Why would I be?”

“You were going to see god.” Bettine glanced at Sirona as she spoke.

“To see god is a joy – not a fear.”

“And was he a baby?” Sirona giggled. “A baby god.”

“It was a time for the paying of taxes to Caesar, and Bet Lehem was crowded with people.” Glarus examined the fire for a moment. “The inns and resting places were fully occupied. We finally found Yeshua and his parents in a barn, beside one of the inns. He was settled with the animals, and sleeping in the hay.”

“But this was a god.”

“Yes.”

“But – ” Bettine sounded perplexed. “He should have been in a temple – or a palace. Not surrounded by animals.”

“There are more barns than palaces.” Glarus nudged the wood in the fire with a poker. “And more animals than priests. God is god of the world – not some carved gold in a temple.”

“But god can have whatever he wants.”

“Yes.” Glarus leaned forward and touched the young woman. “So remember what he chose.”

“What was god like?” Sirona was impatient, and pulled on Glarus’ skirt.

“God was the baby of a woman. A baby such as any of us could have.” Glarus looked at them closely. “You must not forget that. This god is as much man as god.” She stood suddenly and leaned toward the fireplace. “He was asleep when we entered. Even his mother was dozing as she held him.”

“What was she like?” Sirona didn’t realize one question interrupted another.

“Her name was Mary.” Glarus removed the pot from the open flame, and placed it upon a squat stone jutting into the hearth. “She smiled as her head nodded – she seemed quite peaceful. She was attractive, but not what one would call beautiful. She didn’t look much older than me.” Glarus looked mildly surprised. “She could still be alive, for that matter. She certainly seemed healthy enough.”

“Did she talk to you?” Sirona leaned forward, the heat of the fire against her face.

“She spoke to the ones who knew her tongue.” Glarus looked down at the women. “But no – not to me.” She suddenly smiled. “I saw her glancing at me a few times, as her husband talked to the others. And she took a liking to the unicorn – as did the baby.”

“Did she – ”

“What I felt most was her bewilderment.” Glarus didn’t realize she had interrupted Bettine. “She must have wondered why rich and powerful people were crowding into a barn to see her son. Giving birth for the first time was enough to get used to.”

“Especially if you had never been with a man.” Sirona grinned at Bettine when she said this.

“Yes.” Glarus laughed. “Being with a man is one of the easier parts.” She looked closely at them. “Not that you two are ready.”

“I feel ready.” Sirona again looked at Bettine.

“I don’t deny your woman’s time has more than come.” Glarus   stirred the pot as she spoke. “And you both turn heads, I dare say. But your duty must keep you unentered some years yet.”

“How long did you wait?” Bettine asked the question hesitantly.

“Wait for what?” teased Glarus.

“Wait to get … entered.” Bettine blushed at her question, but was obviously interested. “Were you much older than us?”

“It doesn’t have to be the same for you.” Glarus became serious. “When you know enough, and feel it’s time to start passing on your powers to – ”

“And there’s a man good enough.” Sirona shouted the words.

“That, too.” Glarus laughed. “Though God knows, there are always men about wanting your attention.”

“But when did it happen to you?” Bettine was insistent.

“As I said, it’s different for different people.” Glarus looked directly at the girl. “It would have been ten winters past your age when it happened to me.”

“Isn’t that late?”

“I didn’t know enough.” Glarus saw the look on Bettine’s face and smiled. “I don’t mean about that. And yes, I’d already wanted the feel of a man on top of me.” Glarus paused and stared into the fire. “I didn’t know enough about myself, or about the gods – or about the unicorn. I wanted to know the movements behind what we call life.”

“Did you learn these things?”

“No.” Glarus looked at them again. “I learned there was no one answer, no matter how long I waited.” She spread her hands. “So I stopped waiting.” She was quiet again. “I eventually found I was not going to be like this Mary – with or without a man in me. I can not have children, so I went out and chose the best.”

“Much like god chose Mary,” suggested Bettine.

The women were silent for awhile. Glarus stirred the pot, and tasted the liquid in the ladle. Bettine looked curiously around the house, while Sirona stared thoughtfully at her mother. She was hearing things she had never heard before.

“When did the baby wake up?” Bettine’s question broke into the silence.

“We hadn’t been there long.” Glarus began moving about the room, gathering some mugs together, along with food and utensils. “I think I was the first to notice. I just followed the lead of the unicorn, which already was walking toward him.”

“Did he touch the unicorn?”

“Yes.” Glarus took a loaf of bread from a cupboard, and removed some wedges of cheese from a pottery jar. “It was obvious Mary had never seen such a creature. I don’t think she was afraid, but she was hesitant to let the unicorn get too close to the baby.” Glarus ladled the hot drink into the mugs. “However, Yeshua reached out with his tiny hands, and tried to touch the ivory horn.”

“Did he touch you?” Bettine sipped the drink, and found the fruit tasted as if it were off the tree.

“Mary let me hold him, as she and Joseph prepared some of their food for the kings.” Glarus passed the platter of bread and cheese to the young women. “Food less grand than this. But still, the best of what they had.”

“You held god in your hands?” Sirona marvelled at the secrets she had never heard.

“Yes. While the others ate.”

“What was it like?”

“Damp.” Glarus looked at them both and laughed. “He was a warm and wet little baby, open-mouthed and smiling one moment, squeezing up his eyes in frustration the next. I still had the smell of myrrh on me, and he pushed his face into my breast, making contented baby noises. To the others, it looked as if he were trying to get fed. Joseph said something which made the others laugh.” Glarus chuckled as she took a bite of cheese. “When I finally heard what it was, I smiled too, even though I was embarrassed.”

“What did he say?” Sirona and Bettine asked the question together.

“Well. It’s no secret I’m big up here.” Glarus placed an arm across her chest. “I’ve had too much attention from too many men to let me forget.” Glarus cut more slices from the loaf of bread. “Joseph had said, that if the baby became too used to me, they’d have to use one of the cows after I left.”

“What did you say?” Sirona shared a glance with Bettine.

“It wasn’t my place to say anything. Anyway, I could tell he wasn’t trying to be offensive – or attentive. He was a poor man surrounded by rich and powerful strangers, and he was trying to be accepted.”

“Did Mary say anything?”

“Mary did not push out her garment, even if she was full of milk. After the laughter had stopped, I dared glance at her. She gave a shy smile and shrugged her shoulders.”

“If you hadn’t gone the way you did.” Bettine dipped her mug back into the flavoured drink. “Without following the star and the kings – would you have known Yeshua was a god?”

“No.” Glarus sipped from her mug, then placed it on the table. “But the circumstances were not natural.” Glarus hesitated before cutting more cheese. “The unicorn would not have been present, and I would not have seen them share time.”

“What did he do?”

“The unicorn?”

“Yes.”

“Both.” Sirona was excited. “When they were together.”

“They looked at each other with recognition.”

“But – ” Sirona coughed over her drink. “They had never seen each other before.”

“They saw more than just the bodies they possess.” Glarus placed her hands side-by-side on the table, almost touching. “When Mary realized the unicorn would do no harm, she held the baby this close to him. Yeshua reached a grasping little fist toward the ivory horn.” Glarus smiled at the two women. “You know how the unicorns avoid a stranger’s touch.”

“Yes.” They both again spoke in unison, and laughed.

“He bent his head carefully toward Mary, and let the tiny fingers rub against his horn. Yeshua’s eyes went wide as he sniffed him all over. The unicorn pawed in the dirt and the straw, and as much as his face is capable of smiling, I’d swear that he did.

“He didn’t even mind when Mary began to scratch him behind the ears. He moved his head so she could stroke the base of his horn, which he loves most of all.”

“I didn’t know of that place for years.” Bettine absently rubbed her fingers across the table. “I hesitated a long time before I even touched the horn. It can be so cold.”

“They don’t encourage contact,” agreed Sirona.

“Perhaps I was jealous. He encouraged Mary and the baby to do things for which I had waited years.” Glarus looked into the fire a long time. “He showed complete trust amid the strangers and the tumult. Usually, just the smell of humans and other animals make him disappear. This time, he ceased being wary, and concentrated fully on that little baby.”

“And Yeshua?” Sirona stared at her mother. “What did he do?”

“The baby turned his head, and stared at me.” Glarus again hesitated. “It was then I knew that I was looking into eyes which had seen the OtherWorld.”

DE

 

Twitter And Kafka And #InternationalTeaDay

 

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(image) http://www.seriouseats.com/images/2015/02/20150206-tea-vicky-wasik-pu-ehr-service.jpg

However it happened, in my grazing of the state of the world yesterday, the fact that it was International Tea Day escaped my notice. Mind you, if I tracked down the number of causes tacked onto yesterday, I would probably come up with a lot. Who knows what and whom I have ignored?

Still, remnants on Twitter tell me it was indeed #InternationalTeaDay. I just happen to have an entry from my novel about Kafka devoted to tea. Well steeped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

07 February 1917

I imagine if I wanted to fully know about tea, it would take me years. The various kinds, how they are picked and dried. The various blends, and their numerous properties. The effects they are supposed to have on the body. Purgers and restorers. And how tea is shipped, the ways it must be stored. The proper preparation for the cup – the implements used. The procedures just to pour. I imagine there are people who devote their lives to this subject as do I to my writing. Who revel in this knowledge, as I do over words. Sometimes, I think there could be nothing more comfortable and comforting, than to be F. Kafka, Tea Merchant. My father would be ecstatic.

DE

 

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