When you join the army, they cut your hair. I imagine the razor takes more than just your looks, perhaps something closer to your individuality sheered off and into homogeny. I'm so far from the worlds I've lived, and yet freedom comes in different lengths.
Next to us Amis, the punctual Deutsche live in accommodated vivaciousness. Logically, I reckon Bavaria likes to keep the rough edges orderly. You can see it before the rooster crows and between the tongs of those employed to cull the close-cut cobbles for litter. It is along "Scheiße-Straße", where cows moo us along to work; that somehow a town can exist with a building full of cows half a block from a military compound full of wanderlust-ers, and a block in the other direction from a stumble-friendly main-street where you can buy Glühwein at any corner. This is how I've come to know Garmisch. The life of this town flows down from the mountains and the street follows the fish-laden stream. It is rather lovely, even if my ears are cold.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Thursday, December 5, 2013
The Visitor
(originally written on a bus to Garmisch, December 2nd, 2013)
I staunchly believe that there may be too many places to go. There is very certainly the great possibility of too many cities with too many unique nooks, cultures, and bakeries.
I'll always remember Atlanta by the curve of its thruway. Which, may be more than I can honestly say for the monotonous cross of Texas. Maybe I should warn you early, I may not be that sort of writer. New Orleans for instance was hazy; the humidity condensed into too many daiquiris.
Though what I am sure I will remember of November most is the feeling of looking out the train's window. I will remember the 16oz in my left hand, playing someone else's skee-ball machine with the right. I will remember the love of others' lives in places I have not paid rent.
As jetlag sets in, my reality is the memory: the sad feeling of gracing each earth for just moments, hardly aware what each goodbye could possibly mean, and then, almost suddenly despite that horrid callous sad, finding each pleasant morning created in a new vitality, entirely my own.
I staunchly believe that there may be too many places to go. There is very certainly the great possibility of too many cities with too many unique nooks, cultures, and bakeries.
I'll always remember Atlanta by the curve of its thruway. Which, may be more than I can honestly say for the monotonous cross of Texas. Maybe I should warn you early, I may not be that sort of writer. New Orleans for instance was hazy; the humidity condensed into too many daiquiris.Though what I am sure I will remember of November most is the feeling of looking out the train's window. I will remember the 16oz in my left hand, playing someone else's skee-ball machine with the right. I will remember the love of others' lives in places I have not paid rent.
As jetlag sets in, my reality is the memory: the sad feeling of gracing each earth for just moments, hardly aware what each goodbye could possibly mean, and then, almost suddenly despite that horrid callous sad, finding each pleasant morning created in a new vitality, entirely my own.
The Villian
(originally written in a plane over Newfoundland, December 1st, 2013)
How many goodbyes can you fit in a month? If you try, if you drive; bring each one to the doorstep. Say hello, knowing full well you'll regret it in turn.
And if we're honest, I cannot begin to understand myself alone, and hardly should I want that. But to know the same places forever? I think each life holds us back. If my loneliness is in the soles of my shoes, with each step I'll leave some tread.
But surely, travel is delusion, right? That if one can string enough lives together he might find himself whole. Inevitably, I'll find it new in each pause, as if I had never forgotten what it was to sit alone with thought.
And just like how this plane races the spin of all that lives and breathes and dies, there might I be too, racing the love and hope I'd sewn. Arbitor of soul. Lover of life. Swallower of destiny. And a filthy scoundrel, surely, a villain to those who matter most.
How many goodbyes can you fit in a month? If you try, if you drive; bring each one to the doorstep. Say hello, knowing full well you'll regret it in turn.
And if we're honest, I cannot begin to understand myself alone, and hardly should I want that. But to know the same places forever? I think each life holds us back. If my loneliness is in the soles of my shoes, with each step I'll leave some tread.
But surely, travel is delusion, right? That if one can string enough lives together he might find himself whole. Inevitably, I'll find it new in each pause, as if I had never forgotten what it was to sit alone with thought.
And just like how this plane races the spin of all that lives and breathes and dies, there might I be too, racing the love and hope I'd sewn. Arbitor of soul. Lover of life. Swallower of destiny. And a filthy scoundrel, surely, a villain to those who matter most.
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