April Fool's

Could someone tell me, is it true? Have we really passed the spring equinox? The weather seems to be a little confused these days and I think it's high time someone lets him know that spring was supposed to officially start almost a week and a half ago...this is what I woke up to this morning. Don't get me wrong, it's lovely, just not quite what I'd expect for April. I guess the groundhog must have seen his shadow this year.

Imperia

Es ist alles eitel...

Oh, Madame Konstanz with your coy smile,
What does go on behind those steely eyes
You stand guard in the harbour
Looking out across Bodensee,
Flaunting your sex for one and all to see
A noble stance, for a mere courtesan
As you raise your hands with pride,
Naked prince in right and pope in left
Such raw display of sweet dominion over power.

Paska

You have caught me in a rather domestic moment. Sometimes, when we get older, all we want is the comforts of our childhood, and no comfort is greater than food. Food can instantaneously transport us back to so many places with a mere wisp of an aroma or the tiniest nibble. Well, today the calls from ghosts of the past were strong. Growing up, one of my favorite things about Easter was that Grandma would make Paska, a traditional German Mennonite sweet bread made only at this time of year, although occasionally she would cheat and make it at other times of the year as she knew I liked it so much.

Now the recipe is as old as the hills...my grandmother made this, and her mother before her and so on right down the line, so there's no telling where this all began. That's also quite obvious with the recipe as so much of the cooking / baking we do is simply by feel...the feeling is a bit tough when you've never made the recipe before, but you simply have to trust your senses and run with it. You'll notice that the recipe doesn't mention any quantities for flour...not even a rough estimate. Partially that's because they believed that the quantities changed depending where you were living, the wheat that was grown there, the humidity etc. So just so you know, even though it's not mentioned, there is a lot of flour. Also, this makes quite a lot of loaves (as all those old recipes made large quantities), so be prepared to either freeze some or give some away. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do.


Paska

3 C sweet cream
3 C white sugar
10 eggs
2 pkg dry yeast
1 C potato water
1 1/2 C butter
Rind of 2 oranges
Rind of 1 lemon
Lemon juice from half a lemon
1 tsp vanilla
raisins if desired

Prepare yeast and 1 Tbsp sugar in potato water. Scald cream and 1 C of sugar. Cool and add beaten egg yolks then the beaten egg whites, prepared yeast and enough flour to make sponge like. Let rise until light (3/4 of an hour). Add remaining 2 cups of sugar, butter (melted), rind (finely chopped), lemon juice and vanilla and more flour. Keep adding flour and kneading to make a soft dough. Let rise until double in bulk. Grease round tins (traditionally these are cooked in cylindrical cans, like a coffee can...but as you can see, I had none, so baked mine in regular loaf pans). Let rise until double (about 45 minutes). Bake at 275 degrees for 45 minutes to an hour. Prepare regular butter icing to spread on top of the bread while still warm.

Fantastical Menagerie

This wonderful collection of someone's bizarre imaginings was found on a peaceful street in Konstanz. Each piece was so expressive as if it came with its own history and stories. I would have loved to have known what they were, but despite my long repose under the comforting shade of the nearby trees, not a one was willing to part with his secrets. Not this time.

It's All in the Name

I have a colleague who shares my name. That in and of itself is interesting as there are not many around here who have my name, and in fact, I have not run into many at all anywhere I’ve gone. I’ve often wondered if names impart certain personalities on the people who carry them. Many teachers, it would seem, think so. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard to never name a boy one of the dreaded "J" names. Apparently John or James is safe, but almost all the others are a teacher’s worst nightmare: Jason, Jordan, Jeremy, etc…all bad news: hard to manage, hyperactive, and the sort that “stir” up trouble. Of course I have no solid evidence on any of this, but it would make for an interesting study. But back to the story of my namesake.

Carla has a bubbly personality and a smile that would melt the coldest chunk of ice. Like me, she seems to attract interesting, bizarre situations which, if nothing else, make for wonderful stories. One day, she shared the following with me: She had just been in Vancouver and one of the afternoons she was there, she was walking down Robson Street when she sees this guy she is sure she recognizes. She thinks, “Hey, there is one of the Trail Italian boys my brother used to hang out with.

(As a side note, Trail is known for its large Italian population…for years, and we are just talking Canada here, it had the largest percentage of Italians per capita outside of Toronto. Also, in this area, it is very common to identify people with their ethnic / cultural heritage even if they were born in Canada. I could probably tell you the ethnic identity of every single person who was in my kindergarten class. Back then, we just called it nationality, but of course semantics have changed since then.)

In any case, Carla can’t remember this guy’s name, but in typical Carla fashion, she waltzes right up to him with a huge grin and says, “Hi, how are you?”

He smiles and politely replies, “I’m fine, how are you?”

She continues on, “Great. Wow! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. What have you been up to? What are you doing these days?”

He says, “Well, I’m in the movie business. I’ve just finished making film.”

Carla’s thinking, “Whoa, that’s pretty good for a Trail boy,” and blurts out, “Wow! Who would have thought? You making movies? That’s fantastic! You must be pretty proud of yourself.”

The stranger smiles, in fact almost blushes, then says, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Carla takes a good hard look at his face and suddenly the penny drops. “OMG, you’re John Travolta, aren’t you?” Yes, indeed. She said that he was extremely personable, gracious and polite. And she got to walk away with a good story.

Fluff

When one gets to certain age, there are particular sorts of situations that amuse one immensely. Last week, I had one such incident. Many of you will remember my story a couple weeks ago about some of my students trying to guess my age. Although I found my students highly entertaining, I didn’t give much credence to the situation. What do twelve, thirteen and fourteen year olds really know about the fine art of determining one’s age? But nonetheless, it made for a humorous anecdote which provided an easy segway into conversation amidst peals of laughter.

Well, in a completely different class, there is a young fellow, R, who I met for the first time a couple weeks ago. He is presently working with one of my students as a TA (teacher’s assistant). Our initial exchange was short, as there’s really not much time to delve into deep conversation in the midst of teaching a class. After that, I didn’t see R for about a week. Then one day, I walked into the staff room during break, and there he was. He looks at me with a big grin and effusively greets me with a robust, “Hi! How are you?” Only, I misheard him. I flash him an equally wide smile and reply back with a cocky, “Hi,” and then continue on, playful lilt in my voice, with, “I’m twenty-eight… how old are you?” (It really was a blonde moment.)

Now before you all go on about what an absolute ditz I am, hear me out. All this put on was not all for R. Two of my friends, T and S were standing there. It just so happened that they had heard the previous story, so I knew they would “get” it immediately. Oh yes, aren’t I clever one? But there stood poor R, somewhat confused by my response. And then it suddenly dawned on me that he hadn’t actually asked me my age. Oh dear, what could he possibly be thinking? Now, totally overcome by giddiness whilst trying to pull my foot out of my mouth, or perhaps shoving it in further, I start explaining to R the story which engendered my bizarre response (all this, while my lovely friends listened with mounting snickers) . The thing is, the more I explained, the more baffled his expression became…it was a sort of, “and why are you telling me this,” sort of look. Finally, he quizzically says, “So you’re not twenty-eight?” I simply reply, “No, not even close.” To which he slowly inquires, “Then how old are you? Because I’m thirty-one, and I was convinced that you were younger than me.” Oh yes, it was a great day.

Paint my Silence with Music

Music expresses what words cannot. I fear that if I speak, I shall break the spell. There is something magical in the air. This one reminds me of the pied piper. Indeed, I think I would follow, run with full force, the wind at my back, right off the cliff for that intangible thing called hope planted deep within the hollows of my heart.



If you have time, and enjoyed that last song, you might wish to watch the full film “Heima,” or Homeland, Sigur Rós' first ever film (loose documentary). It was filmed during the summer of 2006 when the band decided to perform a series of free, unannounced concerts all over Iceland. The results of this generous gift are beautiful and inspirational in the way that it brought people of all ages and walks of life together. The images, along with the music are hauntingly beautiful.

The Widow

The world was full of happy widows. He had seen them go mad with grief at the sight of their husband's corpse, pleading to be buried alive in the same coffin so they would not have to face the future without him, but as they grew reconciled to the reality of their new condition he had seen them rise up from the ashes with renewed vitality. They began by living like parasites of gloom in their big empty houses, they became the confidantes of their servants, lovers of their pillows, with nothing to do after so many years of sterile captivity. They wasted their overabundant hours doing what they had not had time for before, sewing the buttons on the dead man's clothes, ironing and reironing the shirts with stiff collar and cuffs so that they would always be in perfect condition. They continued to put his soap in the bathroom, his monogrammed pillowcase on the bed; his place was always set at the table, in case he returned from the dead without warning, as he tended to do in life. But in those solitary Masses they began to be aware that once again they were mistresses of their fate, after having renounced not only their family name but their own identity in exchange for a security that was no more than another of a bride's many illusions.

In the restorative idleness of solitude, on the other hand, the widows discovered that the honorable way to live was at the body's bidding, eating only when one was hungry, loving without lies, sleeping without having to feign sleep in order to escape the indecency of official love, possessed at last of the right to an entire bed to themselves, where no one fought them for half of the sheet, half of the air they breathed, half of their night, until their bodies were satisfied with dreaming their own dreams, and they woke alone.

~Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Love in the Time of Cholera

Faith

Faith is a bird that feels dawn breaking and sings while it is
still dark.
- Scandinavian Saying

When I was growing up, my Mutti had a cleaning lady, Wilma, who came once a week. She was a good Dutch woman and an impeccable cleaner, probably the only one who has ever cleaned to my mother’s standards. This woman could make absolutely anything sparkle and shine and I am sure dust quivered in her shadow, we certainly did. She was just that kind of woman.

Thursday evenings were an inevitable stress for us kids as we had to “tidy” before Wilma came to clean, because you see, Wilma only cleaned. She was not there to pick up after us. She was very strict about that. Those were her rules. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was to get in the way of her cleaning.

The tension on Thursday nights was such that at one juncture one of my sisters, in the midst of a meltdown, took a purple wax crayon and in her scrawly grade one printing wrote, “Wilma, I just can’t take it anymore,” on the inside door panel of my mother’s antique washstand. Those were sentiments that I am sure we had all shared at one point or another, but luckily for us, my mother found this message of distress before Wilma ever happened upon it. If she would have, I am not quite sure what would have happened, but I am sure it wouldn’t have been good. We probably would have been down one good irreplaceable cleaning lady and sentenced to numerous years of cleaning penitence. But that’s not really what this story is about. You see, when Wilma started, she made it very clear to my mother that this was not a long term affair. She would only clean for my mother until her husband returned. He had left her some years previous, but she was adamant that at some point he would come to his senses, change his mind and they would be reunited. Well, weeks turned into months and months into years, but just the same, as if it were her mantra, she would say, “You know, I won’t be here for long. My husband is going to come back to me and when he does I will quit. I’m only cleaning until my husband returns.”

I know many of you are probably now thinking that this is a story of some highly delusional and probably obsessive compulsive woman, and it certainly might seem that way. Wilma was our faithful housecleaner for a good ten years or more, just as faithful to us as she was to her mantra. Then one day, just like that, out of the blue, she phoned my mother and said, “I won’t be cleaning for you any more, my husband has just come home.”

Apparently it only takes the faith of a mustard seed to move a mountain. At present, I’m working on trying to move molehills while attempting to remember that thoughts become things.

Cheese and Quackers

Okay guys, it's been a busy couple of weeks. Not that I don't love you, I'm just not oozing with endless creativity at the moment. I would love to have some time to concentrate on and preferably master the "art of slow," but am afraid that even that does not seem to be permitted at the moment. So instead, I leave you with some photos to highlight both my hunger and craziness. And if that makes no sense, so be it.

Fear

The ground is cool and dank beneath me, but the heat of that incessant hum still swirls in my eardrums like a pesky mosquito that eludes me in the darkness. I brace myself…waiting in a moment that feels like eternity. The nausea within me grows and I feel dizzy as I rest my head against the hard stones of the building behind me. I try to pace my breathing with his…he who sits beside me, but his breath is every bit as shallow as mine. Neither of us is immune, it is simply a matter of time.

Eventually it comes, blasting us like the blitz of a headstrong storm rolling in off the ocean. Within moments, the heavens close their doors and the sky darkens, snuffing out the eternal hope of a singular ray of sunshine. All comes crashing down around us as that relentless monotonous drone penetrates the inner recesses of my soul. I sit still and silent amongst the chaos showering down around me mirroring the war that rages from within. Above me, I make out the shadow of it swooping through the black smoke. I can see it through the awkward angle of the eves. It circles. I can feel the piercing red beady eyes through the smouldering air. I close mine own eyes, yet remain haunted by the image of those fluorescent beady eyes emblazoned on my memory. I imagine them looking and seeing straight through it all, straight through right to my raw beating heart, my heart beating furiously, pounding so hard to a nervous rhythm that it almost breaks free of my ribcage which holds it prisoner. I open my eyes slightly and gasp. So close, so close.

Dread

I peer through the fog and try to make out the unfocused images in the distance. I concentrate, perhaps unconsciously furrowing my eyebrows and squinting slightly. At first I see only nebulous shapes, but then slowly the shapes begin to materialize into something more concrete. Suddenly I am able to make out the pictures.

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I am walking, hurrying down a narrow path through the trees. A bright canopy of green towers above me. It is mild and comfortable. I am not alone. There is a man with me. Under other circumstances it would have perhaps been a nice day, but anxiety lies thick upon my brow. We move quietly without talking. We move swiftly with our nervousness ringing continually in our ears. The trees open up and we pass into a clearing. Quickly we glance around to ensure that we are alone before proceeding, and then we keep moving. The long grass sways gently in the fields. There is a soft wind at our back. The conditions for travel are favourable.

Suddenly we hear that dreaded unmistakable low hum in the distance. We haven’t any time. Our tension mounts as we momentarily freeze like deer caught in headlights. We must act quickly. The hum grows steadily louder. I scan the landscape. Nothing but a black dot in the distant skyline. A small country church stands nearby. Interesting roofline, a small portion sweeps low on the backside, leaving a minute space where we could crawl through and crouch underneath. We rush towards it, hoping no one sees us. We approach from both sides and quickly contort ourselves through the opening and try to make ourselves comfortable in our confined space.

The Trade

Discarded object -
lost and forgotten treasure,
destined for trash can.

The Nitty Gritty

It was just a matter of time...but I've been caught. I was caught and tagged by Pandave over at Odi and Amo. Now it's up to me to carry on the game. Here are the rules:

The Rules:
- Link to the person that tagged you.
- Post the rules on your blog.
- Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
- Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
- Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.

1. I am a perfectionist. I believe that we are born with our personality traits. I was certainly born with this one, although I've worked hard over the years to try to mellow it out...but essentially it is who I am. My mother tells me that when I was a baby and learning to talk, that I could talk long before I would utter a word in front of anyone. She had placed a mirror in my crib and I would sit there and practice as long as I thought no one was watching. As soon as anyone would enter the room, I would stop. When I began speaking I essentially had a very good command of the language. I had the same struggle in Quebec when I was first learning French many years later. I hated the thought of making an error or talking like a toddler. Eventually I had to ask myself what was the worst thing that could happen was and just get out there and do it. Still, I tend to over do things. It's a bit of a stress.

2. I am also just a bit obsessive compulsive...another trait from birth. I have always loved books and I am told that from about the age of one, I would gravitate to my parents' beautiful coffee table books, which, of course, were at just the perfect height for me to reach. I would choose a page and then rip just the tiniest little bit...not even a millimeter. Sometimes I'd have more than one book going at a time. Every day, I would go back to those books, to those specific pages and rip just the tiniest bit more. It would take months for the rip to develop into a much larger tear that would eat its way to the centre of the page. When I would start on a page, my parents told me that they were never sure it was actually a rip, perhaps just a snag from wear, but when they would go back to those same pages after a space of time, that very same rip would be decidedly longer. Yes, I know what you are all thinking...I had a lot of issues. I was probably born with them. I am sure that Freud would have had a heyday with me.

3. I, and everyone in my family, have memories that go back to about the age of two or three. These aren't fabricated memories or things that I've heard people talking about and then adapted as my own, these are my actual memories. Memories from when I was younger are sometimes more of a visual memory and at other times I remember the situation or event because I remember specifically what I was thinking at the time when the event happened. I am always astonished when people tell me that they can't remember anything before the age of ten. That's a whole decade that is lost or forgotten. I simply cannot imagine.

4. I have never been able to sleep in moving vehicles, especially cars. When I was young, my family would drive to the coast several times a year to visit the grandparents. It's a long trip through numerous mountain passes. I had visions of the car driving off a cliff so I would force myself to stay awake and keep watch. I recently recounted this to my father who excitedly informed me that when I was a baby, I was in a vehicle with my mother who missed a corner and drove the car over the bank. We both wondered if this incident had somehow imprinted itself upon my cellular memory so that even though I don't consciously remember the event, somehow my body did.

5. I am a night owl. Always have been, probably always will be. There were at least a couple instances when I was young where I simply forgot to go to sleep. No, this was not when I was at university pulling all nighters, although that did happen much later. At sleep overs, I was always the last one awake and usually the first one up. Now, although I still tend to keep rather late hours, don't find it quite so easy to get up so early. I have considered that perhaps I was supposed to have been born in a different time zone, not sure how I would actually confirm that though.

6. Last but not least...I talk to myself a lot...or sometimes to people who aren't there. Okay, I usually don't do this when other people are around, or if I do, it's internal dialogue. I'm not an outright freak, at least not yet.

Now, who to tag, who to tag...eenie, meenie, minie moe, I choose Cheryl, JBelle, Fede, Pinks, Mone, and VE.

Deceleration

Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.

~Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855)

Thin Ice

I do not praise the wisdom of men, said the Reverend, for that is not great wisdom. Now I rather try to praise the folly of men, because it's remarkable how far their folly has brought them.

What I Don't Know...

About Rothenburg am der Tauber

I don’t know that the little narrow path just beyond the bridge meanders behind the wall to the edge of town and eventually leads into a large garden with a big apple tree and a quaint little cottage. I don’t know that the man, who lives in this cottage, reminiscent of the gingerbread house in the tale Hansel and Gretel, is now retired, that he waits impatiently for Sunday afternoon when his curly haired granddaughter with her big blue eyes and cherry pursed lips and little scuffed black mary janes comes to visit.

I don’t know that she runs up and down the path along the side of the house chasing the mouser who in turn dives under the bushes searching for a quiet refuge. I don’t know that the little girl, once she’s had her fill of fun then flies breathless through the front door, dirt on her knees where Oma feeds her fresh baked cookies and a tall glass of milk. I don’t know that she gobbles it all up greedily and then peers into the china cabinet at grandma’s collection of knickknacks knowing that she mustn’t touch, but wanting to in the worst way.

I don’t know that later that afternoon she saunters lazily hand in hand with her mother down the cobblestone street. I don’t know that when they turn the third corner that there’s a little café that sells ice cream, their most popular flavour being a creamy hazelnut that would be perfect topped with melted chocolate. I don’t know that just a little ways further down this narrow street they reach the city walls where they take time to peer off into the forested countryside and then slowly pass through a gate into a large park with beautiful gardens.

I don’t know that many musicians hang out in this area serenading the lovers who laze about in the grass and on the park benches on sunny summer afternoons. I don’t know. There are many things I just don’t know.

Aging Gracefully

I am teaching a group of teenagers and I see them three times a week. Sometimes they will do whatever they can to wriggle their way out of work. Sometimes they simply want to connect with the person teaching the class. Today was one of those days. It started when E asked me how old I was. I of course said, "You don't ask those kinds of questions."

"Well why not. Ms. S told us how her husband proposed to her."
"I'll tell you what, take a guess and I'll tell you if you hit it."
"24," she asks inquiringly. Now everyone is listening intently.
I smile and say, "not quite," thinking if I were I would scarcely be out of university.
"26 then." I tilt my head and smirk.
M blurts out, "28." At this point, I can't hold it in. I really start smiling, truth be told I was trying not to laugh. "I knew it!" he says. "Madame is 28. Look, she's blushing." Yep, that's how I look when I try to not laugh outright...nice rosy glow, that is.

Class went on as usual and close to the end E comes up and sits opposite me and takes a good hard look at me before saying, "I can't believe you're 28, you look so much younger."

I just love these kids. I wonder if the parents would notice if I took them home with me.

When Darkness Falls

As nightfall does not come all at once, neither does oppression. In both instances, there is a twilight when everything remains seemingly unchanged. And it is in such a twilight that we all must be most aware of change in the air – however slight – lest we become unwitting victims of the darkness.

~Justice William O. Douglas

Today I had a chance to browse through a book called, “The End of America – Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot,” by Naomi Wolf. Like I said, browsed, so I can’t give you a full synopsis, but what I read, was disturbing, to say the very least. This book is a wake-up call that brings to light issues of tyranny, democracy, and survival. It is a call to arms…compelling us to face the way the freedom in America is under assault. She draws parallels to the Bush administrations post 9-11 policies and events that took place during the early years leading up to the rise of Nazi Germany, Pinochet’s Chile and Stalinist Russia. She explains how Americans have the wrong idea of what a closed society looks like, how in the initial shut down, for the most part, for most people, life goes on as usual.

She takes one through the steps that dictators in the past who have taken over democracies or crushed prodemocracy uprisings by invoking emergency decrees to close down civil liberties, creating military tribunals, and criminalizing dissent have used and brings to light echoes of these events in America today. She calls to our attention important lessons from history about how fragile civil liberties are and how quickly freedom can be lost. Our fundamental rights and freedoms are being eroded as we apathetically sit back unaware. She clearly outlines the same ten steps that have shut down democracies all over the world at different times: invoke an external threat; develop a paramilitary force; create a secret prison system; surveil ordinary citizens; arbitrarily detain and release them; harass citizens’ groups; target writers, entertainers, and other key individuals for dissenting; intimidate the press; recast dissent as “treason” and criticism as “espionage”; and eventually subvert the rule of law. She then warns and illustrates how the United States is moving towards becoming a more closed society.

Naomi makes us aware of the urgency to become informed, act, and protect our rights and liberties. Although I am not American, being a close neighbour, and looking at the US’s place in the world, any movement the US might make towards a more closed society would have immense implications internationally. To quote one paragraph: “If a democratic America, with working checks and balances, often exempts itself from international agreements when its strategic interests don’t coincide with international goals, would a United States led by a dictatorial regime be likely to subdue in itself any level of aggression internationally or restrain itself from any plunder of resources that it seeks, simply because it was upsetting the rest of the world?

If you don't have time to read the book, I encourage you to watch the video below of Naomi speaking at a university campus. It's a little long, but she goes through most of the points covered in her book.

This is Amrum

"You're a funny bird," laughs my sister, "You know, most birds head south for the winter. And what do you do? Winter comes along and you head straight north."

She's right you know. Just when almost everyone else is mourning the loss of those last summer rays and making their plans to grace those welcoming beaches in the south, I do an about face. I head out north on the autobahn zooming my way along until finally one by one the cars begin to disperse and it is no more. I am now on what amounts to not much more than a lonely country lane, yet still I forge on, urged by the gentle secret whispers of the North Sea. Long fields of flat farm land stretch out around me fringed by forested areas. Every so often I happen upon quaint red bricked houses with welcoming candles gracing the windows. And then, a small village with the same neatly organized quaint brick houses.

I continue past it all. The air grows thicker and mist periodically rests its heavy head upon the fields. The call of the sea is getting louder now. Soon I reach its edge, the very edge where it greedily swallows up the land and makes it disappear into its steely grey waters. But this is not where I want to stop. No, I want to ride the waves until I reach a speck of land that bravely pokes its towhead out of these icy waters and gulps for air. I want to wash upon its naked, lonely shores, be enveloped by its sandy dunes. I want to listen to the wind quietly whisper its secrets in my ear as it gently brushes the hair off my forehead and kisses my cheek. I want to bask in the pale winter sun, soaking up its cool rays. More than anything, I want the moment to stretch out into eternity with the promise of forever in the now, although ultimately I understand that it must cede its spot for another to take its place.

Hey Eugene

Have you ever met someone and instantly felt an amazing connection? I'm talking about one of those situations that blows you right out of the water, where you seem to be connecting on all levels with that other person, so much so, in fact, that all you can think is, "wow!" And then, a little while later, something happens that makes you realize that perhaps, although you're completely baffled by how you didn't pick up on it, the connection wasn't mutual. How could this fact have slipped by you? You are now left perplexed, wondering, "what was that all about anyway?" Well, here we have it, Pink Martini performing possibly one of their best songs about just that. Please join me in listening to, "Hey Eugene."

More on Loreley

A gigantic stratification of slate (132 meters above sea) impressively overlooks the Rhine near St Goar. Far below, the Rhine twists its way through a narrow valley which over centuries has been the site of many a tragic shipwreck. German poets have immortalized this place through their romanticized writings. As a result, various legend and lore has come about.

In one such story, it is said that from the top of this rock a ghost-like image of Loreley sang sailors to their doom. As they heard her fascinating, sad voice when they passed the bend of the river, they would become mesmerized with her, crashing their ships onto the rocks. This tale goes on to say that she was once a mortal girl who threw herself from the top of the rock into the Rhine because her lover proved her unfaithful.

Clemens von Bretano tells yet another tale in his novel “Godwi.” Here a ravishingly beautiful woman was cursed to attract men and thus bring about their undoing. Because she could no longer bear this tragedy, she threw herself off the highest point of the rock into the Rhine to put an end to the spell.

Yet another slightly different version of the story is found in a poem written by Heinrich Heine in 1824. He tells of a girl who combs her golden hair and lilts a little song with such a powerful melody that the sailors below, instead of watching out for shallows and wild currents look up to her and crash their boats against the rocks only to be dragged to the bottom by strong river currents which at this point is almost 100 feet deep. Thus their fate was Loreley’s song.

The Lovely Loreley

"I cannot explain the sadness
That's fallen on my breast.
An old, old fable haunts me
And will not let me rest."

I do not know what haunts me,
What saddened my mind all day;
An age-old tale confounds me,
A spell I cannot allay.

The air is cool and in twilight
The Rhine's dark waters flow;
The peak of the mountain in highlight
Reflects the evening glow.

There sits a lovely maiden
Above so wondrous fair,
With shining jewels laden,
She combs her golden hair.

It falls through her comb in a shower,
And over the valley rings
A song so mysterious power
That lovely maiden sings.

The boatman in his small skiff is
Seized by a turbulent love,
No longer he marks where the cliff is,
He looks to the mountain above.

I think the waves must’ve flung him
Against the reefs nearby,
And that did with her singing
The Lovely Loreley

Breach of Reality

I could be anywhere. My mind flits from my "to do" list when I get back home to an altered plane of reality in a variety of different locations. But the reality is that I am sitting in a black Mercedes heading north towards Köln at 180 km/hr. We're in the fast lane. My surroundings whir past me similar to my brain's present mode of processing. Everything outside of the vehicle is in muted tones of brown, grey and white. Winter does interesting things to the landscape. I feel like I am passing through a black and white film with selected objects tinted in sepia. It all adds to the surrealism of the situation. The radio is turned on playing mainly 80's pop songs which carries me back to my high school days. I see peoples faces, remember situations, places...it's all in there somewhere. Man, it's been a long time. I don't even know if I know their names anymore. Occasionally the music stops and a news clip is interjected. I catch a word here and there but realize that I am presently oblivious to the happenings in the world. And does it really matter anyway? "Charlie get down. Charlie get down." Have I heard that one before? I'm not so sure. Every so often they throw in one I don't know. Even now as I sit here, it all feels like a dream, I can just imagine that it will only feel more so later.

Fame

Well, apparently Blanche can hold her own in a beauty contest. Unbeknownst to me she went off and put herself out there with a bunch of other snowmen. She knew I probably wouldn't approve. But what is done is done. There's no going back now. In any case, one must strike while the iron is hot...or I guess before it gets hot, in the case of a snowman. A snowman's life is short so I admire her tenacity to seize the day and live life to the fullest. I just didn't know that a snowman's life could be so full. Apparently her dream was to see herself in glossy print, and now she's done just that and gone off there and put herself out there on the web too. At least she chose a respectable magazine: British Columbia Magazine. Check it out, and you will see what a busy girl she's been. I believe she's the third picture down. Rumour has it that she is now eying Broadway. I have my doubts about that one, but I must admit that I have yet to hear her sing and she has surprised me thus far. Who knew that a snowman's life could be so full?

Steffi's Meme

Thanks to Steffi over at Mausbär's Nähkiste who asked me to complete this meme.

1. Jobs ... where I worked...
If I start at the very beginning...Nelson Golf Course (I worked as a waitress); Vienna Cafe (waitress); The Hummingbird Gallery (frame shop and gallery); I did a short stint as a highway flag person; various teaching jobs - University of Sherbrooke, Red Deer College, Canadian International College, Cegep de Rimouski, Ecole Westview School, School district #23 and School District #8; Publishing - Gage Learning, Thomson Nelson, Mysotis Press; Staffing and Recruiting Consultant - Tech Recruiting Ltd; Biofeedback therapist. (Whew! That's kind of crazy. There may well be a few in there that I have missed but you to get the idea.)

2.Movies...
Delicatessen, Amelie, The Red Violin, Lord of the Rings, Princess Bride, and so many other....

3. Places where I've lived ...
I grew up in Nelson, BC, so I guess it's kind of ironic that I'm back. Other places where I have lived in between, in chronological order, Victoria, Quebec City, Rimouski, Prince Rupert, Kelowna, Vancouver.

4. Series...
I don't watch a lot of TV shows but I tend to enjoy "cop" shows: Law & Order; Criminal Minds; CSI

5. My favourite food ...
If you get me started on food, I just may not be able to stop...isn't it everyone's big love? Okay, I'll try to keep it short: cherries, chocolate, lox, crepes (only the way my Mom makes them with berries and whipped cream), whipped cream...it goes great on just about anything, cheese, fondu, raclette, pasta, really, I could be here all day.

6. My favourite websites ...
Where does one start? My daily blogroll, of course. For the rest...it kind of depends on mood and what I'm looking for.

7. My favourite places ...
Nelson (of course) especially in the mountains.
West coast of Norway (very happy in the Bergen area)
Amrum (this small island in the North Sea is a new favorite place...someday I will live there and write books)
Rocky Mountains (how can one not be happy in the midst of such beauty)
Switzerland (Have had good experiences in both Geneva and Zurich. What's not to like? Very friendly people, amazing food, chocolate, beautiful scenery...ah, the list goes on.)
Pienza (a place where one can forget all their former lives, the incessant business and, perhaps for the first time in life, simply exist)

8. My favourite colours ...
Sapphire Blue
The colour of Lake Louise
Cherry Red
Earthy colours (for my house)

Now I suppose I really should tag someone. Who would like to participate? Let me know. I'd like to see all your answers.

Patience

I hold my heart between the fourth and sixth rib for you.

Risk

Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.
~Helen Keller

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

I have spent the past two days in what has felt like a snow globe, surrounded by large, white, fluffy flakes wafting down around me. Today I was supposed to head up to the hill to carve up some of that powder. Today, is the day that Red Mountain has a free ski day. There would be tons of people. It would be awesome. But alas, 'twas not to be. I woke up to a forecast of nasty rain warnings.

Ever the optimist, I piled on my ski attire and decided that they just couldn't' be right. I loaded all my equipment into the vehicle and set off with friends. The roads were a mess. They were a mixture of ice, snow, slush, water... nothing pleasant no matter what sort of snow tires one has. Oh, the conundrum. We decided to stop by the grocery store while contemplating to at least push one task out of the way. The produce manager was very chatty and had all sorts of opinions about the hill. What to do? What to do? I knew he was right. I've done the ski in rain before and decided that I'm at a point in my life where I can choose to be picky. We turned around.

Now I had the whole day ahead of me. I was up, it was early, I was dressed for the great outdoors. It seemed a pity to return home to simply crawl back into bed. But then our friend "Blanche" suggested we meet her at the beach. She's not one to hang out indoors. The heat makes her melt, she complains. She thought the weather was almost perfect to get some fresh air. She was optimistic that the sun would show up and we could catch a few rays. She also suggested a polar bear dip, but the rest of us were a little hesitant. So instead, we frolicked in the snow and generally had a very merry time.

Who?

Who has not felt moments of extreme pain? Who has never felt, at some moment in life, the desire to give up?

Who has not yet felt lonely, extremely lonely and had the sensation of having lost all hope? Who?

Who among us has not searched for that beacon of light to lead the way? Not reached out towards that ray of sunshine in hopes of deliverance?

No one, not even the rich, the famous, nor other important people are exempt from having moments of solitude and deep bitterness.