The LaughingMaus

It was a lovely August evening with a bonfire and wine. A muskrat rustled in the bush by the stream while Janice told a story about an old man who lives in her village. Two years ago he was seen for the first time escorting a young Vietnamese woman through town. A few months later they were holding hands and exchanging private smiles. She was pregnant. Now he is often seen by the fountain in the middle of town with his son hanging on to both his fingers, trying to figure out how to walk. The old man looks happy and his wife looks happy. They exchange private smiles over the baby’s head.

Janice and I smiled over the idea that an unmarried man in his later years, chose not to settle in at the local pub and drink beer, watch soccer and wait patiently for the last days before his funereal to pass, but instead to open up a catalog (and possibly a can of worms) choose as best he could and see what happened. We agreed that Love – as a way of life – could turn the world upside-down.

“Pfft, but-but-but the old man was probably just bored and wanted a maid he didn’t have to pay.” sputtered Daniel, our devils advocate. “Haaarh, you girls have heads full of jelly. You are so full of romance you can’t see a business deal when it bites your nose. She was probably very poor and happy to leave that misery and get a free ride into the Western world.”

We ladies advanced the theory that the old man offered the young woman an escape from poverty, received her graciously, and treated her upon her arrival withrespect, in effect loving her before knowing her. Or, maybe it was the other way around, he “bought a bride” and she although young, came to keep him company, brought laughter and cleanliness into his home, put zinnias on the table, treated him with respect and joy as a human, not an old man. We were not talking about being “in love”, but about the deeper act of loving. What honest person has the stamina to deny Love and refrain from loving in return?

And now I ask myself, is Love a force; a thing that exists without need of humans? Along the lines of the tree in the forest, if we were not here to feel it, would Love still exist? Whatever the unknowable answer to that question is, it clearly works as a force in the subjective lives of humans. The attempt to deny this made Daniel look as foolish as a beekeeper denying centrifuge.

Dear Members of that Blow-Me-Away-Professional American Soccer Team,

You are the greatest!! I have never been so proud of the performance of an American Soccer Team as I am of you guys tonight. I know you’re disappointed, but you played an awesome tournament!!!

Congratulations on your incredibly cool suaveness, and on your silver medal. I know it’s hard to imagine tonight, but you wait and see: The future will be pointing out the elan with which you paved the way…

My first try received a Life Torpedo about 9:00 in the morning when I remembered that we were supposed to be in the city with friends the better part of the day. This is why people keep calendars I know, and I did spend a lot of time on that Saturday thinking about writing, but that is not exactly a substantial break-away from my day-to-day. I think about writing a lot.

I had intended to block out eight hours for enjoying the meditative effects of actually staring at my blank screen, tapping my fingers on the keyboard, staring out the window and wrestling with the question: Is acceptance of the wall the way through the wall?

Still clueless, but this time having cleared it with Chandler I’m giving it another try tomorrow. I know it’s short notice, but join me if you like. I’ll be focused on writing – something – anything between 10:00 am – 6:00 pm on Sunday, June 7, 2009.

“Endlich gibt es Tempo als Toilettenpapier.”

“Endlich?”, dachte ich als Jürgen ging seine Nase putzen. “Du, hier sind die Taschentücher.” yodelt ich ihm nach.

“Noooo ich hatte lieber Toilettenpapier”

Ach, deswegen.

Another good suggestion floating around the internet, and brought to my attention by Moonrat .

I’m in for Saturday the 16th of May, especially for a book review or two. Since starting my hundred books, I’ve been reading, reading – but not much writing, writing. My “Review Me” pile is getting out of hand.

I’ve finally figured out what is so depressing and exhausting about reading blogs. I never learn anything new. I do, very often, read good stuff that I already know. It irritates and bores me that I knew most of it fifteen years ago too when the internet was a baby, and having partaken of it’s temptations to the fullest, I was busy learning to live outside of my culture, to conduct my life in a language I had never heard before.

I didn’t have the energy to speak up in a public forum then and now I am willing, but find that a million someones have stolen my tongue. The revelation: I lived through the revolution. Now what?

On the night before my tenth birthday, my dad came to tuck me in to bed last. I got to choose to be last by virtue of being the first to pass tooth-inspection and, although as my littlest sister reminded me just recently, last was not always the most advantageous choice if “Daddy-time” was what you craved, last was super if you had a good book going.

The next day would be my birthday; fat chance I wouldn’t get plenty of talking-time with Dad that night, last was the only choice for me. I was reading Little Women again, trying to get it through my thick head that, as the oldest of three girls it was my lot, like Meg’s, to be pretty and to long to be fashionable, to marry a nice man and settle down, to learn to cook, make jellies, keep house, and be content.

Lordy, lordy I wanted to be Jo. I wanted to write stories in the attic, to keep a pet rat, direct and act the dramatic parts in plays, and have Laurie Lawrence fall in love with me because I was wildly courageous and unconventional.

I had to be honest though about the fact that I was probably much to shy and afraid of everything to give a convincing Jo.

Maybe that is what we talked about that night when Dad came to tuck me in. I don’t remember. I’m sure he gave me the Birthday Lecture. He gave us the Birthday Lecture every year, and every year I was surprised that he remembered – I didn’t. It started like this:

“Daughter dear, tomorrow you will be ten years old. This is a milestone in your life and those are always good for looking back and assessing. Was there something you always wanted to do when you were nine? If so, and you haven’t done it, you have missed your chance forever. Tonight is the last night of your ninth year, and you will never, ever be nine again.”

You may think this sounds depressing, but it wasn’t. Daddy delivered the birthday lecture with such a philosophical face that you couldn’t help but consider the actuality of it, and should there have been even a hint of regret, we would have all resolved to pay more attention and do right by our next year.

“But, eldest daughter of mine,” he would continue, “tomorrow you will be ten years old! Think of it: Double Digits! Nearly a teenager! And you will have an entire year, three hundred sixty-five days, to make your dreams come true. Everything you have dreamed — all your life — of doing when you are finally ten will be within your grasp when you wake up in the morning. Reach for your dreams.”

Is it any wonder that I was still calling him on the telephone the night before I turned thirty-eight? He did his best, but the time difference meant that he was delivering a late-night lecture before his breakfast, and if he couldn’t seem to muster the grandness and enthusiasm I remembered from those birthdays long ago, who could blame him – he had delivered the birthday lecture by then at least one hundred and one times. My dream of becoming Jo instead of Meg felt very far away when I hung up the phone.

I didn’t make it that year. Or the next year, or the next five years. Maybe, though forty-six to forty-seven is my lucky number. I’m still shy and afraid of pretty much everything – but these days I’m more afraid of being afraid and running out of time before I experience my Jo-hood.

My Cold and Flu Tip for the Year: Take one of those little packages of travel “Nosenex” (as my mother always called Kleenex when we were kids). Be sure you use the good thick ones for this. Open the package, and pour some cold water into it. Let the tissues soak it all up, then squeeze as much water out as you can. Take ‘em out of the package and set ‘em beside your cranberry tea, snuggle on the couch with a warm blanket and a good book.

You’ll understand what’s so great about this trick the first time you sneeze. These Nosenex are cool, and don’t hurt. You feel clean after using them, unlike the expensive ones with creams and aloe embedded in them that only leave you feeling a bit slimy about the nostrils.

What do you suppose moved the marketing department to think that “slimy” is a feeling consumers relish when we have a cold?

The last German national soccer game of 2008 was so boring that even Georg noticed the advertising around the field. “Hey, we use that company at work.” he said.

In the first half England made a goal. In the second half Germany did. The announcer said “One should always leave open the possibility of a stupid mistake on the part of the English goalie.” I thought that was a fresh statement and said so, but the guys assured me that was pretty much the way Germany wins against England—when Germany wins against England which they don’t when the game is in Berlin like it is tonight.

Returning from the halftime dishing up of dinner in the kitchen (curry with chickie, cauliflower, and yummy little baby melanzane), Oliver Kahn is standing on Gunther Netzer’s chalked in footprints to the right side of my television screen. What is he doing there? He is wearing a silver-gray suit and a striped tie and I want to scream. “Ollie? What are you doing? Get back outside where you belong. For heavens sake, stop talking and be useful!”

At the seventy-sixth minute marker Georg is bemused – “Hey, they are playing better.”

“Yeah”, I said. “It takes fifteen minutes for the half-time drugs to kick in.”

“Mmhmn, maybe. I don’t know.” he mutters.

He’s not listening to me. I can tell.

England makes a second goal. They need it in order to beat us 2-1. At the precise moment the ball passes into net on the right side, the German goalie is standing at the left post. waving his hand in the air as if to say “No, over here!”

The goalie has an exasperating job.

In England tonight the fans are happy. I hope they are as happy as the German fans were the last time the teams met in England. Germany wins at Wembley, England wins in Berlin. It’s tradition and let’s be honest, don’t we love to see a winning streak continue as much as we love to see it broken? Maybe those nice young men listened when their mothers said “It’s not polite to invite guests over to play at your house and then trounce them roundly, dear.” Bravo!

I could survive for 32 seconds chained to a bunk bed with a velociraptor

Sigh. Good thing those dudes are extinct.

und unter diese headline schrieb der Stuttgarter Zeitung von 25 July, 2008: “Weil das Urkilo in Paris langsam Masse verliert…”

Ich glaube dies ist schlechte Nachrichten für meine Diet.

"Each man's life represents a road towards himself, an attempt at such a road, the intimidation of a path. No man has ever been entirely and completely himself. Yet each one strives to become that - one in an awkward, the other in a more intelligent way, each as best as he can."

- Hermann Hesse (Demian)

It was another lifetime. One of you drove a car like this, didn’t you? Yours was yellow and you know who you are.

The other, a beautiful bridesmaid in my wedding. Could it really be almost twenty-six years since I last saw you?

I was happy to see your names parade cross my monitor today. If you miss me at the original point of contact, but find me here – let me know how to get a hold of you. I’d love to do some catching up!

The audience was a mirror-like reflection of the circus itself. Lots of clown people – with too-big noses, droopy ears and vacant expressions trying to dissemble the system behind the seating. Standing around holding their coats and reading big signs directing them to “Reserved Section A” which, against all expectations was to be found both left, and right of center. As was “Reserved Section 1”. There were the requisite artist types with dreadlocks and rolled-wool clothing purchased at the Middle Ages Markt in Esslingen. Old ladies in expensive coats, and old men wobbling on canes, waving about glasses of proseco. Two wheelchairs, five children and a few shaved-head street criminal types. Were they there for effect or for my wallet?

It was a one-ring circus that opened with the Maestro handsome in his crimson velvet tails introducing the orchestra at eight o’clock in the evening. Just minutes after the three evenly-spaced but increasingly pleading announcements asking people to: “Please scoot to the inside of the row, without leaving empty seats – the house is sold out tonight.” After which the audience to the left waited deafly for the audience to the right to begin. This resulted in absolutely no apparent change in seating availability as the next two hundred people streamed into the tent.

Including the 25 minute intermission, during which the audience was responsible for the entertainment, it was a three hour, nonstop, acrobatics, trapeze flying, balance act on stilts with four seals, a dozen pure-bred Arabian horses, and a Jack Russell Terrier thrown in for extra charm.

I don’t remember the last time I had that much fun.