Summer Sigh

Summer drifts to a close.  The heat of the setting sun wafts memories by the mind's eye, stung by the chill of August and the oncoming Autumn.  It is such a melancholic time of year; the changes brought about by the seasons become clear.  School starts again, and the leaves fall to the ground as nature drifts off to sleep, fat on the harvest and content having sensibly stored supplies for the long Winter months.
It's time to wrap up or hide away and succumb to sleep tucked in the shawl of short days and long nights.

The Summer has been a pleasant one.  Visions of past Summers shimmer like a mirage but evaporate under scrutiny.  I cannot focus on any single aspect.  The end of the Summer is a poignant time of year.  The morphing world is an unsettling reminder of the inevitable march of time.  The start of something, something different.
How strange that school and the academic year start with something dying.  The last rays of Summer sun sink behind the hills.  The trees shed their healthy green for tan, brown and orange or nothing.  These coloured collages are tugged to the ground, whipped and pulled by the wicked wind and crushed underfoot.  The winds grow in momentum and the rains grow cold.  The coats come out from the back of the wardrobe and layers upon layers are bandaged around us to help stop the heat bleeding from our bodies.  Shielding us from the elements; coats, scarves, hats and boots.
The memories of Summer fade and we look forward to the shortest day, when after we can count the extra light.

Lost Treasures

The books lie dog-eared, creased and dusty, collected in cardboard boxes pulled and bashed and torn asunder.  I sneeze as I sift through the inter-locking layers of paperbacks, historical, academical and miscellaneous.  Some are better preserved than others.  Down, deeper down I dig, uncovering forgotten or mislaid texts.  Pencilled notes, and inky blue dots, NB and underlined paragraphs mapping out those pieces of academic interest and the smithereens of my own personal taste.

I pull out Schnitzler's Traumnovelle and Dürrenmatt's Der Richter und sein Henker, and an anthology of post-war poetry.  I find 'Schweigen' by Eugen Gombringer and read it quietly to myself.  I raise Ulysses from the pit, and sigh because like many others I have not yet finished it.  There are so many books here neglected;  half-read and half-lived.  I vow to remedy this situation and pull yet another book from the box before rearranging everything as it were into interlocking layers, folding over the cardboard flaps and pushing the heavy, bulging box back under my bed.  I place my booty on the chest of drawers with the best intention of reading it after my I have finished my current conquest but in all likelihood it will probably be passed around the room, resting on different surfaces for a time before it ends up on top of my wardrobe gathering dust or back into the busted paper chest buried underneath my bed.  It's a terrible fate either way.

überlin

6-10 June

It's a hot day in Berlin.  I wake up quite early, ca. 8 am and lounge and lie for another while.  There is light pouring in from the balcony door.  I get dressed and check my phones, one message and at that moment my phone begins to ring.
No, I'm not in Vienna.  Not this weekend.  We'll catch up when I'm back.
I'm staying with my friend for the weekend.  We have a late breakfast, relaxing on the balcony in the warmth of the sun and discussing possible destinations and plans.  We drink tea and listen to music, watching the world drift by and the sun shift to a less intense position.

After some deliberation we agree to visit The Wall by Bernauerstraße.

I had seen part of the infamous Wall before but this time I got to view the remnants by Nordbahnhof and read about the lives that were dissected, the demolished Church of Reconciliation and the various additions to the Wall to hinder escapees.  It stands now as a poignant memorial, remnants of the follow of humankind that thinks it can wall in and force compliance.  This wall was the bandage on Communism and the East and although the Communists may have changed the dressing, the wound did not close and continued to bleed.

Riding along the S7 one can view various buildings of importance; the TV Tower of Alexanderplatz and the Reichstag among others, as well as murals and graffiti.

Berlin is a wonderful blend of old and new.  The city has seen so much and been the focal point in history already and it is constantly evolving.  Once a haven for artists, the city may not be as affordable as it once was but it continues to offer a home to those who wish to think outside the box.  An open city, with open opportunities for an open mind.
After reading all the information, watching the video clips and staring at the pictures that the memorial had to offer, my friend and I wandered across the street to the Ost-West Café and I ordered a Wessichino.

On this weekend, the Karnaval der Kulturen takes place.  The streets are alive to the rhythm and buzz of people, happy, excited and applauding the floats as they drift by.
Feeling peckish we pop into a Vietnamese restaurant and then make our way to the Oscar Wilde for a refreshing beverage and some card games.

My second last day in Berlin consisted mainly of eating and drinking.  First, there is lunch with an old friend at Knofi.  Then, when we gather ourselves together meeting my hostess and her boyfriend and we go off in search of the best ice-cream in Berlin which is allegedly sold at Vanille und Marille!  This was followed by drinks in a carpark but no ordinary carpark, mixing with the hipsters in their sky high establishment, we enjoy a few drinks in the sun at Klunkerkranich.

Finally, there is lunch and stories of bears in Canada before I say my goodbyes and hop on a bus to the airport.  My adventure in Berlin had come to an end but it certainly left an impression on me.

                                                                        Knofi cuisine

Berlin!

The Lives We'll Miss

Everyday we are faced with choices, some have a relatively minor affect, whereas others can be life changing.  The job we choose, the partner we choose, the friends, the country and place we decide to live.  So many choices and so many difficult decisions.
How things may have been different if we made a different choice and wandered a different direction.  One choice leads to another, which further branches seeking out possibilities and alternatives to what we know now.
Someone once told me that there are no right answers.  Whatever decision we make, we'll never know how the other choice would have affected us, where it would have led and who we would have met.  Anything we say after this decision is pure speculation.
To make a choice and to stick with it for better or worse is perhaps the best course of action but also so very challenging.  Indecision is a damnable beast that is sure to play havoc with your health and happiness.  There are no right answers.
Perhaps things could have gone better, maybe they would have but there is no certainty or solace there.  Only torment.  Make a choice, live with it, learn from it.  Wallowing is sure only to wither your health.

I think of Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken.
'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, / and sorry I could not travel both.'
In the end Frost takes one route, he makes his choice and celebrates those good things that stemmed from that decision.
'I took the one less travelled by, / And that has made all the difference.'
Make a choice and follow it.  Think of all the positive experiences your path brings, there isn't enough time to follow them all.  But there is no sense in thinking over things that could have been.
Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery.  It doesn't stand to reason to worry.  Be glad your have choices, all too often there may be none, no alternative and we are compelled to act and to follow a single course of action.  Helpless.  When your hand is forced it can be a bitter experience, so too can consequence.  No one ever said that the choices your made were easy, there were probably tears at some point, clenched fists and gritted teeth, broken hearts and furrowed brows, harsh words and sighs of frustration.  You may be able to revisit past decisions, retracing your steps and starting over but whatever your choice, whatever happens, you'll handle it.
'Oh I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted If I should ever come back.'

BLOCK

The stumbling block, or perhaps the path block.  Sometimes it's hard to build up a momentum.  The spark of imagination lives and dies before I can grab a pen and put it to paper.  It's disheartening to be gripped and shaken alive with dire necessity and purpose one minute only to see it fade, and vanish like the finite life of a matchstick, the next.

I often carry a pen and notebook for those rare moments of lively absorption in that delicate bubble of inspiration but I have been caught unaware in times past.  Without pen or without paper, I could scramble to get it down on my phone, fingers and thumbs stabbing the keypad furiously.  I could use shorthand but that is often a bad idea as I find myself asking, What did I mean there?

Words end up scribbled on pieces of paper, scraps and receipts and loose pages.  A thread that will hopefully lead back through the labyrinth to that illuminating thought.  But what about those times when I can't scribe the idea.  Lost usually.  It floats to the ether.

The times of misspent or disused inspiration come back to haunt me during the quiet dull hours of stagnation.  The dreaded writer's block.  I crave the time to sit and scribe and yet when it comes round that I have an abundance of that coveted commodity, time, I cannot think of anything to write.  What is more I find the drivel that I put to paper nauseating to read.

What can one do to regain their footing or to dislodge that boulder blocking their train of thought and the path to promising pastures?  Friends have often times suggested relief and releases; jogging or some other form of physical activity, breaks away from the page to freshen the eyes and the mind, doodling, cups of coffee or tea, and of course, time heals all wounds and weathers the toughest rocks and blocks.

Reflections on a Summer evening

In no particular order, for what mind thinks chronologically.

Rescuing a spider in a Kindergarten before a child bursts through the circle of onlookers and stomps it to death in one swift, heavy thud.  He then has the audacity to scream 'Böse Mann! Fang mich an!' And speeds off as fast as his legs can carry him.

Sitting with my dad in the tractor cab, eating jam sandwiches in a field partially yellow as it has been stripped of grass.  Its coat of green shrinking to the middle.  The grass will become silage.  This is our tea but it's also a picnic.  Sometimes there are biscuits.

My sister making me swear to 'cross my heart' with the threat of blindness and death.  Breaking that promise and watching out in sheer terror for the justice I had sworn to accept for my transgressions.

The smell of cigarette smoke, the taste of fig-rolls washed down with tea while sitting with my grandmother, my father's mother.  On Tuesdays when neighbours had dropped in after bingo night.

Squashed into the car, packed into this vehicle and for varying lengths of time.  Perhaps we were simply driving to Mass, across the border to visit my grandmother (my mother's mother), or on our almost annual trip to Dublin Zoo.  There was often punching, nipping, plenty of winding up and ultimately threats from our parents that if we didn't quieten down, they would turn the car right around.

Rolling bales of hay and drawing them from the fields to the shed.

The beach, Black rock, Clogher head and a faint recollection of Betty's town.
2p machines that swallowed lots of coppers and returned very few.

The aroma of Summer calls many memories back to mind, happy thoughts from the last few years.  Oh to be a child in Summer, when it feels like there can be no end to the day and school is a long, long way off.

The Gold Star

The coveted gold star.
The sometimes elusive gold star.
Once upon a time, our teacher tested our mettle with a spelling test.  These tests were recorded in a small notebook distributed and subsequently collected after the test each Friday.
Sixteen words determined our reward.
We were given these words to memorise over seven days.
How I hungered for that 16/16 mark, excellent scribbled diagonally and the icing on the cake-a gold star stuck on with a piece of clear sticky tape.

Sometimes it didn't work out and instead of the praise I craved I got a banal v. good.  The worst travesty being the silver star glinting upon the page.  How I abhorred those scribed words.  It was much worse when I received a plain good.  Tricky words like 'buckle' cost me my star.  I see my students now make similar mistakes.
I have often thought of that pentadactyl celestial body glowing in the white space with rays of parallel blue to guide our education.  It was a simple thing but it exposed my competitive nature.  My desire for praise and my aspirations to be top of the class in any field I could.  Maths was never my forte so I compensated as best I could with other subjects.  English spelling was an area that I felt I could easily master.

I remember presenting that gold star with pride to my parents.  Sometimes my dad signed the page.  I am not sure why this irregularity occurred.  Sometimes I fancied a change I suppose.  I wanted to include him.  I rarely saw him write anything except his name.  It may have fascinated me to watch him write even that.  Or perhaps it was simply a time when my mother was in hospital having one of my siblings or maybe I just wanted some recognition from him too.  These spelling tests lasted a year.  When I changed class and teacher there were less colourful and aesthetic rewards.

I think I give rewards too freely.  While correcting copy books or exercise books, I have beside me my assortment of stamps and stickers congratulating kids for doing only what they are supposed to; the bare minimum and sometimes delivered in a messy fashion.  But maybe in this age of technology and destruction we have lowered the bar.  Or maybe it is right to recognise every effort.

I bought a small packet of gold stars during the week.  I couldn't walk by them.  They have a sticky back now-there is no need for tape to keep them pressed against the page.  

Nowadays there are fancy stickers of cars and monsters and all sorts.  A far cry from the simple gold star.
But I like it.
And I think of it fondly still.

I am a sentimental fool.

The stars, our hopes, dreams, ambitions and our wishes are wrapped up in these burning celestial bodies.  We often gaze and ponder what might have been and what might well be.  Do the stars on the page guide us like the faithful North Star that offers orientation and direction.
That little sticker possessed so much meaning; burning light, burning hope, burning courage and the reassurance that hard work does bring rewards, however, small.