last day of may

sunny day. First up. Shower, to drive the fine sawdust out of the grey hair.
A small fury at the thought of rising to what will be a day of non events, of regular recriminations, accusations. Style is important, and a lack of it shows painful cracks in the skin imperfectly covering the essence of life itself. And so the day starts, another step to destruction.

The son is up too, and is at the computer before dressing, before dressing, before washing. An ensuite bathroom would facilitate computer gaming enormously, but that is cynical.

It is nine thirty eight in the morning, far too late.
There is no plan no future.
To work tomorrow, the bus the cafe, the people, the train, another train, the bus, the room, functions unfulfillable, fulsome use of resources, watch a crowd of failed academicians doing jobs unsuitable to their status and their payment.
incredible.
No style there either. Nothing to respect.

Three old german cameras and a russian imitation.
Bells ring outside, calling the faithful, the needy, and the greedy.

And so it is solitude amid the crowds.

saturday, big flea market day

eight, sound of bells, sound of telephones. Telephones have no bells any more, they have strange sounds. Instead of simple machines causing a small piece of metal to vibrate against a larger piece a computer chip produces impulses as per programme, a small speaker blows the selected tones and rythms into the aether. , A resonating metallic sound governed by small screws for adjustment and the size shape and material of  the bell is replaced by a contrived noise with little relationship to the originating materials and shapes.
The sons friend is on the telephone, an hour is fixed for the flea market excursion. Clothes on and leave the house, hurry, before the parking wardens find the car illicitly parked in front of the house yesterday evening. A very short ride on a not-so-fast machine to a permitted parking spot, a spot not available yesterday on account of all the visitors to the town. Walk back down the new town street, into church lane, a bright sunny day today. the butchers truck enters the lane and parks in front of his store. Delivering the days assortment of processed animal parts for the degustative pleasures of the local population.
The jobbing accountand is in her shop, early today because there are accounts to finish for the month. She is a friendly person, and speaks of her son.
The bells of saint Martins peal for mass upon the return to the yellow room.
And the postman rings the bell, he has two parcels, he wishes all a pleasant weekend.

Tinnitus is in the right ear, and there is coffee to be drunk.

Family pleasures.

last friday of the whit holiday week

wake, realise the apnea mask is in place.
Take it off. It is effective. Sleeping without panic wakening is possible. As a child there was a dream of three nuns who would appear in all dreams for weeks, to finally jump on the dreamer in his dream.
And smother him, leaving him to awaken, choking agasping aghast. A terrorized child of nine.
Mother helped, explained that there is nothing to fear because nuns are the essence of goodness.

Old memories like those flood in like the light of the dawning day, disquieting uncomforted, in spite of the warm bed, the comfort of a night’s sleep.
To the tinnitus his in the right ear remember the nightmare, dark episode located dreamside at Glenmalure, in the hills. A stake, a fence pole, slung by a dark enemy like some huge spear into the space between tummy and chest. The dimming dream dreams of the end of life.
The first fear of dying and the remembrance of the first fear of personal mortality, now.
Was it apnea then too? A six year old dwelling on his visits to the stewards at Laragh, near the holy Gleann da Locha. Beauty and the beastliness of childhood alone.
That was over fifty years ago now.

The son is listening to minecraft videos, stampy nose or some such.
Make coffee, one for the wife in bed.
Blog.
Hug good morning he seems happy.
and so the day is on its way


A post scriptum for late comers:
Three nuns was my fathers tobacco when he smoked a pipe, a german in Ireland being Irish.
A smell to choke on to

Do twenty eight thursday

sleep like a log awake to the sound of computer music from behind locked doors. find yesterdays clothing from those places in which it was left last night. In the big room see that sonnyboy has put on the old Cona coffee machine with a gel burning gel burner underneath it.
Why is it made of glass? why not. Laboratory coffee
put on shoes and leave the house. In the street there is a market set up for today’s thursday farmers, thoough it is still too early for the crowds of people that will throng the street later on this fine sunny day.
Go to the small bakery first, the cheap one. But there stuff is unappetizing, a few young women with headscarves and long coats on look apprehensively at this potential new customer, sidelong glances at the seats they were hoping to occupy with their friends and families. The selection is lousy, and the son wants a certain cake.
Go to the next bakery. There is no lack of choice in this small German town. Pass it over, there is a vile smell of burnt cheese and toasted ham sandwiches. Nothing for the beginning of the day.
The third bakery is Ok, get four pretzels and a bee sting cake.
Some breakfast.
Return to the house, those one hundred meters, thereby watching the last late trucks sneak out of the pedestrian zone, later than really allowed.

Pass the building site, and into the house.
Watch the neighbours jogging around the block, chatting.

The sons coffee is made.
He is pleased with his cake.
ok

WednesdayHolidayNothingHappening

five to six, and take off that pressure mask. There is no memory of having slept badly so it must have been a good sleep.

Gather the clothing, put it on and downstairs for a walk. 

The laneway is deserted, there is the sound of children playing to be heard from the house at the corner, the green house with the handicrafts supply shop in it. In the main road, usually a pedestrian area, there are trucks and taxis , the trucks hurrying to deliver goods to the stores, and the taxis collecting and delivering persons.

Mareis bakery has a young woman who is serving the customers. She is friendly and polite. Buy bread for breakfast there.

Look at the church spire on the way back, built of brick, one of the tallest brick spires in the world.  It is taller than the castle on top of the hill in the background.

Alongside the church a gathering of pigeons picks at the cracks between the cobbles, cooing morosely.

The children’s voices emanating from the green house at the corner have become silent. The little shop shows its advertisements for wool and knitting aids and patterns.

Return home to the sleeping family, put the brezn on the table and make a pot of coffee.

tuesday postwhit holiday

keep regular hours, gasping awakening. Aghast, the mask forgotten in one nightly interruption. The nose is blocked. And it is six am again.
and so back to sleep.
The compressor now shows four hours of use
A bright day through the freshly cleaned windows, take a shower make coffee.
Holidays from work, rest in peace.
the coffee is finished, take a blue cup, two saccharin for the wife.
Pour in the coffee and try to pour in the milk. This has been left standing, and has now turned to cheese like smelly substance.
Throw away the coffee, empty the milk carton and dispose of this too, find new milk put new saccharin tablets in the cup and pour on the coffee.
The milk is good, bring it in to the bed.
oh donkey’s scone
what is to be done with the holidays now?


The son sings a song

„what shall we do with the drunken sailor“

never mind the sunken trailer.

whitsun monday

wake early again
it is dark yet and there is the whistle of a single bird to be heard
peace

later clatter noise smart suggestions from the bed.
son starts to practice badly on the piano.
There are heaps of clothes everywhere.

A mass of unwashed dishes in the kitchen, rubbish everywhere.
there is no free space, not in the mind not in the head and not in the living room
the bathroom is full.
The wife starts upbraiding the son to tell him to clean up his room.
She should perhaps start with her own,


fuzz in the head, slamming doors.
After a long sleep this is clamour and horror.
no refuge.

and those of you who are poets play with words and give them meaning.

Whit sunday

Never slept, television watcher, watch a series one episode after the next To bed at six in the morning.
At the next awakening

********


and up again at ten.
remove the nose mask, the nose has been driven clear of mucoid deposits,three hours sleep, no memory of dreams,
breakfast made son up wife up.
Talk, sunday breakfast.
by reflection in the house opposite, yellow light in the room, the sky’s colour is grey, a bright dazzling pale grey.

Easy like a sunday morning will not leave my head,
catchy melody

whit holiday saturday one

flat nothing going. Five am awakening, pottering about and bathroom, head spinning, sleep took place without the mask in place.
No choking nightmares.  Is that machine curative, not just a symptomatic mollifier?
Potter around reading. All are sleeping.
The living room is in a mess again and the small french clock has become really loud ticking away with it’s quarter second magnetic pendulum.
The piano has a copy of sheet music on it.
The Minecraft score. The piano teacher is flexible, and the score is complex enough to make sense in a learning and practice environment. At least that.
Rinse out the coffee maker and make coffee, one for the wife with milk and saccharin and one with nothing but coffee. The son is researching on the computer again. This is an obsession.
A pain in the neck. A pale waif with long red hair attached to a keyboard.
Fifty years ago there was a compulsive reader and builder of tree houses. There was no such thing as personal computers then, only room-filling monstrosities running banks of tape machines. Times change for the better and for the worse.

prepare for the flea market today. Flea market, look at the junk that others do not want any more in the hope that they have overlooked something useful.

And then to the tidying of the house, the cleaning and the preparing

Post 666

Saint Catullus church, with its two asymmetric towers. Different height,. different shape. Twins, but not identical.

The ploughed brown fields now have lines of green spots m them, there were their crops are showing through.

All the rest is growing madly, on account of the plentiful water, increasing warmth and the mftcient aght.

And so the day begins, yet again. Another working day.

22 May 2015

awaken, and it is seven minutes early, seven minutes before the time. Do the bathroom things, warm the shower, take out the wet mop that was left in a bucket.

Back to the bedroom, turn off the efoek clock. and so back to the shower.

Put on the same old clothes with different underwear, as every day. No, some days different clothes are due. Not today.

The spire of Martins church  lost in the fog, grey swirls everywhere today. There is no rain, therefore no raincoat today.

Bakers trucks, two, in the main street. A street full of bakeries, bakeries and cafes. This is now the business of the town. Luxury and leisure, shoe shop and clothing stores. Mobile phones for sale.

Dolores, still looks pleased with herself. We say our good mornings. Around the bus stap, and in the small park, there are five ducks and four crows. The sucks are clearly paired, The green plumage on the heads of the two drakes contrasting with the drab-brown plumage of the ducks. The one unpaired duck is male.

The crows are black. The ducks quack.

And a small finch sings from the railing.

Brown, molten snow, and wild the river rushes between its concrete walls. "Bits of wood, tree parts, are passing under the hedge in the muddy water's rush. The locks have been opened, the water from the mountains and out of the field drains of the surrounding countryside is pouring downstream. After it has passed Passau it will pass Vienna, and in the future the mud that it is carrying will settle in the Black sea.

At the station there is more activity than usual. That train drivers strike has ended,. and it is Friday.

        good: good humoured Anastasia serves coffee. She knew it by now, still meticulous with the rubber stamp on the discount card. The big man with the short hair is working together with her, they are laughing and joking. It is nice to see their happiness with each other.

Hedgehog is reading his newspaper....

The world is proceeding, a precession of days, not identical, but aways with the same factors affecting tt ipath.

Today, the pigtailed smoker is on the platform

Good morning.

The train runs through a foggy landscape,  a charge from yesterdays confusion.

Upon reaching Friving, the sun appears and the fog recedes. 

day four week forty four year two

mind under the cloud of depressive thoughts.

There is a forty four minute wait at Firing railway station. a coffee in that cafe there, another one on the road, or the tracks, or whatever. They are slow here, btw what •.

White lady has gone to her hugs, in fury at the break in her routine. The imitability of regular service spoils, •, team The local train arrives and rests at its platform .-

And waits.

21 May 2015

get up., no, wake up and disconnect that corrugated hosepipe that feeds air into the nose. No clock has made a sound yet, sleep has been gone for sometime now. Use the bathroom, create a sulphurous stream reeking of denatured asparagus. Return to bed, it is five to five.

The waker beeps three times before it can be turned off. Sleepless Times are here again. Night clothes off, and go to the bathroom again. Turn on the hot shower, to wait for it to warm up. A premature waking occurs, because of the small hand shower being switched on. This sprprays water all over the bathroom too.

Things go wrong of their own accord.

The shower finished, then up the stairs, after dressing of course. There replace the small screw to hold the small mirror in place on it’s pedestal. The room is tidier now, it will be pleasant to work here.

go down the stairs and out into the street. Damp and light grey. Where there used to be a builder’s crane there are now two huge hoppers of plaster. The building site’s store area in front of the house has now vanished it has been removed after Wilder's second complaint.

The streets are wet, a bakers track  has it’s wares unloaded by a bedraggled driver.

Running  later today, and there is a man running ahead. Is he running for the bus? No, it is not that late. The same young woman as yesterday, white boots and down jacket, blue jeans fashionably tight, halts under the town gate, the Landings Gate. She does not unfurl an umbrella today. She lights a cigarette.

Dolores is at the bus stop. The lady looks happy today. She must be in her mid forties.

The bus journey passes in an uneventful rush, and there is no smoker in front of the station. Inside, things are quiet, this is the third day of the strike. People are getting used to it.

Anastasia is short tempered today. She slams the coffee down on the counter. Fast and efficient today too.

The decision to await the following train in the cafe in LANDSHUT was made last night. This leaves tine for a second coffee. Big Blondy is slow, and your Team Leiter jumps in and makes sure that all are served. Sooty-eyed dramatic.

Leave for the platform. The nect train isjamhsmvate company, not bound by the strike.

S race is available in The dining car of the old-ntghe bet of rolling stock.. Small tables, big tables, coffee drinkers. Bay windows give a view of the deep green utterly waked landscape. This innate train does not normal stop in Moos burg, but because of the strike, it does. arriving in the Nation there is a view over the town to the

Saint Catullus church, with its two asymmetric towers. Different height,. different shape. Twins, but not identical.

The ploughed brown fields now have lines of green spots in them, where their crops are noe showing through.

All the rest is growing madly, on account of the plentiful water, increasing warmth and the light.

And so the day begins, yet again. Another working day. 

day three week forty four year two

20 May 2015

take care to press the correct button, silence the clocks's noise Pull up the knees, let the feet fall over the bed's edge and use the arm to lever the body upright. A hot shower, hear the rain outside, a rainy spring day. A rainy day in May. clothes on, Collect all the items and leave the building for the sodden street. The sun is up behind the clouds.

There is a girl, a young woman, walking down the street in a white jacket, white wedge heeled boots and blue jeans. Her pitch black hair tied back in a long ponytail, swings from ride to ride with every step. As she goes through the city gate she unfurls her umbrella.

Dolores is at the bus stop, raincoat, and plastic cowl over her head. Smiles on account of the bedraggled appearance of this new arrival.

Birds whistle, seem to be undisturbed by the dour pouring ruin. The river is leaden-looking in the background, sluggish and reflecting the grey clouded why.

At the Station, on a Wednesday, rainy weather, there's the smoker, with his pigtail outside the square. Carrying an umbrella over his head, the way one should, smoking away, rain shielded.

grins, and "Haugen".

stress full Anastasia, much to do on her own.

Big Blondie is late yet again. Still, the coffee is there soon, it is there for all.

There is a train strike on today, and one look at the big notice board confirms that the six oh- eight train is unaffected by the excitement..

The pills are not missed these days, combating the foul behaviour of the superiors at work no longer needs their help. No rapport is rapport when it continues indefinitely. Nothing to mask any more.

It is spring, turning to early rummer, there is more joy gleaned from left than the darkness that used to pass by the trains windows in the winters wintertime blackness.

Now it is a soft green landscape with glittering tarmac roads under an even grey sky. A fresh mind under the cloud of depressive thoughts.

There is a forty four minute wait at firing railway station. a coffee in that cafe there, another one on the road, or the tracks, or whatever. They are slow here, bud waddafuk.

White lady has gone to her bus, in fury at the break in her routine. The reliability of regular service spoils.
 The local train arrives and rests at its platform .-

And waits. 

Forty minutes

day two week forty four year two

A sound sleep ended by the sound of the yelping timepiece. Black sleep, black night. In the bathroom, listen to the shower: of rain outside.

gather all the things needed for the day, the workday, this Tuesday.

        Turn off the lights, and notice that the wrong band of keys is in the pocket. fix this, and then leave the building.

The streets are wet, the rain has reduced to a tight drizzle. The grey raincoat is on, ready for worse, not in the hope of betterment.

        'A man surreptitiously puts a plastic bag into one of the rubbish bins that await collection later. They are lining the street, each one jealously decorated with the name of its user. The bins are small, a consumer society has much that needs to be disposed of. People are possesive of their rubbish space, it is in short supply.

        Birds at the bus stop are loud today. It may be only me, but it whistles and calls. Today early underway, the bus number four passes: Dolores arrives,

good Morning.

The regular run of things again after that very long weekend, and from the vantage point that the bus offers  the belated Turkishdonner women are visible, the one wearing tights’ with a black and white leopards kin- pattern. forged for elegance, forced fit, long gone youth.

Things that are the name appear different. Today. Anastasia has found favour with her sooty eyelashes, bright and cheerful, definite and clear. A person made for leadership leading the team in a station cafe. beautiful fair hair and pitch-blackened eyebrows.

M oust achio drifts around, indefinite. Hedgehog is not around today, he is off on hisholidays. Time is slow today, who knows why.

The train is late, the platform full. The black cloud. belonging to the early morning rain shower is withdrawing into the distance, followed by the Rosenheim diesel train. Things are different today, a yellow sky now.

There is a sense of tension, though nothing is happening that does not happen more or less daily.

The coffee is finished, the cup disposed of, the mosaic maker passes on the  way to her friends.

A stranger wishes me good morning.

The train arrives. It is late.

Remember the name of the shop at the Landings Gate.

Oro Vita. 

Jewellers and Watchmakers.

sic sick

too many apples a day are not good for you.
so stay at home today. There are the sounds of the sons alarm, his preparation for school, his sortie de la maison or whatever.
There is a note underway to work now, no specifics.

The day is lovely and peaceful, monday in a small town.
Sleep on a while, a while, wiling away the time.
Let the intestines do the talking, gurgles, grumbles.

The apples were tasty, but somehow indigestible.

What a silly start to the week
bells ringing, silence all around
sounds of single cars,
and the diggers laying hot water pipes in the streets,

All muffled behind the tinnitus hiss

Sunday after Ascension Day

sleep is on a sideways drift, out  of the room, on its way through the cracks in the floorboards. Write this in sleeping clothes in the silence of the living room.
The bells outside sound for the half hour, two bells, six thirty three now three minutes later.
By the time it is written, it has changed. Ticking clocks talk of their work, lost accuracy such a long time later, time is passing, space moves differently.
What if one of the spatial dimensions behaved like time and time gave its coordinates to a position? Are they all just vectors?
Not now, in the silent sleeping house.
Time will function, and will it be understood if the vectors change their lengths?


Three bells.
Slow thinker.

Streets deserted.
No cars, no sound.

No, one passes in a nearby street, tyres arumble on the pavement. And another.
A loud noise.

The crow flies past the window in silence.

Humans are noisy.

A cat would be nice.
Sociable predator.

Get yesterdays cold coffee so that the sound of the grinder does not wake up the family.

sats day

up all night watching a series about madmen, murdering madmen, policemen
not to bed not awake.
no wish and no want
just stare at the moving pictures and hear the voices over the headphones.
All in german, miami policemen.
It is growing light in a dim way.

There are bottles of mineral water on the table.

It is half past five
Lie down in bed now.

day five week forty four year two

Friday, take a day off. Why not, overtime, there are few people in work anyhow anyway.
Daylight but graylight,  mayday greyday. grey is grey not gray.
The alarm sounds, school for son today.
Bathroom shower, get dressed and son to school.
Make fresh coffee, share it.

Find a painting on the floor.

One of the sons masterpieces, not that he is a master.

But it is nice.

let us find a frame.








prepare for the day, against the feelings, for common sense
No train today, the regular run of things is broken.

day four week forty four year two

See the light coming in from the window, stop the clock counting down. It is four forty seven, on a holiday day.
Ascension.
Another christian holiday, a holiday for all here, christian or not. Roman Caholic or Protestant or Muslim or Buddhist. They all have a day off, unless they are working in power plants, bakeries, hotels, cafés, guest houses or petrol stations.
There are plenty of exceptions.

Hear birdsong outside. Twitters and calls.
Listen to the air hiss out of the breathing mask, then turn off the little compressor. Three hours operation, nineteen events per hour.
Seems nonsensical, the display on that little machine. What ¿„events“?
Finally at five thirty, it is bright, to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. Coffee is addictive, but I would be happy to drink tea in Ireland.
The sound of the coffee grinder awakens the son, he is up in his high bed, asleep.
Good Morning.
Grinn.

The facade of the yellow painted house opposite reflects yellow light into the room. It is a room from another time, the anachronism is the television in the corner.

A pigeon coos outside, the clock ticks.




A calm day, another day.


Son laughs next door. His computer is amusing him.


School Holiday too.

There is a car in front of the door, parked in the middle of the street belonging to a tattoo artist from
dingolfing. Going by the numberplate anyway.

day three week forty four year two

12 May 2015

cramps in the night, dream them, scream them. Bad music for bad people. The wife wakes.

The pain goes

so much for that.

The alarm, wash, gather up the things needed for the day.

- A large young woman approaches in the alley, and another rides her bicycle in the other direction. Pigeons picking yesterday’s crumbs from between the cobblestones, the cobbles all carefully sealed with tar.'

still they pick.

Dolores at the bus stop, and the two diinerbuden women pass on their way to the Doenerbude. The birds are loud in the now well-foliated trees. Because of this foliage, they are invisible, hidden..

The smoker with his pigtail, in a blue denim suit today. The small dark haired new girl, at yormci's cafe is faster today," precise, r!

The curly haired workman is at a table, slurping his coffee. Football news on the television. Walk to the platform, it is crowded. People running to be first on the train, which has come to a stop farther down the platform than it usually does. Harry boys and girls, or you won't get a neat seat , stand back, let the people off, board the train at a run, strespur, as the Germans say.

Just wait, then board, find an empty seat and continue writing and waiting.

The murky vegetation-rich countryside rests under a grey sky, the Driesler chemical works in its pristine cleanliness, an industrial beauty for a small town, can be seen in every detail in this soft  morning Light. The blue color has been leached out of the shy

Trees on the horizon made by the crest of the hills that the train is moving 'between are picked out as individual silhouettes. They are now green and bushy, the well dressed tree. No longer a wintry skeleton on the top of a hill. 

day two week forty four year two

choking mask, sound of footsteps, and the light goes on, doors clathering murk dork night. Son to the bathroom at four, shatter sound as the glass door closes, FOUR.
Leave off the mask, lie thinking, sinking back into sleep.

Led Zeppeling stairway to heaven, the melody stuck between the ears. We wind on down the road, regular solo guitar. Not jones not bonham, alarm clock.


shower


nose, cream the nose, stop it going red again.


The day is bright, and there is a crow on top of the bus shelter, a raven bird on the rusty metal, cawing and crowing.
Dolores in the shelter on the bench, talking to herself. The two turks in there summerry clothes, a bright day. Off to their Doner Kebab stand, smell of cumin and burnt offering.

Deserted railway station, new girl at the counter.
So many are on their holidays, holidaying, flown.
the fields are soft and green in the morning sunlight.

day one week forty four year two

11 may 2015after yesterdays day of rest there was no rest any more until four in the morning. Then to be woken at five is painful, get up eight minutes later and walk to the bathroom, wash and so forth.Find the clothing, find that the doorkey is in the pocket of the jaacket.This means that the front door has been open all night. So much for security..The big bag is cumbersome, but the small bag has dissapeared, probably stolen. The stupid thief made no great gains, there was only a notebook and a small digital camera in it. The direct lights are off today, it is light. Every brick on Martin's church is clearly visible today. It is dry, the weather is fine.There is the sound of delivery tracks, the tyres rumbling over the cobbled pavements. They are getting their business done, before the area is designated as being for pedestrians only.Dolores at the bus stop, looking cheerful today. The sky in the east is l ight, there are eight contrails running actress it from north to south, or south to north, all parrallel anyway. They are all lit by the sun, which, as far as the town people see it, is still below the horizon. Bright white streaks on a blue skyFrom the bus the town looks dean fresh, and bright today. There are very few people about, the railway station is deserted, almost.'People are on holidays, the whit sun break,It is Monday, The train strike is over, and what is the result? The laws allowing strikes have been restricted, reduced..

sunday silent

what day is it   alarm free sunday  silent and at peace take of the sleeping aid

stopped up nose and ticking clock.

Clean the teeth in the bathroom   it is a bright clear day, and utterly silent, six forty one in the morning.

 Take the computer and write these notes. The weblog, notes. Tinnitus hissing again, always on the right hand  side of the head.

what can that be?

The claxon sound of the sons mobile phone sounds.
He awakens and silences it.
up early
Mothers day today

unconsciousness then increasingly conscious

unconsciousness then increasingly conscious of the surroundings, the state of the matters around about about the narrow horizon of bed and window, disconnected breathing apparatus, all there.  A realisation of the surroundings, a feeling of increasing substance in all the surroundings, their moving away from a theoretical nebular condition to one of solid material. Being released from the dream world to the rigid constraints of daily life.

Quite different from the panic of having to deal with the self made imposition of a demanding alarm clock. Quitting sleep as a matter of choice and not for the sake of the daily struggle.

Enough, hear the son clinking around with the breakfast things. Plenty of sleep, hard journey yesterday. get up bathroom, night clothes remain for a while longer.

Look into the sons room. Computer games and projects, distant from school, his priorities are obviously different to the realities imposed upon him by a rigid school regimen.

The aluminium coffee pot with the drawing of a man with a hat and a moustache on its side. This individual is pointing straight up to the sky, and is wearing striped trousers, jacket and tie.

Mr. Bialetti himself.

Cold coffee and computers, still sleeping woman of the house.

The weekend is running for its destruction again.

It will be gone on monday, when monday comes

At the train time,

car friday

Easter is long past and spring is here.
At last.

turn of the machine that runs all night,
get up shower leave the house
down the street, into the car.

Leave the town
on the road along the river

Sunrise in the rear view mirror

about five thirty.

back to the routine

Awaken much too early, theree forty, it is still dark of course. The mask is an unpleasant pressure on the face, the humid rebreathed air choking, air robbing breath, taking.
The missing bag and the sorrow over the lost pictures and the lost memories is making itself felt. Perhaps it will be returned. take a shower at the usual time,open a fresh tube of toothpaste. Collect the needed things and leave for the street.
The street is bright today, yellow street lights still on, shining in the blue dawn light. A nice contrast.
The birdsong seemst to become louder  as the street lamps are turned off. The birds  can be clearly heard over the sound of the river, still swollen and debris-laden after all the rain during the week. Dolores wisshes a muffled“morgen“ from the confines of the bus shelter
Pay the bus driver, he smells of garlic today. The smoker at the station, cheerful,  short sleeved and pigtailed, gives his daily greeting

Anastasia is in an extraordinarily good humour today, with some black makeup on her eyelashes in such quantity that they are elongated looking like sooty insects wings. It may be overdone, but she has a delightfully good humour
Indeed.
Blue sky with scattered clouds today.
A day of exhaustion, bad sleep and hard work,

for a change

Blue mercedes wednesday

a sound on a dark morning, clouds hide the sky that would otherwise be visible in the reflection in the glass windows of the balcony.  the machines are turned off, sleep was for nearly eight hours today; that’s good.
The man behind the glass of the mirror, hair wild, face crunched up by the use of the nocturnal mask. It will heal back inside the next hour or so.
Wash and shave, think of the importance to me of meeting people.
Despite the rain, there is a need to use the car today, to go to an accountant, to have the accounts done, to have all things accounted for, to keep on the safe side of the law.

So turn on the coffee maker for an early cup, to make things move again, to get the day running as it should.
Sounds of awakening and doors closing, others are awake now. That is all, all for now.

Tuestay may, days before the third year

5 Mai 20/5

Deep sleep, confuse the alarm docks sound with the sound of the air machine.

oh, switch all the technology off, and let there be light. A grey morning, yet again. The hot shower, awaken, find the shampoo, soap, and toothpaste.. All the usual things.

Leave the house, the street-grey , damp, head occluded like the vista of the current daybreak...

Dolores is at the bus shelter, a colourful plastic bag and not the leopardskin thing. A nod, almost a bow.

As she boards the bus a flower, a lily; becomes visible in her hair. It is the decoration and hair fastener.

The smoker, cheerful.pigtailed, guten morgen. It is all the same. Walking into the station Anastasia is visible behind her counter. She just puts the coffee on. Before a word is spoken. A grin, a good morning smile. Kitschy to like it, to mention it, but worth having, as a morning’s highlight.

There are two brightly dressed workmen, conversing very loudly at the table usually occupied by Hedgehog. So bad that they are almost shouting at each other. There is no peace this morning. Big Blondy starts 'to make faces and shout bawdy comments at Houstaehio, all from behind her counter, a stupid noise.

A major railway strike today, and so much is different to the usual, Leave for the platform, see that the sky has cleared. In the meantime the day is presentable.

The mosaic maker smiles as she passes on the way up the platform. Enigmatic grin. She meets with her friends there, probably every day.

A daily routine. 

The train is quite empty, this is just in fear of the striking train drivers. The countryside appears to slide past the window, a mass of landscape, a landscape charged by anthropological activity, changed in a major fashion. Canals, 'roads, paths, fields, buildings and fences. Planted forests, fields of trees. The ground fog is natural enough.

The beavers have ruined the trees beside the canals and ox-low lakes. A scene of destruction  and decay,. almost having the rare attraction of ancient ruins, antique remains. Small animals change the landscape too, without any regard for the bigger picture that they cannot see. Neither do they have any interest in human pictures.

Boarding the local train in Frizing, after a wait of some twenty minutes. Unusual delays, but a relaxed form of travel, too slow for modern thoughts and methods.

On board a local train, resting in the station. It will be delayed for forty minutes, held up by a workers strike.

So what! 

saturated monday

beeping sound, dream on of a squeaking wheel, a machine needs oiling.
A clock needs silencing. Bedside lamp on, direct it at the floor to keep it dim , dim flat light. No need to wake others.
Three past five, warm water, wash hair, brush the teeth.
The clock has stopped yet again.
The smartpen, that blogpen, is left in work.
careless.

On the way down the stairs listen to the rain outside, dripping. Take the umbrella.
It is warm and wet
Birdsong.

There are many of the usual morning walkers under way in the sopping town, the two turkish women,  for example. The weirs on the river are loud, it is swollen, the current is making the surface brought as it flows quickly into the now opened flood gates.
It has rained all weekend, and the water in the river is brown with the stirred-up mud.

The smoker at the station, in his short-sleeved shirt, greets, as does Anastasia, who has the coffee ready without much comment, she just wishes a nice day, is all.

Read on the train, the missing pen makes it possible.
A miserable wet railway station gives way to saturated green saturated wet countryside.

Grey wet sunday in the merry month of may

up and out, out of bed and, down with the mask, into the bathroom.
Headache blooming, tinnitus as always, some work for the wicked, find this laptop, blog away in night clothes.
Get cold coffee, left from yesterday, eat a banana, the family asleep, make as little noise as possible. Sunday at seven twentyseven is early, an early day for many, listen to the rain drip on the wood of the window frame, hear the sound of tyres on the cobbles, and the ticking of clocks.
Silence reflected in the golden colour of the wood around the room, the wood that needs polishing again sometime, and the wilted tulips.
A wet spring weekend, which, if followed by a sunny spell, will add the final touches to the green of the vegetation and the trees covering the park on the hill at the end of the continuation of the church lane. Behind the small museums and the large police station.
This is the live account from a man in his late fifties sitting at a table in night clothes, typing at a small apple computer, the other end of the table covered with the unfinished debris of the  sons homework for the coming week.
The real image seen in the mirror in the bathroom is a casual zausel compared to the unreal idea of self, there is no similarity, a greyed, almost white haired unkempt monstrosity of the real image. The reminder of the disparity in the seen from the outside and the view from the inside, no comparing, no despairing, no just supposing.
The brillie clock sends its signal into limbo every thirty seconds, alternating the polarity audibly with a click clack then to be followed by a clack click.

The sons alarm, his mobile phone, a klaxon sound demanding all hands on deck
It is eight, he is to be heard climbing down from the steps from his bunk bed.

Eight on a Sunday morning.
The head is clear and the hissy tussy in the right side of the head, heard by the right ear is louder again

May two sathairn

snorting past the mask, air exhaled not disposed correctly, waken early, go to da loo. Ablutistly! . Fall back to sleep, sleep! The light of the day at six in the morning does the rest, all that is needed, get up make coffee, read the news,
 read a blog, a blog from an I, a blog from a „Me". curiouser and curiouser as Alice said. A biblical blog makes sense to one with no belief. Me He. Latin.

Get up make the coffee, read the news.
Coffee made, ponder. Why do they ask „when will you retire?“ What business do they have to ask such things? What business do they have to want such things? Let them be, they are sure of what they want, but have no idea of what they need. Rain is approaching outside, its heralds darkening the light from the sun.

The yellow floorboards and the wooden piano, the cluttered desk, the unmodern untidiness prevalent.


Saturday
as thou wilt, so i wilt.
wilted wilds.

mock olde english.

mayone Holiday day

the end of sleep manifests itself as an urge to go to da loo. Nothing else, return to bed, it is a holiday, a free day, another day off early rising and going to the railway in the near-light mornings.
The son comes into the bed, he is cold from sitting up playing with computers and things, fixing a Sun.
Cuddle, he is ten, in a few years he will not do this anymore.

get up, it is raining and greyskied. Drip sounds from the skylight, and from the window ledges. Rain on the first of may, all the bavarians doing their maypole errections in the wet.
Perhaps they will put off the first of may for the next weekend.

The son is on some computer, listening and watching stampy lingoes, or something, playing games on a computer somewhere else. By the sound of it, Britain.
Make the coffee for the morning, take a cup, and write this.
Think about the things that I need to do.

doDo
extincted burd.