drowsiness

Listen, see the grey sky between the roofs, hear the cat complain for food.

Get up and go to the bathroom.

And then return and dress.

The tiredness will not go away, despite a night's sleep. Put on the coffee mug, then read the news.

The son is up, social media, youtube, all these things.

The tiredness is strange, after a long sleep surely this drowsiness should not be.

It is the last Sunday on the last day this year, and there is no great chance of change for the coming year.

Feed the cat.

Sit on the sofa.

Listen to the son's story of some software anomaly.

their feet in reality

awake, and it was a night of strange dreams, stories that went on and on had their feet in reality and the remainder progressively in madness.
awake, now finally, it is light, it is nine, this is the last day of the Christmas holidays, three days off work between boxing day and Saturday.

And get up, put on some house clothes, some day clothes, clothing without collars.
Clean out the coffee machine, turn on the grinder, wait until it is finished.
Fill the fresh grounds into the metal container, put the machine back together, put it onto the gas and turn on the flame.


Talk to the son, he is up now, pet the cat, it seems friendly today.
The telephone rings, pick it up, there is nobody on the line. A nothing in the morning.

The cat climbs up the trunk of the Christmas tree, decides against the manoeuvre and jumps back down. Whilst it is in the tree the camouflage of its colours make it almost invisible, but for the eyes. A curious effect, unexpected. It is a tabby cat, brown and black and white. Think of the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland, nothing was left but for the grin.

The coffee is made, the laptop is on the table.
The notes are finished today, and hope that the cold will go away in the course of the day.

later

The sound of the doorbell sounds through sleep, unsure as to whether this was a dream or not.
No, it was the doorbell, early in the morning, at eight.
Maybe the postman.
So get up, put on the plastic shoes, go down the stairs to the front door.
Undo the electrical lock and pull the heavy lever to one side.
There is the son in his yellow jacket, standing in the wet snow, He has forgotten his keys whilst out on a morning walk.
It is as simple as that.
He offers a bag of pommes frites from Macdonalds, take one, but it is now cold and greasy.
He has been out and about whilst his parents were asleep.

So up the stairs again, rest a while longer.


To take a shower and shave later, to take a walk later.

Deshoulieres, via Ebay

At four in the morning, wide awake, no sleepiness whatsoever.
Why? Four glasses of bitter lager last night. First drowsy, go to bed, go to sleep and then that! Horrible, it would be better to just go on sleeping, but the body will not do it.

And then it does.
Awake at ten, late in the day.
These are holidays, the last of this years overtime blowing away.

So take it easy, there is work to be done on the house, no take it easy, there is work everywhere.
But not the grind of up at five, the routine that would drift into nothingness where it not for the notes, every day for the last years, for the last one thousand six hundred and twenty five days.

Take it easy, the weather is cold, the heating is on.
There is a hiss on the right, tinnitus, train to ignore that. The doctors can do nothing about it, they say that they don't know.
Fair enough.

Sit on the bed in the warm room, the sky outside the window is an even flat grey yet again.
The discontented winter.

Musings, begone.

The empty white coffee cup, Apilco, Deshoulieres, via Ebay, is on the wooden box containing last years bills.
Press the "Publish" button on the little laptop.

move on

The grey cloud tones the complete sky, there are no clouds visible, it is just a sheet of grey filtering the winter sunlight.
Awake, the first of the family to awaken, not counting the attention-seeking cat. Put on yesterday's day clothing, there is no point in working on making an impression before anyone.
The cold has finally withdrawn, a small cough remains.
Sit on the couch, before making any kind of breakfast, to write these notes.

The son is up, and he starts to sing in the background, his part of the songs from the school choir.
Boxing day is done, that is the end of the Christmas days.
Now please may the weather get warmer, and the days lengthen.
And move on to make coffee.

Return to the post named "move on".
Ridiculous.
Read it again.
Rubbish.

Coffee is made,
Cup for the master
Cup for the dame
but none for the young son working at his computer.
Trying to make a construction of wood, metal, plastic and electronic parts print three dimensional plastic models. The humming noises of electric motors, different speeds, short bursts,almost but not at all musical.

A second cup,  then a walk would be nice.

the devices own spare parts

It is light and it is late, the head is sore and the cold is receding. A few days more of short breath and coughs to look forward to, and then it will be gone. Gone for a while, not gone for good.

Hear the sound of the son making a cup of cocoa for himself. Or some such.

Get up, later again. Hear the sound of the Christmas present in the background, a small printer that makes three dimensional models in plastic. A small device making robotic noises now that it has been built in a frenzy of post Christmas joy. A small kit from china, wooden plates and electrical components. And the first thing printed are the devices own spare parts.

Make coffee. 

After the stress of work, of commuting to and from work, it is good to rest, and the body demands it. The infections caught in work, or on public transport need attention, the body needs support in the fight to deal with with infections.

Look up the news. 

And as always, it is not good.

And the cat wants attention.

And the flat would need tidying.

Where is the escape, is there one?

Stupid musing.

Drink the coffee.

a bare cell

know that it is Christmas Day today, on awakening, peace and joy to all men.
curse the inactivity, there are neither friends nor family to visit here, just stay at home with the wife and the son.
awake, go to the bathroom, pat the cat, the cat trying so hard to communicate it's wants, being stymied by humans who just do not understand, feed her, let her out, open doors, scratch her head. A failed communication.

shower, warm, pleasant.
The cat is outside again.
Suggestively holding the tail errect, heading for the kitchen, heading for the plate it is fed from. There  not being any food there, the meaning is obvious. Get a tin of cat food, open it and put two spoons onto the cat's plate.
Slobbering.

Dress in an old hoodie and a pair of worn trousers, there is no work today, and nobody will pay a visit. So why be bothered with finery and representation?

The son is assembling a printer, for making plastic models.
The wife is barely up yet, reading about her sales on the internet.

And it would be a wish to be alone for some time, a bare cell, a bed chair and table for a bed room, for a living room.

Up early and baking bread.

hear that the son is up, he is warming up the oven, clattering in the kitchen. He is baking bread for Christmas  Eve.
Up early and baking bread.

Get up and take a look. Under a dishcloth on the kitchen table a earthenware dish filled with dough, risen to a smooth pale cream coloured bubble.
A small baking craze.

Sit on the couch in the sitting room. Read the news. Authoritarians fighting for power in America. What else would authoritarians fight for any way? America is a long way away, and getting farther away by the day.

Listen to the noise the computer games are making. The son has now developed a craze for plaaying very old games on very old machines. Which goes to show that no real progress has been made in that field.  And then an agricultural simulation game, driving tractors and harvesting grain.

And now it is time to get up, to wash, to leave the dressing gown and the night clothes in the bedroom.
Christmas Eve on a Sunday. A rainy grey-coloured day.
Maybe it would have been sensible to join the holiday traffic, and to go somewhere, to do something different, to not stay at home over the holiday.
A small slice of fresh bread and butter, a test of those baking abilities.

It is very nice.,

Like every weekend

There are sounds in the dark, the cat is complaining, there is bumping on the walls. A poltergeist, no, it is more likely to be the son climbing down from his bunk bed, the whole construction bumping of the wall, that is all.
The hiss in the head, the groan in the mind, a day of no joy and no plan, the plan had been to stay in bed and nurse the cold away, but boredom put an end to that. Get up, the son is in his bedroom, latched into his computer, the wife is on the couch in the disorderly sitting room looking at the non-operational television, drift around in a circle avoiding the shoes bags and schoolbooks scattered all over the floor.
The circle ends in the kitchen, there is the bialetti on the kitchen worktop, a top so crowded with items just left there that there is no chance of really working there at all.
Refuse, refusal. "If it upsets you, you can clean it up" Like every weekend.
Move things aside, empty the old grounds from the machine, start the grinder, remove the plates just carelessly thrown into the sink last night.
Charge the bialetti, water and ground coffee. Put the whole lot onto the filthy cooker.
Turn on the gas, a hot drink, a luxury.
Sit down at the window, write these notes, not a thing to interest anybody, but so what. The rest of the day will be spent cleaning the remains of the week.
The cat has curled in a corner, and has gone to sleep.
Today is the day before Christmas eve, a day of high expectations and great dissapointments.

put a plastic lid on it

The warmth of the shower is hard to adjust today. It is either too hot or cold. But then-it works, wash the head, the armpits, the feet, the back, all inside five minutes. Do not shave today. Check the man in the mirror. old and ugly and tired now. Nothing there that could deny that. Oh well, too bad.
Leave the house, walk down the middle of the alley, taking care to walk over the manhole cover right in the middle of the road. It is just like the behaviour pedestrian crossings,  always walk on the white stripes, always take stairs two at a time.
Take care to walk ober manhole covers.. Rubbish: this borders on superstition. The hand is itchy, there where the watch used to be. Is it a nickel allergy or some bite of a winter insect?
Walk through the town, pass through that shadowy gate, the light from the bakery to the left. Dolores is ahead, slow, just reaching the bus shelter now. Wish her a good morning, the teacher man arrives, wish him a good morning too. Then a cyclist passes, a loud radio fixed to his bicycle. He is the noisiest thing this morning.

The cafe at the railway station is deserted today, there are no customers standing in line. The young woman with the big black-rimmed glasses puts on the coffee machine, places a mug under the spout, then she looks over, says good morning and stamps the little discount card. Then a second customer arrives, and she turns to him.
Take the coffee, put a plastic lid on it, and go on to the waiting room. Sid dam, write notes. There is so little

happening today, most of the usual commuters are on christmas leave-
The platform has very few people on it, and the train, punctual, has fewer than usual disembarking. Today, the Friday before Christmas, people are taking holiday leave from work.
At the first station after Landshut, that-is Moosburg the trend continues. Two people board the train's carriage. That is at least ten fewer than usual.
The coffee is finished, empty. The next stop will he Freising, the place to get off, to go down the granite stairs between the tracks, along the tunnel, up the stairs to where the local train will be on
the platform waiting. The remainder of the journey. the slow steamy local train, more steps, more tunnel, then a piece of pretzel from the Neufahrn bakery, a wait at the bus stop for the bus.
There will be a bus ride: short and lurching through the dark countryside.
But now-first Thing: Freisng.

the dark under the arch

21st of December 2017

get out of the house early, the cobbled alley is deserted, the light from the electric lanterns reflects from the matt surface of the dry basalt. cross the square in front of the church, the silent huts on the main street. Last night there were queue of people standing in front of each of these huts, grilled sausages and mulled wine. Now the stalls are closed, the tables folded up. Nobody needs sausages at five in the morning.
Reach the bus stop, look back at the town gate, there is Dolores coming around the corner. She walks through the pool of the light pouring out of the bakery, and enters the dark under the arch. The traffic passes on the main road, impersonal cars and lorries, trucks and busses. The traffic is fast and thin, it is early, these are the early work goers, the early shift in factories, start at six.
Dolores arrives at the bus stop, a good morning, the bog cotton man arrives, and then finally the teachman. Board the bus last, have the change ready, the driver says thank you and thank in in return for the ticket.
There is an elderly women in the bus, a hoarse coarse voice, starts to talk about holidays. She is difficult to understand, but agree anyway, nah. She seems satisfied
The cafe, the dark haired women in the blue uniforms with the sharp voices. Money, stamp, put the machine on, deal with the next customer, hand over the coffee, danke bitte.
Collect a plastic lid, go to the waiting room, sit. The fussy man has artready dropped his jacket over a seat, a reservation, he is now ordering a coffee. He has a high voice, it sounds as if there is a lot of air pressure behind it.

Then look at the watch, see that it has stopped. Look over the railway tracks, see tht the Munich train is in already. The little train from Rosenheim is not there. Hurry now, it would be silly to miss the train. just like that. In the passageway below the tracks there is a man beating the glass out of the frame of one of the advertising showcases. The glass is toughened, it breaks into small grains, it does not splinter. The man works for the advertising firm, he is not some stray vandal. The glass has sprayed the width at the corridor, it crunches underfoot.
Board the train at the top of the stairs, sit down at a free seat, a free table-

It is only a few days until Christmas, and the carriage is quite empty. So many are on holidays already.

dying

20 th of December, 2017
That wristwatch will need a new battery. The time that it shows is wrong.

Standing in the ice cold hallway, putting cream onto the nose to prevent it going red, swallow yellow tablets against over-acidic stomach walls. Look at the watch, it cannot be right. Take out the Ipad, look at the time. It is five twenty seven. The watch is telling the time wrong.

Wait at the bus stop, it is cold, there is a thin coating of white snow on the ground. A small garden tractor with an orange light on the roof of its cabin is spreading salt on the pavement. It has a large cone-shaped hopper fixed before the rear wheels, enough salt to cover a very large area. The little tractor makes an unpleasant whining noise, probably from the power transmission from the engine to the wheels and the salt spreader.
An ambulance passes, blue lights flashing, driving gently despite it's hurry. It could be on its way to the nearby hospital, some early-morning calamity in progress.
Dolores and the Bog cotton man board the bus, and then pay the driver. and there, later, at the station, there is the marmalade cat behind the glass sliding doors. She is the station cat, quite calm among all the people hurrying past. She has a small collar, a narrow band, around her neck. She is just relaxing in the big railway station hallway, looking at no-one in particular.
After getting a large coffee at the cafe counter, wish the hedgehog man good morning, sit down and start to write notes.

The cold and the cough are worse again the damp unpleasant weather is taking its toll.

There are three police at the bottom of the stairs leading to the platform. Two men and a woman, all in blue uniform The woman is petite, neat, the men neither petit, nor neat. But they are watching and waiting, maintaining a police presence in these troubled times..


On the platform admire a blue sign with the word ''LANDSHUT' written upon it in white letters. The sign is illuminated from inside, it is made of translucent glass. The blue background barely allows light through, it is just a dim-glowing blue. The designer of these signs signs may be proud of having achieved such functional simplicity.
The train is in, board it now. There is a young woman with a large suitcase sitting on one side of the carriage. Her suitcase is under the table. She looks up, calm. Long hair, a white book. New clothes, boots with exaggerated heels on Them. See the title of The book."STERBEN" Dying. one word in black letters on a white background.

maladjusted

19 th of December, 2017
The shower warms in the bathroom lukewarm step in, it is now too hot. Turn it down, it is too cold.
So turn it up again. Temperature ! And after the five minute shower in warm water is past, hear the alarm sounding from the Ipad. The wrong button pressed, the machine wa only in 'snooze' mode.
-
So turn it off, the body still wet, dressed in only a towel, standing barefoot on the cold stones of the hallway. Back to the warm bathroom, finish drying the wet body untill the towel is a sodden thing waiting to be hung up on it's hook. Find the shoes, put on the clothes, put some packets of paper handkerchiefs into the bag.

Walk through town, it is later than imagined. A noisy moped, rattles down the main street having a trail of stinking two stroke smelling cloud of fumes behind it-The bus in first arriving at the bus stop, it is early, or maybe the  watch was wrong. Hurry, the driver makes a joke, the watch is wrong. Five minutes. Pay the driver, this is the same as every day., there is a seat free in the middle of the bus. There we are, just wait until:
the fast ride is over.
Coffee, in the station. Good morning to the smoker. Set the clock on the wrist, it was maladjusted.

Five days to christmas.
Drop ten cents on the floor by mistake. A man picks them up, and returns them. Oh.

a black rose in cloth

eighteenth of December two thousand and seventeen

Strumming sound from the pad silenced, overcame the wish to remain between the sheets. Up, and to the bathroom, it is five in the morning. Run the water until the hot water comes down from the boiler, the shower is warm and pleasant. Think about the personal secrets spoken about by a young colleague. She was sad and dissapointed. But the secrets remain, telling would undo the good that might have been caused by speaking them out. Then the hair is washed, no shaving today. The clothes are ready, laid out last night. It is all ready. And the last thing is the shoes, put them on, stand before the minor. All is in order, leave the building. And the bells toll as the door doses, exactly half past five. Close the door, the street is dry, there is no wind. Take the shortest route possible, down the centre of the alley, cutting the corner. There is a confusion of huts at the main street, huts for the sale of christmas cookies, mulled whine, and similar. Avoiding these, head down the theater street, pass the truck backed up to the bakery, pass under the arch of the gate. At the bus stop talk to Dolores. She explains that the police had found her bag all the documents therein were burnt by the thieves. She does not understand. why. A police car hurries by, lights flashing. She looks, raises her eyes.  Then a white car stops at the kerb of the main road. She walks over and gets in. It is her lift. The man with the moustache.
then the teacher man arrives just before the bus pulls in, he walks ahead, hoards the bus, pays the driver and sits down. Do the same, give the driver the five Euro note, get the change, say good
morning. At the station move to get up, then there is a young women with a black jacket and a black knitted hat over her long black hair. She steps back, but wave her on, can wait to get up. Her face lights up with a smile, a happy grin, and then she moves ahead. That one glance, that one sparkling light, changed everything, the thoughts, the. humour, it just caused happiness. And that on a dismal monday morning! Later, when the bus has halted, hurry out, go ahead, go past the smothers patch, deserted today, up the stairs and into the cafe. Pay and go to the waiting room. Force the plastic lid onto the paper cup. Sit down, Say' 'Morgen to the man opposite. The hedgehog man, small round face, wishes a 'goo Meng' in return.
Write these notes, write the date in full, do not know where to start. Think of the Ipad, now in the bag. The Tune it plays in the morning.
And then it is six.. get up, there is the same young woman. Slow the pace, slow, climb the stairs to the everyday platform. Stay back, stay away. Do not follow strangers. But it would be nice to see her laugh again.
And in the train, she sets there, coat and black knitted hat on. The hat has a black rose in cloth on the one side.
and the train is delayed in the station for fifteen minutes. Technical matter. Sensors and coupling devices. Sit there and wait, knowing that the bus will be missed today, as will the local train.

This is better

late light sunday, the family awake, the father ill, smell of breakfast and no wish to get up.
late light, there is snow outside the window,  large soggy flakes.
A day of no consequence, of no great future.

A day of coughs, now the exhaustion from the week has caught up with the body
and is enforcing rest.

Think of the time in the future when there will be no awakening any more.
.

Then she retires

sleep, the repair time, the time the bodies elves come out and fix the things come adrift during the days stress, that tidy the minds stores, clean up the left overs, sort the breakages, allow the bodies ailments to take a path towards healing. The time panic is calmed, and fear and anger give way to reason.

sleep broken, leave the shitty musings, it is nine in the morning, still the throat sore, but the mind can sort the priorities and arrange it's needs.

Get up, find the clothes for warmth, winter cold is everywhere, even in the heated rooms.
Start to clean the rooms, the kitchen, sort the pots into the dishwasher. It was all left in a sordid heap last night, last night barely conscious on the return from work, a visit to the piano teacher's with the son, listen to the other children. Then home, and supper, and then to bed, the dizziness and fear giving  way to the cool smooth sheets and their gradually increasing warmth and that welcome oblivion, past the door held open by Morpheus.

And now that is kaputt.
Quebrado.

As said earlier, broken.

Coffee maker, coffee made, son is up, computer, drink.

And now the wife is up, gets a fresh cup. She starts to command the son loudly, he should tidy up and get on with his work.
Then she retires.

The son gets on with what he is doing.
The cat remains silent, then runs to the kitchen.

For some reason she thinks that there may be food there.

Cats are predators they spend most of their days sleeping.

15 of December 2017 the tablet sounds,
strumming sound from the machine ending a deep and sound sleep. It would have been nice for sleep to continue but the plans out are different. Got up, go to the bathroom. The shower had been taken last night, so bathroom, and back into the bedroom.
put the clothes for the day together. The cat comes in, it rubs its arched back against the freshly clothed legs, then jumps up onto the bed and continues to sleep there.

Cats are predators they spend most of their days sleeping.

The alley is damp today, and it is cold. Passing the corner by the church there is a strong wind, a solitary draught, caught around the church spire, twisting over the old graveyard.. The push of the wind changes direction, cross the street with ice wind blowing straight into the face, finding every crack and crevice in the clothing .  Blow cold air onto the warm skin that had been in bed not half an hour ago. Join Dolores in the bus shelter today, the shelter with its metal and glass walls providing some protection from the wind. A few minutes later, she is collected, a small white car driven by a large man with a moustache stops at the kerb, she staggers over (she does not walk well anymore), and opens the door.

Two minutes later the has arrives, pay the driver, sit down. Across the central passage of the bus there is a single policeman blue uniform, blonde hair.
At the mutiny station, go to the crowded busy cafe counter, wait, order coffee, pay, wait, get the coffee, go to the lid dispenser on the mall sideboard, get a lid, go to a table, say good morning to Mr. Hedgehog, and take this notebook and pen from the brown shoulder bag.
Ten minutes scribbling notes, hear. sounds from the surroundings receed, muffled by the concentration on the work. There is the fussy man, his constrained uptight voice, a high pitched pressed sound, as if he is trying to talk through clenched teeth. His partner has arrived.

Then follow them on their way down the stairs, both with a rucksack, both with a shoulder bag, he larger and taller, she shorter and smaller. A fussy couple, all things neatly packed, him with a hood from a cowled sweater up over his head, she with a felt het, Afghan style, over her head.

polishing the claws

14 th of December 2017
Put the waste paper beside the bin into the blue bin, a small chore, heaving the house at five thirty, so stay in the way, there is time yet. Take the sticky tape off the carton, collapse the cardboard base, and put it into the bin. The entrance hallway looks neater now. See that there is a bag of salt carelessly thrown down between the two bins, the blue one and the grey one. It is salt for the ice on the street, no, on the pedestrian way. It will he needed later the winter. The bag is heavy, some kilos. Pick it up, and put it to the other side of the passage, along with the shovels.
Hear the bells of saint Martins, loud enough, outside the door. Time to go, to the bus, to start the day's travels. Leave the house, open the wooden door to the filthy weather outside - there is rain, there is wind, venting around the corners at the old buildings. An unpleasant morning,

 Chovendo, Ventando-

Walk through the town, bowed against the wind, braced against the wet.. The road, the cobbles, are all slippery.
Upon reaching the bus shelter, see that Dolores is just leaving, her lift has arrived, a small white Japanese car. She has a leopard shin-patterned headscarf on over her head, a scant protection against the rain. Listen to the hissing sound of the tyres in the wet, as early morning ears and trucks pass along the main road. The man with his white bog cotton' heir covered by the cowl of a rain jacket writes a gruff' gut en morgen". Board the bus, tell out the coins as change for the driver from the front compartment at the wallet. Sit down. Sit and dream.
At the railway station, the smoker with the pony tail and the rucksack has retired under the awning at the top of the stairs. The designated smoker's patch out on the square is too wet and windy today. Guten Magen! Inside, at the cafe, join the crowd waiting   for coffee. The shaven-headed man has grown a long heard, he is making rolls, with battered fish in them, and butter, and leaves of salad. When he has finshed, he gives them to the thin man with the tight black curls in the hair of his head, and takes the proffered cash. The men says thank you, the one sounding stage the way he speaks it, with such a strong African accent.
In the waiting room, there is a large young marmalade-coloured cat sitting centrally on the floor. She is preening her claws, stretching her back, enjoying the damp warmth of the cafe.
Watch as it carefully licks the spaces between the fingers of its paws, polishing the claws.

Sip coffee. A man at a table fusses obout, opposite, careful arranging his bags around a table, fussily pushing and shoving at the chairs. Everything that he does, every move, seems to require a further small adjustment or two, The whole procedure takes time.
Three minutes later, the man starts to pack and to gather his lodges again, to pack away his cup.' But now, it is past six, time to go for the train. Out, followed by the cat, down the stairs, pass the policemen, up the stairs.
Later, thirty seconds, see the fussy man trot along the platform with a companion, both laden with useful bags and rucksacks, all organised. The train arrives, and now it is time to go again.

Camouflage

13th of December, 2017
Get up, the shower had been taken last night, just go to the bathroom, brush the teeth. It is very cold today Return to the bedroom, find clothes. Yesterday's trousers were destroyed after a fall on the way home from work last night.

Later, stroke the back of the attention-seeking cat. Hear the son's radio alarm start, he has set it for early in the morning again.. He looks down from his high bunk bed, and wishes a good morning. Wish him good morning and good night, he goes back to sleep for another hour.
Go downstairs, and out of the front door into the cobbled alley. It is cold, the cobbles are dry and matt. Not greasy today. Yellow bags filled with discarded plastic packaging are placed in front of every building's front door, awaiting collection by the the refuse collector men in their orange overalls.

At the bus stop the air seems colder still Dolores huddled up on the seat in the shelter, Bog cotton man is standing there and smoking.
good Morning. A white car stops at the kerb of the main road, and Dolores goes over with her stumbling gait, opens the door, and gets in. A friend or a relative has given here a lift, has saved her the bus fare.

Later, in the railway cafe, watch the service people work behind the counter, dealing with busload after busload of coffee seeking commuters.
The Hedgehog man is there, his padded blue overall making him appear even more roly-poly than usual. There are two young men at the condiments counter, speaking what may be some African language. The one is dressed in red, the other is wearing a camouflage jacket and matching camouflage trousers.



Take a seat at a table in the newly- arrived train. Think abut the policeman at the foot at the platform's access stairs. Two men, watching, both in blue police uniform

Sit  and write, keep on writing those five minutes, past Moosbury.Then back the things away in the brown canvas badge, he ready to leave the train it F misery Freising. It is Wednesday..

discard the empty mug

12 december 2017
 Wake, strumming chords from a tablet. Bathroom, shower, wash the teeth, brush them. There is a sound of music again, the son has set his alarm early for some reason. The wife gets up, irritated, to turn it off. The music was not bad, but it probably disturbed.
Downstairs, take the blue waste bin and put in out in front of the door, into the wet cold alley. It should be full of paper., waste paper to be recycled.
There is a man taking his bicycle out into the street. He is leaving de house, the door has a spring unit to dose it automatically, this catches the rear wheel of the bicycle. The man is wearing a black cyclist's helmet, one that covers the ears.

He pedals off then, his body leaning forward ober the front wheel, his hands resting heavily on the handle bars. At the bus stop, there is only the bog cotton man, he is smoking a cigarette. Wish him a good moring . His short white hair catches the lamplight, like bog cotton. Like the bog cotton on the way 'oer the Sally gap, in the Wicklow Mountains.
The bus driver is friendly, even though he has to change a note. A ten euro note is not so bad, says he.

At the station, the big delivery truck is backed up to the steps again. The man with the pony tail and the smoking habit is there too, a rucksack on his back.


coffee served by a noisy effusive young man. He serves three people at a time, he does not get confused.


Later, at the bottom of the stairs, at the start of the passage tunneling under the tracks, there are two federal police persons, a man and a woman. They are standing either side of the passage, scrutinising all passers. In the distance, at the other end of the white tiled fluorescent-lit passage two more are visible, watching people come from the other direction. What is going on? Never mind, go up the stairs to the platform, watch the first half at the train to Munich come in, and pass by. It stops at the distant end of the platform, waiting. Some minutes later, the second partt of the train comes in to the same platform, moving very slowly. It stops, lets the people out, lets people in. Hey Jude! Find an empty space to sit down, and to finish the cup of coffee that was started ten minutes ago.

get up to discard the empty mug.

writing at the small table

Dec 11, 2017 the sound of strumming from the tablet, it is on the writing table. Get up, walk to the end of he bed, and turn it off. In the bathroom, turn on the shower, use the toilet, take the night clothes off. It is really cold, but so what, the water is warm. Wash the body, wash the sleep away as well as it will go, wash the hair. Dry, use the yellow towel hanging the hook.

And dress for a working day, take all the pills, and, just as the church bells ring twice, leave the house.
The sheets are cold, the cobbled alley reflect the light from the lanterns in a greasy sort of way. It is as if the water were less fluid than usual. They seem slippery but it is just dirt and damp.
On the main street all the christmas huts alone been put up. Wooden shattering, rough planks and bits of christmas tree foliage, red plastic effigy of Father Christmas, reindeers in plastic. Beauty is elsewhere, it is not in a deserted christmas market at five thirty n the morning.

At the bus stop, there is the white haired man, the bag cotton one, coming up the path from
the riverside walk. And Dolores is in the bus stop shelter, with her new Leopard skin patterned handbag.

Watch huge trucks pass on the main rgud, avoiding motorway tolls. Big, sinister, dark, coloured brown and grey. Portably just delivering the most harmless of things. But it looks sinister. Three such trucks pass. Ignore them. In the distance coming around the corner by the gaol, there is the bus. Low boxy and wide, the illuminated destination signs on top. It seems to wiggle in its motion, like an insect. Perhaps this illusion is due to its being an articulated vehicle, with a plastic bellows covering the join between front and rear parts.

Pay the driver, and get on hehind the bog cotton man and Dolores. Find a seat, go into a daze. at then, at the railway station, take a huge coffee, as always. The sevice person has it on before the order is spoken. It is always the same. The big man with the brown jacket and the white hair always drinks a large coffee , black, whilst writing at the small table.

That is it.

Yeats

There is no peace this morning. The weather is bright and sunny on the second awakening, it was dark still during the first.
The sky is blue, that does not change the feeling that today is Sunday to be filled with abusive comments on unintended slights. If a thing is not understood it does not deserve jeering, sneering or cynicism. Why assume that a remark was made as a slight, when there is no reason for such a thing? Why turn the whole -yes- now it is an argument- personal, why turn it into a character deficiency?
Talking about the cat at breakfast turned to insults on the other  breakfasters intelligence and low behaviour.

Retire.
It is good to have shaved .
The silly stubble on the face is gone.
And there is peace with the computer, even if there is no peace anywhere else in the place today

"I will arise and go now, and go to Inisfree...."

easy to misplace

It is not early,
it is late.
Snowflakes are falling out of a grey sky,
watch them fall from the warmth of a bed,
past the sheets of glass in the window,
reflected in the window of the glazed balcony opposite.

Breathing is easier now,
the cold infection is receding.
Get out of bed
walk through the flat
the head starts to spin

Optimism is a good thing
just easy to misplace, is all.

Remove  yesterday's soaking pan from the kitchen sink,
scrape the burnt dough left over from last nights meal into the container for biodegradable waste.
Rinse out the coffee maker, take care not to chip the glazed earthenware sink.
Put yesterday's coffee grounds into the same container, it will all turn to compost somewhere.
Clear the work top, there are still dirties lying about from yesterday.
Start the grinder, it grinds for a while, then gives a liberated howl as the motor with no load spins up to its greatest speed.
Reach for the jar of coffee beans and fill the container, a small hopper on the top of the machine.
The howl stops, and the machine is grinding again.
The timer runs out and it stops.

Put the coffee into the sieve, so that this may be placed onto the coffee makers filled water receptacle, screw the top half on, put it on the cooker, ignite the gas, and all is well.

Clean up the mess on the worktop whilst waiting for the coffee.
And ignore a really painful fit of coughing.

Free morning

eighth

cough, and the diaphragm hurts, sore.
It is late, it is eight.
Get up, take a shower, hope that that will make things better.
Hope.


Pick up the telephone, call the doctor.
Accept an appointment at ten thirty.

He will probably prescribe antibiotics.
More of those.


It is raining, it is cold, this is depressing.

episode

recovery from yesterday, the cough, the pain in the lungs, the pain coughing.
It is not so bad now.
It was all so sudden.
And now it is a bit better.

The occasional sneeze elicits a response from the cat.
But only real sneezes do that.
Faking it to cause a response does not work, the cat will remain silent.

Sitting alone at the living room table.
Writing an excuse for work.
Answering a mail reaquest, put it off until next week.

And now the body is starting to grow cold again,
icy freezing although it is not really cold in the room.
Go back to bed.
Before causing another episode like yesterday.

He is alone today

6th of December, 2017
A runny nose and a sore throat, that is all. Go to work anyway, there is stuff to be done.
Shower, the warmth is good. Put the cream on the nose, the nose that has lost its Rudy-ness. The cream works, it is an antibiotic.
And take a walk though town, today the trucks are driving through the pedestrian zone in a most aggressive way. The shop for the clothing store has one truck and the bakery has the other. Pass them both at the town gate, they have stopped at their- respective buildings to load and unload. See Dolores leave her seat at the bus shelter and struggle over to a car waiting for her. She has difficulty walking.
Sit down in the bus shelter, take out the notebook and the pen. Write the date, and feel the nose running, the throat swollen.
The bus arrives, it stops to let a car pass, and then moves forward and opens the  doors.
Give the driver his coins, wish him a good  morning, take the ticket and sit down.
At the railway station get a cup of coffee -Yormeis cafe. Sit down opposite to the man called Hedgehog. Remember how, years ago now, he had distributed chocolates to his friends on the sixth of December, Nicolas' day. He is alone today, well wrapped up, with a hat, scarf, and winter boots.
On the way to platform six see a small group of evangelists. They are waiting for customers, waiting around a stand with all their publications. They look up, hopefully, and then continue talking to each other. They have been there every morning for the past months.
On the platform, wait. And wait. The train,when it does arrive, is much shorter than usual,
Sit down beside a man in an olive jacket. He is fast asleep. Opposite, a young woman wearing a pale grey parka with a fur embellishment trimming the hood. She has fashionable large dark glasses
and is listening to the sound of the film that she is watching on her 'phone using a pair of blue-green headphones. Under the parka she is wearing a collarless striped blouse.
'A man with a beard joins the group around the small table, he takes out a newspaper and starts to read.
There are hardly any seats left, and by the time that the train reaches Moosburg it is clear that those that will board there have standing room only.

cold salty wet

Dec 5,2017

Finish the morning wash early today, five minutes. Take up a book, start to read. An electronic book. A Tablet. 

Moses needed ten-

"Riverun past Adam and Eves' Manage the first lines, 'as far as 'Howth castle and environs".

Leave the house, the alley is sodden wet, There

        - is a light rain, less than would

warrant the use of an umbrella, more than is pleasant.

Pass by the Christ was stalls and the  Christwas tree. The rustic stalls will sell overprice sugary mulled wine, enough to make an uninitiated stomach turn in revulsion.

at the bus stop, there is Dolores, the bog cotton man. Both are withdrawn into their coats, necks wrapped in scarf.  It is the kind of weather great for colds and dripping noses. The snow is gone, washed away. Nothing there but cold salty wet.

The bus arrives, the fat driver with the moustache is driving today. The other two board first, each pay their due.

Five minutes later, the bus just passes the bus stop.at Hofangerweg, the stop where Dolores normally gets off. She is in panic, the lady does not know what to do. The bus driver goes on, blithe to signals and shouts..

Talk to the busdriver man. He lies, says no signal was given. That is not true. The old woman needs to walk back half a mile now, because the driver had forgotten.

The cafe in the station is packed. Maybe fifteen buildin workers. All with sordid soiled working clothes, all from Balkan countries.

At six, off to the platform, by chance numbered six.. 

"no!"

December, 2017
There is snow on the BMW sports car parked in front of the house, snow that the street itself is largely free of. But the street is wet, the cobbled alley is glistening with smaller patches of snow here and there On the way down to the bus stop the amount of snow on the ground increases, the shoes start to let the cold in.
In the distance, there is the bus stop, on the other side of the gate. See Dolores walk over to a car stopped at the side of the road with an expression of great haste. A friend has stop ad to pick her up. The doors closes, and the small white car joins the traffic on the street. Teachman and the bog cotton man remain at the bus stop.




By the time the bus reaches the railway station it has started to snow, the snow on the ground is deeper too. This snowy weather always happens three weeks before Christmas, by Christmas the snow will probably be gone.
The young man at the cafe counter bellows a good morning in a loud voice. And when he gets his order, he yells" will that he all' in German. The answer is a curt "no!" Take the warm coffee to the small sideboard the plastic lids are kept, put one of them onto the paper cup.. Occupy a free table, take out the notebook, and after a few seconds, decide to leave out the detailed account of the mornings struggle with the alarm, the difficulty of finding shoes and so forth. Leave it be until later, until now. Now.. aboard the train, on a seat covered in blue cloth with black squares on it. A table with fake wooden veneer. And now-the lights of the chemical factory in Moos Burg pass outside, as the train reduces speed and stops.

coffee, a pleasure

It is cold now in November, the cold creeps in through the walls and openings of the old house, the wish just to wrap up and hide from it, to stay in bed and to do nothing.

It is Sunday, about three weeks until Christmas, and things that should have been done just have not been done. And now the week is over.

Sitting alone in the big room again, the sitting room, the piano room, the television room.

The son learning his Latin on a computer, the steady hum of the machinery, the occasional beep or comment from the programm as it presents words to be learnt, remembered.

It is five past nine, enough of the laziness

Make a cup of coffee, a pleasure

"let's walk"

it is light, the sky is a flat grey, it is saturday.
a regular day without work, homework only.
the sun is hidden, the son is up, early, peace.
He is at his computere, after a long night's sleep.
Good morning son, good morning cat, read the news.
The americans have their taxes,as they wanted.
The british are undivided in critiscism.
the germans have no discipline.
Stop it, this is all business as usual.

The wife has risen, flea market day is today.
A kind of business, buying and selling.

The wife has gone, the son is worried, homework.

Let us take a walk in town, father and son, 
Get some fresh air, leave the flat with it's untidiness.

"let's walk"

flee
flight
freedom

days away from work now

The cat is in the window, on the window ledge, looking out at the cold alley. The cat is bored now, the mornings excitement is over.
The son has left for school, he dressed himself, he made up his slice of bread and ham for the first break from class, he gathered his bags and his books.
All the while the cat played, crawling into bags, throwing the caps of ballpoint pens around the room.

In the kitchen, fill up the coffee maker with ground coffee from the grinder, put it on the stove and let the stove hiss.
Bathroom, brush the teeth.
After all the dusty work on the old walls of the house yesterday, there was a warm shower yesterday.
There is no need for one today.
Two days away from work now, two days away from the regular travel to work, two days away from trouble there.

Do not care.

Read the news, drink.
It is now eight fourteen in the morning.
The cat is making a fuss at the bedroom door.
That should be opened, allow access to warm beds.
The day is getting longer, and there is no peace now.
Not in the world, not at home, everywhere people reach out their hands
and want
and now it is eight eighteen ante meridian