wages were low enough to pay for a lamplighter

Wednesday January 31 2018
Away from the dreams, there is light and sound from the pad. Carefully turn it off do not touch the "snooze" button by accident.
Shower in the bathroom, that is where the shower is. The door has become unhinged, it is now a wobbly construction of curved glass, which still prevents the spray of water from soaking the floor. And when finished, put the watch back on the wrist and return to the bedroom. Socks and pants from the wardrobe, put on the clothing for the day. Out in the hall again, put some of the doctors cream on the nose,an antibiotic story. It stops the nose going red.. Comb the hair, and then brush up the shoes There is still polish left on the brush from the last time, and the  shoes come up with a satisfying shine.
And it is now time, the Martins hell has tolled twice, leave the house for the dry street -Dry, dark and deserted, but for those picturesque lantern type lamp enclosures, street lamps that look like old gas lanterns. They make the street took as if it was still in the   end of the nineteenth century. A time when people were both poorer and richer, and wages were low enough to pay for a lamplighter.

The bus arrives, and wait for the otter passengers to finish their business with the driver before boarding. A cyclist rushes past on the footpath, taking the gap between the bus stop and the waiting persons at inconsiderate considerable speed. The cyclist coming the other way, has to stop and wait.

The man driving the bus is bald, but he has a moustache. Whiskers over his upper lip, cover his mouth. Just like a walrus. He is well padded with flesh too, just like a walrus. He speaks Bavarian too, that is not at all like a walrus. At the bus stop, the usual crowd of four, teachermann, bog cotton man, dressy man and Dolores. They are all in the bus shelter even though the weather is dry. Pass the bus shelter to look out over the river lsar, calm today, flat, gently streaming along with the colourful lights reflected on the water's surface.

At the station, queue up behind five Balkan building workers for coffee. The one in line before me has a newspaper with all the text in Cyrillic letters. The girl in the cafe remembers, and 'grosse  kuffei? is the greeting. One Euro and sixty cents, and a further stamp in the discount card.

A feat of engineering

Tuesday January 30,2018
Pull the grey bin out and put it in its place at the entrance to the house. The contents will be collected later.
It is raining, the streets are shining, greasy. Because of the street lamps, the colours are reduced, and because of the dark there are shadows everywhere. It is five thirty five in the morning, there are trucks in the main street, unloading items for the days sales. There are no other vehicles there, it is a pedestrian zone. The ducks are on the lawn at the weather station, they are quacking loudly. They have not been fed yet, they seem to to get used to this, this daily feeding. The bus shelter is crowded today. Dolores, the bog cotton man, the teacher, and the smart young man. They are all in there, sheltering from the rain. utter a good morning for dolores, for the man with the white hair.
Count the money out for the bus driver, be the last to board the bus. Give the money to the bus driver. Spend the really short journey watching the bellows at the bus's joint expand and contrast as it takes the various corners. The round plate on the floor charges its position too. A feat of engineering.
At the station, see the smoker leave his post. It is probably no fun smoking in the rain. The rain is heavier now, too.
The dark haired girl in the cafe is slow, methodical, one after the other and next please. But the coffee is rerfectly good today.
Ahead, going down the lung granite stairway to the tunnel, a red head long haired girl, parka, black light trousers, flat shoes. Reaches up to adjust the hair, the parka Sway to the one side, just taking a step down the stairway. Just in that instant, she looks like a 1950's fashion drawing, all the attention to the hang of the fabric, to the fit of the soft fabric of the parka, The perfectly aligned fur lining of the hood and the hair, the colour combination of red combed hair and matt green parka just for the split part of a second.
She avoids the yellow puddle at the bottom of the stairs and strides off tom the passage. The illusion is over.
There is a cyclist on the platform, The man with the LED-lit cuffs on his trouser He is thoroughly wet, and in the train, his damp gear is everywhere.

racing for the sake of it

awaken, turn off the alarm on the pad, stagger to the bathroom.

Five in the morning, let the shower warm up, awaken under the warm spray.

The little dessicator in the bathroom has filled with water, empty the tank.

It stars to hum again, and blow warm dry air into the room.

Leave the house, walk down the street towards the police station, turn right, there is the car.

It starts today, no problem. There is an empty bottle on the floor by the passenger seat, left there by the wife, forgotten. Put it on the seat to stop it rolling about, clattering against the metal supports of the car seat.

Drive through the town, on the newly paved street, then down the side street, then through the tunnel.

The tunnel is one and a half kilometres long, a dreary tube full of warning signs and arrows for emergency exits. When is past take a left turn, then the final traffic lights. The cross country main road is dark but for the oncoming headlights, cars approaching two abreast, overtaking, early morning hurry and stress.

Then there is a bus ahead, and other cars. The bus pulls over at a bus stop, all the cars overtake the bus. 

Be the last, watch them speed on.

Then a traffic roundabout, a traffic light, a turn off to the right, then the autobahn.

Egomaniac Germans in a hurry, bullying big cars containing small executives, self important creatures they are. Artisans vans, plumbers and carpenters, racing to get to work on time, or just racing for the sake of it.

Then brake lights ahead, all slow, crawl.

Two cars parked on the left side, at the central fence of the dual carriageway, no emergency lights.

An accident, less than serious, the drivers of the car in front talking into his mobile 'phone.

In the middle of a motorway, on the fast lane in the dark.

Wonder about that, and drive on past.

There are things to be collected at work today, that is the reason for the car.

Look forward to the train tomorrow.

third part

sleep, the joy of awakening having had enough, the pleasantness of falling asleep, the frustration of awakening at night.
having rested in oblivion for a period, a period of nothing other than dreams.
Dreams that were illuminated and confused accounts of the weeks activities, the priorities to the mind, connections made that had nothing to do with reality, just the items themselves were real connected to each other by personal priorities and wishful thinking.

Awake now, make coffee, black espresso type roast beans into the grinder. Start superficially clearing up the kitchen during the grinding time, empty the old grounds out of the machine. into the biological waste.
Continue clearing as the coffee boils.

The son is making a web site for his friend.

After all is done, sit down and drink coffee.
At the computer, write these notes
and wonder how to move things.
During the third part of life.

cinzo

It is still dark, it is winterly cold on the way to the bathroom, the bedroom is warm when returned to. Gather the clothing from the floor, left there yesterday evening. A collapse into bed now every day, falling into the sometimes welcoming and sometimes rejecting arms of sleep. Rejection is then when all that happens is a study of the cieling, and the struggle to shape the pillow so that it cushions the head and the neck does not have to do all the work.

Go into the kitchen, a disgrace and chaos, left over from last nights cooking. Oh, there is no way that this will be the occupation of the next hour.

The son is creating a web site in his room, and it is a mess too

And the weather's colour is grey.
Saturday.
Sabado, cinzo

Wait

26 January 2018
 A cyclist rushes around the corner at the end of the alley. The alley known as Kirchgasse. He is wearing a loose rain jacket with its hood up. The bicycle has a piercingly bright white light, and with the huge nave of the saint Martins church in the background, and all being lit just by the dim street lanterns – well it is on apocalyptic rider on a bicycle. This was strange.
Carry on, as on every day, cross the AltStadt street and go down Theater strasse. Pass the truck at the bakery, proceed through the small side gate of the town entrance. Dolores is hurrying across the cobbles, to the kerb of the main road where a small car is waiting for her. See her climb on board, the car moves off to join the traffic on the main road.
The cobbles are greasy-looking in the dim light, an account of their being damp. Bog cotton man is waiting at the bus stop, exhaling smoke which blows away actress the road. Wish him a good morning..

It is not cold today, and the river has calmed down a bit, though it is still rough. There are no ducks today.
Pay the bus driver his fare, and find a seat in the bus. There is a man with unkempt long hair around a bald patch on his head staring atom from behind his wild moustache. His eyes roll a bit, then he looks away.

There is a emazingly beautiful young women buying coffee there too, black hair, dark skin, dearly, clearly modelled face, all these aspects, a fashionable parka. She is wearing a most awful pair of fur-topped boots, long haired fur, like Persian cat foot warmers. Nobody is perfect, perhaps, no, no idea. The boots are just strange, unsuited to the rest of the ensemble. Hope that they are house trained.


There is a crush of people trying to get off the bus first, everyone is in a greater hurry than their fellow passengers. Get off first, greet the smoker at the ashtray. A man with a pigtail and a rucksack, and a friendly expression. Then walk through the big hallway of the station, go to the Yorma's coffee shop. The shaven- headed man with the flowing beard is there waiting, ready to make a coffee, ready to stamp the discount card. The card was stamped twice yesterday, a second coffee ordered yesterday evening on the homeward 'journey being the cause.
The strange piddle-like puddle is still there, the bottom at the stair. Down the railway's tunnel, and up the steep granite stairs. The train is past coupling, all the doors have been locked. Wait, then follow the slowly moving train until it stops with a jerk.
 Coupled !. Press the button on the door, red light.

Press the button again, green light. Now board the train, find a free seat with a table.
continue to write these notes, started in the cafe in Landshut railway.

same yellow puddle

Today, a slow feeling. Not really, no just fahy slow. Walk through the cold town, empty but for one other crossing the wide main road, now a cotbled pedestrian zone. Pass a very short distance from each other, neither man veering from a straight course.
The young man with the red shoes is standing at the bus stop. Dolores is in the shelter
, mumbles.
, a morning greeting. Standing beside the bus shelter, look out over the river. The hotel is brightly lit, a glare of light from the empty breakfast room, a room with a glass front to the river. On the embankment wall on this side of the water there are ten ducks, quacking to each other. They are probably waiting to be fed.
The bus arrives, be the last one on board, as always. Pay the driver, two Euro and twenty outs, receive one Euro in return. Sit at the reat of the bus, next to the back door.

The railway station forecourt is utterly deserted bare of people. It is strange, there are not even people visible inside the station. The waiting area in front of the cafe is empty. In the cafe itself, there is only the baldheaded man with the heard behind the counter. He takes the stamping card, and the money, and puts an empty paper cup under the machine. Then he turns to the next customer,
It is a day like most of the others, almost more so. At the bottom of the granit stairs, at the beginning of the long tiled corridor under the tracks, there is that same yellow puddle, the roof is still dropping even though the rain stopped yesterday. One man pauses and looks back at it with a surprised expression on his face. Then, he walks on. At the ascent to platform six go up the stairs. The train is just arriving.

granite steps are high and awful

24 January 2018
Freshened by the shower, put on the clothing, pack the bag. Look in the mirror, and realise who the old guy in there is. Exhausted appearance, it will be hard to fix that. Grey hair, pale, reddish nose. Age has taken toll, and now exhaustion. The face is older, the light unflattering. 
So so. Having finished the critical examination, what the hell, go down the stairs and leave the house, Check the better box, there is nothing in there.. The alley is damp, there is light rain, and it is all in the winter darkness. Start to imagine pains in the legs, but it is just that it is impossible to walk faster.
River ISAR is fall and rushing Today, noisy waves glistening in the light from the hotel breakfast rooms on the other side. A noisy river accommodating all the snow that has melted in the last days. There is no snow left now, it is just wet and dark.
A short good morning for Dolores on her seat in the bus shelter. A nod in reply. Look at the uneven water in the river, it looks like muscle fibres flexing, showing their strength. A smell of stale tobacco, and fresh smoke.
The bog cotton man says his good morgen, great him in return. Likewise, the same as every day. Open the wallet, there will be no change for the bus driver today, too bad. Wait, there is a twenty cent coin, that will save the man having to count out copper money.
From the bus see the smoker standing in front of the station, lit from behind by the light from the station hallway falling through the glass front of the building. He is throwing a shadow, all very dramatic, very sinister in its way.
Good morning, and into the cafe. The confused woman is serving lady, trying to do two or more things at the same time, just like her colleagues. She fails, she is just slow and disorganised. But then, the coffee is there, the fourth stamp on the ticket, now all is complete.
Say good morning to the man in the blue overall who looked like a hedgehog once. He looks lived too, the last seven years have not made him any younger. Seven years commuting, seven
years up early in the morning.
The strange feeling of having aged overnight does not stop, it continues to make itself felt on the way down the tiled corridors Avoid the yellow puddle on the ground there before the stairs. The first time it had been mistaken as a product of incontinence, or maybe canine in origin.
But that puddle is there every day it rains, it is a leak in the reinforced concrete, rusty water, rust contaminated yellow water making a puddle under a beam of seventy year old reinforced concrete.

The granite steps are high and awful again today, the knees and the hips have not waken up completely yet, and complain at the strain. Perhaps more exorcise would be in order.


The train is late, the driver cannot couple the two trains, there is a delay. That is it, find a seat, with a table, all alone and continue to write those notes, notes that are steadily losing their purpose, maybe they have served theirs already