Prague

I woke to the sound of traffic from my second floor room. my window,slightly open to appease A stubborn heater which kept going all night. outside the street was jammed with the morning clamor of cars and trucks nailed together like box cars headed for the same direction. I got up in A foggy haze. My eyes half shut from too deep of A sleep where unwanted thoughts may have krept in un willingly. I made my way to the makeshift Kitchen, with the old timeless burner and A military like pitcher which would become my lifeline to the real world,especially after A good coffee. And then I remembered I was in Prague and yes, that there was A pressing matter that brought me hear from the start, and slowly the thoughts for the day appeared from the haze, and I remembered that I came to see my brother, who for reasons out of my control had so far eluded my finding him, and that this was becoming more A catch and seek than A catch. These crazy thoughts which crept up,especially at night and that it should all happen in A strange land,threw me off guard. But it was first thing first, and for now I can only focus on my coffee.

Prague

The key is to write when I am not traveling. When the everyday lethargy seeps in with A tender unavoud trickle that one day I wake up to an emptiness and void that I cannot shake. And there is so much to write about. I can write about the cracked walls of my childhood, and how I was shuffled from place to place, and how the bearings of A stable household came loose for me when I was still too young to fully absorb the trauma. Yes; I can write about that and someday I hope to write more of it as way of moving forward in my life. And yet; i have the greatest of dreams which not even this moldable material world we live can destroy; if anything it brings me closer to them. And so i will continue with my travels, and will find my place of gathering and retreat. I come from A stock of travelers and my birthright is east. I travel with those people who came out of shaken pasts,who perhaps did not receive enough of the love they needed to continue their rightful paths, and perhaps only later mustered the necessary strength and will to go at it on their own. My Birthright is the east where my ancestors came from; not the suburban sprawl of A lost America, materialist America where the remodeled kitchens have more priority than charity. The east was burned to ashes as well as the life of my ancestors, and yet for generations on, they lived on that dark earth tilling their devoted hands into that soil. That is really my land, that I need to reclaim for myself. The soul of a jew is very deep. You cannot uproot A soul without it wanting to find its home. And so here in Prague among the many shifting movements of those who came here, I too find myself wanting once again to find my rightful home,and reclaiming it again and again to those who thought otherwise.

Back to Prague

I came back to prague looking for my brother michael. Between the missed phone calls and the overlapping letters, we missed each-other. And yet i was not stirred nor worried and trusted completely in the telepathic synchronically that was always there between us. I had a sixth sense about it, that I would find him in that endless meandering city that brings the night to you,more then you would want or need. But as to my brother I knew that night or day did not matter, and so after settling in for the night in my rather rugged accommodation; i decided to venture into the starry Prague night.

Restlessness

Sometime in the far future I would stand next to my best friend and he would ask me what I saw that day in the waveless water and cool breeze of A late summer morning. he would ask all the write questions, and he would want to know more and more about the events of that morning. Of course he wanted to know, and his interest seemed to demand an answer that did not exists. He happened to be the brother of that child I found floating midway between the deep end and the surface of that aged grand pool, which had become the village symbol of A hard and tenacious spirit still burning from the ashes of germany. I had nothing to say,other then that he was floating like an angel and his hair waved as though he was still alive. But somewhere in-between the questions and my silent response, there was also the deep sadness of an event that has no answer and almost like the end of a mystery; I was not satisfied with that end, though at times drawn into the enigma of that event and still trying to find solace among those who wandered more then I, and wanted to know more then ever what A body submerged in water looks like after A long and silent night. But that was too late. I got tired with what I could not answer and prepared myself for A new journey to come. I was A young man and death again peeked itself before me,reminding me that even my bubble can burst at any moment.

The swiming pool

I awoke to A scream in the early morning as a stubborn mist lingered too long for our summer senses. the scream came from the direction of our community swimming pool. There was A rustle in the trees, A slight late summer breeze coming from the north, which usually meant the coming of an early fall. I normally would not respond to screams in those parts, as there always were groups of children making their way to the swimming pool with their playfulness and eager voices,eager to place the first jump in the relief of those hot summers days. The scream was loud with A high shrill, and it was still too early for the children, and so I went to find out what it was all about. I got to the entrance of the swimming pool, and saw my old friend Ruth, who was also the lifeguard and pool keeper running towards me with her arms open wide, as to embrace me. She was shaking with fear. In the few mumbled words, she managed to convey that there was A body inside the pool. My friend Jonathan happened to arrive that moment, and we both walked into the pool grounds to see what the screaming was all about. I remember the stillness of the water that morning, and even with the slight breeze that was there, I could still remember how still the water had been. The pool was A large olympic size 50 meters, A kind of trophy price for all the hard work invested in what was once A swamp land and now A thriving community with its own factory and farm lands. I looked in the shallow side as the pool curved going deeper . My friend Jonathan was the first to spot him at the deep end. He was floating midway between the surface and the bottom. He faced us. his blond flowing hair moved with a slight flutter. It was too deep to see his eyes, and for A moment I did not recognize him.

ल

Jonathen

My memory of him is fresh; Almost too fresh to recall much of anything. The dead leave us hanging sometimes. They leave us with A certain numbness which is still alive and pulsating and perhaps misleading. Its never fair is it; its never expected. I had experienced death far too young to have even known life. The burning wave of A women who set herself on fire next door, out of A desperate attempt to atone the disability of her afflicted daughter. The discovery one morning of A young boy submerged under the calm and still waters of the outdoor public swimming pool. The death of my young stepbrother who ventured into the wilds of Alaska,only to succumb to A life long struggle with Asthma. Death will always surprise you; even when your looking. even when you know and wonder when the mystery will end. And yet, I was pulled my them all, even till their last moment. I was pulled and dragged and yes, even the tears were hard to to find. they seemed more easily spent on the living, and even those who were the walking dead, even they, in those last moments, even then, and perhaps more so; the tears flowed more readily, and I had to remind myself that they were still alive. They were still alive, and so was I, and so I will remain, God willing in the deep and penetrating glow that is this life.

The Death of A Friend.

When I checked into my small Hotel just on the outskirts of the old town of Prague; I felt A wave of fatigue, such that it startled me. I had forgotten that my journey had gone for more then two days with only sporadic sleep, and an even more sporadic diet made up mostly of red wine and bread. I did manage to scrape A quick run for the cheese in Vienna during A brief lay over, and the rest of the journey was left to the aggressive peddlers who offered little for the money. I was about to sign off for the night, when the phone rang; it was my lost twin Michael, who I had been looking for for most of the day. He sounded somewhat gloomy and sunk, that I could only have anticipated something terribly wrong to have happened. He informed me that my old friend Jonathan, had died as result of A lingering Cancer which he carried for more then A year, and that He had already been buried in our small village cemetery just two days ago. The news was not unexpected. I did feel numb and was almost surprised that I did not cry: I was too tired to feel, even memory felt like A fog. I told my twin that I love him, and will catch up with him in the morning, so that he can reveal to me the mytery of his disappearance, and how he found me.

Micheal

I came to prague to meet my twin brother Michael, who had decided to prolong his stay there. We agreed to meet somewhere in the center,and because of a miscommunication from the long distance telephone static ,no name of a square, nor a street, nor the name of his hotel was ever disclosed. I decided to go by intuition alone, and perhaps a little of the twin synchronicity that up till that moment, I had never put to use. I decided to walk. I left the bulk of my belongings at the station in one of the archaic storage containers, that took me half the day to figure out how to use , and headed out towards the center of town. I am actually good with maps, but they are quite useless in Prague when it comes to the meandering streets, and better to use your instinct and good sense then to get even more lost with an overused map. I headed east on one of the broader boulevards that took me past small boutiques and cornered little cafes and book stores. The sidewalks are thin in Prague and much of the time is spent dodging the passerbys,especialy during a busy hour. I continued in a gradual pace and slowly found myself deep inside a maze of intertwining,convoluted passages that seemed to lead nowhere.

Mr Frank.

Mr Frank; one of the old Jewish timers, was about to put on his winter jacket. He was an old man; so old that even the gage of time could not help in knowing his years. I wanted to help him slip into the last sleeve of his long and tarnished jacket, but he refused me and with an abrupt movement placed his arm into the the sleeve. I had heard from others that he survived the war in Prague, hiding in a small and dense attic by the grace of one of his non Jewish friends. I did not need to ask him. His face spoke of it all. He invited me down the hall to a small room adjunct to the temple, where we had just completed our morning prayers. A long thin table stretched out to the end of the room. On the table A few bottles of aged Eastern European spirits,which looked more like combustible fluids,that even a slight flicker of a match would set the whole place on fire. Mr Frank made a brief and mumbled blessing on the bread. I took a sip of the ready snaps, and for A moment felt the total escalation of my covert bowels re-ignite their lost vigor. This was not A pleasant feeling; and being the good guest that I was, I did my best to keep my smile intact.

Jerusalem Street.

One block from the Nasdravi station lies an old and towering synagogue; one of the few jewish relics Hitler decided to leave for onlookers,knowing that there would be no jews to step into it. its A beautiful structure,ornate in A classical and somewhat gothic style, that could be confused with A church. The onlookers are mostly non jews, who with a certain nostalgic curiosity stand peering through the iron gate,hopeing to get a glimpse of something holy and remote. The gates are always shut, with the exceptions of the Sabbath which brings in a trickle of Jewish old timers,left over from the ashes of war and time. They are old now; these men. They gather in a small corridor on the top floor of the temple, drinking their aged spirits after the morning service, and with a twinkle of the eye reflect back to their bellygoat years, when perhaps being jewish in Prague was more exotic if not daring, and left one wide open to Romance and adventure with their non Jewish counter parts.

Nasdravi Station.

When you step out from the train in Prague and go along the lengthy platform which leads you onto the open space of an old Stalin like interior called Nasdravi station; its as though you have stepped back in time some 30 years or more. You feel startled and taken back by the moment, as if something is pulling you back. You pass that maze fast,hoping you find your way, without stumbling into something unexpected or dangerous for that matter. Arriving at dark does not make it more easy and only the tainted light that hovers lightly from the main portal, seems to give some respite and warmth to a tired and lost traveler. Prague is unfair. She grabs you in illusion and spits you out as soon as she tires of your being there; Like a jealous lover; She will always find more to pray upon, more to devour and spit out when she tires, and on and on she goes, like spider caught in its own web; And she will entice and break you down. I have seen this in the faces of the passerby's as they walked pass me with glazed expressions, something eating their hearts away; or looking for A lost treasure which was never there, and if it was was now long lost; And yet here we were still looking, still searching in those lost and ancient corners, where only the touch of poets could linger there,if only for a moment, and the moment is gone. The moment is gone forever.

East

The convoluted twisting landscape was slowly turning more languid and lethargic as the train inched itself into Prague. There was a sense of arrival in the air as the clustered travelers were delicately grabbing for their belongings. They started to twitch and twirl in their seats knowing that soon the train will stop. I never really liked the conclusion of journeys and there fore was always prone to melancholy and regret, knowing I would soon need to battle the rawness of a new place, as well as find my brother in the maze of that winding city. I waited for some time for the cabin to clear, looking out the window onto the station platform, observing the groups of people passing by, each with with their own special walk,special suitcase,special coat; A maze of versatility and color that is in constant movement and direction towards a mysterious end, and yet there was a flow to it all and perhaps A certain sadness at the wavering stillness of our earth and how we are always on some kind of journey towards a mysterious end.

Prague

I had good reason to go East. My brother Michael was making his own journey there. He had been somewhat remote and distant in the few weeks, that even the usual check in call or letter had not come through for some time, that I started to worry as to his where about. But then, just before my leaving San Simone, I received word through my mother that he was in Prague and awaiting my arrival there. I had no way of reaching him, other then the name of the hotel he was staying in, and decided to take a chance and surprise him. The train going East was somewhat labored and misdirected as it weaved itself through the confused landscape of the Austrian alps into pastoral green valleys that could only be imagined in postcards. I had this feeling that every tiny village I passed, even from the small secluded hob-let, was a place I can make a life in and start a completely new page. It was as though I had once belonged to this land in some pre historical existence and that all those I left behind were all there in those tiny villages waiting my arrival. I knew that all this would have to wait for now, and more then anything I needed to see my brother Michael more then I needed Prague or anything else for that matter. I needed familiar blood to connect with in what was starting to feel like a deserted landscape more and more.

Departures

The train to the East left late from the central station,where the late night shuffle of a homeless man was the last person i saw as the train slowly made its way out the city. That was a moment I loved; That slow rattle of a train moving towards a silent destination far from the fray of the bustle. The night brought out the mystery of it even more, and being alone in my cabin, I looked out the window and saw that ancient cobbled landscape inching itself away from me slowly. Slowly away to the East where a new world was awaiting me. And the train kept rolling. Trains were the source of something deep and churning within me. Something of a lost youth I was always trying to regain,trying to hold on to. But what really could I hold on to, and even Monica and Bilbo the cat could not remain in my life for long, before i was ready to leave them again and again. But trains; they were more like me now and I was more like them, and in that spirit I was headed for the first time to the East.

Leaving.

I said goodbye to Monica between the grandmothers completing of the paper and the children going off to school. The residual rain seemed to bring on a certain long awaited serenity that day, and even Bilbo the cat could not muster the energy to open his eyes for the coming day. Our goodbye was brief and unemotional and was almost formal, and even Grandmother would not let up on the paper. Bilbo the cat seemed more responsive to my leaving, and even honored me with one eye slightly open, as if his sorrow was to remain in slumber for now, and perhaps he would be willing someday to receive me again.

East

The declaration of my leaving came on a cold and rainy night far from the cessation of a stubborn and lingering storm which would stay on longer than expected and did not make matters any more easy for me. Of course it was not a good time to leave, and Monica knew this and held on to the reasoning of the storm which seemed to have taken her side of things. My mind was set and there was no turning back. I only hoped that the roads were still open the next day so that i would make the afternoon train going East. There was a morning bus, usually on schedule that would get me into town, and still provide me time for a last minute coffee in my favorite cafe, which was directly across the street from the aged train station.
The next morning I had a brief breakfast with Grandmother who was more occupied with the newspaper, as she held the towering paper with both hands and sneaking her coffee with a swift gesture,so as not to lose her place. Monica was in the next room preparing the girls for school and Bilbo the cat was laying at his usual spot,facing the front door with a slight break in his eye,peering out to the sparse light left over from the night storm.

The Tear

She was clutching the Bible with both hands,pressing the tarnished cover like a slow and deliberate squeeze, to the point that even her gentle white hands took a blue like appearance. She looked stressed and absolute as she stared out toward the pictured wall that lay before her. I gently sat next to her and asked if everything was alright. she continued with that stare, as though there was something there of interest, and for a moment i thought she had become lost in some other place, some other time , where no one could touch her. I placed my hand over hers, and with a whisper told her that it was ok, that whatever she was feeling was ok and that she need not worry, no matter what it was, that all will be ok. She turned to me and with a glimmer of an expected smile, there I saw a slight tear coming down her right eye.
I thought this might be my last day at Monica's house. These rather voluntary occurrences out of nowhere, that seem to rattle the peace I had been seeking, seem with everyday to get worse, and my wanting to leave has already been delayed not so much by the people around me, as by the utter beauty of the place, which does not make it any easier. I was determined that night to start packing and make arrangements towards leaving. Of course i would need to make an announcement to Monica and her family, and not to forget good old Bilbo the cat, and my new companion Antonio, who up till now has entrusted me to maintain the command of our upstairs castle.

The Bible

The next morning, I was surprised not to hear the early call of the Rooster, nor the grandmother fidgeting in the kitchen with her coffee preparation which had become an anticipated ritual. i did not hear much of anything, except for the wet ruffle of rain drenched leaves, soaked by the previous un expected storm, which brought more rain then needed that year, to the point that the local farmers worried wrinkle, focused more on up coming floods than the long anticipated drought which never came. I saw that the cat had left, with only a slight wrinkle on the edge of the bed; a reminder of her quick visit, and good old Antonio was still there, looking a little more cheerful than the night before with his hat placed in proper position and even his predicted smile returned, so that somehow things felt like they were returning to normal. there was the whole issue of the priest, which up to now I had no answer. Monica was somewhat vague if not stringent on her take of the matter. She seemed like she wanted to brush it under the table; The whole matter of my seeing him at the edge of the olive grove, and how he took swift flight the moment he noticed me there. And than why did he leave his good Bible there like that; something so sacred and personal, and though perhaps worn and battered by the use of time, one would think he would never lose his clutch over that good book.
I assumed it was just another lazy day in the village, and took to heart that i was so lucky to be there. Of course I knew cities more than villages, and even had some bright moments when I longed for the rush of energy and excitement that my so called city offered. I could very easily fall into the groove here and melt into the scenery, I thought. Who knows, perhaps meet a local girl and raise a family. of course in these parts meeting a local girl, really is, meeting the whole family, and we are not talking nuclear size here, not to mention that the whole village would rise to the occasion, as well as our good natured priest.
I decided to venture out and see what is happening. i came down from my small castle and found Bilbo the cat lying in the middle of the waiting room, just outside the kitchen entrance. I peered into the kitchen and saw the Grandmother,with her back turned towards me, sitting with the daily paper opened with both hands. Her tiny head was nodding back and forward, focusing intently on the printed word. I did not want to disturb her, so I moved into the piano room, and saw Monica sitting on the sofa, slightly curled into herself with an intense look on her face; She was clutching the closed Bible with both hands, and seemed to pressing against its cover on both ends.

Bilbo

I stepped out into a slight drizzle as the clouds took a darker color, and in the distance I could here a faint rumble as a teasing wind brushed itself against my exposed face. It was early afternoon, and time for a nap or a siesta as they called it in those distant parts, where the pace of things was much slower and somewhat tiresome then the rush of cities that I had known in my past. I headed back into the house towards my room upstairs and missed stepping on the sprawled black cat who was sleeping next to the threshold. This was one of the more reclusive cats I had known while staying there. though I knew him by name; his personality was yet to be fully known and being the cat lover that I was, could not resist the opportunity to know more about this reclusive feline. Of course i was in no hurry at the moment and gave a gentle nudge to the rested animal. His name was "Bilbo". I was somewhat perplexed by the name and after trying to get some information from my good hosts, discovered that its named after one of Tolkien's Hobbits. But I have heard this name before, many years before, and for the moment could not retrieve that distant memory.
After climbing the wooden steps that led to my upstairs room, I was about to open the door, when i noticed Bilbo behind me, and with a gentle sway curved himself around my legs and was looking up at me with a remorseful eye. He was a rather young cat and perhaps needing of attention knew of a good source, which is how he ended upstairs with me. I let him into the room and with no hesitation he jumped onto the bed and curled himself smack in the middle. I could just see old Antonio hovering above, thinking what an insult this might be for this well seasoned hunter that has so far had the room only to himself, and with such a view as to think he was the king of that room, and even for me to be there was a privilege. The rain was now more pronounced and being on the top floor, i could hear the heavy thud of the final storm knocking to say that even in spring nature will not rest, nor will this rain be the last to visit my humble room. I looked up again at old Antonio. His smile now looked more like a frown as the shimmering light shifted with the coming storm and his hat, which normally looked well placed on his small head, was slightly off the mark,as though it was put on him with haste, and a nervous touch, so that his whole appearance seemed to have changed, and even Bilbo seemed to sense this as he repositioned himself swiftly and was now lying closer to the edge of the bed.

The Olive Grove

Monica was sitting outside in the patio reading a book that she had long neglected. She sat there with a certain glow, which brought out all her subtle features. She was very focused on the book and for moment did not notice me standing there next to her. i startled her, when i asked her about the book. She turned towards me and though surprised was delighted to see me. The clouds were slowly closing in on us, and we decided than to move into the house. We sat in the living room, where there was a grand piano, more pictures of departed relatives, and even a picture of Antonio, only this time he was well dressed and still with the same half turned smile as well as the trusty workers hat that would never leave him. I told Monica about what i had seen at the grove, and that I thought it might have been the priest. In my hand I still held the Bible and handed it to her as she took a seat next to the piano. She gently caressed the book in her hand, and looked down with a sad eye, she seemed to have not been surprised by my encounter with the priest. She gave a light smile and with a slight sigh, said, " yes, most likely it was the priest". " he has been known to wander and no one is ever brave enough to ask where he goes" " I suppose you have inherited the task of finding him" " I think its best we leave things as is, and not mention anything, especially to grandmother, as Im not sure how she would take the news, and Dont worry, ill take care of the bible"

The Olive Grove

I saw the dark figure running down the hill with a slanted gait, which made his movement slow and heavy and somewhat burdensome, to the point where his ability to reach the bottom was questioned. It seemed almost un necessary to even make the effort. The black figure finally made it to the bottom of the hill and for a brief moment turned his head around to face me. From that distance I could not make a clear distinction, but for a moment I thought he looked like the local priest. He swiftly turned his head away and with a flash was gone into the next grove of trees that stood before him. I was about to turn back, when I noticed a black book laying on the ground next to an abandoned log. I picked up the book and noticed it was a Bible, who's cover had worn out its time. I thought to leave the old book there, but the sky was soon to turn gray and there was a chill in the air hinting rain.

The Olive Grove

The priest was a small man,slightly hunched over, with a tilted gait, so that he never looked like he was standing strait, nor did he ever look completely crooked. He just looked slightly off. I would sometime run into him on my daily walks, usually as he was coming out of the church onto his morning commitments, which always carried him with a quick step that was well directed towards some significant purpose. Most likely he was on his way to pay a visit to someone homebound and sick. He carried his black bible on his right hand as his left hand slightly extended towards his back. I thought it strange that a man so young would walk like that, but i was merely going for a walk and the priest was going his way, and what did it matter how he walked, so long as he arrived well and with good intention. I decided to take the left flank of the small village, and found myself on a small and beaten trail that veered into an un fenced olive grove, of which had recently been picked. The Olive trees seemed somewhat worn and tired and a rusted latter still remained suspended against one of the trees. There was an old gray bucket on the ground with its bottom torn and partly open. The stillness was in the air to the point I could here small birds chirping clearly, and the rustle of the remaining leaves could be heard as well. For a moment i heard a sound, but was not sure. I thought it might be one of the small birds that found its home there, or perhaps my own careless step on a loose rock. But there were no rocks around me and the birds were gathered on a distant tree. I heard the sound again coming from the edge of the grove. It was a rustling sound, but with vigor and intention, that I could not think it natural. I stepped slowly towards the sound. My feet crunching the grounded leaves as I neared the source. This time all was quite and still. Suddenly, There was an explosion of movement. The birds fluttered, and I saw a dark figure runing down the hill. He ran slowly and somewhat hunched towards his right side. He mumbled with anger and was pressed physically as he made his way down the hill away from the Olive grove.

Bad Water

This was in Bad Water. You could walk into the horizon and still not see the other-side for miles.

Antonio

There were times where i stayed at Monica's house. She lived in a two story country house with both parents, a younger sister and her grandmother. I usually stayed on the top floor, where a room had been set up for guests. The room was medium in size with a large oak bed that took up most of the space. On the walls were black and white pictures of family members long ago departed from this earth. There was one picture I recall of an old man holding a rifle. In the background an open field. He was wearing a worn workers hat, something out of an old spaghetti western. He had half a smile that could turn at any moment and his eyes seemed to be piercing the open land that lay before him. His skin was darker then his surrounding pictured relatives and there was something about him that stood out. I asked Monica about this Man. His name was Antonio. He was a hunter and a farmer. He never married and was known to wander the land for weeks on end. He was killed by lightning during a severe storm during one of his walkabouts. They say they found him flat on the ground with the carcass of a dear on his back, and when they buried him; they buried both him and the dear together.
Things were starting to feel strange in Monica's house. I found myself staying up late into the early morning hours. i could hear the grandmother fidgeting in the kitchen, making her daily coffee preparations. Than there was always the trusty rooster who finished up the job of getting everyone up. I would have wanted to sleep in, but felt obliged to be included in the household routine, as well as not come off looking like a flake to my gracious hosts. I knew I would be leaving soon and I never knew when I would return. I wanted to take in what was left. I decided to go for another walk.

The Rabbit

That night Monica and I decided to go for an evening drive. We ended up going to the near by town and to our favorite cafe. A warm breeze left over from the turning day hit my face as we sat down outside. The street was quite with the sporadic hum of a few cars making their way back home. There was an old man sitting across from us with his old world hat and a cigarette,peering into the shifting light. We decided on a coffee and sat there without much to say. The stillness seemed to calm our spirit and it remained more a moment of reflection. I was always the curious one, observing the street before me. For Monica this was nothing new. She knew this scene many times over. She even knew the old man, and there was no need to know more. We sat there, outside in the stillness of all that was buzzing around us. For a moment I felt like having a cigarette, and knowing that Monica had a reserved supply in her small bag, I asked her for one. After about an hour of this reflective moment. we decided to head back home. The full darkness of night enveloped our small car as we drove back into the country. The moon was hiding that night and visibility was poor. I felt a sudden bump as we were nearing the village. I asked Monica to stop the car and pull to the side. I stepped outside and noticed something moving in the middle of the road. We turned the car around to illuminate what was before us. A white rabbit was moving in its last moment of life. I new i needed to put it out of its misery at that moment. But Monica could not accept a second blow to the already dyeing rabbit. I picked the rabbit up and placed him gently by the side of the road. I was prepared to act and do what was right. But Monica who loved animals so dearly, could not accept more trauma to the already helpless animal. we left him there. I did not sleep that night. The next morning I went back to the spot. The rabbit died overnight and I knew then that it was time for me to go.

Israel

That year I had planned to go back home. The priest was good enough to bless me for the journey and I had almost forgotten that I am Jewish and who knows how far his prayers carried. At that point I needed all the blessings I could get, so I thanked the priest and went on my way. Monica of course did her best to keep me put. She pampered me with her country charm and hospitality. Even her grandmother tried hard to sway me with all her good cooking as well as the homemade wine presented at every table. Even the friendly cats managed to pull me in as they gingerly caressed themselves against my leg as I sat down for the afternoon meal. The whole house seemed to conspire against my leaving, and for a moment I almost consented. My afternoon walks did not help either. I seemed to want more and more to melt into that timeless place. Even the local church started to feel like home, especially the Sunday mass singing, and all the pretty catholic girls, who would come out of the woodwork dressed in their Sunday best. I stayed a while longer. Even the priest started to wonder about his stationary blessings. The food and the wine, the hospitality and the long walks, only seemed to pull me in deeper towards staying. But I had to remember that I inherited an unwanted gift called " The wandering Jew" and so there I was again falling back to an ancient dilemma; like a prisoner whose body escapes but his mind is still trapped in the confines of his cell.

Monica

Sometime in the distant past I think of Monica. She was once a lover, now a friend, distant and close and always with a familiar smile that brought me back to those early days in Munich. I had always been a traveler. Even now as my peers have settled in the comforts of domestic life, the predicted monotony and regularity that so many of us strive for. And yet I am still dreaming of places i must see. Monica was the one who reminded me of un lived journeys that even now need tending. She lives in the mountains in a small village now. She is married and has three children. She goes to church and has her meal with family. She is tall and gracious and still carries within her the spark of adventure and risk. I have come to know her family well. I have made journeys there. I walked the long and winding trails that surround her village, and even the local priest blessed me once with drops of his holy water. i even remember her grandmother, who sat every morning on the outdoor veranda feeding the cats and peeling potatoes for the afternoon meal. The cats were rather friendly and I do remember a dog as well. But why I kept on leaving? And even for a short time i took residence in the near by city. I always returned to that village and will continue doing so. It was a place of embarkment and an arrival, all at the same time. And there were moments when the country air made me restless and angry and short with those I loved. But i will never give up on that village, up in the mountains where the steps of my youth would not stop.

Coffin (Part three)

I met Monica some years back in Munich. I was passing through from a three month back pack journey through Europe and North Africa. We met on the main drag of Munich as she was coming out of a local ice cream shop. As we waited for a light to turn green, she opened the conversation and we hit things off. She was with a group of fellow Italian students who were in Munich for the summer learning German. She was tall and with red rolling curls that came down to her navel. We walked all night together, through the streets of Munich. It was summer and the evening palmy. We wanted to spend the night together and our imagination was stretched as she shared one room with her younger sister and a friend. In the end she offered me the pool-side bench in the apartment complex. She offered me a sheet and so I found myself sleeping on a wooden bench, next to a swimming pool in Munich.

The Coffin part two.

They laid him to rest against the background of verdant hills. The ropes struggled as the Coffin slowly came down, pressed tightly against the earth wall. The black veiled women gently placed her hand on top of the moving Coffin and murmured a silent payer. I stood in the back wandering who this man was, his name, his character, what he did for leisure, his adventures,his loves. The crowd started to disperse and move back towards the main road. Some remained to take in the last touch of a soul no longer here. I returned to my room. The blue sky slowly closing in for the day. A glass of wine in my hand. I felt I met a stranger; only he was not alive nor did i ever know him alive. My friend Monica called to inquire about my day. i told her about my little adventure. She was silent for a moment. "he was a good man" She said. "Well liked by the village" "A womanizer". "But a good man". I returned to my wine and felt grateful to have known a stranger, even if for a moment.

The Coffin

The coffin stood outside the church court yard as the villagers gathered to pay their last respects. The sky opened up to a glimpse of blue that would soon greet them on their journey to the local cemetery. The deceased was well known and many gathered to say goodbye. I happened to wander there by accident as I made my daily walk. I stood there in the gathering thinking that a parade was about to start. And than I noticed the coffin; simple and yet pronounced. There was a silence in the air, a murmur of sound, more of a shuffling of feet gathering. The coffin was lifted and carried by a group of men, some older than expected, and slowly carried towards the main road. The silence brought out the sound of our footsteps as we neared the cemetery. A slight warm breeze touched my face. Slowly our group moved on and the Men holding the coffin pressed on slowly and with a heavy step.

America

Your Freeways calm my restless soul, like rushing rivers destined to the unknown. Your open sky cries out for a slower pace, but the rush is too addicting and there is never enough of more. I am humbled by your vastness and how I cannot see the end of a road. I am watching out for trees and flowers and even better the smile of a child to know that sanity is everywhere, regardless of where I am.

The world according to Garp.

I had the opportunity today to see the World According to Garp, with Robyn Williams. It had a little of the overdramtic response of the early 80s. And a little of the predicted gestures that are typical to williams. But I was touched by the relationship of Mother and Son in the movie and perhaps because I have become overly sensitive these days, the loss of a mother resonates deeply in my soul. Though God willing both of my parents are living; I could not help but see a certain change in vulnerability in the the 6 months I was gone. And even 6 months is enough time to see changes, and the change in myself is also there. America, wounded and walking on one leg and rushing, always rushing to where only G-d knows. But Im attracted to her freedom and opportunities and the knowledge that age is only a number and even a car can make you feel well if for at least a moment.

Open Mic

I have been playing piano against the background of a roaring freeway. The sound filters in and becomes graced as a late winter stream flowing away from its source. Haydn is great for a rusty player. His melody drives the desire to practice. Than i play my own stuff and think of the next opportunity to play for the crowd. Yesterday I took a drive out to the mountains. The snow melted into blue ice patches, like drops of rain that would not budge. There is open sky here and freeways and a piano and its all really good and sane. Today is a new day, fresh and beautiful and the little dog who barks for love is awaiting my walk. And I am planing on playing soon for an open mic.

Covina

The magnet of America pulls you in when the storm of distant places rattle the soul. I find comfort in the empty streets, the sound of a freeway in the distance and a piano close by. The comfort and stabilty that i will soon have has no measure. But the journey will go on. Only now it might be towards a different direction, Towards personal growth and goels that need to be tended. Im blessed to have taken the journeys. To have ventured into the unknown, and more to come. But now im staying put. Im getting grounded and focused and willing. I have only to trust in my Higher Power

Prague 2

Im back to Prague for the second time. Israel was a whirlwind. All the old demons as well as the angels came back to haunt me. I have to be strong for Israel. To go there with more clarity; otherwise I get lost and unclear. Prague is a relief and cold fresh air, and less cash to play with. But I wont give up the dream. Good to be back.

wandering mystics

I am in ground zero of my life. From here I can only go up-word. i am still as restless here as anywhere else, but something keeps me staying. Something deep and perhaps archaic and maybe a little of the child left behind all those years. I was only born here and than the usual childhood procedures, tonsils, adenoids,flu that went untreated. And now Im hanging out with the Hassid's, drinking their wine and Arak and saying a few prayers to carry me through. I wont live here, but for now its more home than anything else in a long time. And i like the mystics. There is a spark there, something to hold onto, like the old graves that wont die.