The Father.

The old man liked to think himself as a father figure to anyone that was two or more years younger, and Frante,who was at least two years his junior was no exception. This entitlement was subtle in nature and not without its price. It was rather odd to see the two of then bickering away at trivial issues,such as the time Frante forgot to purchase the cognac and they were left without spirits that afternoon,which took some getting used to for the old man, and surprisingly Frante managed it well,as he remained naturally spirited and of course the old man took offense to that.

Frante Village

Frante was not much younger than the old man,perhaps by a couple of years at most,and that still made only a slight difference for the old man. Their routine was marked by a certain solemn aspect,not to be confused by tradition,but more in line with creatures of habit,who know each-others gestures so well,that not much needs to said. They did always seem to have much to talk about, and what would you expect from the confines of a small village,such as the one they lived in. And,yet they would talk and talk. Even the crabby old ladies would gesture with a little surprise,as to how the two old men,would go on and on about nothing, and one of the ladies even threatened to include the men into their own circle for a gossip frenzy.

Frante

The old man loved going out into woods. His daily walk,which consisted of dropping in on Marta the cleaning lady, who he could find every morning gathering her supplies at the local grocery. Than there was his old friend Frante,who still kept his dilapidated metal shop at the edge of town and always kept an open seat for the old man to come by and discuss local issues,pertaining primarily to politics,older crabby women,and the decay of moral values,especially among the young. The old man was very fond of his friend Frante,whom he had known since childhood. they shared a common bond of overbearing jewish mothers,fathers who were remote,lost to financial worry and bad health, and siblings who were to busy surviving. But Frante was the one friend he could depend on. Throughout their long friendship, the events of their life,some good and some not so good,would never bar their continued conversations. there were times when situations kept them away for a time, such as when Frante's eldest daughter Rivka, gave birth to twins and needed some extra help tending the farm,which her husband Samuel normally would do, but now was occupied with more domestic issues.

Morning Dust

I say a prayer to the Holy One that he should rid me of my morning dust that weighs on me as i arise. The dust that gathers over the night,illuminating all my un-resolved demons,who want to join me for the coming day. The dust is heavy and not so easily wiped off, ancient in stature,going back to a darker time,when the whole Earth was filled with it. And yet, I awake and gather my forces. My sword of sanity which I carry close to my heart. My hat of reason which I wear tightly pressed against my ageing temples. Finally, I make it to the mirror,and remind myself of my human eyes, which only yesterday cried out of a crib of innocence.

Summer window

I looked out into my Summer window,as the deep gray clouds gathered all to soon,against the open sky. Another Summer passed me by, and still a child's memory could not find the peace needed to look out even further. And there was the memory of a space long forgotten,when eagerly I meandered in the open fields of younger years and saw the image of a tall man,buried in rippled heat,walking East, towards the distant hill of his own memory. Silence prevailed,and I was taken away for a moment by a teasing breeze, which reminded me again, how much more hope remained in that open field.

Not unlike the wilderness

Not unlike the wilderness,he found himself inside. The withering branch of his youth, melting into the abyss of desire and greed and into the lost art of his existence,where he would find himself again and again, among the last remaining soldiers of time.

His Brothers

His Brothers were waiting for him on the outside veranda,which was shaded by a tall birch tree,protecting them from the simmering heat. He arrived late as usual to the indignant stare of his brothers, who had become less tolerant of him over the years. Of course he was well protected by his mother Rivka,who always kept a hidden eye and ear as to his wear abouts,which was never too certain. This time his mother was not home,having gone out to the local market in preparation for the Sabbath dinner. His Brothers sat around the shaded corner table,sipping chilled minted tea and chatting among each other over matters pertaining to the angst of being a young Jewish man in provincial Poland. Of course the subject would begin on the lack of free spirited Jewish women,meander on family politics and usually end up on jewish women again,with a slight afterthought of the non Jewish possibilities,which would always cause a stirr,not without some excitement.

The Forrest

The forest,which lay before him, was not so silent. He could hear at times the still lurking memory of his ancestors,who meandered here among the trees and the brush. Sometimes he could still recall his mothers shout from a distance to come home which he was careful not to ignore. The forest thought him many things about life. It was here that he saw for the first time entangled lovers and the heaviness of their breath. He saw that he could lose himself there, and still find his way out into the open. But the greatest lesson was that he could go deep into the Forrest without fear, and trust his instincts, even when the trail came to a complete stop.

His River

He liked to think of it as His river,walking along its banks in the late afternoon with the flurry of mosquitoes in the air. He would go alone and keep himself distant from the others, so that he would have a moment to think about his affairs. He was still young, even for those parts where realities sword penetrates early,and perhaps overly assured having been the youngest in his tribe. His brothers would often tease him of being a momas boy, and his everlasting baby face was no help.
For now the River was his, and so he continued to meander its shores and consider his dreams.

The Narev,Ostrolenka Poland

You might call this place sacred ground for me. I know too well the ancient stories of where and when my ancestors came from. I know the story of Egypt and Babylon,slavery,Mount Sanai,The lost tribes and forty years in the desert. I know those stories. I came back here to know the real and personal stories of my granfather and his family, who not too long ago meandered here among the same stillness. What was this stillness all about? I wondered.

I walked along its shore, going against its restless current, trying to here my grandfathers voice, finding further on, the subtle chatter of children playing in the distance,only to discover that in some very deep place, I finally came home.

Leaves

He fell upon a patch of leaves, in the morning light, not knowing where his next step would go. He was well with that, so long as he could continue against the cemented gravel which he no longer felt under his feet, nor the gentle breeze which only slightly touched him.

Antwerp

I am a travelor,unlike my jewish ancestors.