Windows

His favorite, were the windows of his travels. How he could lookout from a train window without end. The landscape flowing by, and in the distance a small house passing by, without even a marked presence. He would wonder who lived and died there,and what stories one would find,if only to spend a day there or perhaps a lifetime. And then a tree somewhere in the distance, All alone, abandoned yet flowing with life,regal in the distance; and he would wonder what it would be like to live under those sleepy branches, even for a day or an hour, or perhaps a life time. Amen.

Windows

Then there were the windows of my childhood, when I peered out from a wooden school house, looking out onto the open grass. We lived far north of our comfort zones,surrounded by hostile eyes. At times we slept underground, where the rumbling earth kept us awake, and wondered when our fathers would return. We kept ourselves well amused with marching songs and playful skits, and if we were lucky, ventured outdoors to the piercing light of day, where we would continue to play. But it was never the same as when the fire of war dimmed, and burned less bright,and our childhood freedom could again venture out without fear. That was what the North had become. and even in the comfort of my old school house, i could no longer breath as I was meant to.

Windows

My life started with a window, where my grandfather first glimpse cought my naked infant eye. That was in a land ancient and new,where the cypress trees could tell you tales of lost histories, wars that no one could remember. Now I see my father through a window lost in his mind inside an Alzhimers facilty in a land thats new and the wars are easily forgotten.

Kafka

I was living across the street from Kafka's grave. Looking out my window a green canopy with wild marsh faced me, as I looked out the window. The traffic buzzed in the background. It hummed like a morning prayer. The birds were always loud there, and yet it enough to merely stand and look out toward Kafka. I felt no need to venture closer. It was enough.

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.