Answer 90 - Because you might squish the ladybugs

The carnival in Bremen last night was surreal and wonderful. Mushrooms, fischfilet, kuchen... candied nuts, lights, lights... lights...

We stumbled on it after a walk in the Park.

There were signs in the park that said 'Don't step on the grass,' we think.  Because no one was on the grass.  Why can't you step on the grass in Bremen?

We ate Chinese food that was salty and drank nothing because no one in Europe drinks water in a glass, only bottles.



The sauna this morning was cedar.  No one had towels or clothes on.  We drank cold water and stayed in as long as we could.
  


We'll go to town now and give coins to the street musicians.  

Someday, I'll set up a guitar case and sing to strangers...  with blue shoe buckles and rich men's lives.

88 & 89 - Two answers in one

Well, I just got nowhere near cyberspace yesterday, being in the back seat of a car with no wireless card.  So today, I offer two answers for the price of one.

We crossed the German border inauspiciously, and only noticed because there was suddenly no speed limit.  Which is about the coolest thing that can happen to an American on a Monday afternoon.


There are places on the Autobahn where there is an occasional speed limit, but for the most part, you just barrel down the road and get the hell out of the way of the folks that are barreling faster.

So, here's the first question:
What is with the human desire to hurl ourselves through space as fast as possible?  In light of the fact that we're not made of some bitchin and indestructable carbon fiber and mostly turn into mush when coming in contact with static objects, while hurling ourselves through space? Or, if we're going fast enough, just fly apart entirely?

I postulate that it's simply because we're comprised of billions of particles that are whirring and buzzing all the time.  All this solidity, all this static - just an illusion imposed upon us by our monkey brains.  Maybe we like moving so fast because it's just closer to our natural state.

Yeah, I know, you're thinking, 'Holy smokes, what a genius you must be considered in parts of Upper Slobovia and beyond.. what with thinking all these deep thoughts!'

And while the Upper Slobovians DO, in fact, consider me a genius of immeasurable breadth, I offer the following:

Why can't the U.S. have an Autobahn?  Why do we have to have speed limits?  The German auto accident rate, per capita, is considerably lower and they can drive as fast as they want.  So, what the..?

This one's simple.  If the statistic is true that 1 in every 100 Americans is in jail, I think it stands to reason that if we could drive as fast as we wanted, we'd probably just take the opportunity to drive ourselves to jail at an even faster rate than we currently do.

And well, I think we just can't afford to build more prisons.  Just ask California... all those freeways... all those jails.


Think about it.

Um... the dark sweet taste of deep deep thoughts.

Guten Tag, Amerika.

87 - Yes, the Easter Swan was Smokin'

   Swans are in the fields of Holland... all over the country, big white birds nestled into the pastures, along side the sheep, even.

I'm thinking today of the Easter Swan.

                                                  

I'm of course talking about Zeus.  The same guy who was known to say,

                            Release the Kraken!

from time to time.

Easter's a complicated holiday, with more than one religious observance, but oddly enough, occurring on the first Sunday following the full moon. 


Hm... the first Sunday following the full moon?  At its roots, at least, are some pagan associations.  Also involves bunnies, for some reason, the rabbit most associated with fertility, because of its, well, fertility...
  

What with being surrounded by swans here in the beautiful country of Holland, on this auspicious and complicated (and fertile) day,  celebrated by more than one religious observance, all of which I'd like to pay due respect to, and mean in no way to denigrate - it just makes sense somehow that I should think of Zeus as the Easter Swan.  

It's complicated, though.   Namely, because, 

Seriously, he stood a better chance seducing Leda disguised as a swan, rather than an attractive and super-cut god?

Wow.  Well, any diety that can turn itself into a bird and STILL manage to seduce that hottest girl in all of Greece  - and procreate a set of twins in the process - well, that beats a rabbit as my Easter mascot.  

Except the chocolate kind!

86 - I dreamed a dead composer

Someone's humming in the kitchen.  The theme from the Second Movement of Beethoven's Pathetique.

I know this is because it's been a bit overused commercially, but more importantly because The Pathetique was one of the only things I actually managed to pull off remotely well in my infamous Senior Recital in music school.

I still don't know what came over me that day.  I sat down for the first piece - Brahms' Ballades.  I looked at my hands, to begin a piece I'd played a hundred times - and there was nothing.  Blank.  I stuttered, I stumbled, I played nonsense notes until something came to me, but the piece was lost for all intents and purposes.  Another torturous 14-minutes on what had to have been a tortured Steinway... (tortured audience.  tortured me)... and I was finally able to turn my attention to the Pathetique.  And it was all rather pathetic, so... here's to time travel.. and bloody hindsight...

Ah...

That minute kept me off stages in any meaningful way for years after that.  And firmly assured me that I would definitely not be pursuing the classical performance realm in graduate school.

There's a little chunk of my guts in cyberspace, eh?  The performer with stage fright, spooked by a dead German composer.

But let's face it, who's NOT been spooked by a dead composer at some point or another?

 All the tales of sturm und drang and fury... unrequieted love and recollections of bloody battles?  Ghosts everywhere...  I only ever wanted to play Beethoven and Brahms in school. Occasionally I'd lilt along through Chopin's romantic yearnings, or Debussy's brush strokes... Ives when I could find another set of hands.  Couldn't bear much of Schumann or Liszt.  Can't remember why...

And none of this means anything, really, except that I was spooked by a dead composer years ago on a stage far, far away..

And he still haunts me.

Someone's humming in the kitchen, and I'm in California, on a piano bench wearing a flowered dress and new shoes. And they're waiting for me to play.

85 - Must have, because the mice are fat

There were peacock feathers scattered in the branches

who’d believe a tapestry could fly?

warblers on the ragged wing 

alight in hopes that they might sing

their way into the color of that sky

and so do I

but part mockingbird, and something smaller

than a caged canary  -  I hide myself

in tissue paper

in a hatbox in the closet

I leave a note

that’s all she wrote –

Feed the cats while I’m away

Miraculous recovery -

the days before the nights

and then come the days again. Again.

Persephone descending

was always meant to make her way

Back to the surface… with the

bluebird perched on her ring finger.

Some years, she just didn’t show.

Feed the cats.                            

                                        - k. detor

I wonder, did they feed the cats?

Answer 84 - A decent burial followed by a Good Irish Wake!

At what point does 'honoring the animal' cross the line into 'I just really want to keep my ivory-covered car because it's totally bitchin'?'  

Since I've been called to the carpet, and I love arguing more than I love gouda in Gouda - Here's the thing: it's not that I'm a fanatic (mostly) - try not to be about much of anything, other than coffee in the morning and occasionally politics.. and bad poetry.. er..and... Well, anyway, even a fool like me knows that you can't be part of the First World [insert orchestral flourish with tom tom and gong] and not participate in the killing fields, on many levels. 


But we all have to pick our battles. Elephants are mine. I can't tell you why - I just have an affinity for them, and if you feel strongly about a thing, shouldn't you try to honor the thing? Like that Julia woman in the redwood tree, remember?  
  Sure you look like a touchy-feely granola crunching hippie, but the tree can't speak for itself. Neither can the elephant, last I heard.


Since I've made a point of trying to support the elephant population, it just seems contradictory for me to participate in the ivory trade. right? That trade has never have been honorable, so I see no honor in the owning of the ivory. I don't honor my leather walls (it turns out all my walls are covered in leather - thought it was pleather), nor my harp seal throw pillows (thought they were mink). I don't honor my mink napkin rings and matching spittoon (knew they were mink).


And there's a question for you - Do you keep the mink spittoon and harp seal throw pillows in order to honor the impossibly supple and soft furry animals, or do you give them a decent burial?


The way I figure it - if it turns out so, I replace the ivory bits with other bits, give the ivory bits an honorable burial, and I still have my accordion and my self-respect. But no worries, folks, I'll still be buying all my clothes from Indonesian sweat shops, and I only wear shoes made from the skins of baby alligators. 


Quippy is better than soppy. But I'm still getting rid of the ivory keys.*


*However, if it turns out they're made of bengal tiger claws - OH YEAH! It's back to E-Bay for my little Silvetti.

Baby needs a new set of snakeskin coasters!

Answer 83 - Because nothing is more important than displays of wealth

My accordion keys may be made of ivory.


I didn't know this.  The man in security at the Belfast Int'l airport pointed it out - and now what am I supposed to do?  Dave bought the accordion on e-bay for me.  It's old.  It's Italian.  And maybe it's built on the blood and bones of a nearly endangered species that I've tried to do some small part to help.


 Dave says that it may not be ivory at all - that even all those years ago they'd managed a process whereby the look of ivory could be replicated.  I want this to be true.

But that doesn't make it true.

I want it to be true because if it's not true, I can't play it anymore.  And maybe that makes me a bleeding heart fool, but it takes an orphaned elephant 3 years to begin to get over the loss of its mother.  And they never entirely do.  We're not the only species that thinks.  We're not the only species that feels.  And they're brutally slaughtered for a product that can be easily replicated.

Now the geniuses that own the world (well, at least they own the U.S.) have decided to buy the ivory stockpiles that Tanzania and Zambia are putting up for sale.  For what?  So that we can all rest assured that nothing, but nothing is more important than a pretty display of wealth...

And that will mean so much to us, I imagine, when we're the lone species, in its final minutes, blinking in the bright sun after every last tusk has been carved up, every last tree has been cut down... watching the water rise... counting our money on our ivory abacuses and chatting about the good ole days while we pick nits off each other (just like the good ole days)...

You wonder why I drink...   Still, I'll find out if it's ivory. 

In the meantime, if you're feeling it, send money to the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust.  They're fighting the good fight while most everybody else is fanning themselves with pretty currency...