As I lay in bed, anticipating the jiggly alarm, I was hoping for a snow day. This time of year comes with quite a bit of baggage--subconscious associations. There is the weather, for starters. I am not sure what's bigger in the end than weather. Climate and climate change, maybe... And then there's the holiday crunch, and despite the possibility of bleaker presents and slimmer prospects, absolutely n o force of economic nastiness and institutional props can cut back on the audacious displays that is Christmas. Spirits might be temporarily dampened and a lot of things may happen that run a bit counter to the spirit of the season, but the gaudy decorations aren't stopped, though there be a procession creeping earlier and earlier, neither is A Charlie Brown Christmas, the Weihnachtsmarkt, nor Dinner for One. It's an extravaganza. So, and a bit early this year, merry Christmas you wonderful old Building & Loan!
the castle be strafed as part of a larger bombing operation on a nearby city. Behind ambiguous thoughts on the tragedy of that, I was convinced that this was a secret Nazi headquarters and there must have been a hidden gold repository housed there. Treaures. In addition to my occasional forays with my metal detector, I get inspired fairly regularly by either shiny things or stories about treasure hunting. In fact, after viewing National Treaure on TV, I continued my superficial and biased research into the fate of the Knights Templar and their supposed booty. I told H we might find a clue over New Year's holiday when we go to celebrate in Berlin. Where? I thought it was rather obvious--in Tempelhof (I think the Wikipedia article might lend me some credence), of course. A building that large had to be dual-purpose.
I appreciate the days when I'm home at the right times to keep things local-going, when I can go to the tiny market in my tiny village, walk about to the sort-yard for recycling and the flower shop to look and using the village bookie to play the lottery. It's charming and like something out of a children's story: Mister S goes to the Bakery to buy some buns for breakfast--"My what a fine and varied selection of breads you have today. Good day to you, as well, Frau Blooker." I forget how nice and simple that can be, from time to time.
During the day, I tend to stow my Handy in my front pants' pocket--perhaps an unwise and an unfortuneate spot. It vibrates before it rings, though I miss quite a few calls while I'm on the march and there's a hint of ambient noise. I think I'd require a squad of cheerleaders to alert me sometimes to an incoming-call. I've noticed, however, that I occasionally get phantom vibrations, a twitch, along my thigh, and I'll bat my leg until I'm satisfied that there's no one on the other end. It's sort of like the sensations from a phantom limb, these galvanizing disturbances. I wonder if they are electromagnetically-influenced muscle spasms or anticipating to hear from someone. Why aren't phantom sensations ever very nice ones? Not a phoney feeling of an arm that's no longer at my disposal or a missed call, but rather a ghostly brush from H's lips?
Either staying close to home or ranging far and wide, it seems that most weekends were spent exploring and sometimes discovering jewels of castles, churches and ruins. I felt like I had not done that, relaxing and rambling down a tiny road, getting lost, for quite some time, but H and I spent a shortening day doing just that. We hadn't sought out any special sites since we were considering renting this storied-joint but decided against it,after piquing the count's interest, for practical reasons. Also, I could imagine the peasants revolting and coming after us with pitchforks. There is a lot out there to be discovered--heresay is gainsay over a navigation system, which seems to take the fun out of getting lost.
The superlative directory of wonderful things BoingBoing posted a bit of dadaism in signage last week for this bilingual road sign in Wales. I spotted this similar ad absurdia meme by the fleet garage at work. I wonder what sort of delivery system they have in place for slapping up these signs. It's sort of like dodgy, cheap underwear inspected by Inspector #52.
For sometime, I have been kind of reticent mentioning my birthday to colleagues and such because I in part feel that I've had quite enough of them as it is. A bit of a party among friends is something altogether different, though. I think, however, that the bigger reason I try not to call attention to my getting older is because it's a time for personal evaluation--but the sort of personal polite that is also acceptable at the office New Year's Eve party. I've cringed always on being questioned about my resolutions, so much so that I'd like to avoid the situation altogether. It's a bit of Schadenfreude, not of being perfect--not even necessarily content, but decidedly happy. It's like the raging drunk loudly declaring his resolve to have more fun as the rest of the gathering quietly toasts the passing year. And never brought to mind... I want to be smarter about things, generally, and dedicate more time to studies and being creative, but I am fully succumbing to the travel-bug, I like my job and I'm hopelessly in love.