Hereunder

La Loca & Dr Freud IV

But where did she live now? I imagined that some radical break from her home away from home, had both propelled her into the streets and compelled her to return to her old digs in North London night after night. Perhaps her mental disturbances forced her out of her lodgings, or her downward spiral began after she had left her old room.

In either case it was the force of circumstances that put her in this present state. And so I thought of Dr Freud, who was forced out of his home and office on Berggasse Street in Vienna, to save his family and himself from further humiliation and almost certain death under a Nazi regime. Did the good doctor return to that house in Vienna in his dreams, reliving the situation that forced so hasty a departure in September 1938?

My early morning sleep remains largely undisturbed these last few months. The neighbor who brings me the local news told me that the dark-haired woman's mother has come to collect her daughter and bring her home to Spain. I have also noticed that refurbishment and renovation has begun on the houses at the corner, slowly and silently, and imperceptibly compared to the work methods of other London decorators.

There are rumours afloat that the row of houses will be turned into luxury flats, capable of fetching an outrageous price like the rest of the houses in the street. The newspapers say that a pokey flat in the grimmest part of East London, will sell at no less than £100,000; these will cost much more. It is probably best that the dark-haired woman has returned to Spain, she would not be able to afford her old bedsitter--and I even question whether the street's other former resident could afford it either.

                                                                                   -30-

La Loca & Dr Freud III

When the dark-haired woman's nightly visits became increasingly frequent during the past summer, one elderly resident nearby came out to plead with her to stop.

"Why do you come here?" the man questioned her again and again. She answered with a voice hoarse from days, perhaps months of shouting. It was almost as low as a man's. She just kept insisting that the house on the corner was her home.

"No!", the man retorted. "You don't live here! Nobody lives here!"

Their exchange seemed to go on for minutes, and I drifted back to sleep before it was finished.

If only Freud were still alive, I thought later: He would know what to say to the hysterical young woman. I imagined the famous doctor slowly but deliberately opening his door, adjusting his spectacles as he peers down the street, wondering what commotion had wrested him from his dreams. Maybe he would speak soothing words to the woman as they stood on the pavement. Perhaps he would invite her into his own home for a cup of tea or or a dark Viennese brew.

To my mind the situation of the disturbed dark-haired woman and Dr Freud, although separated by fifty years and the breadth of a street, were not dissimilar. For both were exiles. Yet another resident of the street, who mysteriously seems to know many things about each of the neighbors, told me that the young woman was away from her real home in Spain.  She always came to the houses on the corner, said the Well-Informed One, because she had once lived there when it was comprised of numerous single rooms let cheaply.

Indeed, this had been her home! The dark-haired woman's claims to the man seeking a peaceful night's rest were not so wild after all.

(To be continued . . . )

La Loca & Dr Freud II

One visitor to these houses came more frequently and persistently then any squatter, but this curious soul was left to herself.

Bundled up in an ankle-length black woolen overcoat, and sporting a fierce mane of long black hair usually tied in a ponytail, this young woman would make nocturnal visits to the house and roam its garden shouting in English--and occasionally Spanish. Her anxious words would drift through my opened windows into my otherwise undisturbed sleep as staccato bursts of low-frequency muttering that would occasionally crescendo into an uproarious, heart-stopping shout at the top of her lungs.

When the next morning I asked the other neighbors about what I had heard, they shook their heads, saying that they previously had attempted to talk to her or had called the police, but the young woman always returned and not much could be done for her or with her.

So she had become a regular on the street. She was likely to arrive at her post, always the abandoned houses at the corner, anytime from eleven at night to five in the morning, alternately muttering and shouting at phantoms unseen by me. She was obviously tormented. Perhaps she was recollecting or reliving old hurts. Perhaps she was just imagining things that never were.

Most times, I could not understand her words, even if my window was opened. However, one time I clearly made out that she was shouting "I said alright . . . alright . . . ALRIGHT!" more and more loudly. I worried who her tormentors, real or imagined, might be, although I knew that no one would be with her as she wandered in the brambles of the garden, within the shadows unlit by the street lamp.

(To be continued . . . )

La Loca & Dr Freud I

I have the good fortune to live within walking distance of a street that was once the home to some rather famous persons.

In London, houses of noteworthies past often have a round blue and white enameled plaque affixed near their entrances. Among my neighborhood's eminently Victorian villas, one of the more distinguished and pleasingly landscaped blue-plaque specials is the solidly middle class house of Sigmund Freud, where  the good doctor lived the last year of his life (1938-39) after he and his family fled the increasing Nazi persecution of the Jews in Austria.

Freud's house stands out from the rest on this street thick with sycamore and beech trees as a light and airy clearing in the middle of a dark wood. Adding to this sense of openess are the great number of white latticed windows that cover the street facade. In the spring, with the blossoming cherry trees and ornamental yews in the front garden, Freud's final home of golden brown brick looks like a prosperous farmhouse in the French countryside, a rather pleasing haven of last resort for the father of psychoanalysis.

Almost directly opposite Freud's house are a row of abandoned four-storey houses, stolid and dark, partially enclosed by a high wall of brick, and thoroughly enshrouded in an arching tangle of trees and dense underbrush. It is a bleak, obscure corner of the street. Only recently did I take more notice of it after a group of squatters had set up camp in several of these houses. Theirs was a relatively short-lived success.

The otherwise neglectful property owner apparently hired some burly men to suggest rather strongly that the squatters ought to leave promptly. They did. They were further persuaded to keep away from resuming lodgings there by the daily vigil of an imposing man of about 18 stone who would sit calmly reading a paper in his car parked within striking distance of this row of houses.

[To be continued . . . ]

Still The Last Day

Some things never change, even as they do.  Wherefore, today is still the last day for Christmas shopping, if one does not count tomorrow, or, for that matter the next day, if your list might be nicely supplied at a convenience store.

Therefore, your humble Contributor is off to the merchants to review their wares and their whyfors.  Bulk clothespins come to mind; as do gourds.  But, let us not spoil any surprises.

On The Lighter Side

Gentle visitors, it's been one week since the day following Thanksgiving when your humble Contributor found himself giving thanks for the gift of Prometheus -- not his real name, of course, but, in fact, one of the poor relations-in-law of Ukrainian extraction from America's North Shore.   

He came bearing two gifts for your humble Contributor's unworthy self:  the first being a canister filled with the gaseous, combustible fruit of so many decaying fossils -- none other than CH₃CH₂CH₂CH₃; the second being an device delivering said gas in close proximity to the friction of flint on metal producing a primitive spark, whereupon a flame. 

How disposal all things have become; how sleazy in their connotations -- "flic my bic" -- saints preserve us!  But, here, in our hand is something of beauty, of utility, of permanence.  Being Italian, it is dark, elegant, curved; nicely weighted; resting comfortably in the palm;  eminently portable and flammable.

It is a flame that has already been brought to the bowl of the briar, and, one day soon, the business end of a blunt -- smoke signaled from the cured fronds of our Native American friends.  Did those earlier braves not push back from the table after that first Thanksgiving feast -- their scavenged plates revealing only small remnants of what might have been our true, national emblem -- and, then, bring fire to the leaf in a token of peace and plenty? 

And yet, how awfully do the present-day Puritans persecute the bright, curious herb.  Yes, we have heard their stern lectures about the affects on the body, but what of the profound affiliations to the soul?  Could Twain, Reagan, Tolkein, Lewis, Bach, Bacon, Crocket, Earp, Einstein, Eisenhower, Garbo, Gable, Grant, Joyce, Jung, Karloff, Kipling, MacArthur, Mancini, Melville, to name a few -- not to mention Dr. Seuss, Santa Claus, and every leprechaun you've ever come across -- could they all have been so wrong?

Put that in your pipe and puff it.   Here... let me get you a light.

What He Did This Summer III

August -- the rising of the Big Dog;  the embrace of the heat; the harbinger of good things.  Here's the summary.

• On or about the Feast of the Transfiguration, your humble Contributor undertook to lift weights whereby to transfigure his sagging, pusillanimous frame into one of great vigor, tone, and sinew.   Whereupon he pressed, rowed, curled, and lunged diligently until one witnessed the faintest hint of something slightly less than slouch and slack.


• The First Annual Links, Sticks, and Hops Conference of the Uninspired Co-Inditers.    The agenda consisted of drinking, smoking, cussing, and eating the packaged and charred innards of former beasts.   Many problems of philosophy presented and solved.  What joy.


• Mountain.  Lake.  Yes.  Props churning the dammed waters into a frothy wake.  Ski-edge carving the glassy surface.   Bobbers suddenly dancing in the ripples.  Floats and their human cargo slowly turning in the cove.  Lanterns illuminating the faux tiki bar.  Cards revealing themselves in the cricketed evening.  Yes -- we shall return.


• Another famous victory!  Blue Clinkers in the dock; your humble Contributor inside the bar; City Hall and it's Coffers set upon their heels -- enjoined and rejoined.  One for the books, no doubt; and, one Blue Clinkers will no doubt retell anon (in lieu of substantial fees).

Such was summer.

What He Did This Summer II

Where was I?  Ah, yes... August.  No other month is so aptly named.

Of course, you have your March, wherein we "march into spring".  But, somehow the martial theme doesn't quite work - viz. Mars: the god of War; the source of so many bellicose, interplanetary attacks; and, yes, the manufacturer of death-dealing chocolates.  Thus, we are left with a kind of militant verdancy -- unsatisfying really.

And, well okay, there is May -- it does suggest a fullness of possibilities, and, perhaps, carries a touch of French, non?  Mais, oui.  It is a "could be" month -- neither likely nor unlikely, neither probable nor improbable; either pleasing or disappointing, hard to tell; indeterminate; uncertain; on the whole, questionable.

But, August -- why, the very name invokes awe and reverence.   Now, it does so happen that your humble Contributor's birthday falls in this grand and magnificent month.  And, that may be a mere coincidence -- a view no doubt embraced by vile, godless infidels.   But, be assured, that if he were born under any other sign than than the great Lion, your humble Contributor (being an erstwhile Goat or Fish or Crab or whatever) would point to August as the pinnacle of the lunar year, uncluttered as it is by distracting holidays and other calendared goings-on.

No.  August is a time of taking leave, of sitting back, of meditating on the glories of creation, of savoring a Tupper's on the porch in an evening still warm and receiving, with just a hint of coolness.

But, there were specific and august events, and those must be related next.

What He Did This Summer

Gentle visitors, some of you may take the above title as an interrogatory, poised upon, if not actually posed by, the lips of anxious and numberless readers.   But, you would be giving your humble Contributor too much credit, for -- try as he might -- he remains ebonically incorrect.   Such that, if it were true, as that famous title was rephrased -- The Wind Done Gone -- he would not know.

Still, the question remains, and it is a fair one.  Summer is at an end today.  And, the Divine Baker has begun to add shortening to the daily bread, such that there is, paradoxically, more time and more darkness for your humble Contributor to work his obscure and enigmatic craft.  Therefore, an answer ought be given.

Let's see ....  the relative absence of posts during June and July generally corresponded the uneventfulness of those times.   The picture one conjures is dim and undifferentiated from day to day:  awaking bleary-eyed in the morn; trundling off to the workplace;  staring at the partly-disheveled piles on the desk; tidying and re-arranging the partly disheveled piles on the desk; deciphering the monotones on the phone; the radials melding with the simmering pavement, but for the occasional rotation; dragging in the front door in the eve, perspired and crumpled, jacket in hand; holding the spatula absently above the fires, upon which the remains of a once perfectly agreeable animal lay burning; on odd days, pairing the black, poly-synthetic socks with the faux leather sandals.

And, omigosh, nearly forgot:  the old, surfer-endorsed flip flops blew out.  New, keener, rafter-endorsed slaps were acquired.   But, it was to no end: such was the heat and ennui and footwear malfunctions.

But, then came August -- the coolest month.  [to be continued...]

A Walk In The Park

Gentle visitors, believe it or not, we sometimes receive correspondence from our faithful visitors -- whether real or imagined, we cannot say, for your humble Contributor has been off his medications for so long that he firmly believes the late Agnes Morehead follows him around during his waking hours advising him on ideal color combinations and opportune moments for a left turn (but, strangely, never a right).

Recently, we received the following missive, which would appear insulting, but only to the untrained eye.

Dear Remainderman:

On those occasions when you actually post, I am sometimes moved to tears.  Not by beauty of your prose or produndity of your words – nay, nay, three times nay – but, by your tragically turgid composition and painfully pedestrian thoughts.

Still, I would admit to a kind of morbid curiosity about the kind of life you lead from day to day – I mean, what kind of quotidian moribundity could produce such abysmal writing? Honest. It interests me.

A Faithful Visitor

In reply, allow us to relate just a commonplace of today.

Your humble Contributor often repairs to the park across the street -- a verdant glade, as it were -- to collect his thoughts that otherwise flit about like so few exotic  butterflies.   Here, he might sit on a bench by what was once a concrete pond.  Ten feet above once was a smaller pond, translating it's water in a terraced cascade to the larger pond below, and thence conveyed, by pump, above again.  Jutting into the larger pond was a covered deck -- a fine place to imbibe the stray negative ions.  Indeed, it was one of the early models of an "urban oasis".

The ponds were since drained, filled with mulch, and converted to a playground.  No matter, he can stroll up the path a little ways and find a shuffleboard court that has, for no apparent reason, fallen into desuetude.  Oh, for a crack at the puck with long sticks. 

Then, a little further, a bocce ball court -- also always silent, but whose delimited lawn is neatly cropped, almost crying out for the toss of the pallino. 

Then, a few more steps, and a small stone memorial, dedicated to Alyssa -- born in 1966, died in 1984 (just short of her 18th birthday) -- a "loyal friend to and employee of" the park.   How good it is that she is remembered.

Strange that, when Alyssa was born, the land that park encompasses was the home of the leader of the Nazi Party USA -- a gracious and generous man, by all accounts, except as to non-Aryans. 

Your humble Contributor crosses the street and stands in the parking lot of his small office building, at approximately the spot in 1967 where the "American Hitler" shifted  his big blue and white Chevy into reverse and was hit by a hail of bullets from the unseen assassin on the roof the beauty parlor across the way.  No memorial was erected.

Then, your humble Contributor climbs the stairs to his office and checks his messages.