sticky wicket

From the digital ether, I hear the cries of this blog, starved since September of meaningful entry.  I am haunted at night by the dragging chains of my words here, sometimes visited by the specter of what might yet be.

Where, you may ask, is the long-awaited entry illustrating my recent vacation to Germany?  What did I have to say about a week in California, where I stood on the beach with my feet awash in the cold Pacific surf and traversed the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time?  What words, if such feelings could be adequately expressed in words, can I offer concerning the fate of our beloved Longhorns this fall?  Other topics such as Thanksgiving, new relationships, future travels, sword fighting, discovery of an overlooked television gem, and encroaching cold weather are roaming through the backcountry of my mind, seeking a place to take root.

The last half of this year has yielded more changes in my life than I expected.  Dreams long held and oft deferred have been realized.  It has been a time of discovery.  The opportunity to explore a portion of the Old Country as a visitor from the New World was greatly fulfilling.

I have written about these things, although not at the level I would like.  I should add some polish and post it here to expand this narrative.  Such a thought strikes me as odd.  Like the ebb and flow of conversation, I feel that timing is important here.  Pause for too long before delivering a snappy line, it will feel flat and faded, and then you are left to lament a missed opportunity.  But the conversation moves on, always pursuing the horizon.

The compulsion to write here is not as frequent as it once was.  There are myriad reasons for this.  However, I should practice.

catching up

Readers who check this space with reasonable frequency will note the large gap between my last post and this.  It is not that I have nothing to say.  There are actually two posts sitting in the editing queue waiting for me to wrap them up and publish.  As time creeps along, however, they seem less relevant.

One spent time detailing the second night of swing dancing class.  It talked about my surprise at improvements made and how I was still enjoying it.  It probably wasn't that interesting, except as an illustration of what I've been doing with my time.  The other was about the approach of fall, and cooler weather.  As the words were coming together, however, our days returned to hot and our nights to humid.  It was nothing more than premature hopes manifest as prosaic wishing.

My vacation abroad is coming up, and I've gone from feeling comfortable that everything is congealing to anxiously piecing together the final details.  I am stunned by the things left undone and regret I now feel in a rush to complete.  Really, I just cannot wait to get there.  I also feel busier than I have in a long time, which is perhaps another symptom (in my mind still molded to the scholastic concept of semesters) of the lazy days of summer giving way to the productive months of fall and winter. I'm juggling things I feel like I haven't juggled in a while, and there's always the concern that one will get dropped.  It's not an issue if the fallen object is a ball, but an egg falling is another issue entirely.  It's thrilling, like overcoming one's acrophobia to jump off a cliff's edge.

Today is "Talk Like a Pirate Day".  Well, okay.  Despite my other dramatic talents, I don't excel at assuming the pirate persona.  In the space between anticipated television premieres last night, my friends and I found little to fill the time.  Because of this, we found ourselves 'hooked' by a show where families are temporarily rearranged.  In last night's instance, one family was immured within the stereotypical pirate life.  While I'll admit they appeared to be a fun-loving people, it seemed mostly an excuse to ignore reality and responsibility.  I was interested in this backstage portrait of life lived in character.  I've been to things like Medieval Times or Scarborough Faire, festivals celebrating [an interpretation of] courtly culture.  Watching these "pirates" onscreen, I was struck by the parallels to those whose profession is the depiction of knights and nobles, or portrayals of minstrels, smiths, and peasants.  The two are virtually the same, with one land-locked and the other in eye-patches.  I think the thing I find most interesting is the speck of history hidden underneath the layers of caricature and make-believe.  It's also sociologically fascinating.  What in one's nature or upbringing causes one to shift from the enjoyment of something for a few hours to embedding it in one's character?  Why do certain traits of personality dim and others scintillate?  Is it something that just happens, or is there intentionality?

We may never know.

burnt orange

The Bee Gees asked, "How can you mend a broken heart?"  Waking from the daze that was Saturday night's OSU vs. Texas matchup, I'm asking the same question.

The hype could not have been larger.  I watched as tailgaters arrived downtown on Wednesday afternoon.  I witnessed the build through Friday evening, a crescendo of excitement.  We talked about Texas strengths and Ohio weaknesses, about both the teams and the states.  We read team analyses, predictions, statistics, opinions of various natures with zeal, not wanting to miss a word.  While many colleges leave you with only four years, being a Longhorn is a life-long vocation.  Supporting the team and traditions, the wearing of orange, and the enthusiastic shouts of Texas Fight! makes one aware that winning the day is not an individual effort, but is rather a culmination of energy and enthusiasm and community.  It's this last that makes it so special.  It is the community of which we are a part that is the most enduring, transcendent thing.

And I suppose therein lies the answer.  My grandfather was a world-class checkers player, or at least this was my impression at ten.  I would approach each game confident that my abilities were up to the task at hand, always thinking that this was my moment to win the board.  Each time, the game would end in his favor.  I don't think I ever came close to winning.  After losing several games in a row, he lifted my sullen face and told me it was no shame to lose to a better player.  Those words didn't help me then, and I'm not sure they're ever a good salve.  However, there is a truth to it.  We lost Saturday to a better player, to a team that was dominant, to a team considered best.  We didn't play our best game, but there was tenacity and spirit and...community.  How can there be shame in that?

I experienced the whole thing with my best friends, people with whom I've been blessed to share previous victories and the narrative of life.  Paul gives this exhortation in Romans 12:15: "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn."  Each one of us watched with a passion for our team, and we each hurt when the outcome was not favorable.  Yet, we will watch with equal fervor next time, expecting that improvements made and lessons learned will help us win the day.

Hook 'Em Horns!

swing

...or "how I learned to stop worrying and love the dance"

There was a shift in how I live my life Tuesday night as I began my first formal dance class. I am no stranger to dance lessons. A high school girlfriend took it upon herself to teach me the waltz and a basic two-step. I was an amenable pupil, if not necessarily enthusiastic. I have relied on that small bit of knowledge and my keen skills of observation to get to this point. It wasn't much of a leap to recognize the need for professional help.

My friend CJ (formerly referred to as A. on these pages), first proposed the idea back in July. Our group of friends has been frequenting a dance hall famous for its two-stepping tunes, and it was after one of these outings the idea of a more formal dance environment arose. I should be clear that I can take no credit for the germ of the idea. Swing seemed a fun complement and one of those things it might be cool to know. My immediate response was yes. Yes, as in it sounds like fun, and I just may go along if the idea holds for another few weeks. Yes, I'll think about it. Yes, let's see if you're serious enough to ask me again.

When I agreed, I did mean it. My only real reservation was the fact that there is a wealth of available partners far less frustrating and more fun than me. In truth, there are probably very few who are more fun than me, but sometimes it seems otherwise. We arrived at our class and found 22 others, evenly split guys and girls, who were eager to learn. A few minutes of wandering around, meeting a few new faces passed while we waited for the instructor. Once he arrived, he split us up into lines, guys on one side and girls on the other. The ubiquitous middle school dance image flashed through my mind. This is when I realized something that makes a tremendous amount of sense while thinking through the process, but at the time caused the first real instance of anxiety I had about the situation. We were not going to be dancing exclusively with our chosen partners, but rather would struggle with new steps, missteps, and incessant errors with total strangers. Something in my head exclaimed, "That's not in our comfort zone!". I ignored that something, and proceeded with the fun.

Once we'd covered the basic step, Madison was the first one with whom I tried out what we'd learned. A minute or two went by and we switched partners. Tasha was next, then Natalie, then Christine. A second or two to exchange names, then form up, then music, then dancing. In another two mintues, one was gone and another had come. In the interim was concentration, rhythm (or lack of it in my case), laughter, apology, instruction, encouragement, intensity, surprise, and movement.

In a couple weeks, we're supposed to take our new skills into the real world. I suppose, as with so many other things, this is where the real test lies. Regardless, this is out of the ordinary for me, and even though I didn't push for it, it is still a swing toward the "new" I've expressed in recent posts. I expect that there will be more of this to come, and I will try to keep you posted.

seventh month

If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day. -E.B. White, writer (1899-1985)

I'm always a little reluctant when it comes time for the first post of the new month.  We are several days now into September.  Does it feel like September to you?  I was thinking about a funny encounter between friends earlier today, and realized that it had taken place in March.  Of 2005.  Approximately 540 days have elapsed since that moment, and yet it doesn't seem that distant.

Time passes so quickly.  It will get done tomorrow, I say.  If I wait a day or two more before taking that risk or undertaking that project or making that decision, what will it matter?  I will be that much more informed, and more ready.  After all this time, one would think that I have learned that being ready for something isn't the most important thing, and often isn't even possible.  Old habits are hard to kill, and I still don't like getting hurt.  To delay the inevitable is a constant temptation.  Some are at war with time from the moment of the first mature thought.  So many battles lost, too few won.

Another holiday has faded to black, and a weekend that looked imposing or challenging from the front view appears delightful as I watch it recede.  I am glad of the experience, nostalgic for the moments I would like to have held for just a little while longer.  I should write more about this.

These words of E.B. White touch something in me, which is what compels me to share this quote.  There is a struggle, especially in me, to discover whether it is best to take action or to allow the flow of the river to determine my course.  The right answer is often in a grey zone, blurred by historical context and analytic reasoning.  It can also be a chicken/egg thing.  Which comes first, the improvement of the world or the enjoyment thereof?

Until recently, I was still working from a five-year plan (loosely defined) conceived during my final years of college.  I had arranged some items as successors to one particular dependency, unattained to date.  I'm thinking that what comes after will be arranged with a little more wisdom.

And I've set aside the last few months of this year for that purpose.  Seeking, questioning, expressing doubts and fears; these have been life-long talents.  Like a director calling to his actors, I seem to be saying, "I want it bigger, more pronounced. There should be more, more, more!"  It's an exploration, perhaps even an adventure.

il pleut

Thunder roars overhead at the time of this writing.  Peering out my window at the storm clouds this morning, I was struck by how unfamiliar they seemed.  We have passed through many weeks of extreme heat, skies swept perpetually clear of obtrusive clouds.  This morning brings change, a reprieve.  I am thankful.

Students are returning to classes, and August is about to pass away.  This has caused many to lament the passing of summer.  Summer will remain a little while yet, but its days are numbered.  I will wait patiently, and bid it adieu at the proper time.

And, when finally released from summer's grip, which held us like a prison inside our homes and offices allowing only for sweet moments by the pool, I will beckon to all to witness fall's entrance.  We will camp and hike, stand out in the rain and let the cool drops kiss our foreheads.

It is a wonderful thought.  I wonder if I'm alone in this feeling.  The shift of seasons holds the portent of deeper change.  It is a feeling surrounded by celebration and ritual preceding recorded human history.  Yet, in this modern world, is this something that still touches the conscious mind?  It touches mine.  Perhaps it is the bequest of a thousand years of ancestral expectation, but I await change.

deferred

So many interesting things going on. I wish I was writing more about them. Time slips so easily away from me. A moment comes, is used, then wanders quietly away.

This will be a busy week. September is coming, and I hope with it cooler days.

tumult

My mind is split into seventeen hundred pieces right now.  I want to change an aspect of my life, but really have no sense about how to execute that change.  My mind is spinning off questions at an accelerated rate, and many of them cannot be satisfactorily answered by my limited experience, especially in areas in which I am not confident in my intuition.  This necessitates a third party, which is always a good idea when concepts are too personal to be considered objectively.  But to whom should these questions be posed?  With whom have I established trust that might also have authority, wisdom, and discernment?

I am weary of attempting discussion through the vagaries of abstract thought.  The freedom of expression through concrete details and clear concept is something I greatly desire.  Over the course of my life, I've attributed value to expressing personal information through a series of logical gates.  A thought transferred through this process arrives stripped of personally identifiable information.  My hope is that it retains sufficient information to be of analytical value in the outside world.  It is not only that I don't want to expend effort in this instance, but much more so that it would destroy even the purpose for expression.

It is not lost on me that most would read this and say, "Out with it, man!  Life is too short for such silliness."  It is a stance against which I have increasingly little defense.  Regardless, I seek a clear mind.  Before my arrival in the harbor of restive thought, however, I must devise a course across an unknown sea.  It is my hope that I will soon receive guidance not in the creation of this course, but for the method by which such can be developed.

hot water after all

I got in the shower Thursday morning, but the water never warmed up.  It was refreshing, but slightly uncomfortable at the beginning.  It has been oppressively hot of late, and I enjoy anything that is the opposite of that.  Rather than thinking there was something wrong with the water heater, I simply assumed it was an inability on my part to correctly set the temperature at the faucet.  I think the hot/cold indicator is inverted or is simply counter-intuitive.  Either way, it is difficult (especially in the morning) to remember which way it should be set.

I switched to my other shower Friday morning, and was treated to a similar scenario.  Warm water never flowed from the faucet.  The valve was cranked all the way to the left, and turning it right only released colder water.  Chilled, I continued and became resigned to the fact maintenance was required.

I was going to call this morning, and hope that the situation would be resolved before hot water was needed again.  Before showering this morning, I turned on the sink faucet, almost on a whim as I didn't really expect the situation could correct itself.  However, I was nearly scalded (as if by molten water) when I tested with my fingers.

It would seem I took cold showers over four days for no good reason, but I am thankful that I did not immediately make a maintenance request, as I would have appeared somewhat foolish.  Another tick for the procrastination column.

trust me

When relaxing in Luckenbach with good friends, it's understandable that one's brain might misfire during intellectual recall.  In Luckenbach, anything referred to as intellectual is generally met with a blank stare and a head quickly turned back to the guitar pickers.

Between duels of the melodion and washtub bass players, what can only be described as a cowboy poet took the floor.  He entertained the crowd with stories of the West, work, and life experience set to verse.  I quipped to a nearby friend that since the crowd so adored his poetic stylings, I should take the stage and recite a few lines of Donne.  It was a fateful note of sarcasm.  My friend did not know the name.  I assured her she did and threw out a familiar line: "Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."  The shadows of confusion were washed from her face by the sweeping light of understanding, and she confirmed recognition.  In that instant, recognition burned in my mind like a thousand suns and I cringed before its brilliance.  My dear reader will feel a measure of this humiliation, for you surely understand my error.  John Donne never wrote that line.

In fact, the line is "And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee."  It's a beautiful poem discussing the interconnectedness of life, how one man's actions can affect another man.  This verse opens and serves as inspiration for Hemingway's classic For Whom the Bell Tolls, an amazing work with the Spanish Civil War as a backdrop.

I immediately attempted a correction, but believe it fell on deaf ears.  It sounds similar anyway, right?  Except it's not right, and I'm troubled by it.  Admittedly, I am troubled less by perpetuating the corruption of Donne's line than I am about how the error reflects on others' perception of my intelligence.  What if my friend, or another within earshot, has opportunity someday to recite this line to another?  If this future audience recognizes the error and scoffs or in turn recites it again, I am responsible.  I am reminded of a Biblical exhortation: "Not many of you should presume to be teachers, my brothers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly." James 3:1

This reminds me of another incident, similar in nature.  While dining with a group of friends, someone was describing a situation from high school and looking for a particular word to portray an individual's vituperative nature.  I offered 'mollify', which was in a race to the vocal chords with 'vilify', the more appropriate term.  I knew I was wrong then, but not quite so immediately as with this more recent incident, and I never made a correction.  The great fear that at times awakens me in the middle of the night is that this individual continues to use the term 'mollify' in a completely inappropriate manner.

*sigh*

tea epiphany

I just made a pot of hot water for tea. What an excellent idea! I probably won't have one this good for a few days.

Water by itself is not enough to calm a scratchy throat; once the sip is gone, any relief subsides. Hot tea does wonders. It soothes not only physical woes but also calms your mind. I feel much better.

Here's a volleyball email I sent in April 2004 that talks about tea:

Friends:

Most of you know that, ordinarily, I am a coffee-drinker; some might even say connoisseur. I expend much effort in preparing coffee when its purpose is more than to warm and invigorate: fresh and darkly roasted beans home ground to just the right grain and carefully measured; pure water; a dash of love. Yet, when I'm feeling ill or the day is dreary and cold, it is to a steaming cup of tea I turn. Specifically, the most soothing to me is Earl Grey with a little honey. Tea drinkers are special, you see, for they possess millennia old wisdom, and are aware that tea is more than a simple beverage. Many teas are imbued with properties, some esoteric and others known, that smooth the crashing waters of a stressed mind into a still clear pool of deep and productive thought and restore to the body its sense of purpose.

I'm sure most of you are thinking how like Volleyball tea is. It was my thought as well. At 7 tonight, we will drink deeply of this powerful elixir called Volleyball. Join us at Greystone, won't you? Bring a friend! Directions follow.

under the weather

Interesting phrase, isn't it?  It can describe so many things; sickness, depression, injuries, on up to finding oneself under an actual cloud.  What I especially love about phrases like this is that it inherently indicates that there are times when one isn't under the weather.  When clouds crowd the sky and rain is pouring down (even metaphorically), we consider this 'weather'.  Skies absent clouds filled with halcyon brilliance is not weather.  It's a fallacy not necessarily of logic, but certainly of our collective idiom.

Regardless, I am sick.  I'm not bedridden or in severe discomfort.  It is really just mild discomfort manifested as a scratchy throat and the impending threat of sinus congestion.  I haven't been ill in a while, but this round reminds me of how annoying it is.  I can still go through my day and take care of standard activities, but there's a constant reminder that something isn't quite right.  Fatigue settles in a little too easily and my patience erodes more quickly.

It's also hot; a phenomenon unusually common throughout the country this season.  I don't like heat.  I like to be cool, dry and comfortable.  Cool, wet and comfortable are also okay, if you're in a pool or something.  Heat tends to aggravate me, and exacerbates not feeling well.

That's enough complaining for now, I guess.  I hope everyone is having a great day.

the entertainer

I've noticed a trend here.  Granted the representative sample is relatively small, but I think it presents an interesting story.

It seems there is a inverse relationship with the length of an individual post to the number of comments made concerning it.  This is neither a request for additional input nor an indication that I write expecting feedback.  It is mostly an observation.

My ability at oratorical storytelling is not what I would like.  At times I entertain myself with the fantasy that I'm one of those people around whom others gather with intense interest, expecting to be enthralled by tales of piquant humor and endure moments of deadly suspense.  Sadly, in real life, I offer at best only a pale shade of those things.  I leave out important detail, meander back and forth through chronological sequence, and draw from a somewhat shallow well of experience.

Yet, once upon a time, I was paid for my services as a storyteller.  Ghost stories.  For a Halloween party.  Entertaining a group of ten-year-olds for two hours is a feather in my narrative cap I wear quite proudly.  It should make no difference that I manufactured not one story, and merely studied a few ghost story books I found in the library.

You should never give up on your fantasies, as it might in an unexpected way enter reality, if only briefly.

one post begets another

I awoke in the pre-dawn hours uncomfortable. My neck was wet with perspiration against my pillow. The air was hot and stuffy, even though I could hear the air conditioner running. However, my ears noted a difference. A check of the thermostat confirmed my suspicions; the temperature was four degrees above normal. The air blowing out of the vent was warm, lacking the satisfying chill of a functioning A/C. The thought of going through the weekend in a hot apartment did not appeal to me, and I spent the remaining hours before departing for work doing various chores and contemplating where I might spend time should a lengthy repair be necessary.

How weak am I in this modern age that the thought of spending a day or two without comfortable climate control causes me to shudder?

I spent Tuesday night at the oldest continuously operating dance hall in Texas. Gruene Hall, located forty-five minutes south of Austin along the Guadalupe River, is a truly unique place. Rather than letting time pass it by, Gruene ignores that the passing of time exists at all. The dance hall has been there 130 years, and little has changed. The patrons are the same, though their clothes have changed. The music has changed, but not as much as we might think. Air conditioning hasn't been invented yet; only fans and a breeze crossing through the open windows offer relief from the heat, which is only noticeable once one leaves the dance floor. One is left to deal with it in the same way Texans have dealt with it all along: grab a cold beer and walk outside to pitch a horseshoe or two.

The great lesson is that it takes very little to fully enjoy life. Friends, good music, a spin around the dance floor...a beer. Such things have always been and will continue.

good times

To a Texan, which is the bigger problem: more chips than queso OR more queso than chips? I'll admit this question is a bit tricky. Think about it; I'll reveal my response at the bottom of the post.

I write this following one of the best weekends ever. We got to celebrate S.'s birthday on Friday, spend some quality time at the lake on Saturday, spend some quality time at the pool, and spend some quality time with BBQ. And, I only had to put in eight hours at the office. I woke up yesterday morning, almost unable to move, such was the intensity of Saturday's swimming and volleyball playing.

I am blessed with incredible friends, who for reasons passing understanding choose to allow me in their presence. My friend A. made for me perhaps the best coffee of my life yesterday evening. Sure, it followed a satisfying meal of brisket and an afternoon of watersport, so there is an intrinsic psychological factor. However, this should not detract from the quality of the beverage itself, which had a rich, dark and deep flavor absent any trace of bitterness, infused with properties to soothe both body and soul. It was A.'s best effort to date, and a memory that is a bright star against a backdrop of faded constellations.

As a bonus, the work week began well. A co-worker, famous for her queso, brought in a batch to share. Nothing like starting off your Monday with some chips and queso. Which brings us back to the original question.

Neither is a problem. If you run out of queso, you go back to the salsa. If you run out of chips, it's time to break out the spoon.

a voice in the night

It's the middle of the night, I'm awake and alone. This is not an unprecedented event, for I've experienced this particular circumstance many times. This is the fifth draft of the first two sentences, rewritten to their present form to eliminate the potential misconception I write in metaphor.

The cause for my current nocturnal consciousness is a work project, requiring me to burn some "midnight oil" in the interest of our business. The precise reasons why this is necessary are buried in the particular politics of my office and a definite commitment to our customers. This is not readily understood by others in my field, nor often by me. I don't really mind it and at certain times (even this one), it caters to my primal nature. Still, it can be a pain.

There are certain drawbacks, and the one on which my mind now centers is the isolation I feel at this hour. This is not a despairing isolation, but it is admittedly lonely. I have to be up and alert so that I do not meet the challenges of my tasks with a dull mind, but there are long periods of down time to get through. In order to get through those and return to a task ready and able, I must find some way of occupying my mind. For example, I'm writing this entry. However, I'd rather be talking to someone, kept in company, and have a source of good cheer. It's quiet, for the world (that in immediate vicinity and only mostly) sleeps.

How interesting it would be to have a good friend in Asia, whom I could call and chat with when the hours become small.

There are times when one purposefully seeks isolation; times of meditation. Camping on a hilltop, early morning car trip departures, a midnight hike through a well-known wood. There is something especially oppressive, however, about recognizing isolation in an urban area. I live in an apartment; there are people above and below me, perhaps feet away through my wall. Yet, I know them no more than by their passing glance as we leave for work in the morning or are out of doors for some other reason. All these souls, with independent thoughts and desires, experiences, talents and skills, and unique personalities living in such close proximity without knowledge of one another. It is thus an extraordinarily poignant thing to be alone in the midst of so much life.

What is it about the day that deafens my desire to reach out, and about night that this desire is amplified? Would it be different were I not single? Perhaps. Regardless, such occasions as these will arise.

Fortunately, my night ends earlier than I anticipated. I am about ninety minutes ahead of schedule, and could have added about sixty to that had I been more attentive in a few areas. I hope this will be a great Saturday for you. As for me, there stand only a few hours sleep between now and the lake.

linguistic hunger

Some people awake on Monday with a craving for coffee, an apple fritter, or perhaps a run through the park.  More often this craving may be experienced as an intense desire to return to one's pillow, and on many occasions I have satisfied such a desire.

This morning, I awoke with a different craving: the German language.  I realize this is not an oft expressed desire, and perhaps it occurs only rarely in the wild.  German is on my mind a lot lately.  Some time the previous weekend was spent in an impromptu German conversation with a friend as we prepared to dine at a German restaurant.  I liberally use the word conversation, as I employed more listening than speaking skills.  I studied German in high school under a wonderful and colorful instructor for whom I have great respect.  In college, my official minor was German.  Indeed, one of my college instructors attempted to persuade me to enroll in the German graduate program.  It is therefore shameful that my facility with the language has atrophied.

Of course, the primary reason for my renewed fascination with the language is an upcoming fall trip to Germany.  I suppose one would define the trip as a vacation, but I've been thinking of it more as a research expedition.  This should not, however, obscure the enjoyment of it.  I spent a good deal of time this weekend planning this trip and finalizing some details.  There is still quite a bit to do, but I'm on the downhill slide.  I've been reading guidebooks, searching internet sites, refreshing my history, and seeking out others with association to Germany.

An unfortunate casualty has been my knowledge of French, acquired from three semesters of college electives.  Friday was Bastille Day, and I had been looking forward to the now annual French email exchange with my friend S.  Both of us had busy schedules, so it was a short exchange.  Because of that, it carried over to the next day and intensified when S. discovered an old French phrase book.  I struggled to make a response, but could do little to communicate.  My knowledge of French is shuttered away behind the Deutsch mode of my brain.

From what source could I begin to sate this Monday morning hunger for die große Sprache?  I started out with news broadcasts, but then inspiration struck.  Podcasts.  There surely must be German podcasts.  Indeed there are; it is an incredibly popular medium in Germany.  I've found two very interesting series.  Conversational, friendly German.  I think this will do nicely.

Tchüß!

vendredi

Friday, and all the world has slowed to a crawl.  I know not whether I am ready for the week to end or for the weekend to get underway.  Regardless, the end of my workday approaches, and my smile broadens.

Although, according to a co-worker, if you get lost in the woods, all you have to do is go back to where you knew where you were.  This is sage advice.

More of my day than I had planned has been spent talking to the above co-worker about her upcoming wedding.  The wedding date was influenced by my trip to Germany, so I've already had significant input.

I just got an email letting me know that my place of employment is granting all staff a free pedometer.  That's exciting!

progress

I recently purchased a new bottle of chocolate syrup.  As I took it out of the bag upon arriving home, I noticed the old nozzle had been replaced by a flip top lid.  Initial testing reveals this is a marked improvement over the long standard pop-up spout with the separate lid, which would inevitably become lost or be layered with chocolate residue.  While somewhat nostalgic over the "old way", I am eager to embrace progress here.  Way to go, chocolate syrup bottle manufacturer!

changes

I have enabled comments for the world at large. No longer are you required to blog to comment on this blog. I hope all five of my readers consider this good news.