365 Ways With Words

Taking Stock

A little over two and a half years ago I handed in my notice. It was not too difficult a decision. I had been working as a teacher in one of Hong Kong's most prestigious schools for 12 years and decided that rather than end my days at the chalkface, I would quit by the summer and try pastures new. Although I wanted to write, and blogged often, quite what would happen next was as mysterious to me as I'm sure it was to everybody who asked.

Teaching was a stressful job. I liked it  – the students were pleasant, but their constant drive for high exam grades made them a demanding lot. In addition, the ever-encroaching culture of box-ticking, meetings, target-setting and hoop-jumping changed the ethos of the school I had joined in 1999 from that of colour and human interest to that of an artificial target factory. The changes did not have the desired effect of endless improvements in grades – quite the reverse. The students' 'careers' were as hard (sometimes harder) as their parents in paid employment. It became obvious to me that I did not share the values of a school culture that perceived excellence in children only in terms of a comparative international scale of International Baccalaureate grades. For the few that attained these targets all would be well; the majority rest would forever remain failures.

And so the end of term arrived. There were farewells and goodbye speeches in which I presented a positive outlook on an unknown future. Was it the full-stop of my career, or the beginning of something new? Could I cut it as a writer? How would I know success if I saw it?

At that time my wife was completing her PhD. I was happy to sit pretty for the hot and humid summer months, but by September we'd got itchy feet. A one-way flight to Bangkok started a month of travel in Asia. I constantly blogged (Daily in Asia) as we went. From Bangkok we took the train to Trang, a minibus to Satun and a boat journey on flat calm waters to Ko Lipe. Summer is a tricky time in the Andaman Sea, and the weather was unpredictable. Thus far it felt like a holiday. The onward trip to Langkawi was potentially catastrophic – an over-packed boat driven blind across lightning-struck green waters made prayers rise faster than stocks in Apple before a product release. Langkawi, the 'Jewel of Kedah' was wet –it being the rainy season– but staying in the old colonial era houses at the Temple Tree At Bon made up for it. It was only on the ferry from there to Georgetown, complete with hundreds of holidaying Saudis, that the journeying finally felt like 'travel' and not 'trip'. Indeed, of all places in the mystic and incense-laden orient, Penang and Georgetown felt the most enjoyable: beautiful Chinese merchant houses, excellent Tamil curries, more than a smattering of colonial monuments and history and views to die for from atop the funicular-railway ascended Penang Hill, this place felt like it could be 'home', that elusive something we all search for. The train trip up to Ipoh and from there to the wonderful Cameron Highlands also had its moments, chiefly being the approving ghostly presence of long-past relatives when staying in the mock-tudor, mock-British delightful nonsense that is The Old Smokehouse. From there to Kuala Lumpur and on to Singapore felt like a progressive return to normality, and indeed we cut our travel onwards to Indonesia short for a return to HK and an unsuccessful interview. The daily blogging sewed a seed that came to fruition in this very vehicle, of which this is the penultimate entry.

There remained the vexing question of where to go? It was decided that jobs must come first. So, we waited for something to turn up, and by December two had appeared – Limerick and Olomouc. We had to see both places. The wintry-wet drive through England, Wales and Ireland was enjoyable enough, but within days we had flown to the dry and cold Czech Republic. Had we found what we were looking for? Olomouc was a wintry and wonderful city with picturesque buildings and friendly locals. Limerick turned out to be unsuccessful, and on advice from a friend ("a quarter the rainfall of Ireland") we settled on Moravia. I would remain in a supportive role, and keep on with the writing until something worked out.

By the end of January we were prepared to move countries, but were we ready to move minds? It quickly transpired that doing anything in the Czech Republic is a challenge, not least the finding of an apartment where three dogs and a cat would be welcomed. Such a thing, it transpired, was impossible. So we bought. It meant an investment of nearly all our cash and additional money to finish the transformation of kitchen and bathroom, but six months on it was done. I was already on to a new local blog Anglicky in Olomouc, but knew it was high time to focus a little more on the writing – I had already started on a few books whilst in Hong Kong and found short stories engaging. I worked steadily on them, but knew my literary ability lacked something... experience and depth. I reasoned I could get this by writing –forcing myself to work– each and every day. I began 365 Ways With Words in the belief that a little more of what I fancied would do me good. It would be a daily struggle; at times harder than any other task I'd set myself.

Whilst the new job allowed for enjoyable travel to conferences across Europe and beyond, and all seemed well and good, there was trouble ahead. Here comes the tough part: we had a falling out. Separated by a 3-month stint in Sweden, we found our courses going in separate directions. It fell to me to be an idiot and think things worse than they actually were. And instead of patching things up, we argued – fiercely. I was to blame.

And so we separated. In my quest for new beginnings I had not actively sought an end to everything from before. But life has a funny habit of turning things around and of forcing pressing items that require attention onto the top of the desktop pile. By August, I came to the realisation that the little money that I could earn from teaching English conversation was spread all-too thin on the ground to support myself, three dogs and a cat. I was nowhere near completion of a book on travel writing and the other project, 10 Beers With Czechs – a collection of interviews with Czechs 25 years on from the Velvet Revolution, needed more time. So I had to get a job, and got one working in Olomouc's one and only English international school. Ostensibly, it allows for time in the afternoon and evening to devote to writing: in reality, there is barely enough for more than a few glib changes in overlooking a marginal point in a paragraph.

The future, therefore, is a little less glamorous and exciting than had been imagined. I will continue to write, albeit with a steadier focus on quality rather than on mere output, and my attentions will be on completion of the works already begun. But unlike the stretched life lived in Hong Kong, life here in Olomouc feels more like the real world, where sincere people strive to earn enough cash to pay the bills and have a little left over for a beer or two with friends. Czechs read a lot (it's cheap and enjoyable) and enjoy rock and drinking in parks. On a side note, and whilst I am a long way from speaking the lingo, it's interesting to see how people here put meaning and emphasis together in a form unconnected with western latin or germanic languages.

So here I am; back to teaching (and writing). It's not quite full-circle, because the experience of writing over the past two years has taught me much – about the literary craft, about moving and changing and about the priorities of life, albeit how not to do things. And as this project draws to a close, a little later than exactly a year, and tomorrow's is the last entry of 365, so another task is already set: to complete those books and short stories for publication. This has been a rather personal entry in what is in reality a very personal blog. Writers cannot fail to open up now and again, letting the world see the quivering wreck of humanity that is, in effect, within each of us. As Art is a jealous mistress, I will leave the last paraphrased word to Winston Churchill, who writted a few books from time to time:

“Writing a [daily blog for a year] is an adventure. To begin with it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public."

What on Earth's That? Oh, it's Nudle s Mákem..

It's lunchtime. The children are patiently waiting for their food, although that does not preclude them getting up, fidgeting, walking about, going to the toilet and generally chattering away as the food arrives. The lovely lady who serves the children arrives carrying cutlery and drinking glasses which a designated helper of the day hands out.

There is always soup. And the children are deft soup-eaters with little or no spillages. It must be genetic – Czechs love soup. So, the soup gets consumed, often with relish. There are no fussy eaters, thank God, like there might be in other classes in other countries. What is served is eaten. In delightful Oliver Twist moments, they regularly ask for more. Then bowls and spoons are stacked, a useful skill for 5-year olds.

And then the main meal arrives. Every day the plates are loaded with one local dish or another; meats and sauces and lots of mashed potato. The quality is generally good. At least, it's certainly better than I remember from my primary school days where each child prayed for chips, hideous mountains of lamb liver remained uneaten, boiled cabbage didn't leave the plate, and if there was no sloppy jelly and ice cream then the pink from the pink buns would be nibbled off.

But then the other day something unexpected turned up: pasta covered in something that looked like grey gravel. Some of the children eagerly anticipated this delicacy, whereas others turned disapproving eyes at the strange fayre – strange to me, that is. Some of them piped up that it was  nudle s mákem. None the wiser, I tasted this terrible-looking food. My face must have disclosed my feelings; they kindly explained that it is made from poppy seeds and sugar. Oooooh!!!...

So, now I am wiser to another aspect of Czech cuisine, albeit a slightly dubious one. Along with nudle s mákem (noodle), which was awful, there is also šulánky s mákem (potato gnocchi or dumplings). And then it gets into weird perverted territory using chocolate and all sorts. I suppose this dish will come around again, and it certainly provokes some interesting responses from Czechs who either love or hate it. School dinners round here are never dull.

At a Concert at St Maurice's

Before the image of Christ crucified, some with heads bowed, we are gathered in happy devotion — to entertainment. A brethren of deliciously unmoved bodies, perhaps all unhampered by prior yields to the cross, brought to the music, as moths to a lit candle. The magnificent altarpiece, a glittering spectacle of baroque majesty, serves  as a mere ornate focal point. Each image, altar and reliquary, intense donations of public reverence and prior devotion, now carry such little weight and affect such little impact, that the venue has little more than a restaurant's ambiance, and certainly not the numinous might of eternal mystery.

Maybe it's the dust, or the mundanity of a concert venue, or the unfamiliarity with the symbolic value of religious currency inherent with such a building — one that has remained upright and been in daily use for one thousand years — for the connection is a weak magnetism, a holiday sigh or a tourist's snap. The habituation of loonies who crawl on their bellies in silent thanks is not the place for honest, gentle and normal folks.

But then something happens: such feelings as these do not spring from supermarkets, banks or sports halls. The unfashionable term 'sanctity' has a hollow ring about it when 20 yards away the beer is poured beneath screens of footy bollocks, but perhaps that is what emerges when an hour or more is spent sitting in contemplation of a baroque altarpiece. The artists may rest in peace, the builders know that their job was well done, for it turned out that the music alone was not enough. Cold buildings with unforgiving pews obviously attract for quite other reasons than mere entertainment and comfort.

We come, we gather, we sit in silent attention, until waves of encored Elgar energy flow around and through us. It is a mystery, a shared experience we take, like our coats, from now into the future: blessed be the devoted, the moths, the candle lighter, the ignorant and the perplexed, the snoozer and the shopping list maker, for theirs is the shared Kingdom of Man, forever and ever, Amen.

It's Official — I'm Irish!

 

To get a job working with children these days it is essential to obtain official and legal clearance from the established authorities. In the light of dreadful abuses, it's not surprising that these checks are in place. So, as a newly-employed teacher in an international school here in the Czech Republic, it was essential to obtain my own specific clearance.

To do the police check round these here parts involves a trip not to the local nick, an obvious port of call you might presume, but to the Post Office. And that's where, as a foreign non-Czeck type, the problems may begin. For its as likely as the daily sunrise that no-one who works at a Czech Post Office speaks a single word of English, so to obtain this clearance therefore requires mastery of this language — easier said than done — or you find a suitable Czechite to weave their lingual magic.

It's then important to ensure everything goes smoothly, so it's a good idea to bring passports and proof of ID and all the rest. Except, of course, this is no guarantee that the information held on those documents actually makes it onto the required forms. Hence the delightful lady at the counter today took my British passport and on reading only the last word on the front cover took me to be an Irishman (United Kingdom & Northern Ireland, you see). So if there are difficulties in processing, I will merely shrug my newly-dubbed and proud Irish shoulders and go get a Guinness, like I do back in Chelmsford, that new town in the Irish Republic.

Josef Lada

The world of illustration is multifarious: there are as many styles as there are artists. What sorts the men (and women) from the boys (and girls) is a true and recognizable individualism. This individual style is therefore appreciated for what it is – an expression of the self, especially if it genuinely reflects what that artists sees with their own two eyes.

Thus is it with Josef Lada, Czech artist of the first half of the 20th century. His distinctive style is at once naïve and charming and also stylistically recognizable with the characteristic strong lines used in outline. A self-taught artist, he suffered from an accident in his youth that meant depth-perception became difficult. His art, because it does not try to emulate other syles, works precisely because of these qualities. A maverick young artist, he was unable to finish art school and by drawing for magazines and newspapers gained recognition as a cartoonist and illustrator.

He published children's books, but also provided illustrations for more popular and adult works, such as The Good Soldier Švejk, the lovable soldier who, along with other Czechs in the Austro-Hungarian empire during World War I, was fighting a war he didn't understand for a country about which he confessed no loyalty. An unfinished work, it nevertheless became a famous and hilarious anti-war dark comedy.

 

Lada kept faithful to his humour and his style even during World War II where as an officially banned artist he had to rely on income from selling his work to private buyers and collectors. His representations of a nostalgic rural life also allowed him to survive under the communist regime until his death in 1957. Some of his work can be seen here.

It is clear that Josef Lada was not only a loving patriot, but also a lover of people and loved drawing attention to their foibles and failings. His work shows a Czechoslovakia of the dim and distant past, but it is also possible to see humanity as it is.

 

He is still popularly recognised as an important and instantly-recognisable artist closely associated with all things Czech. To see his work is to identify the land and people: it isn't difficult to love this place. Those who who have lived here get sentimentally misty eyed in remembrance (as in the video above). Lada instinctively knew what lay at the heart of his country; perhaps more importantly, could articulate it through his work. Just as there was a childish delight in the way he portrayed life, so there is a childish delight to be enjoyed by viewing his work.

A Pub Where You Serve Your Own Beer

It would be fair to say that beer drinking everywhere is a popular activity, for Czechs drinking beer is a favourite national pastime. Czechs top the international league of beer drinkers. On average they drink 148.6 per capita per year (and that includes babies, prisoners and the tea-total!) and it's not hard to believe when one sees how they put it away.

It would be unfair to say that Czechs are alcoholics. Admittedly some do have poor alcohol management, but most appreciate that beer and alcohol in general is merely the oil in the engine of social intercourse, and that meeting and talking is really what it's all about.

In general, Czechs do not drink to get drunk, but they accept that it is at times inevitable; in much the same way that drivers do not drive in order to buy new tyres, but know that to own a car means to also account for new tyres. Czechs drink in the understanding that they'll sometimes (or regularly) have one- (or two-) too-many.

The pivnice (pron. 'piv-nees'), or pub, has become central to Czech culture over the years as more than a place to drink, but also to think and even say anything: before 1989 a good pub was a friendly social venue free from the shackles of communist state control.

The best pubs are the pivovars, essentially brewhouses where the beer is made and accompanied by food (or is it the other way around?). Czechs recognise quality beer when they taste it, and eagerly seek it out at these microbreweries.

But Czechs also drink tea. A čajovna is a tea room, but with a difference. Unlike it's rather stuffy British counterpart with bone china cups and doilies on the cake stand, a čajovna is more of a speakeasy, a place decked out in cushions under low-level lighting, where shoes are removed and the appley smoke of a hookah is shared. Czechs will while away whole afternoons in intimate conversation at such places, but essentially they hold the same purpose—to facilitate relaxed social exchange.

The writer is currently researching Czech beer drinking for an upcoming book on wider Czech culture, and as such has had to visit many-a pub and sample many a-brew. This onerous task has had its upside and many pleasant surprises have been met along the way. Colourful characters abound, their words and behaviour augmented by degree through consumption of their tipple. Of course, truly great beers have been sampled, at amazing locations, and wonderful evenings have been had. But some of the best surprises have been the pubs themselves. Such was the Mamut café in Brno.

Basically a cellar bar, the Mamut café is a large pub with a difference: the patrons pour the Pilsner Urquell themselves. This gimmick revolves around the taps being placed at the tables, and the drinkers deciding how many pints they want to pour. What adds a certain Czech panache to the occasion, is that the TV screens dotted around the cellar displayed the total volume of beer poured per table, making this activity an inter-table challenge! As may be expected, this popular pivnice is frequented by party groups, such as the bachelor/bachelorette party there last night.

This concept works well in principle, but there were a few problems, unclean taps being the most obvious. If a beer tap is not daily cleaned then it attracts the growth of bacteria making the beer sour and potentially poisonous. Such was the explosively emitted first pint. Essentially undrinkable, much of this first pour was drained into the tabletop drain under the tap. The second, the taps having the benefit of a flush, fared better.

It worked well as a gimmick, and the Mamut café is a must-visit on a beer tourist's itinerary, but for socially-minded Czechs it might be just too much. For one thing, it's not cheap at 78 Kč/€2.79 per litre (yes, that may be quite acceptable by international standards, but not in deepest darkest Moravia). Czechs also like to be served, particularly at table, and apart from delivering the glasses and taking a food order and payment, the waiter did little waiting.

So, a pub where you serve your own beer may not be to everyone's taste, but I had to admit it was fun!

Česnekový

                                        Heroic garlic, raw rasp on the tongue,

                                        The acrid acid metal burn beneath the palate

                                        Turn the polévka into nuclear fire

                                        Topinka into life-giving health food

                                        Bulb of power, shining protector of the blood

 

                                        Woven vampire destroyer

                                        In ice-ground-breaking breath

                                        Waves of klobasa mercilessly pound

                                        On unprotected facial extremities

                                        Until the unwilling initiate is inducted:

                                        Succumbing, believing, proselytizing

 

                                        Take, eat, this is my saviour

                                        From the bland, from the inadequate

                                        For as in the prayers of the doubtless

                                        A little goes a long way,

                                        But a lot is never enough

 

                                        Česnekový – garlic

                                        Polévka – soup

                                        Topinka – fried bread/toast

                                        Klobasa – sausage

The Towers of Olomouc

Hands up if you’ve been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Keep ‘em up if you’ve done the Burj Khalifah, the Shanghai Tower, Taipei 101, the Petronas Towers. And try to touch the ceiling if you’ve ascended to the lofty heights of the Hotel Flora and the Silo Tower. “Hotel What? Silo What?” I hear you ask…

Ah, had you but been in Olomouc yesterday, the 9^th of June, you would not have asked this. For yesterday was the first Olomouc s nadhledem. And just in case you are still none the wiser, perhaps this should also be explained.

Olomouc s nadhledem, Olomouc Easy, was the opportunity for the citizenry to get to know a little more about the city from some of the highest vantage points available. Brainchild of the non-profit local Hanácká hratva organization, the association of architects’ spokesperson Michal Giacintov said that the idea arose not only in order to reach out to people, but also so that they can awaken a deeper love for their own city, both adults and children.

The good weather certainly helped. Registration cards were available in the central square from where the aspiring towerers could walk to the six locations taking part in the event; the Silo Tower on Litovelská, the Church of Ss Cyril and Methodius in Hejčín, the BEA Centrum tower on třída Kosmonautů, and the three hotels – NH on Legionářská, Dům on Velkomoravská and Flora by the park on the unfortunately named Krapkova.

Initial estimations for the numbers of people wanting to ascend these local landmarks were in the hundreds. The Facebook page alone listed 613 as attending. By Saturday afternoon, thousands had taken part, each ascender taking with them their little white cards ready for the stamps that would prove their visit.

Late to the event, I only took in two: Hotel Flora and the Silo Tower. Hotel Flora is a fairly standard modern hotel catering for about 322. The view from the top floor, across the verdant treetops of the park, towards the historic town centre, is magnificent. Being the Czech Republic, this roomy asset has its own bar and enough window space to become the best club in town. Being Olomouc, this unique space is sadly underused. I know I’d jump to it for an opportunity to visit again.

At this point, the stamper of the passport/piece of card appeared. Dressed in colourful Hanačka costume, the traditional regional dress, the girl plopped the little stamp on my card. She gave such a polite smile and I was so taken with this pleasantry, that I am afraid I forgot to photograph the occasion. Someone else, however, was kind enough to (shakily) video the whole thing, and placed it on the Youtube below.

 

Olomouc is an ancient city that has been an administrative and religious centre in the region for one thousand years. The rooftops tell a good story, of inspired gothic Cathedrals, impressive domed Baroque churches, of grand seminaries, historic palaces and lucrative business blocks. Further out are the red and white striped chimneys that at first glance indicate pollution from industry, but also represent jobs and the necessity of paid work that keep the wheels of this town turning.

It all has a picture book quality; an almost surreally pleasant charm that is seeped in pretty houses, historic buildings and cobbled streets. But without good business and the rewards from labour, this place would be nothing more than a dainty prison.

One of the most interesting things about looking down your nose at people from a great height is the change of perspective. Glaring rooftops and sunny balconies overlook bright green June gardens, some of which contain azure pools. There is a tendency in all of us to snoop, and to snoop with Godlike abandon from beyond the object’s ken is the best snooping of all. It is unlikely that the dear lady with the big balcony will ever know exactly how many eyes fell upon her bikini’d form whilst she blithely read and caught up on her summer rays, but if she’d looked up she would have seen a veritable host of rooftop paparazzi checking her out!

The other perspective is to take in the social housing of this city by glimpsing the rows of ugly apartment blocks that grace the outer districts of this and practically every town between Prague and Moscow and beyond. Constructed during the communist era, theirs is not a world of nice gardens and private pools, but of popular Socialism where everyone gets something, even if it’s not very much.

Whether the popular event will be repeated in future years relies very much on the building’s owners. There was a certain amount of good will and voluntary cooperation, not only by the landlords but also on the part of those who acted as stewards to keep the hoi polloi in check.

There was a long queue at the Silo Tower, partly because of the genuine interest in this stylish refurbishment of an old grain store, and partly because the capacity for the lift was only 5 plus one operator. This meant a good long wait, too long for some, but with the natural thinning of those without patience it probably only took half an hour.

Once up, the view of this side of the city took in winged terraces of the Stadium Andrův, home of the lacklustre football team Sigma, and the decrepit and rusty slanted roof of the hockey stadium, home of the decidedly upbeat and top league squad HC Olomouc. At this vantage point it is clear that this city of 100,000 people nestles within the beautiful and fertile Moravian plain. The surrounding countryside is rich with crops and the hillsides covered in excellent woodland. It is a benign and healthy place to live.

Despite it being an unknown quantity, Olomouc s nadhledem was an unmitigated success. It did what was expected of it, and if the city authorities want to ride a wave of populism then they could do no better than to invest in this scheme in future years. And I could get out there and climb the rest…

Buying Semtex on the Train

There aren't many places in the world where you can openly buy Semtex, but there's enough of the stuff here in the glorious Czesky Republiky to blow up a train – even this, my train to Prague. Apparently, you just have to ask and they bring it to your seat!

For those of you not in the know, Semtex is one of the Czech Republic's great success stories. First made by Stanislav Brebera at the VCHZ Synthesia chemical plant in Pardubice, a town not very far from Prague, Semtex (pentaerythritol tetranitrate) was so-named after the suburb Semtin at which the explosive mixture was first made in 1964.

The infamous plastic explosive has a long connection with terrorism, partly because it was waterproof, retained its malleability at extremes of temperatures and could be hidden inside tubes of toothpaste and such like, and partly because it was so difficult to detect. It was used extensively in the Vietnam war and was imported by the ton into Gaddafi's Lybia. It is because of these admittedly negative associations, sales of Semtex have recently been strictly controlled by the government. So, no worries there then...

Semtex, the drink, however, is much more dangerous. Although it may not topple a government building if left to explode in the basement car park, it has a blast of caffeine, an explosion of massive sugaryness and enough taurine to... well, what exactly does anyone want with taurine? Apparently, the average omnivore requires just 58mg per day, although the little drink on this train has 400mg! So, according to online sources (read Wikipedia) this will be of benefit if I want to keep epileptic seizures away, improve my heart function and a whole host of other healthy things. All well and good, but perhaps I shouldn't have ordered the coffee on top – this train sure feels fast! And it's so hot! Why do I feel the need to go for a run?

My train careens through the soft early summer Bohemian landscape on its way to Prague, passing Pardubice and the Semtex factory. As the excitable effects of this heady sweet cocktail begin to subside, I can satisfactorily conclude that both kinds of Semtex are things probably best left to the experts. Until now I wasn't aware of any situation in which 'performance drinks' and high explosives could be safely mixed, or even that my taurine levels might require upping, but perhaps all the unhealthy beer I have been downing since my brave expedition into this beautiful land has dulled the senses. Pass another Semtex...

May Snow

It's Maytime and the weather is now fine – glorious full sun days that ought to be spent with pleasant company in the park, by the river, at the lido. Of course, most of the poor souls not in further education or enjoying self-employment cannot afford to drop the reins just to enjoy a spot of loitering in public places (unless they throw a 'sicky'). But for the lucky free ones, these days are so good that they really must be enjoyed to the full. Within the parks clusters of merry students have sprung up, each gathered around a guitarist, or some other attractor, a bottle or two of best Moravian red at their disposal. These will be the best days of their life, and should not be begrudged.

Elsewhere in the sun-baked fields and beside the muddy rivers grow the poplars and willows, the hallmarks of the European countryside. Their wispy seeds are taken by the wind and cast in sleety clouds across the landscape, lying like summer snow upon the grass, collecting in vast clumps as drifts. These soft forms – so light – take fairy flight, but find their wafted ways to clothes, hair and nose.

May snow, so far from season, falls like the broken heart, blown left and right by winds beyond its power. Filling the lows of the landscape, it clogs the simpering pathways for a time, but, who knows, perhaps after the deluge it will be gone.