L'aura del Campo

Mark turns 53. Mauthausen.

SPRING: 2 'Azamát (18 May)

          Mark's birthday          

Weather where I am: 67º and sunny this morning.

Weather where my friend Mark is in Buffalo: 58º and rainy.

Weather in Edmonton, Alberta: 60º

I thought I'd throw in Alberta as the Oilers won and play the Ducks in hockey. Maybe Nada and Tor can cheer for Anaheim? I'll cheer for the Sabres.

Story of Mark

Mark E. Neuner turns 53 today. He was born in 1953. There's something about that number . Need to remind my sister before she turns another year ancient this coming August!

Of course, I remember Mark when he was 13 and in 7th grade! I was 14, in 9th and had met his brother Michael in Summer School art class, where I managed to explode a bottle of green (or as Mark put it GLEEN) paint all over myself. That was the summer of '66 and the song on the radio was Tommy Roe's 'Sweet Pea' (I know a sweet dog by that name now). Other songs that "stuck" to me in high school were 'Alfie' and 'The Mighty Quinn'.

Anywho ... Mark was a fantastic guy. Very kind and when I spoke with him in 2002 (he was twice the size and I did not recognize him) he was still that same generous, quirky person. My regret was that we hadn't stayed in touch in the intervening years. Sometimes, though, those we love for a reason are only there for a season. The memory, thankfully, lingers for a lifetime.

IMAGES

Yellow iris, pink peony, the helleborus now all gone to seed. The warmth after a chilly week, the clouds, false hope of rain.

A shrike? The grey of wing, the yellow belly. The swoop of swifts or swallows. One calm black bird on the line.

We were being silly this morning. Celeste called me her shield and sword protecting her from Hubbard. Since 'celeste' is Spanish for sky blue (think of the word celestial) I perceive a poem hiding in there ... somewhere.

Last night Darren came up to Antonio and kissed the cross hung round his neck. Tonio then went and sat by the angel trumpets. I had this image of 'Anotonio del Rosario, sentado con las trompetas de los angeles'. And wrote some.

I'm listening to Dvorzak's New World Symphony, one of my father's favorites. I love it too, but it puts me in an odd mood. Too many memories when listening to certain classics I've absorbed since childhood.

Galinago sent me a response to a comment I made about his 98 year old grandmother. He wrote something about her delivering her eldest daughter in a ditch in December in a Model A! Considering she's in the Dakotas, that's just too many 'd's to be ignored. Somewhere in there there is a short 300 word story or a poem to be written.

I saw Ruth yesterday, which reminded me of Harry Potter and the seven horcruces, which lead to notes about him facing himself, Valdemort's 7th horcrux! And more ideas for a short-short something: '... and the mirror that show's what's meant-to-be shows nothing. And there's the nub of facing oneself ... the killer or lover that lurks within. Each a piece of a dangerous plan, young Potter's puzzle ...'

I told Hub this morning, that I'd like to tell some of the over-educated/under-experienced bureaucrats that they 'service the homeless community like a ram services a ewe'. But on second thought I should ask esperaza whether that would be an insult to her sheep. (Go read her blog entries ... please ... she's a sheep-farmer in France and has some interesting photos.)

Darren exclaimed (twice) this morning that 'that was a prostrate moment' before and after his trip to the toilet. Now, we all know Darren's not all there or here or anywhere in particular; but, poor Amy almost choked with laughter.

From the news: new word for me, "fissile", gotta love it. H.P Lovecraft here we come. Then there's the movement in Nepal to rein in the reigning king (63-87 in Kathmandu today, btw.) Of course, always sad news. Hans Horrevoets of The Netherlands, went overboard in the wind and waves of the Atlantic and drowned. He was 32. (Tried to call Gary this morning; no answer. He's 33. As is Gary in Oklahoma.) We, who are of an age, feel the loss when someone who could be our own blood dies young. At least Hans was sailing and didn't get run over by one of those mad Dutch cyclists ... but will someone write him a poem? I just ask.

I feel for those who have writer's block. I wish I could share some of my mania with you. Perhaps we both could benefit from the balance. I believe that each and every paragraph above could be turned into some piece of prose or poetry, and some will before the end of day.

There is a world out there waiting to be explained. And it is the writer's job to explain it. The scientist, the theologian, the intellectual, the farmer, may research or lecture on what is what; but the poet, writer, journalist must somehow find the words to communicate to a larger "Other" what needs to be taught. There is always another audience eager to learn.

Sketched yesterday from an article I read somewhere:

Mauthausen, April 20, 1942


I was number two-hundred-eighty.
I could've been spared a day or two,
but the commandant was greedy.
He had to impress Old Adolf;
it was his birthday, you see.

We were brought in one-by-one,
our names recorded, one shot
to the back of our heads, two
minutes apart. They were precise
if nothing else. It lasted ten
hours. Three hundred piled
in a heap, removed like
trash by the Twenty-first.

My number was two-eighty,
unlucky I guess. They needed
to know my name, the number
scrawled across my skin. The date
of my birth; today's date, my death. [163.130]

Note to myself: 3,318 views of my blog to date.

Thursday's Angst Report

Mood: okay
Energy level: medium
Anxiety Alert Level: YELLOW
Depression level: medium-low (4)
Trauma level: so-so (5)
Did I accomplish anything? Yes. Writing: yes; Blog: yes; Journal: pg 975; Reading: yes; Money: no; Home: no; Car: no; Career: appt. today, yay!; Personal: no; Food: yes; Clothing: no, but my shirt is clean!