That Mädchen in München

That Mädchen in München

Photo - Karlsplatz Stachus, Munich. Model: Monica Morton 

It was a simpler time. Interpersonally. And, surely, geopolitically. Many young Americans would think nothing to just pick up and go. Anywhere. The world was ours. No worries. No plans. Plans? Things would sort themselves nicely when we got there. Ah, youth!

So, true to my national character, I skipped heading off to college after middle school. Instead, a rail pass trip in Europe. How long a stay? We'll see. Then, the world was an open book. Only my own first few pages had been turned. 

I'm remembering her now. In Alte München. It was a late sunny morning and I was wandering about, aimless and free. Looking for adventure? Not really; as such. But, heck, a young man, fancy free ... adventure would find me.

And then, there she was. In Karlsplatz Stachus. Could've been a fashion model at that fountain, a statue of some water nymph come to life. Like young men will do — and, just like that, as they will do — I fell in love. Maybe not with her. But, the idea of her. Alas, try to make that distinction when you're young and your chemistry is fully stocked — and stoked. I know it's an overused expression; but, love is blind. Well, now in a more mature time in my life ... it can be [blind]; but, not necessarily.

Like Americans are reputed the world over, I took the plunge. Not in the fountain, silly. But, I might as well have. Wait and see.

Her name was Claire. So romantic. All springtime and fragrant flowers. Soft as a mountain breeze. And, as fresh. I won't reveal her surname, out of respect for her privacy. This is, if I hadn't mentioned it, a true story. As true as any story can be, that is. Whether, in fact, it is true; I'm not saying it is, or that it isn't. 

Besides, her family name was so archly Teutonic, to mention it even for sake of completeness would shatter the romantic spell she clearly had cast on me. You know, multi-syllabic, with lots of hard vowels and points of emphasis and guttural pronunciations. Let's just say ... Claire. "Von" something. So you should know this was one class act. Class was in her bloodline. As if I should have to say. Just look at her! That get up!

It's not that she was trying to cast a spell. But, there she was. There I was. Kismet.

So, to bring the story along for you ... I casually walked up and then, without a pause, I sidled next to her on the lip of that fountain. Like two young bashful kids we were. She knew I was interested. She might be too. But, girls in those simpler times didn't let on. How you then can say that it was "simpler", that's too complicated to figure. Just say she wasn't showing her hand. And, as I recall, sometimes when a girl is interested, she behaves just the opposite. I was too inexperienced to read the too obvious signal that a show of lack of interest is, in fact, a show of interest. But, like we now know in these woke times, better tread lightly. Sometime things are just how they look.

Ah, the mysterious feminine charm. It's built into them. Thankfully. She wasn't playing a game. Just being proper. Despite what her own chemistry might be brewing. Women seem to have a good portion more control in matters l'amour toujours.

I came out with the basic classic opening gambit. "Good morning, are you from around here?" "Yes," she said. But, in her native tongue: "Yawohl." Oh, the romance of the German language. So matter of fact. Then she said something that changed the mood, and furthered the romantic possibilities. "Du bist der mann meiner träume!" Before I could thumb through my German-English translation guide, she scooped me up without a warning, and we went off together tethered like two lovers. Looking back, it's hard to know if what she said was for real, or just sarcastic irony. 

Never mind. There I was, arm in arm, with the most beautiful girl in Munich. In the world, for all I knew. We were in a world of our own making. Like lovers all over, and all times.

But, wait! Lovers? Young men have rich fantasy lives, you know. But, girls in Europe don't necessarily have the same signals as those I knew back home. All's I knew for sure was that we were walking together, arm in arm. But, in a very real connected way. Unspoken. Comfortable.

It can be a special thing when a man and a woman don't share the same language. You have to rely on instinct. Gestures say a lot. Holding my arm so closely and softly as she did, that said all I wanted to know. We belonged together. Maybe not forever, but for now. Now! Potent with possibility. Mystery. 

After a while, just walking together as we did, having become so comfortable with one another, she spotted a café. Konditorei as they say thereabouts. Bakeshop in the front. You select something to nibble, get a strong cup of Coffee; then, go with your tray to the crowded back space to find a table. Never mind the crowd. And the din of conversations, and forks, and cups and saucers. We, as I said, were in our own world.

We sat there, enjoying our treats. Me looking deeply into her beautiful dark eyes. She, letting me take her in, wordlessly. As you can tell, I was in love. After who knows how long, she stood up. Gesturing for me to stay seated. She bestowed the softest kiss on my cheek. And, with a finger raised as if to signal, "wait just a moment", she walked away. I waited for her to return. She didn't.

I never saw her again. I think she must've been an angel. For real. It was miraculous, really. For an eternity it seemed, I was so full of her, and my feelings for her ... and then she was gone. The realization brought me back to the moment. Snapped. Untethered from the past. Sitting there with my feelings and thoughts, the sounds and sights surrounding me. Nothing else but the present moment. Transcendent.

As you might suspect, she took up a place in my heart. Did I fall for her? I think so. I visit her in that private "stachus" in my heart. Hoping she is well. Loving, And, loved. 

Auf wiedersehen, mein liebchen. You are a song in my heart.

Blast From The Past

Now here is a true blast from my past. We had that very radio. Philco 1946 Sliding tambour cover.

In the early 1950s it was a kind of a thing — maybe because portable radios were fairly new tech then — for youths to stroll around outside with portable radios. This unit could be plugged into a wall electric outlet. It also could carry a battery.

I remember once trying to get in on the trend and went out with this radio on my shoulder. Early boom box.

Angels Among Us

The other day I was sitting in the reception area at my office waiting for my appointment to arrive. Sitting near to me in the small set of chairs around a coffee table with magazines was a gentleman and his little daughter. Very little. Looked like she'd been walking only for a little while; in diapers. And, small and as delicate as an Iris blossom.

I made an attempt to make some simple hello contact. The little girl was very quiet, moved softly and slowly, seeing everything. Reacting to nothing. Fully aware. And, no response.

I asked her if she talked. Nothing. Dad suggested she was "shy". I said to him she seemed to me to be more ... observant.

At some point she picked up a magazine her Dad was going through with her earlier and came to stand right in front of me. I asked I I could put her on my lap. Dad was fine. She just let me pick her up.

There I was with this little wisp of human thumbing through a catalog with mostly faces of people giving Yoga-centered workshops. Not too much to talk about with a one year old. Then — nice surprise — in a two page spread there was this beautiful flower covered tree. "Look at that, it's called a tree. It has flowers. Can you point to the flowers." She just sat there silently taking it all in. It felt so heartwarming to be in a parental teaching role for that brief time.

The Dad and Daughter were waiting for Mother while she was having a prenatal exam. Little brother or sister soon coming. The doctor called them into his office. The little girl carefully placed the magazine on the stack on the table.

As she was leaving the area she gave me a nice wave goodbye. Very unschooled, hand facing upward, fingers opening and closing. Queen-like. But, not prompted.

A blessing. I took it as a signal that we had made contact with one another.

I had asked Dad what was the girl's name. It sounded to my ear like, "Ashuleah". Very delicate and lyrical, just like the girl herself. I asked if there was some meaning to the name. "The first part is an Old Jewish name. Nobody knows what it means. The second is Leah, from the Bible."

I looked it up and the best I can find is that Altschul is an early 14th century Ashkenazi name associated with the Old Synagogue in Prague. Leah from the Old Testament, the story goes was Jacob's first wife and mother of six sons and a daughter. Jacob, you see, was not all that keen for Leah. So God consoled her with many children. The name originates from the Assyrian language and means "ruler".

Did I tell you the Father was an Orthodox Jew?

Looking back on our exchange it struck me how I remarked the girl was "observant".

Angels among us.

Giving Mother Her Respect

I am thinking about how our mothers share in our lives. Our joys are theirs. And our sorrows.

Our sharing is not just in terms of outer events, like getting together and keeping in touch. Stories. But, in some mysterious way, more directly and intimately in the conduct of our lives and our experiences. It may be that our mothers feel us living inside them. Maybe not directly as such. But, in a shared resonance.

Also, Mother Earth, doesn't she also share in our lives. And, maybe, in a way more visible and apparent. When we live heedless of our surroundings, the Earth . . . that has consequence to the environment . . . in the air we breathe, the water we drink, the food we grow and consume.

What Would You Think To Do?

After a lovely evening he went up to her place for a nightcap. As you can see, she's the bomb.

She served him a beautifully chilled Stinger. As he raised the glass to take a sip he noticed ... a pubic hair(!). Smack dab right there floating on the surface of his drink.

Is it a mistake? Or, a hint? 

She lives downtown. But, is she wanting to go "downtown"?

What would you think to do?

     1. Say ... "Hey, what the f#ck is this!?"

     2. Think ... "Well, she's not going to meet mother."

     3. Ask ... "Maybe you got something to eat to go with this?" 

May be????

Ploczekianewicz Johorszczevietczhek Wronski

Here we present for your edification one Ploczekianewicz Johorszczevietczhek Wronski. The "Most Polish" of the Polish Wronski's. Owing to the rather complexity of his given name(s) his friends simply addressed him as "PJ". Others, mostly, stayed away.

PJ was a simple dude. A simpleton, some might say. Great Grandma said his head was full of Kapusta. That winter staple Cabbage dish in Old Polonia.

As you can tell from the archival Wronski Family photo, was one stylish Pole. Fond of limericks, we've been told.

Here's one of his supposed favorites:

The boy stood on the burning deck / His feet were all a blister / The fire burned / His pants burned off / And now he wears his sister's.

CLICK to learn about all the Wronski's.

Maczhsamillionenen Wronski was the original lounge lizzard. There he is — can you spot him? — at Maxim's in the gilt days. The "Shiznit" before there even was such a thing as a shiznit. The "Man About Town" in Gay-Paree, as it were.

That's when "gay" was "happy and exuberant"; not like today. [Though, from all outward appearances, it's still all happy and exuberant.] And, that's alright.

And, you can be sure of that, he lived up to his name. He had a million — at very least! — at a time when that denomination had some real spending power. Around Uncle Max the Champagne flowed like water. A totally unsubstantiated rumor had it at the time that he used the bubbly to flush his toilets. Truth be told, it was the bidet; but, only when and just before l'amour toujours. If you get the meaning. The guy knew how to please. 

And, speaking of pleasing, it was none other than our own Maxy Baby who coined the term ... "The more the merrier." Seems he was also the one to, maybe not invent, but most certainly put the ménage à trois on the map.

His famous trope, advising on the secrets of oral pleasure ... "You get in there and make sounds like a Frenchman speaking into a bowl of Kapusta!" That reference was the Polish in him coming out. Kapusta is cooked cabbage. And, arguably, more dear to a proper son of Polonia than even the charms of one such as even that Mata Hari. Whom he may or may not have had an acquaintance.

"To believe that life's problems will somehow work themselves out, everything bad is fixable, and something about samsara has to be worth fighting for makes it virtually impossible to nurture a genuine, all-consuming desire to practice the dharma. 

The only view that truly works for a dharma practitioner is that there are no solutions to the sufferings of samsara and it cannot be fixed."

– Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse Rinpoche

From the book "Not for Happiness: A Guide to the So-Called Preliminary Practices"

GRAVITY: 

From Concept to ... Percept.

There's no one who doesn't know about Gravity. It's there from the first instant. It's preverbal. Ineluctable.

As infants we learn to roll over, sit, and stand. Then, on to walking, running, climbing, and all the feats known to humankind. Everything under the ever present influence of the pull of Gravity. We know about Gravity as youngsters from playing with blocks. What stacks, what doesn't. We may even become educated in the building crafts. Then, we have a conceptual understanding of what works for a structure to endure. Plumb and square and level is the rule.

Yet, in the makeup of our bodies it's a mixed bag. In terms of our adaptation to Gravity. Just look at all the random interpretations and rough approximations of uprightness we display in our standing and living under the constant influence of the energy field of the Earth.

We endure pains and stress and apply all kinds of technological remedies to palliate ourselves.

It's possible, you know, to make Gravity not just a concept, but a percept.

To awaken to the action of Gravity on our physical being and to cultivate the kind of simple balance in the arrangement of our bodies that any child would recognize as appropriate to making sure a stack of blocks stands.

It's very easy. Yet, it takes a little doing.

Go back to school.

Oh! Wronski! Uncle Voycheczevknieskczik Wronski

Uncle Voycheczevknieskczik Wronski

Uncle Voycheczevknieskczick Wronski had aspirations to be a heart throb of the silver screen during the Hollywood Golden Age. 

His fatal flaw — alas, isn't it for us all — was pride. He insisted on being called by his full, given name. "Voycheczevknieskczick" was not only nearly unpronounceable, it was a mouthful. The director of his first movie in which he was only an extra had him fired claiming it took away several minutes of the shooting schedule just to utter his name. And, half the time he was reliably somewhere off set doing who knows what with who knows who.

So he was relegated to the role of blocker. As such, he would stand in for the male lead and patiently pose while the cinematographer got his lighting and camera settings adjusted properly. Seen in the above photo from Casablanca. Ingrid Bergman was taken with him. In fact she thought he would have been a much better choice, looks-wise, than that smug Bogart. Voycheczevknieskczick couldn't have agreed more. But, then there was that name, the scourge of every Hollywood film director. Every! He settled for the unrequited love of Ms. Bergman instead.

Oh, don't feel bad for Uncle. It seems that the girls in La-La Land were much amused by the challenge of pronouncing his name. It was like an open-sesame puzzle for them. He had killer good looks, of course. He was quite the prize. Too many to count got their Voycheczevknieskczick on in the day. But, you did have to pronounce his name right. Or ... no dice.

See all the other Wronski's by going to the sidebar "Oh! Wronski / All My Relations".


Or, for the full bore hystericalicity CLICK to go to this page.

Step Away!

Step Away!

The cave is getting rather smokey. Haven't you noticed? Or, are we going to be like the frog in the pot of water, not noticing the rising heat? Not even when it is too late.

This is about being "woke" in a culture which offers distractions to keep us enthralled with the phantasmagoria of things. (And, maybe we'll make a few side bars as well.)

Specifically, the way media presents and promotes ... well, so much crap. And our various entertainments. And, our politicians. And, our culture warriors. Oh, and, the marketers. Birth ... get things-do stuff-become somebody-own a house-have kids-buy a car-pay bills-get a nice cake on retirement ... die. Never encouraged to look into just where did I come from? Where am I going? What is this? Who am I? Merely a pawn in some greedy game. 

Walk away! Or, rather ask the important questions.

When I was a boy I took no interest in the news. My father read the paper thoroughly each day; watched the evening news. It just didn't raise the least interest in me, however. Callow youth?

I do however remember watching the huge Republican national convention when Ike was nominated. Maybe for the spectacle of seeing so many people at an event. I like Ike! 

In high school I was not much of a participant in Civics. Each class would start off with voluntary sharing about some item from the news. William B. Williams was ever ready to share the latest Peanuts humor. He had a thing for Peanuts. I famously did not chime in. Then, for some reason I noticed an item in the morning newspaper. Up went my hand. To an astonished class, and teacher, I announced ... "Today is Beethoven's birthday!" Cheers followed. More comedian than pundit.

Looking much more closely at the news of the present day, I see that my younger self may have had some real wisdom after all. It may be better to stay clear away. What's important will reach you, trust me.

We seem to be living in a Post-Modern relativistic world where the value of things is a function of whatever any individual's particular preference may be at the moment. "Fun!" 

(You having fun? Fun? Well, was Jesus having fun?)

An incident in the "whatever": culture. Not that long ago the woman who was a leader in the NAACP was outed for being white. Rachel Dolezal said she "identified" as Black. The report is now she is destitute and soon homeless. So tell me ... if that Bruce Jenner guy can identify as a woman and be praised to high heaven as a social leader and exemplar — Person of the Year, runner up — how come you can't cross the race line? Who's making the rules. Where are the lines, if it's all loosey-goosey ... whatever. Is what's-what just what the most vocal and/or influential say it is?

It's called "Post-Truth": When facts have become less important than emotional persuasion. You're getting old. Let's hope that the new generation(s) don't get the bright idea to hasten your exit on the grounds that you are no longer productive. Not ... fun.

Don't even get me started on that business of, "Born that way". Hey, it's a line in a song. Lady Gaga's. But, now any boy or girl, man or woman who wants to "identify" as the other gender is not only "supported", but featured prominently as a vanguard for social equality. Who is making this stuff up? And, of course, the endless debate over which restroom to use.

If you are following the news and you are someone who evaluates things on the facts and on the merits, you should by now by all measures be completely chagrined, bamboozled, flummoxed, balled up, flabbergasted, dazed, confused. You may have your own descriptors.

Regarding that image above. At a critical turning point in my life I found myself standing outside Plato's Cave. Woke. So, now you get to the point. Hey! I'm making the point. Just keep reading. Besides, you do have to scratch up some soil wheretofor you be planting a seed. Right? Stay the course, brave soldier!

Waking up is not such a great thing at first. There's the glare of the sunlight. Those still back in the cave. All the dust you've accumulated on yourself. Needing to find a new map for going forward. Cleaning up. The culture doesn't prepare you for such eventualities. In fact, maybe discourages. Even the dear relatives don't take too kindly to the one who wakes up from the family drama. It's a thing, you know. The family romance.

Which brings me to my point. I wramble. But, you should know that from the name on the blog. It's my claim to fame. 

A case could be made that the culture ... sucks. Wack. Mashugana. (No wonder they hate us.) At least the culture as served up and framed by the news media, movies, television shows, advertising, government politics, social politics. And by culture I mean the organizing set of ideas — the prevailing myth, really — which informs our social and commercial group life.

I used to be an Ad Biggie. Advertising. You know: "Get this and be happy!" And, all the nuances off that core notion. The myth of "PROGRESS". NEW! BETTER! BIGGER! FASTER! STRONGER! LONGER LASTING! I thought it died sometime in the late 1980s. Maybe a slower death than I thought.

Look. I didn't walk away from everything I knew to find a better way to do the same old sh#t! My goal is to help find and foster a new myth. One where the very possibility that everyone could become self-actualized is itself a value ... maybe even be encouraged to do so as an essential life goal. You know ... "Know thy self." That's my Path.

Present culture: Take the news. Please. 

Television news in particular. It seems to be thoroughly soaked in bias. So many commentators and pundits not so slyly using language to frame things in their view. Besides what is selectively withheld and/or emphasized, the conversation is laced with prejudice, political slant, spin, hidden agendas. Misinformation. Inflection, facial expression. 

Add in entertainment, governmental politics, social politics. We are being seduced to become enthralled with the phantasmagoria. We are entertaining and BS-ing ourselves into an unintentional inconsequential future consequence. The so-called critical commentators literally call the President of the United States of America a "bullshitter". And, they mean that literally. 

I believe the hook is in trying to figure it out. It certainly grabs me. We all want to be smart about what's what. 

I do have faith in the human spirit. All movements in history have the seeds of their own undoing. We just may be — as the Chinese curse puts it — living in interesting times.

I believe it is an inestimable value to purify one's heart. I have a heart. So do you.

There's much to hope. 

Be realistic ... plan for a miracle. 

Now this ...