I didn't write this, Bob Dylan did.

Bob Dylan - Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb

When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin' three queens
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin' around a pinball machine
And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin'
On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking
In this air I'm inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'
In the words that I'm thinkin'
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
"Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it's something special you're needin'
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
"Cause you look an' you start getting the chills

"Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny
No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache´
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolin' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
THAT STUFF AIN'T REAL"

No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race
You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You'll find God in the church of your choice
You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital

And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown

just a little free form...

Rain always helps her to fall asleep.  Nature singing a lullaby, the drops fall in a rhythmic steady chorus and some hit the window with a pleasant change of timbre, then silently drip downwards, leaving pieces of itself along the way and combining with its brothers and sisters.

Yes, rain always helps to ease away any stress and anxiety that block the path to a restful night's sleep.  But thunderstorms are even better.  The thunder cracks, a booming timpani, and the lightening flashes, allowing for a glimpse at the sky's tiny, falling musicians.  Thunderstorms she loves - the freedom the sky must feel, the release and relief - she wants that too.  She wonders what the sky thinks; thunderstorms are the most passionate acts of weather, not the rage of a tornado or hurricane, not the peace and drowsiness of a soft snowstorm, not the child-like joviality of a sunny day, they're emissions of strong emotion, a scream, a cry and a laugh all in rapid succession.

She thinks she'd like to be baptized in a thunderstorm.  What better a way to connect with whatever God you please, and mother earth?

She lay in bed when the storm wakes up outside.  She turns off her music - nothing special, just quiet and easy to ignore - to listen to it.  The rain falls, crescendos with the wind.  Then comes the timpani.  She counts the beats between this crack and the lightening strike.  Seven.  She remembers what she was told back in kindergarten, that the number of seconds between these two events is equal to the number of miles between yourself and the center of the storm.  She could run seven miles, or rather, less than seven, and meet it halfway.  Could I find it, she wonders, the very center, and would it feel different.  Would she feel it, really feel it, like feeling the very core, the very essence of any pure emotion?

She wonders many things as the tempo of the rain picks up.  What if it came to pass that the world were at my fingertips, she thinks.  Resting on the nave of my upturned hand, what would it feel like?  Heavy?  Would it radiate heat, vibrate with the energy of 6 billion bodies and 6 billion souls, of rushing rivers, pounding oceans, the gently breathing forests, the pumping blood of animals, the power of thunderstorms?  And if I felt all that, would I be able to comprehend the inexpressible and value and fragility of what I hold?  And if I could grasp the concept like I do the complex sphere, would I cradle it like a baby?  Drop it out of fear?  Could I change it; would I mold it to the contours of my palm?  Or, would I toss it to the universe and let it flow in the sea of fate?

She finds herself walking outside, standing with her arms outstretched, the rain drenching her body, mixing with her tears.  She opens her mouth and tilts her head back, closing her eyes and she realizes: I better make my choices wisely, because the world is right here.

Praaaaahaaaa

So...Ginger, Tim and I jet-set to Prague.  4 day tripp, one night with an actual bed planned.  Nice and homeless, just the way I like to travel.  Sounds silly, but oddly liberating.  I felt like a "real" backpacker, like those people I saw walking around Italy when I was 15 who seemed so much older and wiser, carrying their big backpacks laughing and drinking beer out of big bottles.  I remember wanting to be like them.

We arrived in Prague, got some Czech koruners (which I will refer to as Czech money thingy's), hopped on a bus we didn't pay for, and took a metro to the Castle side of the river.  I've always wanted to go to Prague, but for no specific reason, no monument nor museum, I've just always wanted to go.  Wish fulfilled, and Prague is simply so...so... so damn cool.  If Praha were a person, it'd be about 24 years old, educated in everything, listen to good music, smoke hand rolled cigarettes, wear low cut jeans, sweet hats and big sunglasses, and drink double espressos.  Praha is a hipster with history.

We checked out the main sights at our leisure and just wandered.  We took in a breathtaking view from Pêtrin tower, saw the light come through stained glass and paint the interior of the Palace Cathedral, and got terrifically lost in nature.  It's pretty nice traveling without a plan, wandering less for the sake of ticking famous sites off a list and more so to just be in a new place; not sprinting through on a time schedule snapping photos of guidebook hits.  It's nice to just enjoy the change; to not need or want it to be more than just a chance of scenery and pace, a new place to exist.

We ate a delicious dinner at a vegetarian restaurant recommended to me by an old high school friend, and from there went to catch a midnight bus to Vienna.  We arrived at the Wombat Hostel deliriously tired.  Thank the ever-loving Lord that our room was ready early because if it weren't, I wouldn't be writing this.  I would've passed out from exhaustion somewhere in the capital of Austria and never returned. 

Took a nice nap and headed out around noon to explore.  Saw a lot, ate some falafel, but spent my favorite part of the day on a huge grassy hill in front of a palace.  We sat there, wrote, read, and I dozed off a bit in the warm sun...everything I could've wanted.  Tim mentioned that he was enjoying every bit of the moment.  I couldn't respond because I agreed to much.

At night, we got pizza and listened to a free "jazz" band.  Yikes.  Allow me to set a scene here.  Tunnel Vienna advertises this free jazz concert.  I love jazz.  I love free things.  Those bastards lured me right in like a moth to something shiny.  The band goes on stage - the guitar player having an alarming resemblance to Kenny G (I say alarming because the world would implode if there were to exist more than one Kenny G) and they announce that they will open up with "Get this Party Started."  Remember 7th grade dances?  Pink?  Yes, they did indeed do a cover.

So we're trapped through "Love Hurts," some other tunes that proved out of pseudo-Kenny G's vocal range, and lest I forget to mention, a rendition of Kelly Clarkson's "Because of You."  Kelly Clarkson is a sweet all american girl.  But in the name of all things holy, why would you call yourself a jazz group and torture ears with a karaoke-esque version of a pop hit?

Regardless, went to bed tired and happy, and woke up and checked out the pretty Danube river and hopped back on a bus (after sprinting to make it on time) to our homeless state in Prague.  Attempted to see the Spanish Synagogue, but got there too late to enter.  Signed the John Lennon wall and met a drunk hippy.  Stumbled across Prague's "Witch Burning Ceremony" celebrating the end of winter.  Nothin' I love better than a good old fashioned ritualistic burning in the late afternoon.

Sat by the water, watched the sun get lower and lower over Prague, and as it did so, the reflection of the city in the water grew more and more detailed as the street lights came on.  Sat there quietly with Ginger and Tim, breathing in, and wondering, as I do so often, what I'm meant to do with all these memories.

watching the current

where do you look to find who you are?

in the reflection in front of you or 

somewhere very far

away in the distance, off over there?

will you look hard enough 

do you care

enough to search out reality

sift through all the bullshit and fog

until you see

what's really real?

portrait

streetwise 

on the cobblestone lay a man barely resembling a man

dressed in little more than heavy dark brown rags

(but who knows their original hue).

cloaked in a layer of dirt

the accumulation of days 

and days of nothing, of lack of shower change or shave

no opportunity or no reason or both,

he snores loudly, his mouth a gaping hole

expanding and contracting as if not he

but the grizzly beast of a beard upon his face breathes in

and emits a dull guttural noise.

three empty bottles of wine stand in front of his body

as if to create a distasteful portrait of Bacchus 

and the stale permeable scent of body odor and misfortune

wafts into the mid afternoon air.

why? how? don't you try?

later on he's asked to leave as he's made patrons uncomfortable 

less likely to enjoy their entrée,

so he stands up unsteady and teetering. 

like a small child bewildered and looking for his mother 

he stumbles off, and i'm no longer disgusted,

not glad to see the scene tidied up,

my heart aches, i'm sad and guilty.

where? what? how'd you get here?

envy? hope? do you wish?

once just a baby a boy a young man

when?

i'll never know, never come to understand, so much, so many.

If I'm on a train to the real world, will someone wake me up at my stop?

On April 7, Gregorian calendar year 2010, I sat on the steps of the Piazzale Michelangelo overlooking Florence, Italy, the Duomo and Campanile sticking out above the city line (in my humble opinion, it resembles a duck; don't take this offensively, it looks like a regal duck, and, I like ducks).  The gorgeous landscape encompasses the history and life of Firenze and I find it hard to fathom a life of my own that is anything other than this.

I spent an afternoon with some friends, eating cheese, foccacia, sun dried tomatoes and olives, popping open cheap bottles of delicious italian wines and taking in the sun rays; come on now, that's the life.  My friend made the comment that her parents sent her an email reminding her that this "fairytale life ends sometime."  I mean I think about it all the time, what's to come after playtime's through, but honestly - what the hell?  There have been so many "where in the world am I, and how did I get here," moments since I've been abroad that any monotony back home could put me in shock.  I feel like I'll need some sort of decompression chamber to safely enter the "real world" without imploding.  Real world, this world, real world, this world...why the distinction?  What is this mythical realm of the real world I keep being warned of, keep planning for?  

Admittedly, it isn't this life, exactly...weeks spent doing spurts of work but mostly just traveling, goofing off, trying to live up to that "live life to it's fullest" requirement, which is in itself kind of silly after all, isn't it?  To think you know?  There won't be a bell that goes off, no special measurement to know - oh, shit, this is it - you just feel happy, feel content, and that has to be enough.  So then, sitting there in Italy isn't my full time job, I'm lucky and out of the ordinary, but I'm still real.  That moment is still real, living...breathing...feeling...what's more real life than that?  Shouldn't being in the real world mean being connected to what you're doing?  Being in it?  Not just cruising along on autopilot, dozing off?  John Lennon sang, "life is what happens while you're busy making other plans."  I wonder how he defined the real world.

I'm real.  I'm alive.  Sure, I went on a Tuscan wine tour, learned about Chianti wines at two vineyards (swirling the glass around, a few steps above drinking yellow tail pinot grigio from the bottle in the back of a baltimore cab), saw a Caravaggio exhibit in Rome, drank wine with my friends by the Trevi fountain, sauntered through ancient ruins, sat on a beach and swam in the Adriatic sea, and then fell asleep on a 22 hour bus ride through three countries.  So alright, call this a dream if you'd like, I'm okay with that.  But even if I'm dreaming, I'm lucid enough to appreciate it.  I'm awake in this dream, and so for right now, just this second, this is my real world.

take a left at the third 'apple light.'

It took us a good 7 hours to make it to Berlin.  7 hours in a tiny rental car.  Being the only one who knows how to drive stick, I piloted us the whole way - pretty smooth sailing until we got a bit - well, not lost per say, but rather, not exactly en route.  A few stops at gas stations proved ineffective due to my lack of any german language knowledge.  One woman who didn't speak a lick of English recognized my plea for "Zentrum! Berlin!"  She pointed me onward with drastic 90 degree angle arm movements and a kind hearted severity.  So we continue on our merry 3 am exhausted way.  Thank god for humor and Lady GaGa or I think our moods would've been a bit less jovial.

We stopped again where a very nice gas station attendant, who kept apologizing for his "not so good English," which was in reality our saving grace, but he continued to sincerely ask for our forgiveness for the fact that he couldn't speak my language fluently enough to guide me around Berlin.  Honestly, I hate my underdeveloped language skills.  Throughout my time here, I've met so many people who speak 2, 3, 4 or more languages and it's a completely understated ability.

Why of course I speak Norwegian and Arabic and spot on Spanish; I'm a native Dutch speaker, but I'd be more than happy to translate to English for you.  Jesus.  My inadequacy at it's finest, I'm often embarrassed by the fact that I can only speak English and a comically simple vocabulary of French.

But regardless, we made it to Hostel #1, where at 3:30 am the receptionist told us we were too early for breakfast.  Right.  Then we headed up to our room wherein we shared bunk beds with a few men who seemed to find pants superfluous, and a few others who remained clumps of blankets.  Welcome to Berlin.

Berlin was just a cool city.  So much history.  We wandered around, through the Brandenburg gate, went to a few museums, saw Checkpoint Charlie...strange to think what is now a tourist attraction, complete with street vendors boasting flasks with the communist logo, was once a divide in the Berlin wall, separating East and West.  My friend's mom was in Berlin, and at the time of her travels, the wall was still standing.  Crazy to think of - I can't even picture it, or imagine it.  But I suppose it isn't so unimaginable - bombings in Moscow, boats blown up near North Korea...times are different, but I guess a divided city and fast spreading ideologies is not such a wild idea after all.

We next stopped and stayed at a tiny town called St. Goar right on the Rhine river, under a castle.  That's correct, a castle.  The friendly receptionist greeted me with the true spelling of my last name - Löffler, and told us there probably wouldn't be anything open in town for dinner.  We managed to find one place to eat - Asia Kim.  They basically re-opened the place for us, so to reciprocate, we had ordered a few sake bombs, some german beers, and some very, very tasty meals.  Decided to pour hot sauce all over my rice.  Breathed dragon-like fire for a while.  Saw an old castle the next day, wandered around passageways and dark tunnels, and drove back into Belgium.  Another great adventure to talk about.

A resumé, you say?

So I'm attempting to obtain an internship for the fall.  Yes folks, taking the proverbial next step, I am looking to find an entrance into the writing real world.  Good for me!

Everything seems so simple.  There is an internship class offered at my University, I sign up for it, and my professor helps to locate somewhere that will take me.  Great.  Grand.  Wonderful.  Just send me your resumé and we'll get the ball rolling.  Oh...right...okay...

I've never written a resumé.  I've held jobs before of course; however, the application process didn't require one.  So, you know, I sit in front of my computer, google search how the hell one goes about doing this, e-mail my brother who deals with an inordinate amount of them per day, and begin.  Name.  Simple enough, contact info, got that one in the bag.  Objective?  What is my objective?  Well to get an internship...objective...that's a plan.  A plan?  A plan?!?!  I don't have one of those.  I don't know what I'm doing with my life.  I like to write, I like to travel, I like to make people laugh.  Is that an objective?  No, no it's not.  

So I take a break to avoid an existential crisis.  This is just a simple document, after all.  I make a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and sit back down.  Next up?  Education.  This one I have covered.  I list my places of study, and the things I've done during my time at each.  I finish it up, and read through it.  Now I realize; I've done so few things.  So few things.  My education spans 16 years, what in the world was I doing with my time?  I mean I felt like a mildly accomplished member of society until this moment.  Right at this moment, this moment with my peanut butter and honey sandwich and the blinking cursor.  And look at this, from 1997-2007 I was a music student, playing in concert bands, jazz bands, orchestras, I even went on American Music Abroad and played concerts in multiple countries.  I don't play the clarinet or saxophone anymore, they sit lonely in their cases at my house.  Why'd I stop?  I start to miss it, I go to the instrumental music section of my iTunes, and lament, feeling like I left a good friend behind.

Great, so now I'm still on the verge of that objective existential crisis, and I'm sad, and I still have no full resumé.  I have to take a break again so I go make some coffee.  Chat with someone in the kitchen, feel a bit more relaxed, have some energy from the coffee, quell my issues a bit, and sit back down.  Experience.  Alright, so I worked in a grocery store, I worked at a wine store, and I was a caterer.  Now, none of these are the most glamorous of positions, but I feel as though I have actually learned things.  

Firstly.  People get upset if they purchase a watermelon and it tastes bad.  They will be angry with you, the customer service employee, as if you farmed said watermelon, planted the seed in poor soil and didn't water it enough.  They will feel cheated.  You will be confused by their misdirected frustration, and you will have to learn how to make them happy.  I can do this now.  People will try and take advantage of you, try to get money back that they don't deserve.  You will have to learn how to calmly say no, to make sure the company isn't just tossing out bills to any John or Jane who comes in displeased with the texture of their pasta salad.  Basic situations, but good training.  Managers will like you if you are pleasant, and if you do your job and aren't lazy.  If you have the option to stand around, but you clean up instead, or do little odd jobs that would have to be done later, people will notice eventually.  If you have a nice smile when a customer comes with a question, if you direct them to someone who can find them the perfect wine to compliment the chicken marsala they just described to you, they'll like that.  If you add a few extra ribbons to the gift wrapping, everyone wins.  If you're working at a wedding and you make small talk and jokes with your tables, they'll remember your name.  If you carry a tray with 9 meals on it and don't complain, and stay late because silverware needs to be sorted, someone is going to thank you, and you're doing your job.  I think about my jobs, and do I love them?  Do I want to do them forever?  Negative...however, I think I did a good job, I think I worked hard.  So this part pleases me.

Personal statement?  This, this I like.  I can say things, I can try to be more than just a bulleted list.  So I write a little ditty, an abbreviated (WHY is abbreviation such a long word?) bit about who I am.  

So you know, I'm feeling okay.  I have a friend look over it, and she tells me I should get it on one page.  My brother says the same thing.  One page...okay...formatting thing, thats fine, that's fine.

One page?  ONE page?  One page is how I'm to be introduced?  This throws me into a tailspin.  I mean I get it, it makes sense, resumés have to be short.  You can't write up a biography and send it in, expecting that everyone has time to learn your life story to decide if you're right for the part.  But how do I appear on one page?  Can you read one page and know me?  Certainly not, but all of a sudden I feel trapped.  I feel confined in this one page, size 10 font, like the lines that separate the Objective, Education and Experience sections are walls and I'm stuck in them.

But it's just a document, right?