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i am living on the top floor of a four-storey building. when i return home through the fresh evening air, i climb stairs that slowly get narrower and narrower with each flight until i reach my door. it's just next to the door that takes you into the rundown attic and up onto the roof.
i dwell where the birds fly; i see their flight change path before joining me in my flat. i have two large views of the mountains surrounding the city and at night i hear the daily celebrators fixing their bodies after a day's work, intermingled with the beautifully deep bells ringing from gothic cathedrals. i sit on my balcony, drinking a cup of tea, or a glass of wine, or a peculiar mix of rhubarb, grape, and pickle. tonight, the old fortified hill was lit up with a saturday night party from the top of schlossberg. there once was a castle on this unnaturally high, raised hump in the middle of the city. napoleon had it dismantled brick by brick as a symbolic gesture when he conquered that height; for him, knocking it over wasn't enough. tonight the tower on that hill was lit up in multiple colours. i gazed at it for awhile, enjoying the breeze, the moment, the stillness, the knowledge that i'm in the right place. i stepped inside for a second, and when i returned, there were chimes ringing from the hill and the lights went off. midnight. time for day to go out.
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 i was surprised by this as i walked past...... nothing quite as scary as handbags as far as the eye can see. graz old city: world heritage site: one of the oldest & best preserved cities in central europe.  As I snaked through Graz today from the airport to Temp Home No 5, sweating in the sun and carrying luggage and my heavy guitar in its hard case, I walked past a pub full of merrymakers sitting outside. I struggled past, attempting to see my GPS directions. I looked up for a second at the drinkers; a man with sprinkled grey hair in a long ponytail spied me and smiled the gentlest, wisest welcome: I see you, travelling musician. I am welcome here, in this strange place. Once again, I found myself climbing 8 flights of steps to the top of an apartment building. My Georgian hostess plied me with glasses of water and apples then offered me her bike for the duration of my stay. I am grateful for this offer! She left and I turned the radio on, flipping through a mix of Austrian and Slovene stations. I stopped. Willie Nelson. On the Road Again: 'The life I love is makin' music with my friends.' Here's to Graz and thunder cracks across the sky with new heart holders!  The view from Temp Home No 5. I spent the evening moving between bliss, empathy, smoke, and water. I dropped what I was doing - - - [lying in bed in a strange world, attempting to gather/regather myself] - - - to ride on a borrowed bike into France, down some country roads in moments of centre, and up a hill to a small path into the forest with new friends... [pre-approved. and it's a small world.]
We walked into the forest at dusk, gathering branches and sticks along the way, seeking out a place to settle in, to make a fire. . . and a fire we made. Gazing up through the branches at the stars, down at the embers, the crackles of flame, we talked about where we each come from. A flame-catch to slow us down. No facade. Just asking each other honest questions and [eventually] listening to tender, heart-opening improvisation around the fire. Tonight, I am reminded of another bonfire that was lit last night on a beach in San Francisco as several dear ones gathered together as they tried to make sense of the death of a loved one who died several thousand miles away in a car accident. Thea... she was travelling and working for a year in New Zealand, a bright soul, a beautiful, solid flame that stood strong with matter-of-fact-love. Travelling. But surrounded by new family. Life is tender. Suffering is inanimate and it softens us in such ways that are hard to come to terms with. Honesty comes from moving with the body's reactions and hearing, honouring those tremors. Tonight, I tremble. At beauty. At tenderness with new friends around a campfire. At the strength of dear ones on a beach a continent and a half away. At the softness, at my hardness. Cast true delight and find no ruse; pull the reel and find at its end the solitude of Belonging. I travelled all the way from Temp Home No 3 to Temp Home No 4 to have this revelation:  freeway cola... natural flavours only. (thanks, lidl, for being so affordable. there is a line, however. several dotted central lines, actually.)  the lo qual image reflects what's inside. We got caught in a downpour and I caught her as she hightailed it out: 'rejoice/appreciate that the sun still shines for you.'  So today I attempted to walk into Germany. After moving into Temp. Home No. 3, I took off on my daily adventure, walking a kilometre or two along the beautiful River Rhine, wishing I were on the well-manicured French side of the water. My crossing idea seemed pretty easy, except that there was a huge queue coming back into Switzerland, which struck me as problematic as I didn't have my passport. In the middle of this, a dear dear friend from Northern Ireland phoned. He whimsically suggested it would be inconvenient not to get back into the country, so I turned away and instead went to a street food festival and ate meat on a stick. On a large stick that turns into a magical wand when you scrape all the Fleisch off.  The crossing would have been easy for me. The reality is that - like in most Western nations - border guards are trained to profile and those that are penalised the most are of course the ones with the least access to assistance.  The borders may reject you, but here is a safe space. I got to do some work today in a beautiful little studio. It's good to be getting back to reality. Thank you, Fred, for organising this!  The necessities of a travelling girl-body computer musician.  View of Speaker and Sky  The Joy of Power |
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