Wir warten auf den Bus, jeder Einzelne, denn es gibt anscheinend nichts anderes zu tun, auch wenn wir wissen, es kommt keiner. Einer zündet eine Zigarette an, als ob er glauben wollte: Es kommt immer Eine, aufgerufen von Feuer und Licht. Aber sie brennt, wie des Menschen Seele, ab.

I stepped into a river today, though it was no ordinary river; the asphalt didn't seem to move at all. But to the boy who held the tree branch (his wizard's staff, his commander's symbol of authority) and gestured to the other smaller ones, this river was the most difficult of impasses. How easily my feet glided through, how easily I reached the other side, smiling not with the thought, 'how cute!', but with the thought, 'Ah yes, I know this place well.'

Die Alte stand vor den Augen des Kindes und sah nirgendwohin. Ihre Gedanken waren nirgendwo zu finden. Das Kind schaute nach oben und sah ein seltsam aus den Augen kommendes Licht.
"Was sind die Farbe deiner Welt?" fragte das Kind. Es sprach zur Alten wie zum selbst. Die Meine- und die Deine-Welt waren beide noch rätselhaft; die erste noch jung und unklar, die zweite schon bejahrt und sibyllinisch.
"Die Farben sind wie alle anderen: unbeschreiblich schön und doch ständig veränderlich. Das was du "grün" nennst ist mir auch grün, obwohl ich es mit der anderen Hand berühre. Kannst du sehen? Du hast ja zwei Hände wie ich. Ich nehme diese Blume und spüre sie. Ich nehme die mit der anderen Hand und spüre sie immer noch. Genau so wie mit uns: was du siehst, sehe ich auch, aber mit anderen Augen. Die Augen sind's nicht, was sehen. Die sind ein Mittel und auch ein Ausdruck dafür. Es gibt wohl andere Mittel. Das Grün ist und ist nicht grün."

Distant call down the wire, distant train on the line

Friday afternoon.

I'd almost forgotten this sparsely settled area of the country. So many little ponds that come from nowhere, crooked fences that look like they should be in a painting, small white houses with sharply angled roofs that create a contrast with the dark evergreens, the reddish trees with their new-born buds. The tall grass: in this marshy landscape it falls in upon itself in places, burdened by the dew that stays the whole day. Every now and again, a solitary windmill towers in the distance above the trees. The sky is like that in England, very visibly ever-changing, at least in this season. The water shimmers, silver, sometimes a deep blue if there happens to be a patch of sky not filled with cloud; it makes the shallow water seem impenetrably deep. The hills in the distance are blueish. There are odd streams that run through the grasses and bushes like veins and disappear as they approach the hills. Some patches of grass, the kind planted in front of houses, or along the road, or in the distance where there are fewer red-stemmed bushes, the green is beginning to glow brilliantly, but not quite at its full sheen. In more populated areas one sees sheds that look like run-down or abandoned hermits' hideaways. If they were extracted from this setting and placed in the forest, they would be worth so much more to the dweller, they would provide shelter. We are in northern New Brunswick, where the stop signs say both "Stop" and "Arrêt".

Now passing through an area of birch trees: the white of the trunks makes me long for winter, but then the sharp contrast with the white and the dark and the browns wouldn't be magical in the same way. Everything has its time.
The sky is turning more blue, the clouds are thinning. But I halted my typing for five minutes to watch the shifting scenes, and the clouds have returned. And we pass through a particularly marshy area where the water almost looks black. This is place whose earthly drama is often dictated by the weather and, in particular, the sky. Now there are those sharp arrows of rain grazing the windows, like Zeus' bolts of lightning, even though they're made of water.

We'll be in Moncton, New Brunswick in ten minutes -- the main French-speaking city in New Brunswick. "Merci et au revoir": so ends announcement. Moncton is a pretty spot with a flair for the arts, even -- yet I find the wilder areas here so much more appealing. Fleet Foxes as a soundtrack suits the landscape.
The sun is shining again; this time everything is reflective from the rain.
There's much more rubbish now that we're passing through the small city. An empty, large, round building without a roof looks like a littered version of the Colosseum.
There are still mounds of dirty ice-snow here piled up in a parking lot. I thought it would have melted, but I forgot that Moncton and the surrounding areas tends to get a lot more snow.

-------

Listening to the Doves. 10:03 came on and of course, being on a train, I listen to this song in a different, more personal way. There's a rainbow that's been passing in and out of view.
We drove by a house; there were about seven children and three adults or so all waving as the train passed. I waved back, though I don't think they can see me. We are about 15 kilometres away from Rogersville, a town that has a trappist monastery. A year ago or so I heard these fine monks got into trouble with some authorities: apparently they weren't following certain regulations with regard to their treatment/care of the farm animals. Disappointing to hear. I remember when I was there I was quizzed by one of the people there about my beliefs, asked whether I was "a seeker". "I suppose so, in a way," I said. Though I think he sensed my discomfort and let me alone. I didn't need to elaborate that I was not seeking Christ. It's funny: of the lot of us that went that weekend (there were five or six of us), only one was a Christian at the time. A bunch of Non-Christians going to stay at a monastery for a weekend... It was still incredibly good for me. I got a lot of work done that weekend, without the internet, without anyone knocking on the door, with the sound of chanting in the background, with our good conversation in the evening and walk outside in the greying November. It was a kind of quiet I'd like to experience more often.
It feels funny going through this area again, not really being of this place, but having loosely tied memories, a certain familiarity and appreciation.

The water in the harbour is clearer and calmer today than it has been in the last few weeks. Sitting on the boardwalk, one can look down and see much farther than would be expected. Still, the effect resembles a cypress tree painted by Van Gogh.
An unusually large starfish, so close: and then several more appear as if from nowhere (though it's just how the eyes work), and dozens, countless tiny comb jellies with two long tentacles apiece. One even puts on an impressive light show. The predominately red light moves quickly along the radial canals, which recall the ribs of an umbrella. In the centre there is from time to time a spark of green-white.
Minutes pass. The bright one floats downward, and it becomes more difficult to trace its movements in the increasing depth.

amidst silk boxes and clay
the veins in her hand a blue echo of the thread of my shirt
next to the woman beside her she looks like a child
but feels as old as stone

Good morning, starling.