One of its Celestial Campfires

I sit on the granite-lined couch bed on the top floor of Ivanečka’ sister’s řadový dům. Ivanečka herself is around yonder corner at Gianni’s defunct work-at-home desk. She is giving a lesson to a German female by the name of Tina. Tina often tries her hand at writing poems in Czech. I’m reminded of my younger self. Actually, I’ve written a few at least Haiku lately in Czech. I’ll have to find them and disperse them into Jeremy’s void so that new universes form from each of their fragments, because a few words, isolated from all context, can after moments or even epochs accrue phraseology and semantics from the quantum poetic void.

Yesterday, we took a road trip from the prosaic Winterthur to Vaduz. Having not purchased a pass to let us legally stride upon the dálnice system of Switzerland, we wound through every possible village that the Swiss countryside could conjure for us. And, in fact, Switzerland, I’m told by the great mystics of our age, is but a collection of villages. Or, at least “they” want us to think that way, even if we are occasionally in the heart of Zürich’s minute metropolitan sterility. The country certainly feels as if the village mind descended in ancient times from the abstract bedding the colossal, vestigial testicle left beside one of its celestial campfires. That being declared, the road trip was particularly pleasant. We arrived in Vaduz (a village itself) after two and a half hours of winding. Parking and then springing from our vehicle, we enjoyed the environs as well as any two curious humans with an open ended appetite for new experiences, no matter how subtle, could. I was a fan of the structure and square constructed entirely of dustily reddish bricks and of a hřbitov we found that was so immaculately clean that one could perform surgery - removing one’s own putrescent liver, for example, and then transplanting the liver stolen from the pig farmer down the road into one’s abdomen - directly atop one of the graves.

Besides a few anecdotes, however, nothing much else is worth noting about Vaduz itself. As I’ve always written in the hallways of my youth, foyers of my adolescence and gutted hovels of my manhood, the journey is much more important than the destination. Now that I think about it, however, the word destination implies cessation of movement. So, in fact, even though we were in Vaduz, loitering about the hřbitov and traipsing around the dustily red-bricked platz were portions of the journey. We never ceased journeying. The winding trip backwards in space though relatively not in time was equally enjoyable and our conversation ranged from discussions concerning family dynamics that are contained within a cauldron cracking in fractal patterns on every conceivable point on its rumpled and warped sphere to Czech, German and English grammar and to the composition of ostensibly naturally grassy louky.