The Zawoosh Chronicles: December 2010

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

The Zawoosh Chronicles Three (See Previous Posts For Earlier Writing)

Fiction By Paul Heidelberg

...like giants plunged into the years, they touch epochs that are immensely far apart, separated by the slow accretion of many, many days -- in the dimension of Time.

From the last sentence of the last volume of REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST also known as IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME by Marcel Proust.

Zawoosh

Back to Europa -- back to the Battle of the Bulge, near the spot where Capt. Homer and Sgt. Konstanz found the bodies of the three Luettge brothers.

There is still a lull in the fighting, and two weary American GI's are discussing the merits of bitter cold with snow vs. bitter cold with rain.

First Grunt: Christ, it's cold with this snow.

Second Grunt: Yeah, it's cold all right, but I like it better this way; it's way better than with that God awful rain, having you soaking wet all the time in this cold.

First Grunt: War is Hell.

Second Grunt: War is Hell all right.

First Grunt: Say, you know what this great European leader had for his motto a couple hundred years ago -- he lived in Germany not far from here.

Second Grunt: Nah, I don't know; what was it?

First Grunt: Victory through God or something like that. Ain't that a hell of a note -- you call on God so he can help you kill people.

Second Grunt: Yeah, that's a hell of a note all right. But he wasn't the first or the last to pray to God for victory in battle. Look at the Crusades: The Christians are praying to Jesus and the Muslims are praying to Muhammad to get help in wiping out each other.

First Grunt: And here we are in this God awful cold. If I was going to do any praying right now, I would pray for some warmth, not for help in killing someone.

Second Grunt: I'll say. Amen, brother.

Zawoosh

East of those frozen battlefields of the 20th Century's Second World War, in the previous century, it is Springtime, and Mallard ducks float on the River Ilm in a village south of Weimar, Germany.

On the top floor of a three story house overlooking the river, an eclectic group of thinkers has congregated -- some are from epochs that are immensely far apart. They are drinking Dornfelder red wine and are discussing music, art and life. As they speak, they glance out windows that overlook the river and the ducks.

The writer is Johann Wolfgang von Goethe; from his Time is composer Ludwig von Beethoven. From other epochs are composers Johann Sebastian Bach and Richard Wagner, and finally, from a far different time, singer Janis Joplin.

Joplin does not hold back in her discussion. She begins by confronting Wagner with these words:

"Herr Wagner, I really like some of your music, including the one episode where you were attempting to transliterate beautiful sex into beautiful music, but, quite frankly, your libretto, and your politics, suck.

"Did you have any idea of the evil that would come from your work, especially with the terrors that came with your one fan, the Little Corporal Hitler?"

Wagner replies haughtily, "My work is my Art. What others take from my work is no concern to me."

"But it should be," Goethe says. "Just as I would not want my tale of the devil in my work Faust being an impetus for the evils of witchcraft, and all the unintended consequences that might bring forth. By the way, of course we Germans have a great propensity for three things: Great Music, Great Philosophy and, unfortunately, the ability, and sometimes it seems, need, to wage, Great Warfare."

"Of course," Beethoven interjects, "we Germans aren't the only nationality with a propensity to wage Great Warfare. To me, at first, Monsieur Napoleon was a Godsend to the peoples of Europe. And then look what he did."

Zawoosh

To Be Continued...

　

Photographs: "The River Ilm"
"The River Ilm After Snow"

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

The Zawoosh Chronicles Two (See Previous Post For Earlier Writing)

Fiction By Paul Heidelberg　

...like giants plunged into the years, they touch epochs that are immensely far apart, separated by the slow accretion of many, many days -- in the dimension of Time.

From the last sentence of the last volume of REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST also known as IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME by Marcel Proust.

Zawoosh

Back to the Ancient Lands, to the Ancient Settlements of the Ancient Peoples.

South of Abo and Quarai is the third, and largest, of the Ancient Cities of the Ancient Peoples, Gran Quivira.

The three settlements are known as the Salinas Pueblos for the salt lakes that remain today -- the salt from the lakes was an important part of the Ancient Peoples' existence, and commerce.

The San Francisco Poet and the New Mexico Poet have hiked to a hill and are looking across the expanse of ancient buildings, and open spaces beyond, when they see a 1950 Ford approaching in the distance.

A few minutes later, a young man wearing thick black glasses approaches them; he is carrying a guitar in a beat-up black guitar case.

When the stranger is about twenty yards away, the San Francisco Poet turns to the New Mexico Poet and says, "Do you know who that looks like?"

"I'm afraid I do. Things are getting weirder all the time, aren't they."

The stranger walks up to them and shakes their hands and smiles and says, "Let's squat down here, I have something to play for you."

The man with the black glasses sings a complete version of "Peggy Sue."

Afterwards, the New Mexico Poet asks, "Are you who we think you are?"

"If you think I'm Buddy from Lubbock, I'm who you think I am."

The three have just begin to discuss the beauty of the Ancient Lands of Ancient Peoples when they see dust flying on the road Buddy had taken, and they begin to make out a Psychedelically- painted Rolls-Royce.

"Doesn't that look like the automobile of a certain member of the Beatles?" the San Francisco Poet asks the New Mexico Poet.

"It certainly does," he answers.

"The Beatles," Buddy says. "That sounds like the Crickets."

"That's where John Lennon said he got the idea for the name of his band," the San Francisco Poet says.

As John approaches the group -- he too is carrying a guitar in a guitar case -- he screams, "Bloody 'ell. This man looks just like Buddy Holly, my teenage idol when I was back in Liverpool."

"That's exactly who he is," the two poets say in unison.

"Bloody 'ell," is all John can say, again.

Before long, the four are sitting on the Ancient Stones at the Ancient Site with their legs crossed in the Way of the Buddha, in the Way of Yoga.

John says, "I'm on a trip all by meself. I'm all alone, going from New York to California. I don't have a 'Whoa-man' with me."

"Yeah, women can make you go 'Whoa' all right," the San Francisco Poet says.

They all laugh and then Buddy says, "Well, I only had one who made me go "Whoa," and that was Maria Elena. The first time I saw her, I knew I had to marry her."

"Well, I had more than one," John says, "but me best one by far was me last."

Without another word, Buddy and John break into "That'll Be The Day." The two poets sit in the fashion of the Buddha, amazed.

Buddy and John are lost in song.

When they finish, neither of the poets speak, and Buddy is silent; he is just smiling his big smile.

John is crying -- his face is covered in tears.

Soon they are all crying, as they sit on the rocks of the Ancient Peoples, sitting in the Way of the Buddha.

"These tears are for all our loved ones who are no longer with us," the San Francisco Poet says.

"Yes," the New Mexico Poet answers.

"All our loved ones," John says.

"All our loved ones," Buddy repeats.

To Be Continued...

Photograph: "Ancient Pueblos Settlement of Gran Quivira"
(c) Copyright Paul Heidelberg