Yesterday was the anniversery of Lee’s demise. It’s been 32 years and it still affects me, though more these days in a nostalgic way. The melancholy doesn’t hit as hard as it used to. Humans pass out of this world all the time, I am aware, as is pretty much everyone since an early age. I just scribed a rhetorical statement. Though what a rhetorical statement might be is any human’s guess besides my own. Technically it would be a statment that requires no “reply”, or perhaps requires no comment or followup. What I meant was in the vernacular of so-called “dichos” that Lee used to use, although he, as well, knew that his usage was not technically correct. He meant a statement that needn’t be uttered in the first place. I’ll keep his usage for nostalgic and not so melancholic reasons. Also, Lee recognized that “dichos” are simply shortcuts. They are sloppy thinking. Instead of thinking deeply about a matter, one can spout a platitude and be done with it. Communication via “dichos” is an immediate sign that those communicating tak are to be evermore avoided like a plague rat or a frat boy (same thing, really).

So what did I do to “celebrate” his demise? Well, I broke my diet for a meal by going for Thai food with Ivanečka at the spiffy resaurant Noi near Ujezd. The food was exquisite but I think we were the only Czech people there apart from the serving wenches. I had my eternal favourite, Tom Kha Kai and a ground chicken speciality that reminded me of something similar I had with Jeremy in April at another particularly good Thai restaurant in Orlando. Also of note is that at said place with Jeremy, it seemed like we were also the only Czech people there.

I did not bring Lee up during, before or after our dinner, but Ivanečka was obviously worried about my state of mind a bit during the whole of the day. It is still bizarre to have someone with me that actually thinks and cares about my mood, mental and physically health in a selfless manner. I probably don’t deserve it, but as we all know, the universe has no ethical, moral or value system. We exist and live our lives. There is no deserve. Deserve is a human construct created to maintain a hierarchical structure in society. It’s a control mechanism, as has been all moralistic “reasoning” since the beginning of time. Unfortunately, the need for so many people to find exterior meaning in life (as opposed to creating meaning for oneself) obscures the path to contentment.

Of course, I did think of the music I should be creating that is associated with Lee. His “album”, as it were. It will be a gradual process, as I’ve only sketches to two pieces so far: the first and the last. After I finish the new Dobbs, the Alfred IV “tribute” and the thing that has the working title Dissolving Pool, I’ll get back on track working on one album at a time until it is finished. My personal experiment working on three or four at the same time is far less satisfying - it brings much less contentment.

Though this is certainly a fragmented entry into Martenblog, perhaps it will encourage me to get back on track concerning writing. It creates quite a sensation of contentment. For me, life is about looking and moving forward and being content doing so. Gone are the old ways of suffering to gain more creative ground. Perhaps that worked in my twenties and even perhaps in my thirties, but as I look back on those times (something I really have no business doing as it contradicts what I just stated that life is about), they seem like vast wastelands. Revisiting the past has very little merit.

I woke up and created my fifth Looptober abomination. It was enjoyable but took much longer than I thought it would. I did spend some time with Peiločja, but the plan was for Ivanečka to pick me up at 9.21.03 so we could be off to Berlin. However, she called me at some earlier point informing me that she was already in the car, though to go to Luki’s situated place to take Luki his forgotten keys. Then she was to proceed to my place.

The trip to Berlin was riddled with zacpy and took in whole about seven hours instead of the usual four and a half (I believe that in a traffic-less day, that would be the duration). We stopped three times to čurat (was it three? I believe so). I navigated us along “back roads” through myriad German villages until we finally arrived at the park and ride at about four.

U-bahn 6 took us to Stadtmitte and Ubahn-2 took us to Potsdammer Platz. Our hotel, where I sit now, is close to the latter. We had a few hours to walk around the surrounding area and during our wandering found a Cos. Ivanečka browsed for a winter coat and a shirt. She ended up buying nothing. I ended up with a shirt for myself a bit later, however.

Suzanne Vega began a bit after eight. We arrived at the Philhormonie about ten till eight. The concert was brilliant. She began with Marlene on the Wall and ended with Galway from the new album. I managed to kiss Ivanečka between most every song. All in all the concert was highly enjoyable and I was impressed especially by the guitarist, who used looping to layer parts for several songs. He also had a “drum” pedal, or perhaps prerecorded drum parts in a looper. A cellist also joined them. They could have played another hour and I would have still been transfixed.

We were back at the hotel by 10.30 or even before. We made brilliant love and fell asleep until the late hour of seven. It’s a little after seven now. I write whilst Ivanečka prepares herself for another walk around the Berlin environs.

I made a fantastic Medical Medium dinner. I baked small “cubes” of yam, cooked black beans with cumin from the dried nuggets that they were, and created red lentil “tortillas” along with various garnishes like koriandr, červená cibule and avokado. I arranged it all in an aesthetic manner in time for Ivanečka to come over and enjoy it all.

She went home by nine it time to have her lesson cancelled and I returned to Peiločja, who made sure to leap up to my side at one in the morning because in her small but potent mind she surely knew that I was leaving for Berlin in the morning.

A rose and its stem, or its lifeline, stretches from the base of a pitcher two thirds filled with water up into the still atmosphere of this flat and blossoms a radiant red at its zenith. I’m sitting at the table of work, amusement, victuals and study in Ivanečka’s flat in Prague 2 or in what some would call the outskirts of Vinohrady. It’s been just shy of seven weeks from the first time I met her in person. As these nigh-seven weeks have passed, we’ve become more and more consumed with one another. I say this in a decidedly non-cannibalistic way.

I’m not going to attempt any predictions at this moment for our future together, but I will say that we’ve already made extensive plans for the remainder of this year. I’ll also state that there have been no fights, no disagreements and not a single so-called red flag. Some would say that our relationship seems too perfect. I’d say to those who’d say that fuck um.

There is near silence in what I’d call the obývák. She is organizing the contents of the suitcases strewn about the floor and the piles of clothing on the sofa. I don’t mind the silence. Were we at my flat, music would gurgle from some possibly obfuscated source, but here, the distant drone of tumbling laundry and her soft, padding footsteps make sense.

There was also near silence yesterday in Stromovka as we sat slightly overlooking a “lake”. The rustle of the leaves above our heads was enough as we kissed and spoke softly of our present life and a few of the troubles she’s had recently with her family. Why has she had troubles with her family, you ask? Well, because of me, of course!

Lack of sufficient sleep since Saturday or even earlier has me bleary and with a slight pressure behind my eyes. The last few days have been weeks. The last seven weeks have been years. May it always remain so.

During the last five days, my life changed drastically. One expected and a number of unexpected things turned my mental state inside out. Or rather, chopped my mental state up and reassembled it in a manner that cannot be derearranged.

My mother died. This was the expected event. She even predicted it herself when she sat in her chair in the weeks before I left and yelled I just want to die! over and over. It was not a pleasant situation, as many might imagine. I have no intention of going back until a much later date for a number of reasons, the foremost being that after living in a hellish situation for eight months, I have no intention of returning to the same so soon after getting away. Secondly, there is the cat. I’m assuming most of the paperwork can be done from here - my part anyway.

Thinking about it, the foremost reason is not the one I stated. The other day I spent twenty-one hours with someone who will potentially become a very important part of my life and for this reason I’m simply not vanishing back to the states. Connections, for lack of a better word at the moment, like this do not come along often in life. No sleep was involved during that twenty-one hours. I still feel the effects. We related to each other on levels that I have not felt for a very long time. Of course, it wouldn’t be life if the situation wasn’t somewhat complicated. More explanation will surely come along in this puttering blog-thing eventually. Stay “tuned”.

Wheels are moving beneath me once again. How long has it been since I wrote that or a similar line? Years, for sure, but the last time must have been in Spain when I was last alone on a train. To Madrid? That would have been 2016, then, and the same day that I was arrested for pissing off a policeman, which is another reason that Spain is inferior to Czechia. Czechia! What a name! But I must have been alone on a train since then, no? No memory manifests in this quivering, sleep deprived brain.

So, wheels are moving beneath me once again. Though I am not exactly sure when the last time I wrote that line was (besides in the previous paragraph, of course, vole), I know the first time was on a train from Praha to Ustí nad Labem to visit Hela. The long lost Hela. In fact, I believe I began most all of my journal entries on the way to visit her with that or a similar line.

That being said, I hope I shall not be writing it many more times in the future. Sleeplessness and possibly repressed anxiety leaves me lately with the feeling that I do not want to travel. I ask myself what sort of adventure did you believe you were getting yourself into? Do you really like camping? What the fuck is wrong with you? You are no longer the person you were when you first came to the Czech Republic in 1998. Your tolerance and stamina have both decreased. And, more than anything, these careening days, I need a sort of central point of stability.

I’ve searched for this central point for quite some time. I believed I had it in Spain. In Logroño. I did have it in Logroño, but I abandoned it for some psychologically and most likely physically obscene reason. I wrote as an obsidian fragment earlier that the more people I meet, the more time I want to spend with my cat. This is truth, and very likely the entire universe’s only pungent truth, especially after meeting Helena last night. There is nothing “wrong” with Helena, per se, but I found it difficult to express myself, to capture what was within my mind and convey it to her in a, for lack of better clarity, gesticulatory manner. Looking back to when I was first in this country, I realize that much of my outgoingness was fueled by alcohol. And now, I both do not want to drink as much as I did and cannot handle drinking as much as I did. Drinking no alcohol at all would be ideal, even if it would mean leaving the veil of extroversion in tatters.

My feelings about leaving Peiločja alone for a day and night as I wheeled away from my new home this morning were frightful. I did not want to leave her alone. The more people I meet, the more time I want to spend with my cat. Can a cat provide as fulfilling a relationship as a human can? Well, that depends on the expectations. On the fucking očekávání. I’d say that for me, yes, or so I feel at the moment and have all morning. My original plan for Praha was to spend time with the cat and to spend time with music. Yes, I’d see Michal and Richard and Ivana and some other friends from time to time, but they’d never be the primary focus.

So am I making a mistake going to see Anna? I’d say yes, but the day will tell. Best to start with nízké očekávání and go from there. That’s what Peiločja told me this morning, and I’m a good listener. And that cat has been through so much that she deserves the bulk of my attention. The fact that I am already thinking about my return tomorrow more than what will occur later today does not bode well.

We shall see. Or, as they say in the old lands, fuck um.

The bench before the Trinity tree is occupied. It is occupied by me. My shadow doesn’t reach it. Perhaps my shadow is an illusion cast by the illusory sun. The Trinity tree is the only living thing left on the moon. I don’t consider myself in the set of living things since I am simply an extension.

I wrote that long ago, as the trinity tree no longer exists. Or, rather, it exists in a different form, that of stump. My associative mind reminds me of when I was a child, or during my imagination of being a child, as I am uncertain I was ever a child, during which I would create origami platonic forms, such as rectangular prisms, pyramids and such. I’d gaze at my creations for a time and then crush them much like the piece of music entitled drtič will eventually crush every living being that hears it. I was fascinated by the concept of something existing first in one form and then in another, altogether different form. Truly, it was the same object, but at a splendidly different state in its existence.

Though we all know that not a single cell in our body existed even eight years prior to now, as we self-regenerate, conceptually, I am the same object that existed eight years ago. I am now, however, in an altogether different form, and especially psychologically. My self-regenerated neural structure did not self-regenerate in a selfsame manner, vole.

When I wrote the above quote, it seems to me now that I was questioning my connection to the place in which I’ve been now, presently, for over seven months. No, I haven’t been sitting on the bench in front of the stump of the trinity tree for just over seven months, but I have been in its vicinity. If I was a mere shadow cast by a sun that was but an illusion, I think my sense of self was particularly intangible in that time. Has it become more concrete in this place during just over seven months? I think there is no better definition of Limbo than West Texas.

I suggest you try it. You may even, like I seemingly did, find your very existence become tenuous.

However, at the same time, I likened Pagan Park to the moon and the moon, indeed, is a lifeless place, or so I hear. If I was an extension of the moon, a lifeless place, was I a protuberance of that lifelessness or the likening of life emerging from inorganic material? In the same sense, were people like Bender-boy and I living growths spawned by the perpetual lack that is the desert itself? As I can’t claim the two of us to be the only growth from the large bleak plain of West Texas, I could possibly better liken us to spores that were birthed here but drifted outwards, taking with us the arid genetic makeup of this place. I’d liken the multitudinous other “growths” here to a fungal infection, but that would be slightly nasty and unsociable of me.

Today I had lunch with Bender-boy and Anne, his wife. We ate at an establishment in Andrews that exhibits properties of an excellent tex-mex restaurant, though it could be a brothel in Kazakhstan for all I know. My general perception of the world around me is coloured my delusions of being in another place - ANY OTHER PLACE.

Though, interestingly enough, Bender-boy and I emanated from this area of the world. Perhaps we even defined it. I can’t say that it defined us, as there is an alien psychology in any other “human” I meet from these parts. At least there has been recently - meaning within the past few epochs.

Today I had lunch with Bender-boy. I hadn’t seen him for 22 years, give or take a month. The cliché holds that our communication was quite like it was back then, as if no time had passed. Of course, we have communicated via electro trans-pacific means during the meantime, so the cliché doesn’t have the same weight as it might were we to have had no communication at all.

Sudden memories rose in my mind of time we defined together, and we did define time itself, as time itself was frozen within those memories. They are photographs and static. They are photographs - a far better medium than video.

In a way, we are ageless as our memory between us is, indeed, static. It is, indeed, a series of photographs. We pass through incremental stages of concrete recollections bordered on each side by hazier half-scenes from possible pasts. It occurs to me that unless I specifically created a concrete mental signpost for one reason or another, my recollections shared with others are the most vivid and significant.

Anne mentioned a death. At first I didn’t know what she was talking about, but finally it occurred to me that Bender-boy had mentioned the dead friend from the past at some moment or another. And perhaps at multiple moments. Lee, of course. So it has been decided that we’ll take a road trip to Pecos and to the grave. We’ll buy a pack of Marlboro Reds on the way.

Amusingly, Bender-boy gets monthly or bi-monthly messages from West Texas oil fields about work opportunities. Best would be he work a rig, lose a few limbs and, much later, after the fourth accident, live in a vegetative state for the rest of his existence - an existence of a mere seven further epochs.

It occurs to me that I only have a superficial overview of the myriad stories Bender-boy has told me about his working life, though from what I know, him toiling at the zenith of a rig amid the dizzy heights in the baking petrol suffused heat isn’t all that far-fetched. After all, he did work at the zeniths of many smokestacks testing the toxicity of their emissions whilst inhaling the fumes and managing not to tumble to his death. He worked at a nicotine “factory” in North Carolina where he absorbed the drug from the atmosphere whilst adding to its potency by smoking.

Did I mention that we are going to buy a box of Marlboro Reds on the way to the grave?

As the brussels’ sprouts bake, I play with the “cat”. Though before I went to the lengths it takes to actually play with the “cat”, the “cat” joined me in the so-called office. Why is it called the office and why was I in there? The room is dubbed the office because that is where my grandmother, hereafter known as Katie, did all the paperwork pertaining to the so-called farm and other parcels of land that were in her “care”. To this day, in the office, there are reams of paperwork stashed in grey, towering filing cabinets - the same type that I locked myself and my brother in when we were children.

These days, my mother is (mostly) in charge of examining and shuffling the paperwork pertaining to said parcels of land. One day, portions of those parcels of land - well, let me clarify here: they are not actually parcels of “land” as most would imagine, but in reality, they are the “minerals” that lie below the surface of what most humans would imagine when the phrase parcel of land is voiced or scribed - yes, as I was saying, or scribing, portions of those parcels of land, or, rather, the minerals beneath, will be mine. Though my ancestry will tumble and whorl in their tombs, I shall immediately sell every one of them. Fuck um.

As the brussels’ sprouts bake, I play with the “cat”. Though, to be specific time-wise, that was in the past. Or, as they say in the homeland v minulnosti. I sat in the office on the same chair on which I sat on or around 23 December 2005 and read The Long Walk, now a feature film starring Ed Harris and Jim Sturgess. Christopher Bender, whom I will see for the first time in 22 years in less than two weeks, send me the tome and I returned it to him, via post, upon completion.

I sat in the office on that very same chair and the “cat” approached me. She uttered a meow utterly unlike anything I’ve heard from her previously. In fact, it was hauntingly similar to a meow that Molly uttered once and only once in the hallway in the flat in Logroño as Marisa and I walked by. We stopped, startled and wondered what Molly was on about. What had passed through her mind? I had similar thoughts when the “cat” uttered this peculiar meow.

Approximately a year ago, I was wandering the sometimes broad and much too sunlit and at other times twisty, tenebrous and narrow streets and paths of Siracusa in Sicily with Marisa. It was a city in which one could find a Jesus in practically every other alcove.

By means of almost universal contrast, I am in the exceedingly American city of Orlando at the moment, albeit sitting on Jeremy’s sofa and thus not exposed to the elements in the dreaded exterior, within which one could waste away in any number of seconds. I don’t write about the decimating plague that has wiped most of the population from the east cost of the states, but of the stifling heat that staunches any impetus for creativity.

Unfortunately, I’ll arrive to Praha in June during the mere beginning of its hot season. Oh, I’ll suffer! However, I’ll also exist in a sort of hazy bliss for the first few weeks. It will be the sensation of being back at home. Praha always yields that sensation. Logroño did, as well, for years, but I think it was more because of the specific people who lived in Logroño rather than the place itself. If I’m ever there again, I’ll have to make note of the suffusion of sensation (or lack thereof).

In any case, by means of almost universal contrast, I’m in the exceedingly American city of Orlando where any number of stereotypes one picks up about various “types” of American humans comes to life like a surreal comedy skit as one strolls the streets and parks.

The only similarity that Orlando has to Siracusa, or, more specifically, the only coinciding event has been the consuming of pistachio ice cream. I sucked down two huge scoops of the stuff a few nights ago and I felt bloated and vomitous afterwards. The bloat did not even wane after purging myself multiple times into the open sewers that run alongside practically every roadway in the city. That being said, it was pistachio ice cream, which is the only worthy ice cream, and was therefore tasty. Was it as good as the pistachio ice cream I consumed in Siracusa that did not leave me feeling bloated and vomitous at all? I don’t believe so, but memories of a year prior are not an accurate phenomena.

Marisa and I hung out at the corner of a huge Piazza that I refuse to specify. In that corner was an excellent, small establishment that provided us with ice cream. Specifically, it provided us with pistachio ice cream. We drifted through the canals meant for human traffic for hours each day, stopping at cafés and a few restaurants, lapping foam from espresso-based beverages. We enjoyed the odd and liberating experience of not understanding or only partially understanding what the yammering locals were saying to the point that we stopped hearing the sounds as speech. They became a portion of the unique harmonic structure that specified the genetics of Siracusa.

Tomorrow I return to Seminole and begin the endgame. In three months, I shall be in Praha once again. The shapes that drift through mist that becomes more dense with each week will solidify into a directed graph of my immediate future, formulated especially for me by Miss Sweet Entropy.

There were three main trails we took when we were paseando just outside of Fresneda.

Trail One: La Cascada

We took this trail the most often. In fact, Michal and Mirka accompanied us to the waterfall at one point. Michal took a dip in the frigid pool into which the water cascaded.

Michal is fond of “taking a dip”. A portion of his mind feels he is doing a sort of cold therapy. A portion of my mind feels he is just attracted to being enveloped in liquid, much as he was in the “womb”. Or in the “test tube”. These two things are one in the same when it comes to Michal. He was birthed in a womb-like test tube, or a test tube-like womb. It was translucent and one could see his bulbous, quivering form incrementally taking shape within.

The walk from Tres Aguas to la cascada is one of many sensations. Yes, they are sensations of a past and also that of a past which is rapidly filling with holes. Such is the memory of an ancient creature like myself. There is little that I can do but type out the tatters that remains into this and future blog entries.

Butterflies butterflies the way was decorated with butterflies.

One bright memory is that of caterpillars spinning silk from branches above so that at any point, were one not to pay attention, collision with sticky lines came about. It was their breeding season and Marisa was furious at them, or at nature, I suppose. They were known for boring into and destroying certain types of arboles, though which ones I cannot recall. Let’s say beech trees for the sake of their supposéd death. On the patterned earth armies of caterpillars marched to whichever tree was elected for destruction. It wasn’t yet time for cocooning. The butterflies that decorated the atmosphere on that paseo were still months away.

On our initial sojourns to the site, Marisa brought her camera. She had quite a good camera, or so I think, as I am no expert. More importantly, she knew how to use it properly and framed fantastic photos. Even more importantly, it contented her to do so. She reveled in its creativity. These were still the early days of our relationship. Or, rather, the early years. There was still vigour and youth within our bubble. Her creativity waned over the following years, but never completely, though she seemed to more and more fill a good bit of her time with worry and in this manner unfortunately reminded me of my mother. In contrast, my creativity blossomed and never stopped its upwards climb. Perhaps this disequilibrium added to the general unease that accompanied intermittently and then more and more often the years following - um - oh, let’s say 2019, roughly.

Another recollection is of the stones we walked across (I, warily) to get to the “other side”, the side not approachable without forging the river. In fact, to get even to the cascada itself, one had to clamber over a portion of a rocky face holding various branches of ostensibly stable trees to balance one’s way to the edge of the pool.

Marisa is sitting on one of the stones that decorate the “other side” - the “forbidden side” - the side that Bobbus had trouble getting to at times when he was wobbly after a difficult few days alone in the flat on García Morato. There a few infinities of photos of this area of the world in various directories shared between my so-called “devices”. I don’t normally enjoy sharing photos as I feel they detract from the general sensation of reading, but I’ll make an exception on this occasion.

Trail Two: Al Tejo

I have a photo somewhere in the archive of a torre of stones that someone build beside this trail. We encountered it several times and one of those times I took said picture. Tres Aguas is a spot at the terminus of a dirt road riddled with potholes that pierces the main highway out of Fresneda and towards the border of La Rioja and eventually Escaray. From this dirt road riddled with potholes sprouts the three trails I write about. Tres Aguas has a few picnic tables overlooking the river on one side of the terminated dirt road riddled with potholes. On the other side is a small house intended as a refuge for anyone walking, hiking, sledding, tobogganing or stumbling around blackout drunk four miles from the closest village (Fresneda). There was always freshly cut firewood on the front porch and inside, home to multitudinous spiders, I suspect, so I suppose it was maintained by the province (Burgos). Instead of continuing straight towards la cascada, one veers left around the refugio and keeps veering until about 160 degrees later.

After over half an hour of walking, passing tricking water on the right and remnants of landslides, the path opens up to a place were one could park a “car” were one to have a “car” with the ability to traverse the pitted track. To the right, the trail continues sloping upwards towards the mythical tejo. This place is where we usually stopped. To the left, the trail slopes downwards to the river, where we picnicked time and again.

We often (often meaning two or three times out of 23) went with Marisa’s sister Marijose on this “hike”. Though she was usually a cheerful sort, her health problems did not allow her to follow the pace that Marisa and I usually set. The advantage of this was, of course, as anyone reading my blog would know, that it gave me time to pause and write a poem, several of which are “featured” in the poem section of this very website. As Marijose rested and chatted with Marisa about what I would term as trivialities and they certainly would not, I’d pull out my “phone” and pluck at it with my index finger, eventually creating a series of words from nothing at all.

As is with most of the people I’ve met in my life, Marijose and Juan (Marijose’s spawn, featured in the photo below) did not want to stray from the well trodden path. Marisa was a bit of another story, of course, or we never would’ve got along in the first place. Whilst the three of them were traipsing ahead towards the mystical tejo (to which no-one actually ever arrived), I clambered up with the dog (Uriel or Charlie - take your pick of a name) a shallow divot off to the side of the trail and discovered a steep descent on the other side that eventually led down to the river. The dog was eager to explore! So was I! And whilst I don’t specifically recall how I convinced everyone else to retreat into my newfound space, they all adored it once they were there.

Trail Three: El Pinar

The way to the so-called Pinar was the most difficult. It was rocky and usually drenched in oppressive sunlight. Strangely, though, it was my favourite. Also strangely, during the last few years I lived in Spain, we never returned to it. In fact, the ultimate time we ascended that rocky dirt road and turned the nigh 180 bend to ascend even more into the shade of the pines and finally to a clearing that was possibly the most beautiful place in the region was most probably before the first time I abandoned my marriage and fled to Praha.

Marisa always returned the same way we came. A few times, however, I continued after the clearing to a path that became increasingly twisty and overgrown. At one point, there is a sharp turn to the left (another nigh 180 degrees) though it is quite possible to continue straight - which I did one time, much to my increasing consternation. Thorned bushes whipped at my bare arms, aiming for my face and eyes, surely. Rotted trunks of giant tree-things crisscrossed the path, forcing me to climb, shimmy and scoot further on. I realized after quite a long time, perhaps as much as 30 minutes or five days or even a whole epoch, that I had made a wrong “turn” and had to double back. As the stunted one says: fun!.

I always had the wish, in fact, that the stunted one accompany me on this back trail and we with us had a wad of marijuana, puffing as we strolled, speaking of absurdities and the fact that we’d never make it back after the totality of epochs under the reign of the elements.

Speaking of Praha and specifically Velká Chuchle, portions of the “Pinar” reminded me of the ascent on another dirt track, potted from rain and combustible goats, namely in, well, Velká Chuchle. It’ll be an ascent I’d like to once more take soon.