Everything Else

In a land in our time there lived a man, who read a book and found lots of wonderful stories therein. There were true and invented stories, experienced and pensive, enjoyable and painful stories. There were stories which contained stories, and such which were actually not stories. For every story he read, there occurred to him nearly five which he had either experienced or thought up himself. So the thought came to him, that a lot in the world was a story which could be healing for himself and others; he only needed to absorb the healing stories well and to forget the terrible ones immediately. Then he would learn which story he had used when and for what. So he organised his own stories which he knew, and which had become a help to himself and others, or could become so. Sometimes he noted it down when a new story came to his ears and sometimes when a helpful story occurred to him, he memorised it.

Then he saw before him in a picture the storystories of this life arranged in long shelves, as in a large pharmacy. And behind the counter there sat a man who had learnt to listen to himself and others. He was a master of his subjectspecialty. His talent was that he understood how to tell the right thing at the right time to himself and to those who visited him.

Anton

When Anton was twenty, he travelled around the world. He liked to visit France the most. He left wife and children at home. In his homeland, he mostly spent his time in pubs. Beer and cigarettes were more important to him than both his daughters.

When Anton was twenty-two, he got divorced. He did not honour his alimony payments. He drank his money away.

When Anton was twenty-six, he saw his daughters for the last time. His ex-wife forbade him any further contact.

When Anton was fifty-five, he had a friend who managed his money and kept most of it for himself. Outside of his working hours, he was drunk. As long as there was enough money for alcohol and cigarettes, he was content, he said.

When Anton was sixty-one, he stopped drinking. That was the time he got to know Frieda. Anton adored Frieda. Frieda had spent her whole life in a small house in the country and had never been interested in alcohol.

When Anton was sixty-two, he moved in to Frieda’s small house in the country.

When Anton was seventy, he had already shown Frieda Paris and London, Brussels, Berlin and Budapest. He had driven her to her relatives in Dessau and walked all around the neighbourhood with her.

When Anton was seventy-one, Frieda became ill. He drove with her to many doctors and hospitals in the area. Anton said: “You are the best thing that ever happened to me. As long as I live, you will not end up in a nursing home.” He drove her to the welfare centre, to the medical insurance office and to all public authorities.

When Anton was seventy-two, he married Frieda. He ran the house for her, vacuumed, did the shopping and cooked the meals. When Anton was seventy-five, Frieda died. He lived another one-and-a-half years. During this time he drank one glass of champagne a day. “For my circulation”, he said, “because the doctor recommended it to me”.

Roadhouse Talks

The furniture van stopped halfway. We took a break at a rest area. I got out along with the removal men. I was freshly separated from my wife, and was suffering from the parting and loneliness. We spoke about partnership, separation and the resulting house moves. “You know why me and my wife get along so well?” asked the removal man. “Because we hardly ever see each other.”

The Journey Home

Our ferry left from Copenhagen. It sailed homewards in the direction of Germany. I stood at the railing on the upper deck. At the quay stood a pretty, delicate young woman. She waved at me. I am sure she meant me. Did I know her? No. She was a stranger to me. But the young woman’s gesture touched me. “Wait!” I wanted to say “stop the ship!” It became clear to me a ship such as this is very heavy. Even the helmsman couldn’t bring a ship of this size to a halt in seconds. I waved back, and the ship sailed on.

The Island of Love

Far out at sea beyond the coast, behind the stormy cape, is a small island. It is so small that it is only shown on the most exact maps. All the same, it possesses a certain fame in informed circles. The sailors name it the “Island of Love”.

Quite a few people at some point in their lives undertake a journey there. They explore this island in detail. They thereby discover astonishing things.

Some presume, before they get to know the island better, that you will immediately get from the Coast of Being in Love to the Hill of the Homeland, and are surprised at the length of the path that leads them there, through the mysterious Valley of the Middle. Some are amazed that it is not possible for them to visit the soft slopes of the Familiar and at the same time to be at the Peak of Arousal. Others already look forward to the Pot of Passion – as the largest volcano crater of the island is called. Yet they are amazed that the ascent is quite strenuous and that it leads past the seething Chasm of Fear and the smoking Vent of Anger. Those who seek danger bathe at the Cliff of Failure at the Cape of Excessive Demands. Yet even expert swimmers have come into distress and drowned at the east-lying Ocean of Boredom.

I say this because it is often forgotten that only those who traverse the island with effort and danger find the whole beauty of this place. Some build a house on the island or put up a tent. And I have seen those who have already lived there a long time smile at the enthusiasm of the newcomers who still harbour hope of exploring the Island of Love in only one day or a week.

Spinning

Do you know the Grimm’s tale of Rumpelstilzkin? Here’s an article that Kathy published today in her food blog… And maybe you will find another thing… or person… in it that seems familiar to you… have fun reading it!

And… thanks, Kathy!