1854

It's supposedly Sherlock Holmes's birthday, who, like Jesus, was a Capricorn.

I don't know who arrived at this how. 

I don't know if there's a party to be had somewhere serving cocaine and opium. 

I take that back. Vice is hardly Holmes's defining characteristic. (NB: Capricorn's weakness is "too much work and not enough play.") 

My husband bought the complete Jeremy Brett series for Christmas, which is my absolute favorite. We've been watching an episode here and there since the holidays. Sometimes the overacting is quite funny, like the fisticuffs in "The Solitary Cyclist." The one we saw last night, "The Crooked Man," was a disappointment because Holmes does not figure out one thing. Rather all is explained to him. That was a rip-off, Holmes-wise.

I know the expression "Elementary" is Holmes's most famous linguistic legacy. I don't add "my dear Watson" because last night Watson said it to Holmes, rather sarcastically. But the best and most sarcastic expression born of Holmes is "No shit, Sherlock." Of course it is not uttered in any of the stories, yet even people who have never read (or seen) a Holmes story know and use it. I have even heard a German colleague interject it, in English, into a conversation in German, filling me with secret literary delight.

Moving Sidewalks

Busy two weeks. First I took a Bildungsurlaub, a German institution that allows employees to take an extra week of paid vacation studying something for their personal or professional development. An industry has grown up around it with all kinds of this and that, most with a shiny certificate at the end. It does have to be approved by one’s employer, but they also need a reason to say no. Anyway, long story short, I did a week of online journalism courses - at my mother’s house in NJ. 

I came back and did some coverage of the Frankfurt book fair, which was fun but also time consuming without too much yield. I’ll have to think it over better next time. One thing I did was put together a slide show of the best book covers I saw. Like any reporter I did a lot in advance - in fact I had a list of books I hoped to find, and wrote blurbs in anticipation. But not one of those books was there! I had to start from scratch, navigating acres and acres of space. 

I hope my routine returns to normal now. I did go back to the fair for pleasure. One of the highlights was seeing Richard Ford, whose “Canada” I just finished. I met a woman born in the same hospital as me. I talked to various people and came away with seven great books. Six of those books were handed to me free, including two Fence books, put into my hands by Rebecca Wolff herself. Fence shared a stand for 4-5 other poetry/literary presses, including Red Hen, and the funny detail was that, unlike most other stands, instead of a bottle of water there was a bottle of Jack Daniels on their table.

dezember

The nice thing about December in Germany is it’s spelled with a z. Exotic, no?

December also brought the publication of YB and Umbrella, both of which include some of my poems. YB, in its Animals issue, has “Reindeer” from my chapbook, and Umbrella has “Our Lady of Busted Cutlery” and “Keeping my Cool.” Umbrella also has two poems by our lady of escape, Kathleen Kirk.

Some days ago The Medulla Review also went live, publishing my poem “Baseler Platz.” My office is on Baseler Platz. It’s an odd geography, encompassing a couple nice new offices and residential buildings, but also rundown store fronts, a chronic traffic snarl and the outskirts of the main train station. The poem, as always, is based on a true story.

On a side note, Diane Lockward a couple days ago blogged about guest editing for Adanna’s inaugural issue (which published my poem “Low Grass”) for anyone interested in the ins and outs of submissions.

While we’re on the subject of submissions - from a poet's point of view - yesterday was my birthday and I got a rejection. (You’d think in this age that your email would let you program what kind of mail you receive on your birthday.) It was funny because after letting me know they didn’t want my poems, they asked me to 1) follow them on Facebook; 2) subscribe to their updates; 3) take the time to register their response time on Duotrope (a lit magazine guide); and 4) reminded me to please take six months before submitting again.

It was my birthday. And I didn’t do a damned one of those things.

As my folks say, “Happy new month.”

dilly dilly

For all my bellyaching, this morning saw a beautiful sunrise in Germany. The sky was festooned in high pinks and bright blues, like the room of a yet-to-be-born baby, whose parents are holding out for the big surprise.

let us eat cake

So it’s my birthday so the first thing I did when I woke up was bang my head against the door. I look much younger now, like I’m still up for a brawl in the wee hours. Goes well with the twitch in my right eye.

Then I took the dog out in the still-dark and the crazy tincan man was out rifling through trash bins for cans and bottles to return for deposit. His theme this morning was “Arbeit macht frei!” Not only does work set one free, it especially sets the jews free, according to him. It was turning into a great day.

Still, my husband and kids left a present for me on the kitchen table.

And I recently discovered I share a birthday with Allan Sherman, a man I appreciate.

And at work I was presented with a bouquet that included berries and white roses.

People asked why I hadn’t taken the day off and the truth is I don’t have enough free days left to spend on my birthday. So my boss told me to leave early.

Which I did.

eavesdropsy

I was practicing my eavesdropping today. It started at the doctor’s office where I went to get my tick vaccination. I was waiting to give the assistant my insurance card but she was on the phone with a woman whose period was one day late. Apparently the woman had forgotten to take the pill every day and with her period one day late she wanted an immediate appointment and pregnancy examination. This must have been a young woman. I felt kind of bad for her having her problem broadcast all over the doctor’s office, but she was of course anonymous. The assistant didn’t exactly generate any warmth, either. She treated her like a dumb cow. Why doesn’t Germany have a higher suicide rate, I sometimes wonder.

My second attempt was on the train. There was a boy of about 9 telling a girl that his cousin had been shot, shot to death, he stressed. He was talking pretty low so I didn’t catch the whole thing and I’d already moved as close as possible without being obvious. But I did find out the two guys who killed the cousin escaped. I also found out that the cousin’s great-grandfather also died, but that he was 100 years old. I found this way of winding up of the conversation - the "light note" - very sophisticated for a 9-year old.

I'm doing this eavesdropping for a prompt over at Read Write Poem. Don’t know if I’ll get a poem out of it, though, despite the decent material.