German train, maybe from Munich, slowed with a exasperated squeal into a dusty dark soot colored station labeled Budapest. I don’t remember if I paused but soon I was standing in a small room below high black boards watching a blur of yellow letters, listening to the click of unfamiliar cities. It was early night and I was struggling not to feel scared, or maybe struggling to scare myself into believing I was on a genuine adventure and not just a poorly planned vacation. What if no one was there when I arrived? Where was I going? I had never heard of Miskolc until one fateful night in Paris.
Summer of 92. Illuminated, two towers of Notre Dame stared with a cold face. I joined a leisurely flow of tourists at the far side of the plaza who milled along, absorbing shades of grey and green. My fatigue boredom and curiosity led me to pause when I noticed a man sitting an uncomfortable distance from a woman. Their body language was awkward, as if in a disagreement. I reached a hand down to feel the unmistakable rough chill of granite and then sat down no more than twenty meters from them. I was drawn to look beside me and saw the woman had a kind but empty, longing stare very unlike those you might find on a faithful gargoyle observing above. The man spoke broken English. Too far to make out the conversation, I still surmised they were strangers. He harassed her as she tried to enjoy a peaceful evening alone.
Many apologies for my hiatus from my log. I confess I was working so much that I lost time. I’m back again with much to say…
Here’s a poem by Bertolt Brecht that I noted in the movie Lives of Others, (51:11). Thought this might help get things started again:
One particular day in blue-moon September
below a young plum tree, quietly
I held her, my silent pale love,
in my arms like a pleasant dream.
Above us in the beautiful summer sky
was a cloud that caught my eye.
It was a pure white and so far high.
but when I looked up, it had already gone.
The subtitles did not give the poem justice so I felt like writing my own. Harper’s has posted a more formal translation with an interesting continuation of the poem, as well as reference to the movie.
It seems a man in India who claimed his leg had great and supernatural powers has been brutally attacked. The BBC reports that his leg was stolen by thieves:
The 80-year-old holy man, Yanadi Kondaiah, claimed to have healing powers in the leg.
He is now recovering from his ordeal in hospital in the city of Tirupati in the state of Andhra Pradesh.
Local people believed they could be healed of spiritual and physical problems if they touched his leg.
As the value of this asset grew, so did the threat. But the man apparently did not realize how vulnerable he was.
“As the old man had the weakness of drinking, he accepted their invitation to have drinks with them,” said local police Sub-Inspector Pendakanti Dastgiri.
“They took him to a deserted spot in the outskirts of the village.
“After the old man had passed out under the influence of liquor, they cut off his right leg from the knee,” he said.
Ouch. While it is easy to say it was his fault for boasting about the value of his leg, to do speculates about value and blames the victim. The problem is best considered in a more holistic (pun not intended) security manner, with recognition that he was too vulnerable and the threat was strangely unmitigated.