Heimat

Dear Reader,
I'm not just trying to write at least one thing a day and keep this thing up to date. Maybe it's the novelty value that'll wear off. I don't know. Anyway, There was a bit of Writing that did back in 1991 that I quite liked and thought you might like it too. If you don't then go directly to the next post...
It's called "Heimat" by the way.

In those twilight hours, where neither light or dark lingers, a lone figure sits writing, writing down the contents of his heart for all the world to see,
His memory Is of the love he lost somewhere In his past. The love remains steadfast, lost, but never, but ever, forgotten.
The sunset of my dream
I gaze out at the sunset of my dream, tonight, my dearest friend, I think of you, or rather the part of you that still needs me, but are you just a hazy memory?
As a wondrous dream I remember you, as if you still dwell within my heart. I imagine that you stay by my side, and will rest there for eternity, Reality, once more, rears its ugly head, consciousness takes over, and life continues its lonely Journey.
But the memory, so real, remains Intact, as a constant reminder of complete happiness.

June 10th 1991

I had come home, or at least I thought so. The appointed time had come and gone, but excitement lingered. In a frenzy I searched that station.

That station had seen as many arrivals and departures in its time, the sight of a lover's embrace as he is re-united with his mate, soldiers returning home on leave, away from the brutality and bullshit of army life, workers returning to the security of their town, their home, my home. The platform was full of people, in a stage of their own existences about to enter the next one. To me they were foreign and alien, just going about their travels in life's journey.

I passed the bookstore, its books, over-priced but never-the-less the old lady was still selling, novels for the lone traveller seeking an escape from his own world into another where life is tainted by the writers own inadequacies and fears, a life where all "turns out OK in the end, non-­fiction about far away places in far away times; the ideal realists escape for that reality that they face so admirably. The paper shop, selling its papers, views of the world through the eyes of journalists having to meet deadlines, editors that control those very views. Row upon row, of cigarettes, a myriad of variety, but still the same thing, offering an artificial boost to the mundaneness of the addicts' lives.

I journeyed out onto the station facade, searching but almost in vain. I continued up the length of the station, and, there she was, her face, so friendly, beckoning. No encouragement was needed as I ran, arms outstretched, heart pounding. There stood the object of my hopes and anticipations, my fantasies and desires, the object of my greatest love.

I "had" eventually come home. Our arms locked in embrace, Through my mind drifted the letters, snippets of talking on the phone, those very things that had ruled my emotions for the last five years. These two simple things effected me like drugs. Letters were like a joint, as you get through it, the high intensifies, and finally It was the turn of the ultimate high, but letters can be read over and over again, and they're legal! Phone calls were sad because they didn't last as long, but the high started as soon as I began dialling her number, and her voice put me in another world of comfort where I felt wanted. I even had to pinch myself to make realise it was actually "her". And there she was, my dream fulfilled, my prayers answered, in my arms. It was the first time we had met but it was if we had known each other since childhood.

We said goodbye to her mother who, I must admit, looked quite amused at the spectacle before her. For the slightest of moments I felt as if an intruder had entered my dream and I wanted her to leave as soon as possible, after all the dream was mine and nobody else's.

The girl and I walked into the downtown area which was both modern and old, but still beautiful, but the real beauty was by my side. The typical chatter issued forth from our lips, the nervous chatter of two people that have been re-united after a long separation, talking but saying nothing.

Before long we were sitting in a Biergarten sipping beer and smoking Camel cigarettes, the smoke disappearing as soon as It left our lips. The beer was cool and refreshing and coupled with the slight breeze It was neither too warm nor too cold, like the moment, perfect, We continued our drinking whilst watching the people around us, small children being reprimanded by their mothers, young lovers seeing nothing but each others eyes. The nervousness of our conversation stayed with us as hither to unknown aspects of our personalities came to light. The overhanging trees gave us shade but the sunlight still peered through like an ever-present guardian, but it didn't concern us, I called the waiter, paid for the drinks and was thinking of someway to show this girl 1 loved her, In mg pocket were the ear rings I had bought for her back in England, but the moment was not yet right. As we resumed our walk I spied a flower shop, made a discreet exit and purchased a dozen red roses. A cliché? Granted, but for me it was much more than mere pleasantries, but a token of my deepest devotion.

A friend of hers met us by the river and drove us part of the way into the mountains to a playing field. Another couple of friends joined us and they talked in a dialect which was totally incomprehensible to me, and anyway the conversation was not for my ears. 1 just watched the training session of the local American football team in silence, from time to time, smoking a cigarette. Boredom began to set in and some waste land beckoned me over and lead me to hill top restaurant. 1 had a beer and returned to the girl who gave the impression that my novelty value had momentarily disappeared, and that an example of her own life style was being laid before me for my approval.

Her brother collected us and we went to the village where she lived. The road was like a snake but the mountains took us gently ever upwards to the village. The village could have been anywhere, but it was what I felt was hone. It was only 25Km from the town but the country side was the definite master, and its subjects, the fields, the animals, the farm yard smells, had gained a stronghold over the community. The houses dotted the hill side in no particular order but the two churches faced each other as if about to commence battle, and on Sundays the village would divide up into their camps, and lead by the priests would worship God in their own way, but after mass the two camps would mingle together in the no-mans-land of the village.

I was shown to my room and I realised it was her room. It was a bold room, the colours simple but arranged into such a fashion, to make the room more an office, rather than a place to sleep and dream of better things than reality~ By this time the conversation had become relaxed and I felt comfortable after this five year search for my destiny.

It was now my turn to discover this treasure! I was introduced to her past in the form of photographs, images of lost youth that would remain only in the mind, Out came the stories that the letters had hidden, and it was as if I had been exposed to just a very small sample of her persona. She had kept some of my letters and I began to see how the relationship had developed from adolescent ideals to a nature devotion, Almost every little item had a history all of its own, a history that 1 was trying to, re-live. The music in the background was from the sixties and fifties and it stirred my emotions into a pathetic frenzy of sentimentality, This very special part of my emotional development was disturbed by the calling of her mother for us to eat.