"Once Upon a Time..."

Yesterday I saw "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood" and loved it. The movie was my favorite of the year so far. It was funny, dramatic, moving, thought-provoking and downright sorta fascinating. Here is something that I wrote before I saw the film, while waiting in the concession area of the cinema. Enjoy.

***

There are four faux Hollywood-Walk-of-Fame-styled stars on the floor in front of the cinema's concession stand. The names say, "Margot Robbie," "Al Pacino," "Brad Pitt," and "Leonardo DiCaprio," in that order, from left to right. I'm sitting in a booth across from the concession stand, eating a small popcorn. In an hour or so the movie "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood" will begin. Hence, those stars. They are part of the promotional materials for the film.

On my phone, the Wikipedia page for Sharon Tate is open. Sharon Tate is portrayed in "Once Upon a Time," and I had navigated to the page because I had wanted to learn a little more about her. I was surprised to learn that Sharon Tate was active as an actress for so many years, from 1961 to 1969. I was also surprised to learn that she was said to have had range. I had always thought of her as just a bit player. I skipped the part about her death and its aftermath.

Sitting at the table next to me here in the concession area are two girls. The girls are in their very early twenties. One of them is American and the other is British. At the far end of the concession stand are two cash registers where the movie tickets are purchased. Two men who seem to be friends are talking to the girl behind one of the cash registers. She has just told them that "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood" is basically sold out. They can't believe it and are looking at a monitor on which the theater's seating plan is displayed. The men are wasting their time. Or, rather, they are wasting their time if they want to sit next to each other. About half an hour ago, I was standing where these men are now, looking at that same screen, and what I saw surprised me. Usually, there is a lot of green on that screen. What I mean is, the color green is used in the electronic seating chart to indicate which seats in the theater are still free. So green is the color that you look for when the cashier shows you the monitor. After you buy your tickets, the seats you have purchased turn white in the electronic system. Whenever I come to this theater, there is always green on that monitor, always. However, when I looked at the screen when I got here earlier to buy tickets for "Once Upon a Time," nearly the entire plan was white. There were only a few dabs of green. About 10 seats were still available, but none of the free seats was next to another one. If you came with a friend, you two would have to sit separately from one another. If you sat in the first row, you would only be one seat away from the person with whom you came. If you wanted to sit deeper in the theater, forget it. The free seats there were deserts apart.

Watch Out

I got a great reaction when I told the following story recently. Enjoy.

When I was about three years old, my mom took me to the house of one of her friends for the afternoon. The friend had a pool. He had a son, too, about 10 years old, and my mom thought it would be nice if she brought the son a gift. So before heading over to the house that day, we went to Toys "R" Us. There, my mom bought two battery-operated watches, one for the son and one for me.

When we got to the house, my mom gave the watch to the son. I already had mine on. At some point, this boy and I decided that we would go into the pool, in the backyard. I took off my watch before going into the pool. The boy, however, didn't. He went into the pool with his new watch--and broke it.

The boy was very upset. After all, he had just gotten a new watch, and now it was broken. In an effort to smooth things over, my mom got an idea. She figured that I, being only three, would have no clue if she exchanged the boy's broken watch with my working one. But she was wrong.  When my mom and I got into the car to leave that evening, I noticed that the watch that I was currently wearing did not work. I remembered that the boy had made a big stink about his watch no longer working and I put two and two together: My mother had exchanged the watches!

I couldn't believe it. I immediately told my mom that I wanted my watch back. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what my mom's initial reaction was. I have vague memories of her being surprised that I knew the difference between a broken watch and a working one. I remember clearly, though, the course of action that she took. She apologized but said that it would be too embarrassing for her to retrieve the working watch. I'm pretty sure that she said that she would get me a new watch. I know for certain that she took me to a nearby deli and tried to make up for her act of subterfuge by buying me candy.

Unfortunately for my mom, she has never lived this story down. To this day, I still remind her of the "broken watch" and how she tried to foist it on me to make "everyone happy.” Close, but no cigar.

Hemingwayesque

As I've written probably 100 times by now on this blog, I'm rereading Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms." Below is just an awesome, Hemingwayesque passage from the book. Enjoy.

If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry. 

"Kristen Crying"

Here's a true story from my past. I've changed some names, but everything else is true. Enjoy.

One night in the fall of 1996, I sat with Kristen, an ex-girlfriend of mine, in a Dunkin' Donuts and held her hand as she cried. It was weird because Kristen never cried. In fact, Kristen had always told me and several other friends that she and I had in common that she hadn’t even cried when her mother died. Kristen's mother had had breast cancer and we would always ask her, “Kristen, how is it that you didn’t even cry when your mother died?” and Kristen would always answer, “I just didn’t. What do you want me to tell you?” But now here Kristen was, at a booth in a Dunkin' Donuts on Long Island, resting her head on her forearm so I couldn’t see her face, crying. I was sitting across from her holding her hand, but she wouldn’t look at me, nor would she talk with me.

A few months prior, I would have been ecstatic if Kristen would have allowed me to have such intimate contact with her. I had dated Kristen for a brief period in the winter of 1996. I had really, really liked Kristen. She had beautiful eyes, cat eyes, and I had really liked her sarcastic manner. But then only four weeks into our relationship, a mutual friend called me up to say that Kristen wanted to break up with me. This mutual friend, Jessica, said that Kristen felt compelled to end things because one of Kristen's friends, a girl I also knew, had had a crush on me for a long time and had never been comfortable with Kristen's and my relationship.

The excuse sounded like bullshit, but there was nothing I could do. I remember meeting up with Jessica and Kristen a few hours after Jessica delivered the bad news and crying into Jessica's shoulder as Kristen stood nearby.

In the months after the break up, Kristen and I remained in contact. Actually, we remained friends. But the type of friendship that developed after the split was a strange one, as it soon became evident that I was willing to do anything for Kristen. In fact, during the summer of 1996, Kristen's wish was my command. If she’d say, “Jump,” I’d said, “How high?” If she wanted a pack of cigarettes, I'd buy her two or three packs. Sometimes, she would bring me over to a group of her girlfriends and would show them -- literally show them -- the type of power that she had over me. She would say to them, “Chad, tie my shoes” and like a good, trained monkey, I would. The friends would often ask me, right in front of her, “How could you do that, Chad? How could you let her treat you that way?” I didn’t really have an answer. I wanted Kristen and only Kristen.

But then the new school year started. I was a freshman in my local high school that September, and a few weeks after classes commenced, I got to know a girl, a senior named Mona. Mona was a super popular girl who actually drove a BMW convertible to school. As luck would have it -- and, really, it must have been luck or something -- Mona had had a big crush on me. When Mona and I began dating in late September, most of my friends couldn’t believe it. (Even I couldn’t believe it.) But Mona and I were a couple.

It didn't take long, though, for Kristen to get wind of my new relationship. See, Kristen and I didn't go to the same high school -- she went to school in Queens -- but we still had many of the same friends, and it wasn’t long before she learned that I was with someone else -- and an awesome someone else.

Still, because Kristen never hinted that she still had feelings for me, I didn’t think she cared about my relationship with Mona. I was so convinced of that, in fact, that as she sat there in that Dunkin' Donuts booth that night, I was sure that she was crying about her mother. I wasn’t positive about the date of her mother's death, but I'd thought that the anniversary was soon approaching or had recently passed. I never got a word out of Kristen that night. I only got her holding, and sometimes squeezing, my hand.

Then, a couple weeks later, I was on the phone with Jess, the girl who had told me about Kristen's wish to break up, when I asked her what had been wrong with Kristen in Dunkin' Donuts that night.

"What do you mean?" Jess said.

“Well, she was crying all night the other night,” I said.

“You mean at the Dunkin' Donuts?”

“Yeah. Was it the anniversary of her mother’s death or something?”

“Chad, what are you talking about?”

“What do you mean, ‘What am I talking about?’ She was crying because of something with her mom, right?

“Chad, she was crying because of you. She was crying because you’re with Mona now; you’re gone.”

To this day I think back to this story with Kristen whenever I think about how hard it is to truly know someone.

Chess Game

I'm really proud of this chess game of mine. Reason being, it's the type of position I don't like and don't feel comfortable in, yet I still won. White (me, in this case) has to walk a tightrope throughout the duration of the middle game before he can start attacking. Luckily for me, my opponent disregarded his kingside safety, which I exploited with my 23rd move, Rxh7. After that, it was pretty much lights out. God, I love chess. Enjoy.

How Much Is That Rollie in the Window?

As I was walking through an affluent neighborhood in Hamburg called Eppendorf the other day, I noticed a store that sold antique clocks and watches. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t stop and look in the shopwindow. However, after wrapping up my phone call nearby,  I returned to the store.

In the shopwindow, I saw many watches on display that didn’t excite me. I don’t know all that much about watches, and {most of the watches just looked like timepieces from, like, an era long ago. Still, there were a few watches I did like. There were several antique Rolexes set up next to each other, and one in particular really did it for me. It was black with a leather band and it had a black face with a small crown where the notch denoting "12" would have otherwise been.

I was attracted to this black Rolex because it didn’t look like a Rolex. First of all, the band was leather and the watch itself wasn’t that chunky, which I find Rolexes usually to be. I came up with a price in my head. I thought maybe between 325 and 700 euros. I knew I couldn’t afford the watch no matter the price, but I was curious, so after working up the nerve to go in the store, I walked down the steps that led to the door.

Inside, the shopkeeper was busy rearranging a display in an adjacent room. Still, he stopped what he was doing momentarily to greet me. He was standing by the doorframe separating the two rooms of the shop, just inside the other room.

I didn’t waste any time -- I honestly felt a little awkward in there -- and said in my nicest German, “Sorry to bother you, but I’m a little bit curious about that Rolex in the window.”

To my relief, the shopkeeper immediately took out a key and opened the shopwindow display case and took out the watch. Again, I didn’t want to waste his time, so I flat out just said it: “How much is it?”

“This one,” he said, turning over the watch, “it’s 3,200 euros.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m very sorry. Wow. I didn’t think it was going to be...wow, OK. That’s all I needed to know.”

To my relief, his expression didn’t change at all, nor did he put back the watch. Instead, he told me why it was that expensive.

“Of course this watch is going to be expensive, ” he said. "It’s from the ’60s, it’s in very good condition, and you see this” -- he shook the thing -- “it’s self-winding. It’s an automatic watch. That makes it's a lot more valuable.”

He then went to the display case and took out another Rolex. “This one,” he said, “you have to wind it by hand; it’s not automatic. This one is 1,200 euros.”

“Wow,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, when they say the word ‘perpetual’ that means they are automatic. You see this?” He came a little bit closer to me and brought the watch a little higher. He was pointing to the watch's face, just below the iconic crown. “It says Rolex Oyster Perpetual. 'Perpetual' means self-winding, which means it's always going to be more expensive.”

“Wow, thank you so much,” I said. He shrugged his shoulders and waved his hand, as if to say, "No problem at all." I told him again thank you, and as I was leaving the store told him that maybe one day I might be back. I meant it, too.

I Can Write Like Hemingway! (Part 2)

In a 2015 blogpost, I showed how Hemingway’s style could be imitated. Hemingway has a very terse, a perhaps overly terse and rugged, style and in his writing relies sometimes on certain, well, certain gimmicks. Granted, they are gimmicks he probably invented and are still used to this day, but Hemingway's writing, though absolutely astounding and gorgeous, can be a bit gimmicky sometimes.

Nevertheless, I thought I would have a go again at trying to write in the Hemingway style. I’m currently rereading "A Farewell to Arms," or, for all my German readers, “In Einem Anderen Land,” and I thought, for giggles, I would recount a trip I recently made to the Alster and an interaction I had there in Hemingway style. Enjoy.

***

When I got home after my first appointment this morning, I wanted badly just to take a nap. However, the dog needed to go out. So instead of lying in my bed and closing my eyes, which I had wanted badly to do, I got the leash and the harness and fastened the harness around the dog and headed outside.

It was cooler outside and I let the dog off the leash the moment I walked off the grounds of my apartment house. Filou frolicked on the banks of the waterway that led to the Alster. There were no swans or other waterfowl eating from the hanging leaves of the trees that line the banks, so it was a peaceful walk.

At the Alster, I took Filou off the leash and allowed her to run. I had brought only my book with me and had decided to read as she ran alongside the lake. It was cloudy and slightly humid and there were not many people at the Alster. This was fine because I was more easily able to read and walk at the same time, much more easily than on days when many people are out because of the sun.

My intention initially had been to walk with Filou to a bridge about three-fourths of a mile from where I had let her off the leash, but a little bit before I arrived at the bridge, perhaps 200 feet before, I felt tired and hungry and the humidity was getting to me so I decided to turn back. I was reading and walking and walking and reading and reading and walking when I felt something hard and wet at my ankle. Filou had dropped a stick at my foot. She wanted me to play with her. I looked at her, the stick, her again and then I looked at the water. I picked up the stick and threw it in the water. Filou jumped in after it with a huge splash and I watched her. It was very peaceful watching her. It was early and it was very quiet and I was able to hear the lapping sound of the water as she swam toward the stick. It was very quiet and the water sounded very nice and it wasn’t too hot and I watched as Filou brought the stick up on land, dropped it and then shook herself off. I threw the stick in again, and again, she jumped in after it, this time jumping before the stick even left my hand.

As she was swimming, I wondered whether blue algae might be a problem. Last summer there were many cases of blue algae due to the heat and there had been warnings not to let dogs in the water but I couldn’t remember having read anything in the papers this year and no other dog owners had said anything to me so far, so I continued throwing the stick and she continued fetching it.

The book I had brought with me was very good and very interesting and I was thankful that I had brought it and I had even begun to forget about my hunger. Filou was at peace and happy getting exercise and I had begun to feel all right when a woman addressed me. I turned around to confirm that the woman was in fact talking to me.

“Ist das eine gute Idee?” she said. She was pointing to Filou, who had just come up on land with the stick. I immediately knew what she was talking about.

“Was meinen Sie?” “What exactly are you talking about?” I asked, out of respect.

“Kommen Sie aus England oder sprechen Sie Englisch?” she replied. I said yes.

“Well,” she said, “I think there is blue algae in the water. That may not be good for them.”

“Really?” I said. “Because I was thinking that. I had been thinking to myself, ‘Is it safe this year?’ and I hadn’t heard any reports about blue algae, so I just let her--”

“Yeah, there have been reports,” she said. The woman’s dog was standing right beside her. It looked like a poodle.

“Ah, OK,” I said. “Then...it’s out of the water, Filou.” Filou was looking up at me. “Sorry,” I said.

“I’m not 100 percent sure, but there have been reports on the radio. You know what you should do? The Elbe. At the Elbe they can swim.”

“Ah, OK.”

“Yeah, you know where? You know--have you ever heard of this place called ‘Strandperle’?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s at Ovel--”

“Ovelgönn--”

“Ovelgönne,” she said. “There. It’s a great place; they can swim there and it’s very nice. You can go right there.”

“And it’s fine for them because there’s a current, right?”

“Right.”

“Great...well...thank you.”

The woman’s dog had climbed onto the roots of a tree whose roots were growing sideways.

“...She likes to climb.”

“What kind of breed of dog is she?”

“A Lagotoo Romagnolo,” the woman said with immense pride, almost singing the name. “An Italian water dog.”

“Great,” I said, “very pretty.”

“Yeah, she loves to climb. But yours...” she gestured toward Filou. “...Those eyes.”

“I know,” I said and then put my finger over one of my eyebrows and moved my eyebrow with it to draw attention to Filou’s cuteness and her ability to use her eyebrows to persuade.

The woman laughed. “Yes, of course,” she said.

“All right, then. No more swimming for Filou, I guess. But it’s better that way. Better safe than sorry.”

“Yes, but Ovelgönne...it’s perfect.”

“Thank you,” I said, and after we exchanged a few more words, we took our leave from each other. Filou still had the stick she had been fetching in her mouth, but I knew that I would no longer be throwing it in the water. I didn’t know exactly what blue algae did to dogs or why it was so bad, but I knew that it was bad and in the papers they had made a big deal about not allowing dogs into the Alster when blue algae was there.

Mittendrin

Just some thoughts here...

This morning when I was sitting in the train going to work, I saw an ad for a community event. In the ad's headline was the German word "mittendrin." Seeing this word reminded me of my ex-girlfriend. She would always make fun of how I pronounced "mittendrin." In fact, often, to show me how wrong I was pronouncing "mittendrin," she would repeat the word with an overly strong American accent. She would also mock me for how I would often say, “mitteldrin” instead of “mittendrin.” But she mocked me in the latter case more good-naturedly.

After having all these thoughts about "mittendrin," there, sitting in the train, I thought about the time I said something to my ex about her English pronunciation. She had been singing a song, and after she was through, I’d said, “You know what’s weird? Usually, when foreign people sing in English, they lose their accent. But you don’t exactly.” I was able to recall exactly what she had said in response. She said, “Do you think I like that you say that?”

The Effect People Have on You

It's amazing the effect that people can have on you.


Today I had been sitting at a café doing some writing when an old woman with a walker approached me at my table and asked me if the chair opposite me was occupied. When I told her it wasn’t, she sat down. Initially, I had no problem sharing my table with this woman. But then she began talking to me. Yup, talking to me like it was the most normal thing in the world, even though I was in the middle of writing.

The woman spoke German without a hint of a dialect, or at least it sounded that way, but she didn’t enunciate well, and I had a hard time understanding her. I guess she was saying something about how there was too much traffic in the neighborhood and that there were always cars rumbling down the street in front of us. One thing I clearly understood was that she had just been denied access to a bathroom in a local grocery store and had returned all the items that had been in her basket in protest.

At first I tried to be polite and listen to what this woman had to say. However, I soon realized that if I kept on being polite, she would never stop. And she didn't. As I was trying to write -- I had only managed to write one sentence since she had taken her seat -- she continued to talk. After repeating the bathroom story for something like a third time, I heard her say this: "It's so expensive in this neighborhood. I swear, I get the feeling sometimes that if I moved out of my apartment and let five years go by, I wouldn't be able to afford my place if I ever tried to come back.”

I had been holding onto the hope, however tenuous, that I was still going to be able to write with her sitting there. However, once she began complaining about the price of rents, I knew that was no longer going to be a possibility.

So, after telling myself “not to force it,” I took out a book that I had brought with me and began to read. Oddly enough, it was only moments after I had begun reading the book, the thing that I thought would calm me down, that it happened -- anxiety.

I got hit with a mild wave of anxiety. The wave was not all that intense, but it was enough to get my heart beating quicker and me perspiring a little more. For a few intense and uncomfortable moments, I was reminded of times when my writing had been hindered by other anxieties that I'd had. Essentially, I was having anxiety about anxiety, and as I sat there in my seat, the world momentarily felt grim.

Thankfully, I've become something of an anxiety expert over the years, so I knew that what I was experiencing would soon pass. But for a bit of time, I was having real trouble taking in the words of my book.

The woman, meanwhile, was still talking. It was a mixture of her sort of talking with herself and sharing some comments with a few people she seemed to know on the street. She attempted to address me directly again, but when she did, I totally and unashamedly ignored her. Over the years, I've noticed this about myself -- namely, if my anxiety gets triggered, I get unfriendly. So I wasn't surprised that I continued to flat out ignore this woman even though I knew doing so was sort of rude.

Eventually, the words of my book, "A Farewell to Arms," started to make more sense, and I started to feel myself relax. Still, I was conscious of the woman and kept wishing she would leave, just leave. After about 10 minutes, she did, and even though I kept my eyes on my book when she got up, like I was lost in deep concentration, I was glad.

Soon after, I noticed that an older couple, a man and a woman, maybe in their 50s, had sat down at the table that was behind me. When I had first arrived at the cafe, two young mothers with their children had been at that table. At some point, though, the mothers had left and this older couple had taken their place. Both the man and the woman were laughing heartily about something, and as they were I made eye contact with the woman. She held my gaze and continued to laugh and smile, and in that moment, I felt relief wash over me.

It's amazing the effect that people can have on you.

Poem: When the Day Is Over

I really like this one. Enjoy.

When the day is over
And the crowds thin out
And all the white walls look purple,
I'll be out, kicking around,
My mind running 'round in circles.

When the wood doves take
Their places in
The trees where they've built nests,
I'll embrace the world as is
And hope just for the best.

And I'll walk and walk and walk and walk:
I'll walk without an aim
'Neath skies that good and bad men walked
Before I had a name.

And I'll dream of days when those I love
Felt no hurt or pain,
Their eyes a sparkle when I would
Disembark a train.

I'll dream of days
And walk on by
And thank God I'm alive
To see these skies of amethyst,
To live the gift of life.

Thanks For...

Thanks for saying that, that we lightened up the mood, that’s really sweet of you, but you guys just focus on getting better and doing your thing. Obviously, that’s what’s the most important thing, and then we’ll figure it out from there. It’s no worries, man; it’s just some flowers, but obviously we wish you the best, wish the baby the best, and I’m sure it’s gonna turn out great. Just let’s get passed this sort of rough patch. 

All right, I hope you have a good day. It's fucking hot as hell, so stay cool. 

Poem: A Butterfly From the Night

A butterfly from the night
That’s one way to call it.
Others might a moth
But let’s go with it.
A butterfly from the night
Flitting around the room
Attracted by the light
Attracted to my room.
A butterfly’s a butterfly
By any other name
A butterfly of the night
A moth, it’s all the same.

Villanelle

When I write poetry, I usually don't follow any form. I mean, I want my poems to rhyme; in fact, I think the best poetry is that which rhymes. But other than that, I just usually let it rip. However, form is, or at least can be, important. One form of poem is the villanelle. Basically, a villanelle is a poem with two rhyming refrains, which appear over and over again as the poem progresses.

So in one of the most famous villanelle's, Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," the lines, "Do not go gentle into that good night" and "Rage, rage against the dying of the light" serve as the villanelle's two alternating refrains.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I mention all of this because recently I thought I would try my hand at writing a villanelle. My composition is below. I hope you enjoy it.

"Now I Know I Laid Wreaths at Your Feet" 

Now I know I laid wreaths at your feet
Though there were a few times I was out of my mind 
Now I know I was not incomplete. 

Now I know that you were the heat 
Though there were a few times I believed in your lies
Now I know I laid wreaths at your feet. 

Now I know the word "hurt" and "mistreat."
"Unfair," "denied," "unfair" and "unkind." 
Now I know I am not incomplete. 

Now I know how I was in deep 
Though I felt with my heart and saw with my eyes 
Now I know I laid wreaths at your feet. 

The heat, the heat, the heat, the heat 
You were the one from fire who cried. 
Now I know I was not incomplete. 

Now, alone, the rustling leaves 
I hear and see, past clouds to the sky
Now I know I laid wreaths at your feet 
Now I know I am not incomplete. 

Poem: "My Last Impression of You"

My last impression of you

Was a masterpiece

A form of mimicry so good

You had yourself to laugh

At 

The timing that I had

And the screwed up face I made

And the place I took it to

Even though I'd been betrayed

The last impression that I had

Of you, the one I made

A masterpiece of mimicry

So good I felt ashamed.

Poem: "Always Filled with Happiness"

Always filled with happiness
After I see you.
Before we meet, however
You're not a person who
I want to see, I dread the thought
In fact of meeting you.
Always filled with happiness
After I see you.

"One True Sentence"

Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know. 

Recently, I have been rereading Ernest Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast," a memoire about the author's life and times in Paris during the interwar period.

Among the many things talked about in the book, Hemingway gives us insight into what his writing process was like when he was living in the City of Light.

The quote above refers to a mantra Hemingway would say to himself whenever he was trying to write but was stuck. He would tell himself, essentially, not to get caught up in the thought of how daunting writing a novel, or writing in general, could be, but instead to focus, at least initially, on writing that "one true sentence."

So finally, I would write one true sentence, and then go from there.

I've always been fascinated by Hemingway's idea of "one true sentence," and the small piece below, which is biographical, is inspired by it. Enjoy.


***


I remember one time fighting this kid Craig for what he did with my hat.

I was on the middle school bus after school and one of my friends had snatched my red Philadelphia Phillies hat off my head and had tossed it to another friend of mine. The two were playing keep-away, which was fine until the hat landed in the hands of some kids I didn’t know. When these kids refused to give my hat back to me, the mood changed.

After all, the hat they were tossing around wasn’t any normal hat. That hat was the hat that kid Bo wore. Bo was a kid who used to ride his bike around my old neighborhood, Forest Hills, bullying people. He was a tough kid and he always wore this red Philadelphia Phillies cap. When I moved away from Forest Hills to a place called Great Neck, in Long Island, I decided I was going to reinvent myself as a tough guy -- I was going to be like Bo. So during the summer before middle school, I bought a red Philadelphia Phillies hat, the same one Bo had.

And now here that hat was, being tossed around the school bus by people I didn’t know. The cap flew back and forth over the rows of seats until it landed in the hands of Craig.

Craig was someone I only knew by name. He was scrawny and very innocent looking, the type of kid that still wore sweatpants to school, which was totally not cool back then. I didn’t know Craig, which was why the tension became palpable when he became the next recipient of my flung-around hat.

“Give it to me,” I said, looking Craig in the eye. He was sitting in the seat right behind mine. He returned my gaze, but threw the hat to someone else, nevertheless.

“You’re dead,” I said before turning my attention to the person who had just caught my hat. “When we get off this bus, you’re fucking dead.”

I don’t know if Craig knew I was serious on the bus, but he certainly did when I got off at his stop and started to push him. “Come on, you little shit,” I said. “You’re cool enough to throw my hat around, come on...” But he didn’t want to fight me.

I remember feeling tough as I pushed Craig, with a few schoolmates looking on. I felt like I was Bo now, and I was going to make a name for myself. I remember yelling at Craig and him just walking on, walking on toward his house, not wanting any problems. At one point, I pushed him very hard from behind, the way some people had done to me in Forest Hills when they had been giving me problems.

Eventually, I grabbed Craig in a headlock and we wrestled on someone’s lawn. I landed a punch on his head and it probably hurt my hand more than it had hurt him. But, in my opinion, I had proved myself. I was still too young to know that such behavior was not cool. I was 11 years old and I was  showing that I wouldn’t be fucked with, which was much more important at the time than any possible repercussions that might have come from my behavior.

Poem: "On Her Trajectory Through the Universe"

On her trajectory through the universe
On or off course
Of course we'll have a laugh, and laugh
About this shining star
This meteor, this asteroid
This creature born on Mars
Flying through the universe
Light, on fairy wings
Picking up that astral dust 
Killing all the things 
She made and things that made her up
She pulls like gravity
A whirlpool down, round, to the floor 
The dark bed of the sea
A place where all the energy 
Shrinks neatly to a size 
Smaller than a nickel, larger than a dime 
And in that spot, round and dry 
(a miracle, it's dry) 
Lie the answers of her birth 
Lie the reasons why. 

Poem: "I Think It's Pretty Clear"

I think it's pretty clear
I think you would agree 
I think it's pretty clear by now 
You, me. 
I think it's pretty special and 
I think it's pretty sweet.
I think it's pretty clear by now
I think we can agree.   

Poem: "The Advice"

Oh. She wanted the advice.
I didn't think 
She wanted the advice. 
Ok, I'll think. 
OK, I got it, right 
This is what I'd do 
If I were nine and nine again 
If I were you.
I'd play it as it goes, but I'd
Protect myself as well 
'Cause good things don't come back around 
Once they've gone to hell. 
So take these words, I do impart 
These chestnuts, wisdom, gold: 
To you yourself be true, besides 
You're old but not that old. 

Poem: "When I Looked Into Her Eyes"

When I looked into her eyes
I felt a wave of electricity go through me
Sitting there on the bench, sunset time it was
Her eyes were like the mystery 
Painted on the walls
Of pyramids or grottos
Sometime before the fall
Of ancient governing bodies
Her eyes were like the sun
Shining on a silver lake
When the day is done
When the light is right and one
Feels a sense of peace
Something like serenity, something like release
A thing that’s sharp and buzzing and
Electric in its way
Alive and right and lively and
Thankful all the same.

Poem: "Coincided"

Coincided, the heart divided
St. Germain. 
There goes that train. 
Coincided 
The heart united
Tuileries, the pain subsided 
Growing pains and hearts divided, coincided
Crack-cocaine. 
Derided, chided, denied and righted 
Gustav Eiffel, I. M. Pei
The boulevards, wide, bright and lighted 
Bridges, walkways, alleys, trains

Coincided with it all.
So let the chips where they may fall.
And let the pain, besides, subside like rain
On paving stones of St. Germain. 

Poem: "Moratorium"

Moratorium

 Legit.

 Keep it hard and real.

 A man of fucking mystery

 A man of steel.

 Moratorium, "genau"

 Exactly as they say

 Moratorium, unbudging:

 I've tried the other ways.

 Moratorium, mirage;  chimera, keep away

 Moratorium, in blood

 An oath to healthy stay.

Poem: "Cross Me Off Your List"

Cross me off your list, your list
Cross me off your list.
Whatever list you had, you can
Cross me off your list.

Doubt I don't you, benefit
Of the doubt, I don't
Doubt the things you doubt and doubt
I
Doubt the things you won't. 

Break it hard, hark!, break it fast and 
Smash it, crash it, crash.
Just wipe me off that list of yours
Fast. 

Hard Times Are Over

I love the staccato pacing of the lyrics to this song. Enjoy.

It’s been
Very hard
It’s getting
Easier now

Hard times
Are over
Over
For a while

The leaves are
Shining in the sun
And I’m smiling
Inside

You and I
Watching each other
On the street
Corner

Cars and buses
And planes and people
Go by
But we don’t care
We want to know
Want to know
In each others’
Eyes
That hard times
Are over
Over
For some time…

Poem: "Child's Play"

He was a reflection of our evil
Not Evel Knievel 
A reflection of our people 
And the cruel ways we can be. 

A reflection of the sea, he
Reflected back the sky
In the manner sharks exist
And birds of prey dive. 

He was a reflection of what’s there
We know
Yet, also know that we
Have the human touch 
--It's love--
Unlike he. 

Poem: "Others Couldn't Take It, No"

Others couldn't take it, no
Ready, no, they couldn't 
Wouldn't, couldn't, I'm not sure
All I know they didn't. 

Strains of plain the others had
Couwagulated to
Bands of inhibitions
Uninhibited with you.

Relax, relax, it's something new
Relax, you've earned this right
Relax, it's only natural like
Day goes down to night.

Don't tip your hat or show your hand
Others couldn't know
What goes on when light inside
Is like chiaroscuro.

Poem: "Insofar"

I love you insofar as I can use you.
I love you insofar as I can abuse you. 
I love you insofar as I can cruise to
A better station, place or point
A better standing in 
The institution of my choice
A better place within. 
I love you insofar as I
Loved the others, sure.
Whatever you would like to hear
Nameless here forevermore. 

Poem: "Whatever Luck I Get It's Not"

Whatever luck I get it's not 
That luck evades me
Whatever luck I get it's not
That luck escapes me 
I had it once that luck I got
One Friday afternoon
I got a call from one who made
Her mind up way too soon
Or so she said on Friday when
She called me back again 
Whatever luck I’ve got it’s not
The luck I’d like and when.

Poem: "Watching You"

Watching you flower

Bloom

Has been a joy

Like the view

From a beautiful room

Expanses opened

Breaths anew

Rosy cheeks

Yes can do

Watching you bloom

Colors so true

Watching you smile

Watching you. 

Poem: "My Head Tilts and I Fade into No"

My head tilts and I fade into no
And the heat of the day is gone 
And the runners move 
Closer to their goals 
And I feel I've been put on. 
Still​,​ I want to write 
A thing that I 
​P​ass down​ one day​ like faith 
​A thing that I can enter in 
The annals of this race. 

Poem: "The Garden Path"

I'm so mad at you
You led me down the garden path
With clementines and bedroom eyes
Now you've gotta walk it back
Because lies are not my soup djour
And  kindergarten was before
The stakes are higher when you grow
Let's be real, you know I know
So if you want, I'll let you go
After all
You know I know. 

Poem: "No One Ever Took Your Side"

No one ever took your side, 
So you couldn't take mine. 
Though at the time 
I searched my mind
For reasons why
You failed me
(Thought you were blind)
Now I know you couldn't help. 
Now I know, 
Left by yourself, 
No one to help and no lifeline 
Was how you lived your life, survived. 
No one ever took your side. 

Poem: "Happy"

I should be happy . . . and I am . . . 
I should be happy.
And I’m sad.

I should be happy, though
I have
Fought for pretty hard
Being happy
I have fought
Smoothing out the scars. 

I’m happy and I should be
And I know it, clap my hands.
Turn myself around and laugh
Turn around and dance.  

"Kasimir Tidies Up"

I love how paradoxical learning a language is. What I mean is, one might think that to learn a language one would need all kinds of fancy books. I don't think so. Whenever I want to improve my German vocabulary, actually, I pick up a German-language childrens book. Below are some words that I wanted to learn, or at least had to look up, when I recently read "Kasimir Räumt Auf," or "Kasimir Tidies Up." Enjoy.

Stach, spike; Besen, broom; im Nu, in a flash; stöhnen, groaned; ächzte, groaned; du hörst schlimm an, you sound bad; brummte, growled; einschlafen, to fall asleep; im einzigen Schrank, in the only cupboard; mürrisch, grumpy; seufzen, sigh; Kaminsims, mantle; stürzte hinunter, fell down; knipste, snapped (a photo); stellte, placed; fuhr vor, pulled up; Glücksklee, four-leafed clover; schnaubte, sniffed; steckte, stuck; verschwand, disappeared; besorgte sich, arranged for, Pinsel, brush; Walzen, paint roller; runzelte, wrinkles; Diele, foyer; quetschte sich, squeezed by; scheußlich, atrocious; trugen, carried; fort, gone; gerecht, fair; fädeln, to thread; Schnur, string; wickelte, wrapped; Plätzchen, cookies. 

Poem: "Perhaps"

I search my heart and should feel calm
But don't, instead I don't.
Don't know what pill would help me, nope
Don't have the antidote. 
Perhaps if I do this, then that
Then that, a little this
Then cross it off my list, "To Do"
I'm fond of making lists. 
Perhaps, perhaps, a kiss on lips
Perhaps a hurried fuck. 
Don't know what pill would help me, nope
I guess I'm out of luck. 

Poem: "A Friend Named Bear"

I used to have a friend named Bear.
We made him cross a bridge.
But one thing that he never knew:
I never crossed that bridge. 
Bear said that we were crazy. 
He said there’s no way that
If he crossed the bridge he would
Ever cross it back.

Oh, Bear, oh Bear,
I never crossed that bridge.
I’m sorry that we acted like,
Well, I guess, like kids. 
Bear, I know that you are brave and were,
You crossed that bridge that day. 
And I respect you for it, dude,
Just thought it time I'd say.

Poem: "I Haven't Been Masking"

I’ve haven’t been masking 
My distaste for you.
Sorry, dude. 
I haven’t been faking
My disdain, it’s true
I liked you at one point, back when
But now I’m someone new. 
I haven’t been masking
My disdain for you. 

Poem: "Wild"

The other day I saw the notebook pictured above in a store. It inspired me, so I bought it. It inspired me so much, in fact, that today I wrote a poem based on the cover. Enjoy.

I'm a wild soul
Watch as I unfold
Won't slow my rhyme
And won't slow my roll. 

A wild soul, I am, I said
Won't take a no, won't go to bed. 

A wild man, where wild lies
A fiery heart
With fiery eyes
A fiery way to make you change
And imprint on your brain my name. 

My First German Poem

Wow, so today I was actually able to write a poem in German.

Now, sound is always a very important part of the poems I write. I'm very sensitive to how the words actually sound when lined up next to each other.

I mention that because I really like the sound of this poem. To hear how the piece sounds in German, go here. Enjoy.

Unterirdisch, stürmisch, traurig, 
Unglaublich, furchtbar, schlecht...
Hat nicht zu tun --
Gar nicht --
Mit Menschenrecht.
Unnötig, doch es gibt,
Unfassbar, doch es war.
Abgesehen von was wirklich ist.
Abgesehen von der Wahr. 

Here is the poem translated word for word: 

Blasphemous, stormy, sad
Unbelievable, terrible, bad
Has nothing to do 
With human rights. 
Not necessary, but it exists
Astounding, but it was
Irrespective of what really is
Irrespective of the true.

Poem: "No Limitless Life"

Sometimes I write poems as warnings to myself, or rather to remind myself of some point I want to keep in mind. Here is one such poem. Enjoy.

No limitless life.
Put some boundaries on that thing. 
Put a cap on that which you can do
Limitlessly.
Too much of a good thing
Becomes a bad thing swift.
A no-limit life ain’t right.
Some boundaries do the trick. 

Poem: "They Always Clung to Tradition"

Obviously, I write poems. But this poem sort of wrote me, if that makes sense. Enjoy.

They always clung to tradition
As if that would carry them home
They always clung to tradition
A garden gnome.
Sitting around when someone dies
Covered mirrors, red, wet eyes
Clinging to tradition each
Clinging to what’s out of reach
A sob breaks out among the pack
Clinging to what won’t come back
Wearing black or wearing white
Fast in morning, feast at night
Clinging to tradition all
A little bread, a little salt
A garden gnome, a rock, some dust
Ash to ashes, dust to dust. 

Poem: "I Saw a Beggar Woman"

I saw a beggar woman
Counting on her hands.
Sitting there with her cup
Counting on her hands.
Counting crows or counting sheep, 
Counting till the day
Her tour of duty ends and then 
She'll be on her way 
To lands of castles, rich and dark, 
Where pine trees and the meadow lark
Add a sense of meaning to 
A life of something far and few,
A life that's simple, where one can
Count necessities on one hand. 

Poem: "People Who Want to Share Their Soul with You"

People who want to share their soul with you
It’s kind of hard. 
People who want to share their whole with you
Glass jars. 
People who want to share with you
That which God bestowed 
Mean no harm but just don't know 
How hard they sometimes are. 

Humbling

I swear, sometimes life just humbles you in moments you least expect it.

The other day, in one of my classes, I had two new students. I was able to tell that one of the students was not a native German, but I didn't think anything of it. I thought his ethnicity might be Turkish  because German has a strong minority of Turkish people.

Anyway, I had asked the students to write a small essay for me. I had just spent the entire last class talking and truth be told, really wanted to rest my voice for a bit. I told the students to write a small essay about the following topic: “We all sometimes have to make difficult decisions in our lives. What was one difficult decision you had to make? Please explain what the decision was, what you decided for, why and what the effects of that decision were.”

After assigning the task, I went and got myself a cup of coffee. It was only later, when I was marking the essays, that I found out that the new student who looked like he was from Turkey actually was from Syria. And not only that, he was a refugee who had escaped that war-torn land and made it to Europe in the most difficult kind of way, by crossing the Mediterranean. I was immediately humbled by his story, which I have reproduced below. Enjoy.

The most difficult decision in my life was my journey to Germany. I was in Turkey and I had a little budget to start a life there but I decided to leave Turkey and go to Europe, exactly like  a lot of Syrian refugees who wanted to start a good life and get better chances in their own life. It was very hard to take the risk and travel illegally across the sea with the death boats, risking my life leaving my friends and family and all the people that I have known to go to live in a foreign country with a new culture, new language and start from zero or maybe even less than zero. For me it was “to be or not to be.” I wanted to make my future with my own hands and build it as I want. I didn’t know how hard it would be. I went through very bad moments. Luckily, I have made it all the time. A lot of bad memories and lot of good things I have learned. The life is experiments and I want to try everything I want.

Moments

Think of all the moments that we record with a camera or video camera, never to do anything with those pictures or videos again. Here is simply a moment I didn't want to lose, but one I knew I would if I didn't post the video of it here. Enjoy.

Learning German

I must admit, learning another language is really hard. Sometimes, I have to come up with creative ways to remember things that should be pretty easy. For example, there's this one phrase in German that I had wanted to learn: "in alter frische." The English equivalent of "in alter frische" is "with bells on." So just as how we would say, "I'll be there tomorrow with bells on" to show that we will arrive the next day with energy and a good attitude, we would say in German, "Ich komme morgen in alter frische."

But I had been having a seriously difficult time remembering exactly how the phrase was said, particularly which letters ended which words, so I made a little mnemonic device: "in alter frische," "re."

So the mnemonic sentence would be: "This message is re the phrase "in alter frische."

Boom, solved.

Poem: "You May Thank Me; That Was You"

You may thank me; that was you. 
You may not know it now.
You can thank me; it was you.
So what’s before you now
Reflects the light you give, you make
Life a bit more bright.
You may thank me but it’s you and I'm
Glad your in my life. 

Poem: "Equanimity"

equanimity: mental calmness, composure, and evenness of temper, especially in a difficult situation.

I had a dream about a great white shark,
But I wasn't afraid
And I faced the beast with equanimity.

I knew the thing could go two ways,
Which was OK for me; 
I faced the beast with what I had,
Equanimity. 

I saw it from straight on and then
It passed me on my side;
It saw me, smelled me, felt me and
Decided to go by.

I’d like to think that it was God
Who from its jaws kept me.
But I can’t help think that it was just
My equanimity. 

Ex-Girlfriends, Instagram and Numbers

One thing that has always fascinated me is trying to quantify the intangible.

What the heck am I talking about?

Well, we know how to quantify the tangible. For example, if you have two apples and I give you three more, you now have five apples.

But how do we quantify the intangible? If I help you move house, for example, how much do you owe me in return for the favor? Do you owe me a favor that requires equal effort? Do you owe me anything at all?

It's hard to quantify the intangible.

But recently, I was actually able to quantify the intangible, and I want to share the whole fascinating experience with you.

But first you need some backstory.

In January, my girlfriend and I broke up. I didn't want the breakup, but she did. While dating, though, both of us had Instagram accounts, and we would "like" each others' photos often. After the breakup, I was pretty certain that she was still checking out my Instagram account. Although I hadn't thought that her ability to still view my account altered my behavior on the platform, I was certainly aware that she was still probably viewing my pics.

Now skip ahead to about three weeks ago when I decided to my block my ex-girlfriend on Instagram. I figured, Why should she be able to look right into my life whenever she wanted?

And so, a small, new chapter in my life opened: the one in which my ex was no longer able to see into my world via the pictures I was taking.

After this online blocking, I still continued to take pictures for Instagram. I love the platform, so, understandably, I carried on with the habit.

But then something started to happen. 

With my ex now blocked, I started to get the feeling I was taking fewer pictures.

After getting this feeling a couple of times, I thought to myself, "Am I taking fewer pictures now that I know she can't see the account?" I thought the answer might be yes.

And now here's where the whole quantifying thing comes in.

Because Instagram stamps each picture posted with the date of the posting, I was able to see exactly how many pictures I had taken in the 28 days since having blocked my ex. I was then able to compare that number with the number of pics I had taken in the 28-day period before I blocked her, the 28-day period before that, and the one before that one, too, going all the way back to around the time of the breakup.

And the results were shocking.

In the 28 days after May 6, the date I blocked my ex, I posted 59 photos to Instagram. In sharp contrast, during the 28-day period before that, a time during which my ex could still view my account, I posted 136 pictures. During the 28-period before that one -- again, we're still broken up but she can see my account -- I posted 111 pictures. In the 28 days before that, I posted 80 pictures, and in the 28 days before that, 106.

So, when I knew my ex could still see my Instagram account, I was averaging 108 pictures per 28 days. Over the 28 days during which I knew she couldn't see my account, I posted only 59 pics. That's a nearly 60% decrease in the number of pictures posted!

So why am I telling you all this? Because it absolutely fascinates me to be able to quantify something that is not easily quantifiable.

But...

What exactly is that thing that is not easily quantifiable? What exactly are we talking about?

Well, what hadn't been quantifiable was how much I was actually taking pictures for her. Although I thought that I was just taking pictures for me, a huge part of my motivation for posting all those pics, apparently, was her and the knowledge that she was probably looking at my account from time to time. 

So there you go -- a very personal blog post, but a very interesting one nonetheless. If anything, I think the takeaway messages is, when it comes to social media, we should really think about the reasons why we use these platforms.

Poem: "You Feel It Alright"

You feel it alright come on, I'm ready
You feel it alright come on
Unsteady I have been but am
Ready to take on
Your chaos now 
You feel it too
I knew you would, you have 
Spent it in the woods, under 
Suds of bubble baths.

You feel it now, I knew you would
Keen and sharp and hard
You feel it now 
Come on, come on
Don't leave me seeing stars.

Poem: "I've Seen You on This Line Before"

I've seen you on this line before

I've seen you on this line 

Before I've seen you on this line

I've seen you on this line. 

Eyes closed and the sunshine on 

Your eyes as you sit there 

Lighting up your face and your 

Strawberry blond hair. 

I've seen you on this line, the line 

You need cause duty calls 

Cause money doesn't grow on trees 
Like apples in the fall.
I've seen you on this line, your line 
Before I tell you this 
Before you kiss a frog and you 
Turn it to a prince 
Hold the line, please hold the line 
First see what fate has planned 
Then open up your eyes and be 
The woman to my man. 

Boere trial

Here's a story I worked on in 2009 while on assignment for Deutsche Welle, a German news agency. It's about the opening trial of a former SS man charged with killing three Dutch civilians during WWII. The trial took place in Aachen State Court. 

By Chad Smith and Maya Schikora

AACHEN, Germany — The opening trial of admitted Nazi hit man Heinrich Boere was abruptly adjourned today after Boere’s defense persuaded the judge that the state prosecutor might be too emotionally involved in his efforts to convict the 88-year-old former SS man. 

Boere is charged with killing three Dutch civilians during WWII while he was a member of an SS unit tasked with crushing the resistance in Holland. Boere confessed to his crimes while in Allied custody after the war but escaped to Germany just before a Dutch court could try him.  The court eventually convicted him in his absence. 

Years of legal wrangling between Germany and the Netherlands resulted in Boere’s living his life a free man in Germany. Ulrich Maass, the lead prosecutor in the case, recently reopened Boere’s file in a last ditch effort to make Boere pay for his crimes. 

But today in state court, Gordon Christiansen, Boere’s public defender, said that since Maass reopened the file, in 2008, the prosecutor gave almost a dozen interviews to the media in which the he seemed to have an axe to grind. 

German law mandates that prosecutors should strive to be objective. 

The judge ruled today that until Maass gives a clear response to the defense's accusations, the case cannot move forward. Maass didn’t have an official response ready but said he’d have one on Monday when the case resumes. 

Even though today’s events look like a one-up for the defense, having Boere in court at all represents a victory for the prosecution. In 1983, a German court ruled that Boere couldn’t be forced to serve his Dutch sentence (life in prison) because he wasn’t able to provide a defense in the 1949 trial that convicted him.

In 2008, several German courts ruled that Boere couldn’t stand trial in Germany for the three killings because of his old age. But Maass, a prosecutor who specializes in National Socialist crimes, appealed those rulings and won. 

Boere, who is half Dutch, half German, was 18 when he joined the Waffen SS — the elite military arm of Hitler's murderous SS organization — in 1940, just months after Holland fell to the German blitzkrieg. He served on the Eastern Front for two years then returned to Holland and joined the 15-man SS hit squad in 1942. 

The hit squad  code named “Silbertanne, or “Silver Pine,” was composed of mostly Dutch volunteers tasked with killing Dutch resistance fighters or anyone thought sheltering them  even if that meant murdering their own countrymen. The mission was responsible for 54 murders in the Netherlands during WWII, the prosecution has said

Maarten Bicknese, the grandson of one of Boere’s victims, Fritz Bicknese, spoke to Deutsche Welle this week and said that he was happy Boere would finally stand trial after living free for so many years.

“He was at home and he lived a good life, and now, finally, he will come before a judge. For my family, this is a good thing.” 

If on Monday the judge believes that Maass is not objective enough, one of Maass’ colleagues, another prosecutor, will take over the case, which is expected to last two months. But Maass may want to do whatever he can to stay in charge, as his key witness — an accomplice in one of the 1944 murders — is scheduled to testify that morning.   

Poem: "I Wish"

I wish I knew what you thought about.
I wish I knew more.
I wish I had the key
To your door.
I wish I knew the way
Your path led
Instead of playing guessing games
Standing on my head.
I wish I could employ a phrase
Or navigate your maze
Or travel with you when you go
To that secret place.
I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish
I wish upon a star
I wish upon a wishing well
I wish upon a charm.
I wish upon a talisman
A stone, a bone, a ring. 
I wish I could know more and know
A bit of what you think.