On the radio this morning, something was said about a program to be broadcast later in the day, about alt sein (“being old”), only I understood Alzheim. The irony crushed me to the thickness of a peanut skin.

Cracking walnuts a few days ago, I had to think about the evolution of the brain. My theory is, we are descended from walnuts. It’s all there, the two sides, the lobes, the corpus callosum. Maybe not the lobes, I guess, but the folds, the folds.

Either that, or there is some natural mathematical explanation involving surface area and volume and maximization.

I have no time lately to practice cello. This makes lessons and orchestra rehearsals frustrating. Even when I do practice, I cannot get into the proper frame of mind. Last night I was doing okay for a while, but then Beta yelled that Gamma wanted me to come upstairs and dry her hair, and I sighed and went upstairs and she was in the tub crying because the water was too hot and I said why didn’t you put some cold water in and we ended up yelling at each other, in part I think because we are all so sick and tired at home, and in part because St. Nicholas brought chocolate yesterday and that’s about all we ate all day long.

Gamma and I are both the kiss-and-make-up types, though, so we were getting along again by bedtime.

I got her into bed and practiced a little more but didn’t make much progress on any of my orchestra pieces, which require more concentration than I am presently able to give.

There are two other things, however, which are saving me musically. One is a small Le Clerc piece, a cello duet, kindly sent to me by Guanaco. It is at a level of difficulty that enables me to concentrate on enjoying the music, and perhaps bowing, rather than getting all tangled up in intonation. It is fun to play, and another cellist at the music school and I may soon be playing it together, just for the hell of it.

This is significant, as it goes beyond what my original goal was in taking cello lessons. My original goal was, to increase my enjoyment of hearing music. To open the window a bit wider to the room where musicians sit around playing. I did not dream that I would ever be in the room playing with them.

I have achieved all my original goals and must set new ones I guess. My experience in the orchestra has also been a benefit – I can now hear the different parts of the music when an orchestra plays, and my appreciation of it has increased.

For the moment I am coasting while I formulate new goals. Struggling with hard music, and enjoying playing as an added, surprise bonus. Thanks, cello! Thanks, Guanaco!

The other thing is, Gamma and I have enrolled in a composition workshop at our music school. See, she said she’d only do it if I signed up with her. We are the second father-daughter team in the workshop, among other kids there.

We are working on a minimal music piece, I think. One idea, the teacher said, would be to come up with your own scale of several notes and noodle around with that for a while and see what you come up with. I tried it the other day.

Remember the dead fox? In German, it is spelled Fuchs. Subtract the U, which is no note in German notation, and you have the notes F, C, B (called H in German) and E flat (called Es in German). It is possible, without any knowledge of piano, to sit down at one, figure out which keys correspond to those notes, press down on the sustain pedal and noodle around such that it sounds pretty and melancholy. I find it a great comfort.

It is harder to get something nice-sounding by noodling about on the cello, at least for me, at least right now. Maybe that would be a good goal.

Gamma doesn’t want to compose a melancholy piece, though. She wants to do something happy about a badger, maybe. Or something else.

My kids do their homework and I realize I don’t know a single thing. There is no knowledge, only vague memories such as, things chemical involve electrons. Or, there was a literary style known as expressionism. Everything else is pure guesswork or less, pure making shit up.

Like: until you hit the ground, you can’t be sure whether you’re flying or falling.

Looking for a necktie this morning, it occurred to me that my father never abandoned me on the bridge at Multnomah Falls. As a young boy I had a phobia that I would be abandoned at a landmark of some sort, a park, or perhaps a bus depot.

My father was a bus driver, I saw the inside of a lot of bus depots; baggage rooms and driver rooms and dispatch offices.

It is, I suppose, a phase we go through, wanting to abandon our children, and I must have picked up on those vibes as a boy.

I was the first one into the office this morning. A phone was ringing somewhere with that mysterious potential native to unanswered ringing phones.

It was early in the morning when my mother called to tell me of my father’s death. Her voice was naked and quiet. I cried after I hung up. Then I sat on the edge of my bed and remembered how strong my father’s arms had seemed when he held me when I was little. He wore plaid pendleton wool shirts and smelled of wool and work and tobacco and lumber and diesel.

Even now, I still love wool and work and lumber and quiet, decent men, and the smell of tobacco and diesel.

Z was a little old lady I went to grade school with. I thought about her this morning, driving into work. She was blond and small for her age. She had curly hair and thick glasses and elderly parents. Elderly parents! And they gave her a name that started with Z!

Each year she was taken out of class for heart surgery. When we square danced, the teacher made me dance with her because I was the nicest boy. I also was assigned the task of helping her catch up with school work when she returned from hospital.

She died in the fourth grade. Nowadays, such a kid might have a better chance. Back then, maybe, the surgeons stood around after the ether put her out and thought, Jesus, what now. I imagine their tools looked like something out of your father’s toolbox, just sterile.

I don’t think about Z very often, but when I do it feels as if I’m always thinking about her. Like a theme in some very long composition that when you hear it, you think, this is what ties everything together.

This morning: seven deer in the usual field, and a fox carcass in the emergency lane.

“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Waiting. I want to try and catch the toast when it pops out,” I say. I pull my hand back for a second and rub my fingers together. “But it’s quite hot this close to the toaster.”
Distracted by speaking that last sentence, I fumble the toast when it pops out and it falls back to the top of the toaster. I put it on a plate and take the glass of Nutella out of the drawer.
“In daycare,” she says, “and at school, they spread the Nutella way too thick. The butter too.”
Only here at home do we know how to spread right.

Horst has published a new book (in the English language).

This is what famous authorities are saying about it:

“Messages from the Lost Continent is a unique and at times hilariously funny blend of thriller, science fiction and fantasy novel, which was originally published in 2005 as a fiction weblog.”

You should also know that I helped write it. And I say:

“If it is half as much fun to read as it was to write, it should be pretty a lot of fun to read.

The promotional site linked above (click on the image) has ordering instructions. I ordered several extra copies to sell to cronies and family members at a marginal discount. If you want one of those*, complete with autograph or whatever, maybe a Bgu, send me an email for further information.

*Remember, the holiday season is closer than it appears