In der Stille der Wörter

Die Stadt erzittert, aber er nicht
Und seine Kunst hat auch keine Angst.
Er schreibt, und lächelt, und schreibt,
Ruhig die Wörter, in den Seiten komischer Wahrheit.

Die Fäden seines Hemds verschwinden nicht,
Im roten licht der Wüste.
Er ist zu Hause,
Sein eiginer Schatten gelegt um sich.

Time

Well, my first semester in this franko-prussian land is at an end. It has been - once again - some time since my last entry. In that month I was wrapping up the semester over here, where most courses are structured to contain very little "homework" until the end of the semester. I had to write some long essays in German, which was quite the experience. Originally this month of February was going to be spent hanging out with a friend who was going to visit me from home, but in the end such an adventure was not found prudent. Instead, I am looking for an electric guitar to rent (there are a lot of cool music rental places around Munich), so that I may finally begin my lessons. This would solve the issue of my parents having to hassle with getting me a guitar from home, and indulge my rock/blues fantasies to no end. I've also taken this opportunity to read a couple English books that have been on the back burner since before my transatlantic repositioning. I read "Big Sur" yesterday in a 5 hour or so sitting, and am hunting down a copy of "On the Road", both by Jack Kerouac. Today I am starting "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" which is far overdue. I really do like it.

I think I need to start carrying a pad of paper with me at all times. Lately I have been drawing up the most satisfying and poignant sections of prose in my mind, always at the most inopportune of times. I miss America more than ever, but love it here more than ever just as well. It is a very strange feeling, and it changes me, hopefully for the better.

Clear winter days filled with birds. The ethereal light of evening casts weird shadows amongst the cathedrals of this aged city, people come and go. There is a Magpie on my window sill, it tells me the west will never die.

Last evening in Wannweil

Well, tonight was my last night here in Wannweil, a sad day indeed. I have enjoyed my time here more than I could have ever imagined. The Buck Family made me feel right at home and were nice enough to briefly adopt this giant American for the holidays. I've been postponing my return to Munich - and subsequently my return to study - as long as possible, but tommorow, unfortunately, I must be going. So far I have met innumerable friends, cousins, nieces, nephews, second cousins, grandparents, and, finally, one great aunt.

I've enjoyed countless family traditions, long conversations well into the night, endless poker games, and a few rowdy blues sessions featuring Matthias Buck on the Blues Violin. I've learned a unbelievable amount of German in the short time I was here, and cannot wait to return quite soon.

I'm bound to write more about the last amazing couple of weeks later, but for now I need to sit back and let it all ruminate a while. I can say with certainty, however, that I have felt for the first time that I was at home in this foreign land. It was as if -- having finally pierced some sort of cultural shell -- I suddenly became aware that these people aren't Germans, they are just people, and, being friends of our family, are pretty much my kind of crazy. I can't wait to come back.