Letter to Franny:
barbaralba_part - 5th book of a letter to Franny.
In the foundation was a mule in the sub superstucture is Barbaralba.
One doesn't find Barbaralba, one waits.
barbaralba_part_02

Dec. 3rd. I’ll be travelling south from Paris in five days. When my mother was my age, she lad a 14.5 year old son and a 13 year old daughter. I don’t think I have any children.

I had something to say but I forgot what it was. If I remember I’ll get back to you. I’ll go visit Frankenstein for now.

-Though the other thoughts were lost in the catacombs of my mind, I have another thought that I shall now lay bear in the abattoir of words. Mary Shelly claimed in her intro. to her fairly well known novel of the tails of a young man who in his passion to devour the tree of knowledge, inadvertently created a monster, that she didn’t consider herself a serious writer. The success over the years of her novel might lead some to believe her claim as false modesty. I however accept her statement.

A friend of mine will create works of art one day that will cause many to proclaim that he is a genius. I’m certain he would be confused by the idea. I think also of some of the great actors. The actors that impress me the most are the ones that appear to be playing their own role. I’m sure that they find a freedom in being someone else so that they are more able to express. What appears as genius is the ability to lose one’s identity and let the role be its own life. Let the brush make its own moves. Let the story be told. It’s not necessarily easy to achieve this state, as Beethoven said, ‘You have to learn the rules before you can break them.’ Anyone can learn to be good at an art, but to reach genius, no matter how simply displayed, the artist has to free himself, herself from the self. This is no revolutionary thought, Plato said it much better, but I believe it bears repeating.

How did Plato put it, I can’t remember? I have it written somewhere long ago for I believed it then as I do now. He said that the poet is a winged thing and is only truly free on the wings of madness. That’s a butchered paraphrase but that’s the idea.

And when they had sung a hymn, they went out into the mount of Olives.

The pastor of the church I attended often said that at the end of communion. He left out the mount of Olive part, I suppose because there weren’t many in London, Ontario. I have to say London, Ontario because Toby doesn’t like me referring to London assuming Canada. Even if I say the town of my Birth, I must mention Canada for his country also has a Halifax. Back to Jesus. He was particular to fulfil scripture. This I propose was part of his calculations.

Mark 15, verse 36 (next point, by the way). And one ran and filled a sponge full of vinegar, and put it on a reed, and gave him to drink. Next verse he gives up the ghost. Perhaps the wise teacher was not ignorant of a chemical that would cause such an affect. I simply suggest it might not have been vinegar, which seems like an absurd thing to give to someone who is supposedly in need of some refreshment. What makes it even more suspicious is that Joseph of Arimathcea, an honourable councillor, ran off to Pilot craving the body of Jesus. A little dodgie if you ask me. In the next verse, we read that Pilot marvelled if he were already dead. I suppose he marvelled. Jesus didn’t even have his legs broken to speed the process and the process was usually more like a week rather than nine hours. So here he was, assumed dead in record time, put in a rich man’s tomb, were there would be plenty air and, low and behold, he gets up in two and a half days or less. His wife and mother are at the sepulchre early Monday and he’s gone. In the sepulchre was a young man with a white garment. Some like to think this an angel, but this is not said and since nothing was odd about wearing a robe in those days, it shouldn’t be so shocking to be white. Especially if the man might belong to a particular order that wears white robes. And in those times there were as many or more cults and orders as there are now. One cult had a ritual of being buried for three days and being reborn. Jesus even told his friends that Lazarath wasn’t dead. He recovered as easily as Jesus. If you refer to that story, you’ll notice Jesus didn’t even hurry back when news came that Lazarath was dead. Odd way to behave for someone you love like a brother, or maybe a brother-in-law.

On close inspection, it’s easy to see why people weren’t permitted to read this book but to rather be taught by priest.

I’m sure if one could read the unadulterated version of the book, it would become a little more historically realistic and lose the fantasy that is drugging millions into dangerous dependency.

Speaking of drugs, not long ago, marijuana was almost made decriminalised. It was not legalised but decided that prosecution for certain small amounts would be pointless. Nevin, my lawyer friend, tells me they are debating the legalisation of it so that you can by it in coffee shops. I find it hard to believe it should happen in Germany but this country has come quite a long way in personal freedom since their last big mistake. I don’t want you to think that cops don’t beat the shit out of visible minorities regularly but that happens everywhere, including your home town and my former home town of Toronto. Ask a homosexual about Cherry Beach. Ask a visual (visible) minority; well someone not white, about the 52 precinct there on Dundas Street. Many nice white people can’t understand why some thankless non white people don’t like policemen. Hell, some people still think Hitler was good for this country. He got the country working. Digging lakes for a dollar a day or burning Jews is hardly a fulfilling occupation. And less we forget, he also bankrupt the country with his make work projects. All in all, I think we can reserve good things to say for someone other than Hitler and his desperate idiot followers.

And as for the young fools that still believe white is right, a little study of biology will show there is no basis for this. For a practical experiment, put a tribe of white people in the equatorial sun for a few hundred generations and a tribe of black people in Scandinavia for a few hundred generations. Even Edmundo, who came from Mexico, has lightened considerably in the 6 or 7 years he’s been in Russia and Europe. And that’s no generations.

What are we on about? How’d we get to this? I better stop before I start raving about insanity of belief. The dangerous weakness of our race; our ability to believe any shit we’re told. My parting advise on this evening is to question everything and suspect all conclusions and hold fast to no convictions. This I am certain of.

_bunnie stop_

Zoink. Well, it’s almost three and my brain is spinning at insleepable revolutions. I suppose it’s natural when one is alone to think of friends he left in another country. I was just thinking about Brian, who is reluctant to write though he has a talent for it and a impressive command of English. I was thinking of calling him up from a pay phone in Spain and saying something like: Merry Solstice Alleviation or something referring to the celebration of the day light hours again increasing. Then I would say to his sister, should he not be home, to tell him that if a writer does not write, he will decompose. I was pretty happy with that so I thought I’d jot it down. I also thought I should write to Donna to say I still have a white bunny at the side of my bed. And of course I was thinking of Brent and John Mortimer and how he fired Brent for taking too long to take a shit. Brent never forgave him for that. John fired me for being a fish out of water. Suddenly I think of F.Z. and his song of Flakes, which doesn’t really apply but holds frightful truth. I was also thinking that often reading Frankenstein, I didn’t see it as a horror story so much as a tragic tale of the human condition. I’m sure when the movie comes out, it will destroy the story. My guess is it will fail to make us feel pity for the monster. The monster that needed only a little love to make him most honourable. Now I’m reading ‘Animal Farm’. I want to hurry up and read a bunch of books that would be essential reading for someone studying literature. It would make sense for someone who hoped to become part of it. And I found the Charlie Farquharson’s ‘History of Canada’. I may read a bit of that now, for I believe it is also a very important piece of litter. He’s such a tit. It’s hard not to like him.

_bunnie stop_

I don’t know why I suddenly thought of Hitler but here I am again after three in the A of M without a hint of sleepfullness. Now I hope Charlie don’t farg up my mind fro as how to write but I must say he’s most enlightening on Canadian history. There’s something to be really broad of. I don’t know what it is but it sure as hell ain’t history; unless you want to boast and say we was the first to beat US of A in a war. That’s the story with the woman, her cow and her ice-cream business thereafter. What I wanted to write was the start of a letter to Eva but my airmail paper is not to be found. Maybe I already packed it. In the bag Tauqir gave me. What ya call me? Let’s see, we talked about the citrus trees. I mentioned a few other banalities, I even think I talked about Darlene and Sandy and the rest. I mentioned I am going to Spain in 30 hours and I’ve yet to sleep twice. Petra gave me a small Red towel with bunnies embroidered on a white strip. I think people like me ‘cause I’m a fan of bunnies. My dad had a birthday today so he called so I could wish him a happy one. I make the best chocolate-chip cookies and if you ever run into Chris of the Sucker Punch fame tell him if he’s still interested in his mom making some for him, I will send her or him the instructions and details of their execution. He probably don’t know what you’re talking about and if so just talk something else. He’s a good man for a chat. Franny. Was ist los? Wiebke tells me I may get stranded in Madrid because everyone wants to go on strike. It makes sense, Spain has 50 or 80% unemployment so those who have a job should complain and close down the country. Tell us about unions Frank. 1,2,3,4. But there’s two sides I’m sure. People should get more money and work less. Or what’s better in my opinion is, make workers part of the company and give them profit sharing and a few shares every couple months or whatever. Having workers and owners so far removed from each other is not good for workers or company. It’s no way to run a business in an era where, fuck, any era when people aren’t up for being slaves or something like it with a different name. That scar there on my finger I procured, whoops, that word doesn’t belong, does it, at Lana’s apartment. Speaking of chocolate ice-cream, I had one for the first time since they imposed the end of summer on us. And Rafiq had to pay nearly 3 marks for a head of lettuce and I’m hungry. Can’t really eat at 20 before 4 in the morning. And it takes anywhere from 2 weeks to several to cash a money order at the Post Bank. In many parts of the world it would take 2 minutes if it was a slow teller but they have strange rules here. Another rule they have is: no one has to be polite if they don’t want to. I don’t want to include the fellow at the Post Bank because he’s friendly and kind enough to remember me. And passing people on the street can lead to depression if you don’t get used to it fast. Sorry. Obviously, nothing to say.

_bunnie stop_

Oh, one more thought. Timon, who’s no slouch in the field of words, though they must be in German, informs me that Charlie Barwhat’shisname is a brilliant writer. In case I hinted he might not be, which would be dumb of me not even having read anything by him. I can see running out of books in English in half a year. I’ll either have to learn to read in German or take tap dancing lessons. And some of my favourite movies are: Blues Brothers, A Princess Bride, Willow, and I can’t remember any other ones but there are many. Betty Blue. And Eva was good at bringing home films I’d never think of watching but were often much better than what one would chose out of his own head. Well fuck me. It’s after four and I have to try to sleep now. Be cool, man.

_bunnie stop_

I was attacked by the landlady today. She rang the door bell ten times in 30 seconds or less. When I opened the door she started barking at me about the floor. I mentioned it wasn’t dirty but she said it didn’t matter, she paid to have her hall floor cleaned once per week and it wasn’t dirty either. Well, then, perhaps I’ll do it every day. The rule is: once a week. Never mind ‘ya but’. A rule is a sacred thing; if you act outside of a rule, than all will fall into disorder. It’s good for her to worry about my conduct though, it gives her a little something to work on. Perhaps she can lead an Auslander into the light of the German way. Ya Vole. (spelled not like that) Look at the oak go. But what bothers me most is, I leave tomorrow for Spain, the transportation is striking and I suspect welfare has cut me off and I can’t see them today because they are closed Wednesdays. Or is it Tuesdays they close. Shit. I better go down and see. See ya.

_bunnie stop_


Here it is, Tuesday and the students are at their university. They have it rough here; school from 4 PM until 5:30 PM twice per week. The rest of the time, they have to study things like the beach or the narrow streets of the town of Cadiz. I wouldn’t want all that stress. And having to go to bars and drink beer.
I don’t have any exciting events to disclose. Or open. I don’t know what I told you about Wiebke coming to Spain to study for 6 months. And it doesn’t matter but I’m here for a few or a dozen weeks. It’s funny how it’s just as likely to be living one place as another. I’m sure I’ve never heard of Saarbrucken or Cadiz in the first 33 years of my life. Now they are the two places I grovel in. Cadiz has many people out from the middle of the week till Saturday night. If they can’t afford the drinks in the many bars and clubs, they just form their own establishment on the street and drink their own drinks. Though it seems to me a little sad, they appear to enjoy themselves and no more are right drunk than any other town west of the Moslem countries.

I was a little offended when a Spanish boy threw a little stone and hit me in the face. He obviously knew I was a foreigner. I wondered if his mother had told him bad things about foreigners. Afterwards, I thought I’d like to clear up a few points with the ignorant kid. I wanted to mention to him that he is from a land that has taken over a very large percentage of the Americas. The hypocrisy of hating or even disliking foreigners was most unacceptable for Spain. But I said nothing because he wouldn’t care. And my Spanish is limited to about two score and ten words and I’m sure beer and food items wouldn’t make my point.
Yesterday we went to Jerez where all the Jerez, or Sherry as the English coined it, is made from local grapes. The town had very many, what are they, not pagodas, maybe begodes or whatever and there it was and so were we and now we’re here and later we’ll be somewhere else and then later we’ll be old or dead.

Before I put this away, I will say the train ride was quite pleasant. From Paris to Madrid, I was shacked up in sleeping quarters with an old Spanish couple who were very sweet and a young Spanish woman. I understood little and communicated less. And the train was an hour late leaving Madrid but it still arrived in Cadiz on time and Wiebke was so pretty to see waiting there for me that any tediousness of the trip were soon forgotten.
The streets are always load here. Cars, mopeds and people all day and all night. Well I was going to say something relevant but it must have leaked out of my head.

_bunnie stop_


Here we are Franny, a few days before the celebration of the turning of a 4 into a 5 on the arbitrary recording of how many times the Earth has whipped around the sun since we last decided to start counting. And so everybody is looking forward to the religious drug sacrament of the glamorous poison loosely classified as drink. But since I fear someone will bust into this house any minute, I’m going to try to jot down a bit of the last few days in the sunny town of Cadiz. It is a story of a somewhat suspicious nature which we are trying not to believe until we witness the ending.

The story starts Christmas eve, which is the night Germans open their presents and do what ever can be done on this sombre occasion of the supposed birth of a failed King and misinterpreted fanatic.

Marcus and Wiebke and I had a little opening of present while an old James Bond film accompanied us in Spanish.

Around nine or ten, Sebastian and Nicole arrived for Steve’s home cooking. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before but 95 time out of 97, what I create is extremely yummy. This night was a turkey and vegetable soup, followed by lintels with rice. To top it off, Sebastian had made a chocolate moose, excuse my English here, what would be illegal in most religions. Not because of added drugs or anything, I hasten to add, only on account of it’s rich chocolate flavour.

Fare enough. But before the mouse was to be eaten, Sebastian went to the nearest phone booth to phone his family and wish Merry Christmas, or how every they call it in Germany. While at the phone, a German recognised his home language. He tells Sebastian a story and Sebastian brings him home to our place. We’ve got plenty of food so I heat up some lintels and rice, we give him some wine and he tells his story. Now for now there is no reason to doubt his story except for his shoes which Wiebke suspects do not fit with his probable income for a busy veterinarian. Other than that, he appears as likely a veterinarian for large farm animals an any Eastern German I’ve ever seen pictures of or met.

This was his second time in Spain. He’s looking for a place. I don’t like writing this suddenly. I hate suspension. Unfortunately, so far, it appears that for four days we have been supplying this stranger with food, drink and cigarettes, a place to sleep, even pocket money now. And of course, free reign of the place with shower and laundry service by Wiebke and clean clothes by Sebastian. Nicole has lent him 5,500 pesetas so far and that only translate to 65 marks or 55 Canadian dollars or 45 American dollars or about 25 pounds and I don’t know about the yen.
All of this is perfectly acceptable and we all like him in various degrees. The only trouble is there is nothing concrete. He is looking for a place to set up a veterinary practice directed mainly at the pets tourist bring to the south of Spain. He has nothing to keep him in Germany. His wife went out one night last July to get him some cigarettes and was hit by a car and died. His parents are dead, he has no siblings and no close friends. An associate in his home town has sent him a 800 mark telegram that was to take a maximum of 3 hours. That was two days ago. This too is probable, for though it cost 160 marks to send such a thing, the German banks are tied up with bureaucracy and people that don’t want to do anything and Spain is usually asleep in the back seat.

If I believed in freedom of expression I would find a hard wooden bat, walk down stairs and smash the speaker that hangs outside of the toy store. It blasts the same three tapes into the street everyday until nine at night. It is too loud to concentrate on our German friends story. And in case he isn’t playing a sting on the poor students, it might be more just if I finish the story when I know the ending. I’ll toss in a couple details for interest sake now. He apparently was giving a clean cut Spaniard a light for his cigarette on the 23rd. While his arm was stretched out in a defenceless way, he was hit on the head from behind. When he recovered his consciousness, his pack and jacket were gone. His passport was all that he had in his shirt pocket and somehow a razor. He wears his watch on his right arm so this could be why the thieves failed to take it. He also has armpit deodorant which nevertheless does nothing to help the strong sent of his feet. He spent a day and night cold and sleepless with only a jacket that a fisherman gave him. He had enough cash to buy a pack of smokes or two and a few coffees.

Since Christmas eve, he’s been living well. If his money comes, we will see him off as a friend in a day or two. If it fails to arrive on account it was never sent, we will have to admire his cunning but be most discouraged about lending a hand to strangers. This for me would be the worst crime and it is this that makes me hold fast to the hope he is what he says he is. It’s a sad state when nothing is what it appears. Already, most of what appears to be as it is, is exactly the opposite, it becomes most frustrating when it turns out some people are made out of as much chemical toxins as the little cute plastic dolls we give to little girls so they will act like little girls. And he turned the music down a little in the toy shop. now it’s just part of the noise instead of painful.

It gets quite cold in this and other flats at night and for that matter, all through the day. The sun never sees any windows here and they have no heating.
They do have a few magnificent trees. I saw a few of them today when I took a short stroll to pass the time while waiting for the midday break to finish so I could buy some Soya sauce.
A flock of children and a gaggle of parents just went by after singing a song down on the cobble stone narrow street. The streets are narrow likely because there is little space in this peninsula city. In summer it would be a blessing not to have the sun down there. In the summer you have to cut cows to run cool blood over your head just to keep you from exploding.

If I’m going anywhere with this, I better wrap it up for now to keep it fresh for later. Wiebke is bound to come back soon from her weight training. Nicole might come back with her and they will both be hungry. Peter may show up to be fed as well.
Just a couple more points to the story. Apparently, though he wears polyester pants and cheep worn out shoes, our friend has his own practice, a Jeep a BMW and a large flat 15 kms. from the Boden sea or whatever that lake is called that is shared by Germany, Switzerland and Austria. He told me to come visit him and talk to his friend who is a writer. This sounds contrived, which has caused me to join in suspicion of the Sting. Till later.

_bunnie stop_

by Joanne B. Washington

read on. barbaralba_part_03



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