Hamburg Haiku and Foto Journey

Upon seeing my 100 Haikus about Bonn, my friend Moritz scoffed that he could not believe I hadn't written at least 10 about Hamburg, my second town of residence in Germany. I've finally prepared a few dozen to share, though they are in some cases little more than captions to some photos from 2004-2006. Photos are by me and a few by Jenn unless otherwise noted. Thanks to Hamburg friends for the inspiration and encouragement. Please let me know of any mistakes you might see.


Boats on the harbor
take tourists between barges
and through the canals


woman is free but
everywhere she is in chains
clamped on golden calves


The beckoning blue
guides you to the U-bahn stop
at Landungsbruecken


Hopes of the squatters
are shripwrecked at the shores of
the Hafentreppe

(Hafentreppe = harbor steps)


the Hafentreppe
a gateway to the harbor
you can buy drugs here


The protestors shout
"Kein Hotel im Wasserturm!"
but to no avail



These are the green vines
that cling to the old brick walls
of the post office


bin viel geschwommen
unter die gruene Lichte
am Holthusenbad


Weinachtsmann of Wurst
slings his Christmas sausage links
to winter shoppers


the Rote Flora
rock shows and vegan dinners
for the anarchists


graffiti dreamland
an activist jungle gym
behind the theatre


Philosophenturm
"tower of philosophy"
I had class here once


Pfanner Gruener Tee
is the elixir of life
drink it by the box


altes und neues
stehen gegeneinander
Kirche und Hochaus


Koenig der Loewen
shuttles the theatergoers
to the musical


steht auf dem klingel
"auf zwei raedern bleibt man jung"
bikeride and believe


pedal past chapels
and the fields of soldier's graves
nameless in the sun


the grabengel weeps
and lingers on the headstone
of her dead husband


all the ice-skaters
skate along to the sounds of
Harry's Eisdisco


Elbetelescop
see across the galaxy
for just 50 cents


alte Elbtunnel
surrealistic frisbee
und lichtenspiele


once you've hacky-sacked
in the bowels of the earth
you can not go back


at the Hafenklang
you never go home alone
der Rhythmus kommt mit


Susannenstrasse
where the Sternschanze starlets
go to drink coffee


wall of astronauts
who have ventured into space
and brought back new sounds


back when I was young
me and Susi had fun at
the Crocodile rock


St. Pauli Fussball
Pirates drunk in the floodlights
nachts am Millerntor

(photo by Ayla Kiran)


at the Grey Havens
bid farewell and chart a course
to Undying Lands

(and a few I don't have photos up for yet)

Every weekend night
prostitutes in puffy coats
line the streets of Kiez

red retro ballroom
ascend velvet rolltreppe
to Revolver Club

Zardos is the place
to drink a cappucino
and buy some records

riding around the
Stadtpark Planetarium
on my bike at night

Auf der Reeperbahn
the spirit of Hans Albers
sings a festive tune


when it's time to leave
I board my private shuttle
to the USA

Ghosty Music Revue

One of my favorite bands of all time is playing a concert Friday at the Granada Theater. They are called Ghosty, and they hail from Lawrence, Kansas. You can hear some of their music on their official Web site, or at their MySpace page.

And now, thanks to Brett Hendrix, you can catch (and hear) a glimpse of what they are like on the stage. In this particular clip from their recent West Coast tour, they cling to the shadows, like true Ghostopolitans. However, they are generally a more animated bunch, and are worth checking out both in person and on record.

Finally -- and many of you have already seen this footage years and years ago -- there is still a video circulating the Internet of the band performing on the front porch of a dilapidated house while a young man and large bunny combat each other. You can find that on the band's page at Lawrence.com, under the videos section. But I don't necessarily recommend it. Unless you a) have never seen it before b) like to see giant bunnies fighting college students c) have 4 minutes to kill and like good pop songs.

See you tomorrow.

Covered Wagons: we'll drive them some day

Andy's convinced the world is going to end, but he doesn't remember telling me this.

It was the spring of 2004 when we had the fateful conversation. We were at Josh's house, eating ice cream -- I have no idea now what flavor or brand. Andy was back in town from his private liberal arts college in the pacific northwest, and the three of us had been enjoying a pleasant evening of companionship, frozen treats and conversation.

Just before we parted ways, however, Andy steered the conversation to more somber matters, specifically the predictions of a particular prophet/bestselling author who had it figured out to the hour when doomsday would occur. Because we'd made it so far without any real awkwardness, and because my departure was pending anyway, I went along with the conversation, saying nothing in favor or against these views. Josh, however, nodded along and chimed in with a bemused "yeah," and "really?" every so often, which only encouraged Andy's espousal of these apocalyptic views.

Finally I excused myself, bidding a warm farewell to my two friends. I held my laughter in check long enough to drive around the block, but by that point I had been keeping a straight face too long to want to even crack a smile.

Later, I mentioned the conversation to a couple of other folks, who said they'd heard of the doomsayer but couldn't think of his name. I wasn't terribly interested in researching the matter further, but at least I knew Andy wasn't the only proselyte.

I didn't see Andy for another two years, at the Ad Astra per Aspera CD release party at the Record Bar. He was in town until he could save up some more money to return to his college in the pacific northwest, and in the meantime his arm was in a sling as the result of some kind of snowboarding mishap.

When I asked what he had been up to, he said his chief interest of the last several weeks had been researching the exact history and location of the Oregon Trail. His uncle had come into some land outside of Lawrence, which Andy suspected had lain directly on the course of the Oregon Trail.

In order to research this, he'd gone to the Spencer Research Library in Lawrence and dug up some old trail maps of the area. Using these "ancient scrolls," as he called them, Andy had determined that his family's land did indeed lie where the Oregon Trail used to be.

Upon hearing the words "Oregon Trail," I immediately hearkened back to my own history on the Oregon Trail, all of which took place on the Apple IIE computers in my grade school's rudimentary computer lab.





I told Andy about my long-held wish to write a Bildungsroman about my time on the trail, which would consist of a series of flashbacks to the times when I'd needlessly killed hundres of pounds of buffalo, died of dysentery a dozen times over and always forded the river even when I couldn't afford to.

Where most people my age would chime right in with their own stories of Oregon Trail computer game mischief, Andy remained silent, patiently waiting for me to finish so he could continue talking about his research. It was then that I realized that he was serious, that his interest in the Oregon Trial was more than some ironic diversion and reflected a true historical interest in our proud state of Kansas.

It turns out Andy had even been talking to the employees of the nearby Ritz Camera store about the history of the covered wagon statue just a stone's throw from where we were standing at that very moment. Anyone who's driven by the Westport Road/Southwest Trafficway intersection has surely seen this monument to pioneer days, an authentic covered wagon mounted in gravel in the corner of the parking lot. At Christmas time, it's decorated and lighted up to look like an Old West version of Santa's sleigh.

I don't know what exactly the people in the camera store had said to Andy about the wagon, just that it was a sturdy piece of equipment that wasn't likely to go anywhere soon.

"Shucks, Andy," I said to him. "Some pre-apocalyptic weekend, you and me are gonna take that sucker for a spin. We can roll all the way down Westport Road and then swing up to Loose Park to fire the cannons one final time."

"Pre-apocalyptic," Andy repeated, a smile spreading across his face. "I like that."

frisbee folklore

These photos from fall and summer are included here as an incentive for you to check out and read the legend of the frisbee poet, a short tale inspired by the Brothers Grimm, Langston Hughes and multiple visits to the disc golf course.

Deconstruction (photo) Diaries: Nov. 24

Here are a couple more views of 4832's demise, complete with a shot of Bean-dog on the turkey-day game gridiron. As for the new residence, it feels less like a temp home and more like an old aristocratic cabin, thanks to the paintings of my great-grandmother's, antique furniture and the sounds of my parents and sisters playing the piano and singing selections from Les Miserables. On Monday, the old home comes down. And just because we're sad doesn't mean we can't take the bulldozers for a joyride or two.


Bean Dog: All-time cherry-picker


Sweatlodge Studios recording artist Laura W.

All photos by Jennifer Brothers

of dream homes and destruction

"A perhaps overly dramatic end to tonight's Skittles fight. Breaking down the door felt good. It looked so sad, the Star Wars poster still on it. It was a statement, I suppose, more violent than the kind I usually make. Laura was laughing uncontrollably, and I laughed a little, too, but afterward I just wanted to go outside and cry."

-Excerpt from the Oct. 2nd entry of LW's Deconstruction Diaries

Right now there is a bulldozer in front of the house I grew up in. I'm not speaking poetically -- it's true. Though the house has been wonderful, it's been through a lot and was plagued by a few structural problems, and the family all agreed it was time for a complete overhaul (as long as the cold-war era bomb shelter remained intact).

In memoriam of 4832 Adams, I've included a lone entry from my journal of the house's deconstruction process, as well as this old photo taken by my aunt Joan in which the front yard almost looks like a Japanese print.



It's a bit of relief for everyone that the process has begun, even if it looked like it might not really happen until the last minute. Pookie Thornhill and friends had threatened to form a human chain barring the wrecking crew from the property, but they didn't follow through, and I kind of figured they wouldn't. I didn't, however, expect that the person operating the equipment would be none other than Sam Stepp.




Sam Stepp: Homewrecker

As traumatic as I imagined all of this would be, it hasn't been so bad, and it's not like I don't have my own apartment. Even so, I've done some surveying of the region and found a home that I think would be suitable once I decide to take up turnip farming and start a family. I first drove by it on the way to a cousin's graduation party at a barn outside of Lawrence. It's made of stone and quite lovely.


dream home


miles and miles from nowhere

I eventually picked up the Douglas County Historic Building Survey from a few decades ago and identified the home in question.


VERMILIA HOUSE
1 mile north, 1 mile west Jct. 24-40
This stone house was built by Ed Vermilia for himself and a sister in the 1860s. The coursed stone walls probably come from the hills just to the north of the home. The home is vacant but owned by area residents.

So, if you happen to be the area residents in question, please know that I am very interested in your property. I'm not so handy with stonework or home repair, but I am willing to do what it takes. You can reach me at mossby at gmail.com.

my myspace treatise

While dusting off my old quill pins and shaking the loose German phrases out of my head in preparation to write about my most recent European adventure, I went ahead and finished up my sociological treatise about making sense of life on MySpace. In this essay, I make sure to ask and attempt to answer all the big questions, such as "Why are we here?" and "If half of your top 8 friends have profile pictures featuring perverted/fictional bunny rabbits, what does this say about you as a person?" Whether you abhor the social network or are a MySpace veteran, I encourage you to read my take on the whole affair and possibly even chime in with your own observations. Together, we can make sense of our online world.

bin jetzt wieder da

It's a sunny day on Sonnenallee. I am about to venture out into the Grünewald region outside Berlin and see if I can find this little museum at the edge of the forest park. I have been back in Germany for a week, and will not be here much longer. Last night I had a dream that I was stunt-diving off the top of the Berlin Fernsehturm and broke a bunch of my teeth. So I guess I have acclimated, on some level. Things have been rather lovely here, and if it weren't for love, employment and certain Mexican restaurants along SW blvd, I probably would not return to Kansas City. But return I shall, and when I do, I'll give an update on my brief foray into the Teutonic. I have been taking a lot of photographs, but mostly they are of the odd little mannakins and puppets in store window displays. Until I post this slideshow of Schaufensterpuppen, you can check out some recently posted 2005 europicks by my flickr mistress/lady-in-waiting, Natalya B. Until then, ich wunsche Euch einen wunderschönen Tag.