Thursday, June 11, 2009

Garden Love

Well. I haven't been posting so much. I've been distracted and driven to distraction by my volatile relationship with Himself. Volatile. That is the word. Ätherisch. Flüchtig. Launisch. Sprunghaft. Verdampfbar. Vergänglich. Unstetig. Unberechenbar. Volatil.

So. I will discuss the garden. I will post photos of it sometime. We hired Dietmar and his friend Bernhard to plow it up and rip those stubborn blackberry roots out of the sunny patch in front. They slowly drove a tractor from about 1948 to us, we could hear it coming from far away. It had a weathered teddy bear tied to the front grill. Most of the garden is in deep shade, the trees desperately need a trim. But the large patch alongside the fence is sunny most of the day. The fellows came and got to work and got the job done, beautifully. Dietmar is a true character who spent some time at sea and wears a cross, an anchor and heart pendants on his chest.

Then Michael and I combed over the chunks of earth left behind, removing roots. The earth is rich and unadulterated. It will nourish everything wonderfully well. I have met toads and frogs there. There may be a fox, too.

Then I had to lay out the garden plot. I wanted nothing in the garden that is at right angles, nothing rectangular. I went into a meditative state and began walking-the-eight on the land. I walked a series of interlocking figure eights on the plot, and tamped the earth down over and over with my feet. It is wonderful to walk there. The bees were happy with the shape of the garden. Me too.

We planted in squash, pumpkins, beans, peppers, tomatoes, marigolds, carrots, white radish, snapdragons (favorite flower of all, mine) bright orange monkey flower, corn, herbs, yarrow, heuchera, lady's mantle, onions, cucumber, sunflowers, lavender, nasturtium, and a couple more things now I forget. I would have loved to order and get a box of seeds from Seed Savers. But we could only use the basics that are available here, for now, since it all costs some money. Next year? Who knows?

Meanwhile, my bees were feeling the strange experience of being between bloomings. All the early summer, late spring things have stopped, and nothing more at present is in flower. This is a problem for them, keen to collect. Normally, the fruit is spaced out in blossoming during this time. Now, everything blooms at once, and all of a sudden, the fields of raps and everything else was already moving to fruit. The hives were full to dripping. I had to remove 25 kilos of honey two weeks ago. They didn't even mind. Bees conglomerated in the garden house, hanging in the windows, attracted by my foolishly-placed empty, honey-smelling frames. They eventually dispersed, but not before I became very excited, thinking I had attracted a lost swarm, and briefly believing myself to have magical, bee-attracting powers.

Now and again it rains. We had begun clearing the paths to the garden house, still chopping blackberry roots out, when he and I had another of our famous eruptions. They always post-date an event which has brought us closer together. This time, it was taking Argentinian tango lessons and beginning to love it. What happens is: I do something that he believes was wrong. If I don't agree and see the error of my ways, then all hell breaks loose, and we go through the drama of breaking up.

After plants have lived through a rough rainstorm, it actually makes them stronger and glossier and healthier, to have their leaves pelted to ribbons, if they had previously been in a state of stasis and dull soil. But everyone knows if storms happen over and over the plant loses its trust in being able to survive. It can't forever weather harsh storms. Eventually, it will die back.

We're not talking. But the garden is still growing. It is the garden we planted together, for our future. It is the garden that felt like a magical place when we found it. A mole has wended its way through the beds, linking the yarrow to the tiny carrot seeds. I walked the Eight there yesterday, along the paths. Right now, it makes me sad, waiting for rain. Waiting for the seeds to sprout.

Friday, May 15, 2009

She

A 40,000 year old, ca. four inch high ivory carving of a female form, found in far southwestern mountains in Germany in September 2008, thought to be the oldest known human representative figure yet found by archeologists, will be unveiled this week in Tübingen.

Archeologist Nicholas Conard hypothesizes that because this and other numerous ivory carvings, as well as the earliest musical instrument found come from the area known as the Schwaebisch Alps, that this could mean that the area gave birth to the first ever world “culture,” according to the late 19th and early 20th century definition of culture. To date, all other carvings from this early era are of animals.

Stunningly, in print the discoverers have continued to refer to the carving as a “Venus” figurine. Using the term “Venus” to describe all prehistoric female figures is a practice that has been forcefully discredited over the past forty years, for two main reasons. Venus as an artistic and literary reference was a Victorian-era euphemism for sexually provocative, thus irrelevantly codifying the sexual projections of the early scientists. Also, as a goddess of the Roman pantheon, Venus post-dates this prehistoric art work by several thousand years, making such a reference anachronistic. While the finders admitted they did not know for what purpose the piece was created, they did not fail to characterize the piece as “undoubtedly representing a fertility object,” which is perhaps the most unexamined and oft-repeated cliche in the entire history of archeology as a science. How the object can, without question, be labelled a so-called “fertility object,” without a single definition of the meaning or intent of fertility as an abstract concept to these people is a question that remains unanswered.

The piece is highly detailed and intricately carved, and its finders are happy and excited. Said Conard, “This piece radiates energy and is impressive.” As with many other prehistoric carvings which may have simultaneously represented women and deities, this carving focuses on her breasts and stylized pubic area, while her arms and legs are less detailed, and her head is missing. Because the piece was found compacted with material, 20 meters from the cave entrance, scientists believe her missing parts may yet be found.

With a shocking hubris, yet presumably because the carving shows an abstracted vulva, Conard’s colleague Paul Mellars stated that the figure’s “design bordered on modern pornography.” While modern pornography generally has the intention of raising sexual excitement in a passive viewer, the said figurine shows no perceivably provocative display associated with such. Mistaking a simply carved, unclothed, 40,000 year old female form with an external and conscious attempt to arouse him, Mellars makes the same misinterpretation his 19thc, pre-psychology predecessors made: he has projected his own contemporary sexual identification on a 40,000 year old culture whose expression of 21st century “pornography” can only be said to exist in fantasy.

Mellars’ stupid and prurient comment, then, printed in the journal Nature, repeated in Yahoo news and in countless regional newspapers, can only be assumed to have had the self-conscious intention of ensuring its publication and wide dissemination.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Where have all the Libraries Gone

Latest news from our local paper is that the yearly cost for library membership is rising 90%, from 10 euros per year to 19 euros per year. That's really quite a jump. It's sort of...obscene. I mean, normally a price hike occurs with regularity in the order of fifty cents or a euro at a time, perhaps yearly. Little tiny digs at a time are less painful and can be adapted to better than a massive gouge at once -- this is simply true.

The reason for the near-doubling of price is that since 2003 or so, the visitors using the library have gone up by 45%. One might also think that the late fees associated with books returned late have also gone up 45% or so, if a rate of paid fines can be plotted. But I'm no mathematician, or anything. Where does the money for late fees go?

I would think that increased use of a public entity would mean that the library then is ripe for more public funding. If it's being used more, then more of our tax money, collectively, should go to support it.

I don't know where all the tax money goes in this society. It would take a lifetime to figure it out, I believe. I notice that in town, the trees in the parks are trimmed yearly at great expense, especially when the trimming appears unnecessary and is done only to healthy trees. I notice that certain offices in the city building are filled with marginally busy employees serving trickles of customers. I have personally experienced getting a bill for the remainder of a service totalling less than 80 cents -- the postage, the paper, and the work done to write and send the bill would have added up to far more than the return (and could have been added economically to my next bill).

I know that the library is well used, and used well, and has well-trained, responsive employees. Many folks depend on it. The collection is as good as a small town can hope for, and is regularly beefed up with all that folks want to read. So, logically, it deserves a greater share of the pie.

Instead, its customers will be penalized and made to pay almost twice as much as they ever did. Their children still get to borrow for free, because the literacy of children is acknowledged to be so very important, even though the literacy of their parents, from whom they learn it in the first place, can still be pumped for cash. Unemployed folks still have to pay 7.50€ per year.

19€ per year isn't a huge amount of money. In a city, it might be a commuter's weekly allowance for coffee, but here, I feel it. And it just seems ass-backwards to penalize customers further, in an economic slow-down time (when are we going to called it a Depression?) when the libraries are one of the last great institutions of communal sharing. It irks me, and it makes me want to listen to Woody Guthrie records.

The main hall of the Denver Public Library.

2,382,672 things to check out. Library cards are issued for free.

I don't have a tidy way to wrap this up. I miss American libraries. Gawd, I can hardly think of their generous bounty without disbelieving myself, but it is so. I used to check out stacks of books, 16 high, anything and everything that I would ever want to buy. I could check out things on inter-library loan, for free, and have them shipped from Nebraska to read. I bought second had books at their sales for .50 and a dollar which later were found to be rare and pricey. (And now, mine.)

America might not be a terrific exponent of socialism, but frankly, nobody else has nailed it as well as Americans have for libraries--one of the best socialist ideas of all time.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Peeping from the Hut

Going through Germany by train I was immediately struck by the small gardens lining the tracks on the outskirts of cities and small towns. These community gardens are called "Schrebergartens" after the Leipzig doctor (Moritz Schreber) who fostered the drive to unify these small holdings into a regulated community club (verein) movement.

Small-holding gardens were originally provided in the early 1800's as way to counter poverty and malnutrition among the poor, begun by Carl of Hesse, in what was then still Denmark. By 1826, nineteen states already had spread the garden fever.

Bylaws were all set down last during the 1920's, and the goal of the gardening movement was to provide a place in nature for city dwellers, improve the nutrition and access to fresh food for families and the unemployed, help integrate immigrants, provide a play area for city kids, and generally improve the lives of everyone. They became an important feature of survival during the second world war, as well.
A little hut on a garden plot is called a "laube." Schrebergarten folks are known derisively as "laubenpieper." Hut whistlers.

I theorize that German society is so well oiled and smoothly running, every i is dotted and every t is crossed, that folks were occasionally need a place to escape to. A place where they won't be reminded by the neighbor that it's their turn to mop the apartment floor, that last Saturday they were parked in an inappropriate place, or any of the millions of ways that German folks (especially the older and bored variety) regulate each other's behavior.

Germans generally have two places they can escape to, to really cut loose and ignore some of the rules. One of these is: going on vacation. Here is where German folks can refuse to line up neatly for services, where they sing loudly at two in the morning in youth hostels, where they can snap their fingers and dominate waiters rudely -- where they can generally get away with behavior that would never do at home. Unfortunately, the boorish behavior of some German travellers has become somewhat legendary (although clearly nearly all peoples have worst-case-scenario reputations in some way when they escape overseas: the English are louts, the Americans want to buy everything, et cetera...) but Germans generally are not that way with each other, rather, they all stay on a short leash so nobody gets bitten.

And the other of these places to escape is the Schrebergarten. Theoretically, I say. Because actually most people have their gardens in a community club, a verein, and the rules and the oversight of the rules are extreme. You can only paint your house a certain color or it can be wood, the hedge can only be so high, no chickens are allowed, no hanging laundry, no music, and you must stay quiet during these hours, et cetera, et cetera. (All of it unpleasantly recalls the massively regulated new suburban developments in the USA...which are even more fascist.) And if you are not of a mind to follow the rules to the letter, there are neighbors to the back, forward, right and left of you to remind you. (Post 1968-folks, hippies and others, think of the schrebergarten folks as "spiessers," small-minded conformists.)

But when you look around at many schrebergardens, they show an individualism that is rarely seen among apartments and homes. Our home on the hill was white with brown roof tiles, like all the other houses on the street: white, boxy, plain. How I longed to paint it mustard yellow or lilac! There is often no way to tell what sort of person is inside the house, as they all look just the same, exactly as in the Pete Seeger song.




But the gardens are so different. Some are so neat, they may as well have been licked clean. Some are falling down, weed infested, with piles of plastic junk waiting to be used for harvest, chickens pecking about, others are dreams of perfect flower and vegetable beds, laid out in right angles. Some are really only for partying with the family weekends during the summer. Others contain caged dogs, insanely barking. Folks who wouldn't dream of having anything sloppy in their homes, let themselves go in their gardens.

Now I have a garden, too. But luckily, it is privately owned, and I don't have to pay attention to by-laws and nosy neighbors. I will post about it as things develop. Right now all that has developed is: intense scratches on my arms from removing blackberry brambles. The brambles are very defensive, and we all know the first step to war is defense. Therefore I find when I grasp them gently, they come along with less of a snarl. Sometimes in a garden you have to go in the opposite direction of what seems to be called for.

By the way, here is an excellent program on America's National Public Radio by the Kitchen Sisters, (Hidden Kitchens: how communities come together over food) about garden plots inside London, for you English speakers.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Small Garden Holding

It's very exciting...today Michael and I spoke to a woman who owns a garden here in Einbeck which has lain abandoned at least a decade. It's ownership is tied up in inheritance negotiations, but I can rent it from her for less than ten euros a month.

We went out there last weekend. It lies at a corner of private gardens, next to a field, and fronted by a river, with ducks. Something in my world turned on its axis as we waded and strolled across the piece of land. For one thing, it's somewhat large, triangular, rambling with overgrown blackberry brambles, mossy apple and cherry trees with mistletoe in them, clusters of snowdrops here and there, plus lots of scattered junk and garbage.

The energy of the land is lonely and out-of-sorts. At the back of the property, a small stone house beckoned. It is at least 100 years old and painted with green trim. It has two rooms and a work space out the back with a privy. The windows have been open for years, and neighbor cats have joyously pissed all around. Gosh--it needs work.

More later...

Friday, March 13, 2009

Can't say 'No' to the Coal Black Sweep

Someone knocked at the door today, and there was a Schornsteinfeger. A chimney sweep. When they come to the door, you have to let them in, it’s a law, and custom. They are usually good-looking young men, sometimes women, and they often drive a black bicycle. They wear all black uniforms, with a patch or two containing good luck sigils, and some of them wear black top hats. There aren’t that many these days who make the most of their folkloric reputation, but every now and again you see one who plays up the whole chimney sweep identity.

The broom, crossed flails and stars of this rubber stamp image for professional chimney sweeps has deeply magical associations.

Touching sweeps brings good luck. They keep the fires away from your house—mostly, now, because they check your heating system to make sure that it is working, not leaking any gas. Everything was in order. We will soon receive a bill for about 60 Euros, which we are required by law to pay. Even if we heated our house with beggar’s velvet and star dust, and could prove no incendiary devices of any kind were needed, we would have to let him in and would have to pay the bill. What extraordinary job security.

Our Schornsteinfeger was tall and thin, and perfectly blonde, with lovely blue eyes. His black uniform smelled of wood smoke, and his fingernails were smeared with black ashes. A skinny kid. Olivia came out of her room and we each touched his sleeve, laughing, for good luck. What a great job—you can’t be refused, and everyone wants to touch you. One would come to believe in your own power of good luck. The power to ward off fire.

I see them as related to the Coal Black Smith. Smiths were magical and dangerous because they could raise and tend fire hot enough to form the most important tools, and this gave them a devilishly powerful reputation—just for having the guts to play with fire like the gods. These entities exist not only in the Spirit World, but also as archetypes which ignite subconscious rememberings in us.

I see these ancient archetypes as having splintered into various forms in the early modern era, as city life transformed entire societies in middle Europe. Often, the domestication of these archetypes meant that over time they lost their threatening powers, but remained potent subconscious reminders. For example, witches were initially wise women, containing both good and bad powers. Their reputation became exclusively evil, as framed by the church. But the storyteller aspect of their wisdom needed to be retained, and found expression in images of Mother Goose. (I will write about her in posts to come.)

The oldest origins of sweeps places them symbolically as walkers-between-worlds, because they used to enter the chimneys physically, and were most often children. Chimneys are where fire lives; they are dangerous places, and narrow, but cleaning them out in the days of daily use was vital for avoiding fires that could destroy entire closely packed 13—17th Century towns within a twenty four hour period. There are many postcards featuring cherub-faced sweeps from the late 19th and early 20th centuries (usually sent as good luck charms at the New Year) but their work was some of the most dangerous that children were then pressed in to doing.

The ladders they carried in the past also had a magical, liminal meaning.

The chimney has always been a portal between the worlds. Chimneys in old houses often contain spells and charms in the form of pet skeletons, or shoes, or flasks hidden between their bricks or under their foundations. Apparently these communications were placed there in that portal to purposely step over the line between our world and the world beyond. Santa Claus travels down the chimney from his magical world to ours. The greedy wolf foolishly used it to try to enter the pigs’ brick house safety zone and was burnt to death. Old time witches were taught to fly up the chimney to go on their midnight shamanic rambles.

My first shamanic teacher taught me to do the same. He said: you have to leave the house without leaving your house—how are you going to get out? When I chose the chimney, he twinkled at me.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Bowl of May

It’s been a long, cold winter, and I’m starting to have that itch for spring. I can always tell when spring is approaching here, a couple of things become apparent. One of course is the scent of freshness in the air, snowdrops in the park, a slight greening of the underbrush. The other recalls the fertility festivals of old. Suddenly one day in spring there are dozens of posters in town, advertising for the “Erotik Messe” in Göttingen.

This is a consumer’s convention for erotic products and services, apparently. I have not been to one, because I'm above that sort of thing (hee!). They seem slightly slanted toward the male pleasures. But the ads for them show that one can get a spirally black tattoo on the sacrum (called “ass antlers,” here) or purchase a dancing pole. There must be exhibitions of “dancing” and scanty costumes, as well. I can only think that they are the logical modern merging of consumer culture with the very old rising of the sap, increase of sexual energy that occurs in spring—with a whole lot more fetishism these days than the natural arousal of the land spirits. Even so, it's interesting how some things never change. In North America, we call it "spring fever."

Of course we know that the Celts were all over Europe, not only in the British Isles, although it always seems tidier to think of them that way, when you are North American. But there were significant amounts of Celts in what is now Austria, Switzerland, and central and southern Germany. And they did in fact celebrate Beltane here, although I don’t know what they individually called it. And when they wandered into the forest, the most commonly seen plant they encountered was the sweet woodruff (Asperula odorata/Galium odoratum), an emerald green shade-lover which carpets the forest floor about 6 to 12 inches high with clusters of 6 to 7 hardy leaves.

Here it is called: Waldmeister, or Master or Boss of the Forest. It also has many other folk names, including: Gliedkraut (phallus herb), Herzfreund (heart’s friend), Leberkraut (liver herb), Maiblume (May flower), Maichrut/Maikraut (May herb), Mösch (?), Teekraut (tea herb), Waldmutterkraut (forest mother herb), Waldtee (forest tea), Wohlriechendes (good-smelling) Labkraut (?), and das blühende Kraut (the blooming herb).

Waldmeister is used in modern treats to this day. Especially in puddings, cakes, candy, popsicles, ice cream, and as flavoring for sodas. It has a very fresh, mellow/tangy vanilla-lime-grass/hay flavor, but is unlike anything I had tasted before, before I tasted it. It is super refreshing and tasty.

The Celts/Druids had merged with the plant in shamanic journeys to speak with the gods for who knows how long. It was enjoyed as an aphrodisiac, but in large doses can cause hallucinations, which is exactly the point of all entheogens. Early on, Benedictine monks were recording their use of waldmeister for infections, insomnia, cramping, blood thinning, migraines/pain and heart problems, but the monk Wandalbertus was the first to write down in 854 A.D. that it was delicious drink when wine was poured over it.

Because the active ingredient is Cumarin, which has a slightly euphoric and enlivening effect, waldmeister is used to get over “early spring tiredness” (frühjahrsmüdigkeit), one of those seemingly hypochondriacal German complaints (which I initially scoffed at), that nonetheless seems to hit people in late winter/early spring, when we find it hard to get out of bed, and feel sluggish during the long, wet, gray days.
Dr. Oetker's "Götter Speise" is waldmeister-flavored jello whose name translates to "Snack of the Gods," hinting at waldmeister's heathen origins.

Whether you drink it with alcohol or not, it can cause morning headaches (hangover, which translates to “Tomcat” in German: a “Kater”) and in very high doses it can lead to dizziness, vomiting and breathing problems. (So, don’t go there.)

Nevertheless its euphoric effects and deliciousness are what keep people making Maibowles (Bowls of May) every year. In April or May, before the plant blossoms in tiny white flowers, cut a few bunches (for greatest power and affect: gathering in a spiritually aroused and grateful state, shamanically merging with the plant).

The plant is most aromatic before it has begun to bloom. However, if you use blown woodruff, then cut the flowers off before adding to the punch. The longer you wait after cutting, the more flavor leaves the plant, so add as quickly to the wine or juice as possible. You’ll need:


2 large handfuls of sweet woodruff/waldmeister
a scant cup (200g) sugar (or half as much honey, or to taste)
juice of two lemons
3 bottles of reisling, mosel or rhine wine (not dry)
1 bottle of sparkling wine, prosecco or champagne
(4 bottles of white grape juice would do for the alcohol-free version)
Any of these: strawberry leaves, red or black currant leaves, thinly sliced oranges or strawberries, edible flowers, raspberry blossoms (good luck finding in May), violet blossoms, young yarrow leaves, and cinquefoil/potentilla blossoms.

You might slightly macerate the leaves and blossoms in the punch bowl with a pestle, add the sugar, and then directly pour the liquids over. Let stand overnight, at room temperature. In the morning, keep it cool until its time to drink it. Traditionally, it is served in a large tureen called a "Bowle" with matching glasses or mugs.

Of course, this recipe is just custom-made for enchanting, because not only can the plants be ritually collected or collected in a shamanic state, but they can also be physically enchanted and worked in a state of poetic resonance as they are handled, with the appropriate intentions of waxing life force, virility, and desire. Prost!