Elsa Alyse Roquefort

baker dancer

My other occupations had been less salubrious. I had meant to say ‘salutary,’ but memory device had already been in play, so that was what what had become recorded. There. Then. It had been once a taxidermist’s workplace time ago, as the phrase is wrought. Like cast iron. Sheet metal. Silversmith. Filigree of horses mated with each other over great green meadows tromping about until the penned in moment with such stallion blind to his own mandated purpose. Anyway, (effective enough segue into the next non-related segment due to similarity of sounds but not perhaps necessarily meaning or meanings) I had not been aware, or made, or made to be aware, that my little log cabin office’s pedigree had been in the recent or in the distant even faraway past ever been used to disembowel and stitch up hunted animals, hunted for their to-be on plaque mounted heads, or whole body’s glass-eyed standing in some mock in situ pose. Fair place to offer my own journeying services of soul, of psyche, of etymological butterfly dreams of the nonce. Like starlight I suppose stuffed inside Cassiopeia, a real-life constellation of another’s myth, and myth-making, co-opted to be our own. Like Heidegger’s Third Reich, if he had ever had one…even yet encore autrefois, etc., I had slightly suspected his little Bavarian shack on the hillside had not been dreamed of like that, when pondering van Gogh’s boots. And a day’s bricklayer. And even a supermarket cashier. Once. And only once. “Ein Mal jedes, nur ein Mal.” And so forth, beaded and threaded. Here. Now. And of all I had preferred ditch-diggers at the foothills of these sedimentary precipitously slung mountains for planting small trees, butternuts, doomed ashes, hemlock which had once, alongside the great Eastern Pines, populated the Earth. Where, spaciously, I had best been, O Best Beloved: woodcutter, steadfast and sure, trim and full of the day’s finely drawn muscle, hewn, with the fine sinew of slack-limbed Prince Achilles.

Freddy Steiner

country cabin

Most often I had been subordinated by my Dinkelacker. It had been one too many at the fair. My English was very good by this point in time, and my voice had still sustained an excellent baritone in manner. However little the folk coming knew well the Müllerin and its subversive themes of love and the hard lives of such a young man apprenticing, I sang out my heart from the bandstand. I did catch the eyebrows of a woman twice to my count. I sang even louder. There had been plenty of bratwurst and garlic and onions and sauerkraut for all to share if that had been the calling of the people. My overall girth I could see in her eyes was not a thing to spurn me for but spoke well of my success and overall self-comfort. In my homeland I had once been a professional. I had sung there Brahms and Schubert at taverns that had permitted such besides a spinet piano. Here, there had not been the same spirit naturally. And I had already become a curio if not without some original talent. The one who had seen me with her glances walked to another area of the fairgrounds with I believe another. And I continued to sing my heart out over the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia to her where for decades I had resided now alone and personally willing.