Words for Wednesday -- 6 February -- Unicorn Farm 21

 The prompts for February are provided by River at Drifting through Life.
 
1. consternation 
2. tourist 
3. attached 
4. fresh 
5. specific 
6. memory 

and/or:

1. advantages 
 2. amount 
3. spray 
4. reef 
5. ouch 
6. living



Once again I wrote a small chapter from my magical autobiography, and once again I took up the additional challenge of using the prompts in the order they were given.

The story continues where it left off last. 

Susan brought Cantrippes for every day use, blankets and pillows with her to the attic. She took the key from the door and hung it on the nail right next to the ovoid hole in the wall. Then she was sure no one came and disturbed her, without knocking. That way she could study Cantrippes ... - now bound in the most boring wrapping paper, she could find - and have time to put it into the stack and pick a regular school book before letting somebody in. No one bothered with old school books.

She looked around in the attic. It was really a boring room after her father's makeover. Well, the fireplace was of course a good thing, but the old, worn out pool table? Then there were some chairs and small tables standing around. Between the rafters were raw plates and big, top-hung windows. How did it look earlier? Susan closed her eyes and thought back. Small windows with a round upper part, the raw underside of red, roof tiles between the rafters, mortar seeping through here and there like icing on a cake, and a naked chimney with an old cleaning hatch. Percy's small, narrow room she could only just remember. It had to be torn down earlier than the rest had been renovated. Maybe when the roof tiles were relaid? The wall at the end towards the neighbour had been raw, red bricks. She remembered her father's pride at the fun waves and curls he had made in the plaster, they were fun to look at, yes; but they were very scratchy if you came up too close. The floor had been weathered boards, differing in length, width and colour, and almost covered in dust. The room had seemed much bigger, home to weird things and stuff, old crates, a dress form, an old cupboard, swings and sleds and skis, and it was only lit by candles.
It was the smell she remembered best. A special attic smell, a smell of adventure, treasures, alien lands and explorations. Now all the treasures Susan had been able to find around the house stood inside the little room. The corals, all the milk bottles, shiny and sorted after size, Susan's own large sea shell, old pearl necklaces, and bright glass ones too, hung on hooks, and small, almost translucent mocha cups stood on the table. Susan didn't go into the little room, she went left to the fireplace. Methodically, she tore the birch bark off the wood pieces, built up a small bonfire with bark and kindling and put on larger and larger pieces until three pieces of firewood burned with gentle, even flames.
She pulled forth Cantrippes ... Much to her consternation a tourist folder had attached to the book.  She laid it aside, it did look brand new, fresh from the press. She wondered how it had gotten there, It was a very specific folder, and Susan was sure she had never seen it before. "Oh, well, memory is unpredictable,"  she thought to herself as she placed the folder underneath the photo of Torben and the stranger on top of her normal schoolbooks.

She was reading about the use of onions in healing spells. Absorbed she just moved closer to the fire for light and warmth as the sun set.
Suddenly she felt like someone watched her. A cold breeze chilled her, and she pulled the blankets closer.
"Why are you having a photo of that evil man ?" Percy - of course, she was a ghost, she would make her feel cold and watched.
"Which evil man do you mean, Percy?" Susan asked carefully.
"Him!"
"Him?"
"Oh!" Percy exclaimed, "I forgot how immaterial I have become. That's one of the advantages of being a ghost. Or do I mean disadvantages? I can not point any more. Mama always told me it was very impolite to point."
"I see," Susan said, even if she did not. "But if you cannot point, how can you tell me which man, you mean?"
"I can draw," Percy said. Susan's pencil rose from the floor and drew a nice circle around Torben's guest in the photo.
"Him!" Susan exclaimed, "bur who is he?" The man shaking his hand, is one of my teachers, but I don't know who he is. It's a friend of mine that took this picture."
"He is bad," Percy said in a quiet voice, "a very bad man. Mama hated him, he did bad things. I always wanted to know what he did, but no amount of asking ever got me anywhere."
"Do you remember his name?" Susan asked, then maybe I could find out something about him.
"No!" Percy said. "I don't remember. "He was French, or maybe Belgian, he had a funny name, but I can't remember it."
"Can you tell me anything at all about him," Susan asked.
"He makes me think of surfing, sea spray suntan, rubber ducks and a reef," Percy said.

"Ouch!" Susan exclaimed, busying herself with putting out one of the blankets, that had caught fire.
"Oh, the joys of living," Percy remarked in an acetic voice before disappearing again. "I'll write you a note, if I remember more. Just take care not to burn it."

Susan went downstairs again. She put the books in place, and looked once again at the tourist folder. It was trying to make the onlooker go to some tourist resort, featuring surfing, fake shark lagunas and reefs, She opened it, and inside were reefs with sun tanned surfers riding waves with lots of artificial looking spray. I  was not a place, Susan would ever like to go, she loved the real stuff way too much. She looked at the address, then she looked once more. It was from a place in Belgium, Fontein der Jeugd/Fontaine de Jouvence, almost at the French border. Did Percy see this folder, did she put it there or was it mere coincidence. Susan did not believe in coincidence. She sat down at her table to write a letter to Heidi and her family.

Ikke mere vejr -- No more Weather

(English verion at the bottom, beneath an angry cloud).

Nu har DMI endegyldigt udfaset deres gamle, trofaste vejrmeldinger. I stedet for denne her dejligt kompakte og overskuelige vejrmelding:

kommer vi til at mødes af dette forvirrende syn:

     Det betyder at Uglemor ikke længere kommer til at berette om solopgange og solnedgange på sin blog, der bliver ikke mere jubel over at dagen er tiltaget så og så mange minutter, eller sorg over det modsatte. Det kan man nemlig ikke se længere.
     Der kommer heller aldrig mere SneUgleJubel. Verden er kort sagt nok engang blevet et tristere og mere begrænset sted at være Uglemor.

 - ⛈ - 

Now that the Danish Meteorological Institute has updated the graphics on their pages, MotherOwl is no longer going to bring jubilant notices that the days have grown half an hour or more longer, or despondent news about the opposite. MotherOwl at least is unable to find this info in the new info-jungle.
The new graphics, as shown on the second screenshot are messy, interactive (= small unreadable squares pop up whenever you mouse over something, and won't go away). Compared to the old infographich in the first screenshot they are way less informative, more unwieldy. In short, more bling, less information.
There'll be no more SnowOwl Happines. The world has in short become a sadder, more limited space for Owls of all kinds.

TUSAL -- Februar 2019

     Årets stumper hidtil. I trådfangeren ligger resterne fra vantestrikningen og to strimler fra en turkisgrøn T-shirt. Bøtten, fra julens pebernødder, er fuld af stumper fra fletningen af den fine kugle.

- 💚 -

All this year's ORTs so far. The threadcatcher contained ends from the knitting of the mittens of to strips from a turquoise T-shirt. The big jar, once containing Christmas cookies, now holds all the leftovers from the making of the tea bag bauble.

     Lysende ugler pynter på hylden, nu julepynten endegyldigt er fjernet.

  - 💛 -

Golden owls with ligth brightens the shelf now that all Christmas ornaments have been removed.





  Hvis TUSAL er et nyt og spændende begreb, så læs mere her på engelsk og her på dansk.

- 💙 -

If you've never heard about TUSAL and ORTs before, go HERE to become wiser. Here is the link to this month's TUSAL post with link up.

Back to the Classics -- 7 Jahre in Tibet.

Seven Years in Tibet

Well, I did roll a 7 - marking me for a very long classic, but looking for this book in the shelves I stumbled across Seven Years in Tibet written in 1953 by Heinrich Harrer. Translated into Danish by Lars Rosenkvist. That is a book I have wanted to read for many years, but I just never got to reading it before now.
I tentatively put this book in category
10: A Classic form Africa, Asia or Oceania. 


Link to the Back to the Classics Challenge.

I think what happens in the book is not new for very many people, but it was to me.

It is an autobiography written by the Austrian mountaineer Heinrich Harrer, it covers the years from 1939, the beginning of WWII to 1961, Harrer is not a writer, but he has a story to tell, and he knows how to write after all.
He begins by being on a mountaineering expedition then being interned in India. He tries to get away more times, but only succeeds on his 3rd try together with 2 other  prisoners. Those three walks all the way from India to Tibet by foot, an exhausting and cold journey in the wintertime. Tibet is not welcoming strangers of any kind, and all the time they're told to return to India or go on to Nepal. But they stubbornly continues further into Tibet. One of his followers are not as physically fit as Heinrich and Aufschnaiter, and goes to Nepal, where he's welcome.
Heinrich and Aufschnaiter now tries their luck. They want to visit Lhasa, the forbidden city and capital of Tibet. That journey, in the winterlocked mountainous land, is a trial of strength unlike anything I've ever read before. They finally succeed and stay in Lhasa, first as unwelcome strangers, then as tolerated mysteries, then as trusted workers and teachers. In the end Heinrich meets the young Dalai Lama and makes friend with him. The story ends with them fleeing Tibet as the Chinese red army takes over the country.

It is a truly amazing book and a totally immersing read. Read the book, don't bother watching the movie.
With this said what strikes me - apart from the wonder of it all - is the disarming naivete with which it is written, Heinrich stayed for over 7 years in Tibet, learned to speak the language almost to perfection, and got a feeling for and understanding of Tibetan culture and life that is totally amazing. Yet his sentimentality, or what you may call it, is amazing. It is not the "white man's burden"-stuff, he's too wise for this. It is a reluctance to accept that Christmas is not celebrated in Tibet, and that the monks do not go somewhere private to relieve themselves. A funny lack to accept foreignnes, just as a small child, believing that deep inside everybody thinks in his (or her) own language. Also his political musings and thoughts on the roles of women and men in society are so bound to his own time and culture to be unwillingly comical. Luckily the edition, I read, had removed many of these passages.
And somewhere towards the ending he says that Dalai Lama number 14 was prophesied to be the last. In my ignorance I wondered how the next one had been chosen - until the truth dawned on me. He is the same one! His young Dalai Lama is the same as "my" old one.

-- 📚 -- updated list -- 📚 --

 1. 19th Century Classic:  Alice in Wonderland

 2. 20th Century Classic: READ - Trapp Family Singers.

 3. Classic by a Female Author: ?

 4. Classic in Translation: ?

 5. Classic Comedy: Don Quijote

 6. Classic Tragedy. The Odyssey or The Iliad.

  7. Very Long Classic: ?

  8. Classic Novella: ?

  9. Classic From the Americas: Huckleberry Finn or Tom Sawyer.

10. Classic From Africa, Asia, or Oceania (includes Australia):  THIS ONE

11. Classic From a Place You've Lived: Maybe Hamlet or Glasperlenspiel by Hermann Hesse. (I lived a year in Germany)

12. Classic Play: Jedermann.

Words for Wednesday - 3rd Instalment -- Unicorn Farm 20

As she finally returned home Susan felt frozen solid. She wanted one thing only. A roaring fire. She did not turn on any lights, she just crept up the stairs, opened the door to the attic and went into the big room. There she lit a fire in the open fireplace and plopped down in front of it. She had a stack of back issues of readers Digest laying up there. The railman living around the corner subscribed, and when he and his wife had read them, Susan got the old issues. She also sometimes got other books from them. This one was a book called Kitchen physics, Household chemistry or something like it. She was reading about the physical properties of honey, two forces, adherence and coherence played specific roles in the way honey behaved. Susan tried to make the strange words sound right and stick to their meaning, but she was tired after her long march through the snowstorm, and the fire was warm and cosy.

She was just beginning to drift off as a tiny voice reached her ears: "What have you done to my bottles?"
"Your bottles?" Susan answered, not yet quite awake. "What bottles are you talking about!" She sat up. Who was talking? Susan was all alone in the house.
"My bottles, they were so shiny and pretty. You took them away. Just as your mother took all the pretty things from my room and then she tore down my room." Susan saw a foggy, white figure floating next to the fireplace.
Susan shook her head violently: "Pretty thing? Your room? Sorry. Who are you, and what are you talking about?" Susan slowly realized she was all alone in the house, speaking with a ghost.
"Do you remember the attic when you were very little? There was one more room back then, between the chimney and the small room you made pretty the other day? In that room were pretty things. My pretty things!"
"Oh, now I remember. Yes the very narrow room with the shelves. I best remember the smell, a musty, not unpleasant attic smell; it always reminded me about adventures, travels and far away places. There was shelves, as I said, and a big cupboard, wonder where that went. There were some corals, big sea shells, things like that. My father once told me they were from when he sailed the seven seas." Susan looked at the wavering shape and added in a distrustful voice: "Was that your room?"
"Yes," the girl-ghost said and began crying. "And now you've taken away even the shiny bottles." Susan's pile of books began shaking and the topmost ones fell to the floor.

"No!" Susan said, "please don't cry. My Mother only took the bottles away to clean them, they were dusty, full of old cobwebs. I'll put them back tomorrow, when I find them, and hang pretty things in the smallish room. Promise."
"Can I move in there?" the girl-ghost asked. "I like it very much in there, and you've taken all my pretty things away." She began crying once more, and this time the pool cues came to life, and began shaking in their holders.
"Stop that!" Susan said sharply.
"Stop what?" the transparent girl asked. She stopped crying and looked questioning at Susan who was kneeling on the floor holding on to the cues for dear life.
"Every time you start crying, you break something." Susan said. If you promise to stop, I'll put all the pretty things I can find, into that little room tomorrow. Then you can move in there ...Only not when Granny comes visiting, I don't think she likes company, but she only comes two or three times a year for some days. And I'll come as well, I like the small room. It's so neat, and Linda don't often come here any more."
 "Irritating sisters, I understand. By the way, I'm Persephone, you can call me Percy if you like."
Susan got up and smiled. "Hello Percy, nice to meet you!" she said.

A loud noise from downstairs made Susan jump. When she opened her eyes once again, Percy was gone and she heard her mother's voice calling from downstairs.
Susan quickly threw mattress and blankets away from the fireplace and ran downstairs

Susan returned to the here and now and realized that her legs were cramped from sitting for too long in  the same position. She stretched, and felt an almost irresistible urge to go and sit in front of the fireplace in the attic again.

"Well why not!" she thought, "even if I'm not as cold as I was then, a fire would maybe take my mind off this dripping rain. She slowly gathered her books, hiding all the magic things, you newer knew just when Linda returned and started nosing around, or Mom wanted to tidy. She would take no risks with the magic books or worse, her wand.   When the needles and pins had left her legs, she unlocked the door to the attic - not that anything secret was up there, the door was old, the latch worn, and it was an unpleasant task to get up in the middle of the night to stop it from banging.