A Poem That Has Nothing to Do With Prague

Document2

The title of this document is Document2.

It is the second document I have opened

during this session of Microsoft Word,

that is why it is called Document2.

Also, it is because I have not given it a

name. This document has no name, so

it goes by Document2. Document2 is

the default name. I have no qualms with

default names, which is why I will

leave this document titled Document2.

Also, it is because I have written a poem

in this document called Document2.

It was named Document2 by default, but

now there is a reason. I once knew

a man who did this with his children. The

reason that I knew him was that I married

one of his daughters. Her name was Kid4.

The reason that he did this with his children

was never clear to me. I cannot say if it

was the same reason that I titled this

document Document2. If I had to guess I

would say probably not, because he was

not the type of man I expect wrote much

poetry. He was the type of man who

broke open floss containers and put the

whole spool into his mouth and chewed

it for hours. He was the type of man who

loved to scare birds by putting on a

rubber bloodhound mask. He carried that

mask everywhere. Kid12 once told me

he showered with it on. I cannot be sure,

because I never accepted his invitations

to shower. Kid12 didn’t seem like the

type of person to lie, though. He was the

type of person that wrote poetry, like me.

The Metro

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b-aGkwsk2xc

I can't figure out how to embed video.

My Second Load of Laundry

I was waiting for my laundry in the basement of the villa when a fat man in a speedo with a towel draped over his shoulder emerged from a room that I had assumed was a small broom closet.

            The clothes had been in the machine for nearly two hours, and I had made several trips down the stairs hoping they would be done, and the machine was on the spin cycle, so I had decided to stand and wait for it to finish rather than go back upstairs again, that’s why I was in the room. It’s not somewhere you would want to spend a lot of time. It’s about twenty-five feet long and eight feet wide. There’s nowhere to sit; in fact, the washing machine is the only thing there, alone in the corner as if our landlord decided to put it in timeout. Where the wall meets the floor there is an impressive collection of dead insects, many of which are large flies. The flies here, by the way, become excessively hyper, much more than I have ever experienced in Oregon, when they sense they are on the verge of being swatted with a grammar book.

            There are two doors in the basement. One is at the bottom of the stairs with a sign on it that says something in Czech. This is the one that the fat man emerged from. The other door is across the room, facing the washing machine. That is the one that the fat man walked to, opened, and entered, after a brief moment of eye contact with me (perhaps a slight nod as well, but I couldn’t be sure) in which he did not appear caught off guard in the slightest, so I attempted to appear that way as well. 

            I had noticed that the light was on in the room that he went into, and I had been hearing men’s voices coming from it. However, even though it was past nine o’clock, I had thought this was construction workers. They work incredibly long hours, and I remembered that there was construction going on in the villa. I remembered it quite vividly, because I was woken by a buzz saw beneath my window at six in the morning.

            Apparently they had been building a bath house, and apparently the broom closet was a changing room. I’ve gone back a couple nights since at around nine, and the light has been on in that room and there has been loud men’s voices coming from it. As you might have guessed, the situation has raised some questions, and the more I think about it, the more questions I have.

First off, why is there a bath house in the basement of my villa? Is this a common location for bath houses in Prague? And who are these men, the landlord’s friends, the construction workers, paying customers? How do they even get down there? I know they don’t use the front door. Isn’t this something the residents of the villa should be informed about? “By the way, when you do laundry, and have to head down that dark staircase that seems like its leading you to somewhere you don’t want to go, don’t be surprised if the closet door swings open and a large, half-naked man walks out.”

And why don’t we get to use it? Or, can we? Can I strap on a speedo, grab a towel, and soak up some steam with Pavel and the whole merry, hairy crew? What would they do if I just opened the door? It’s unlocked. There’s no sign. The other door is the one with the sign. I’m guessing it says something about not entering, but that’s fine. That’s just the changing room. I can change in my room. Sure, it’ll be a little chilly walking down two flights of stairs in a speedo, but I’ll manage. The warm steam will feel that much better once I get inside that bath house. Right, Pavel? Doesn’t this feel great? What’s that you got there, Pilsner? How about passing your old friend Ross one of those bottles? No? You’re right, I’m not really thirsty. Whew! What a day I had! How was your day, Pavel? Don’t feel like talking about it? Oh, that’s okay. We’ll just sit. I like sitting. Do you like sitting, Pavel? You must like sitting, because you sure don’t like talking, do you? I coulda swore I heard you guys just talking up a storm right before I came in. What happened? Did I say something?

Lennon Wall

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YK78mcgpTPU




....Near one of the entrances/exits to the Lennon Wall, there are the "love locks."

... And near the love locks, I came across these lovely young Czech lovebirds. Perhaps they had just come from affirming their love by snapping a combo lock onto the gate, but I doubt it, because I didn't see any fluorescent blue locks.

Fat Man Caught on Camera

Still no Charlie Weis, and he looks suspiciously American, but still a rare Prague specimen. Incredibly, just on the other side of this sign, there was a woman of equal size - something I have seen even less of - but I was unable to capture her on film.

The Rain

Last night the rain came, like the murmur of old friends through my window. Best I've slept yet.

The Wise Do Not Speak, They Watch

            Last Friday I got into a heated debate about what type of jacket a parka is. A girl from Michigan and a girl from Kansas claimed it was some type of gortex windbreaker, while I insisted (correctly, of course) that it was a heavy winter coat, lined with fur, with a large hood, also lined with fur; a guy from Seattle and a guy from D.C. supported these claims. This took place in the kitchen area of my apartment – at least, at first it did, for it continued long into the night.

Saturday afternoon at around two I was woken by someone using a weed-whacker down the street – not because the noise was loud, but because it reminded my brain of the sound my cell phone used to make when it vibrated against the floor and I didn’t want to miss a call – and I stumbled into the kitchen to get water. Upon lifting my head from the faucet, I noticed the microwave resting on top of the refrigerator was named “Alaska,” and I realized how absurd it had all been, how the whole time we could have ended the argument if we had only thought to turn our heads and ask.