Camino Frances: My Leg Sucks

Howdy folks,

At the time of this writing, the Internet appears to be full on pants-on-head retarded and ceases to work appropriately. No matter, I wager, for I’ll simply post this when I enter an area with decent WiFi and far fewer turigrinos on their goddamned iPhones sucking up my precious bandwidth.

Fucking tourists.

I always take pictures of cows for my brother. Would a tourist do that?! Fun fact: cow shit smells the same in every country.

Months ago, whilst working across from a living caricature of The Office, I was asked if I was a tourist. I find the word quite belittling and very insulting, and I balked at her suggestion that I, Mr. Fucking Wanderer Tattooed on His Arm, would e’er be considered synonymous with foreigners and cameras. A foreign dipshit in a country only to take pictures and ooh and aah over the natives? Fuck me running, please.

Turns out she was only asking if my astrological sign was Taurus not tourist. Whoops, for I am indeed a Taurus.

Whate’er the fuck that means.

These past several days I have been limping along toward Santiago, the pain in my left shin exacerbated by every mountainous downhill step. With these shitty boots – which have twice now split along the seams – I feel every gravelly pebble and every gnarled root upon my aching haunches, the pain only amplified as I stumble my way across the hills and mountains that separate Leon from Galicia. A freshly minted cane helps me amble onward (and gives me a pretty good look, I daresay – just call me Daddy) but I do begin to fear that my leg might come clean off.

Contain those lady boners!

To my loving father, should you be reading this drivel, I would be greatly indebted should you make for me a stout, sturdy cane of solid wood so that upon my return I can scare the kids to death with my limping gait whilst brandishing my wooden cudgel. Just a thought. You can make anything out of wood – I have borne witness to that – and I would be honored to swing an old man stick in your stead. If only I was as capable and skilled as you.

I also take photos for my brother who will certainly appreciate the inside humor. Look, papa! Birds!

Grumpy old man that I am, I shan’t complain about the Way for that isn’t the reason we are out here, after all.

Ah, the reason?

I’ll tell you August First – Swiss National Day.

Regardless, I lost track of me mate Brian from London a few days back – his gait far outpaced my hobble and we lost one another in the mountains. No bother, I wager, for the Camino will reunite us should she see it fit. That’s just the Way: you meet people, you lose people. Keep going and you’ll be surprised.

Coincidentally at the Cruz de Ferro where a pilgrim is encouraged to leave behind their past grievances and walk forward with only good intentions.

From the Iron Cross, I limped into El Acebo where I spent a rather peaceful night in the company of a Japanese woman and a German lady. Sure, this sounds like a pretty raunchy sexual encounter, but I assure you I only slept peacefully for the first time since joining Frances. Even though the tiny, elderly Japanese woman snored like a freight train in desperate need of oil and new brakes, I was well within the land of Nod. Despite their need to awaken at 4 fucking AM to pack and repack their already packed shit from the night before, it was a rather peaceful night.

I also met Josef from Bavaria. Between four liters of beer and two packs of cigarettes in just over an hour, we became pretty cool friends.

I stumbled into Ponferrade, had myself a history boner at the Templar castle, and decided I’m too old for this shit and snagged myself a bed at the San Nicolas albergue. There I reunited with an elderly Spanish chap – Francisco – and the lovely German chain-smoker – Susie – and we had ourselves a beer and wine-filled festival of reunions. I was a bit pissed (in the English sense) and regaled any and all nearby pilgrims how Saint Nick was a Swiss and the patron saint of Swissland, and that is was only right and proper I stay there that night. After a fetchin’ meal through clouds of smoke and slurred words, I bid my comrades a good night and prepared for the following morn.

Mah Swigga, Mah Swigga

Despite my leg wanting to pull a Confederacy and secede from the Union, I plodded onward like an unwitting beast toward slaughter. Sure, I was moving, but what sort of butcher was waiting for me just over the hill? But God has a peculiar sense of humor I have come to learn, and I was rewarded for my incessant internal bitching with – get this – a wine tour and tasting for – Ellen, fucking get this – a fuckin’ Euro Fifty.

Fuck. My. Ass.

For less than two dollars, I was treated to a local wine tasting and even given snacks to boot. Sweet tap dancin’ Christ – I would never be so lucky back in the States! I snagged a picture of the sign to immortalize to my dear roommate just how badly she fucked up by skipping out on Camino. Certainly, I would have left her behind to the wolves back in the mountains, but this would have been the icing on that proverbial cake to make it this far. God love you, Magellen.

Please don’t let the scorpions into my room…

The pain in my leg refused to subside, the holes in my boots continued to grow, and the excitement in my heart continued to goad me onward. Less than 200km now to the Holy City, come Hell or high water, and though I’m dogged at the end of the day, I find myself quite calm and excited to be on the Way. Over drinks with a few Irish ladies (with the most syrupy thick of accents) I related how this was my third Camino, and, like a heroin addict doing obscene things for the next fix, I once more find myself upon the Way.

Folks, pilgrim or otherwise, I cannot quite fully explain what the experience is like. I know that the Bruno of five years ago (pre-Jakobsweg) is not the fella you know today. My sister, my dear sister, once remarked that she envied my zen with the world and how nothing gets my goat. Perhaps that is the Way – a path to calm. Perhaps it is something more. I have my reasons and my experiences, but, comrades, I encourage you to discover the Truth for yourself.

If you have gone on Camino, go again. Refresh that thirsty spirit.

If you have not, perhaps it is time to go.

Godspeed, comrades. Onwards!

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They Don’t Fill Growlers on Sunday

Howdy folks,

Oft one might wonder what their purpose is upon gods’ green earth – yours?

Me? I serve as a reminder.

Oh, as I told my kids this past week, I know exactly who I am and what I’m here for. I remember Dr. Toland – ah, so many years ago – relating how he found his purpose under the shade of a tree whilst attending college. Not dissimilar from the Buddha (and the man could give His Holiness a run for His money in the theological thinker department).

My purpose, yes, that niggling thought e’er at the back of my mind. Between booze and smokes, under the light of eternal Luna, who wouldn’t ponder their mere existence in the light of something greater?

Call her a close friend, a lover, something more, but tonight she implored as to why I personify myself with Grendel. The monster that wrecks Hart time and time again and causes no end of anguish to the beleaguered Hrothgar. It is not until Beowulf – that bastard Geat – rips his arm from his socket that peace is finally found. Blood spilling forth from his mortal wound, all of his warfare and violence for naught, yet finding peace in the tranquility of the Abyss. But in peace, comrades, do we truly find our calling? What is a peace without assiduously applied butchery?

Today I wrote a children’s book whilst death metal blared from my antiquated speakers as I slowly put off my getting ready for church. Here, just as liable to assist children as I am to indulge my lyrical fantasies for violence and guttural shouts. Christ on a stick; what sort of existence is that where one finds themselves in such a paradoxical predicament?

Yet, comrades, I must reiterate my nature as a beast of Paradox:

  • I do not want children; I love all 150 of my students
  • I cannot commit myself to any one person; I am married to elucidation
  • I love who I am as a free individual; I bemoan the existence I’ve implemented upon myself
  • I detest school as a formal institution; I am a teacher
  • I love every heart I’ve broken – the list is arduous
  • I want the best for my charges; I cannot be a role model in my current state
  • I want my charges to experience failure and disappointment; I want my charges to Live without interference

Comrades, hark! What sort of madness beguiles this maddened scribe? How can any individual wish only the best for their students while wanting them to experience the bittersweet unguent of failure? Am I not mad? Am I not human?

A friend – and a few students – commented on my lack of humanity; how I have sold myself to Diogenes the Cynic oh so long ago. Yet I ponder: is such a thing necessarily bad? The bastard philosopher wasn’t necessarily wrong in his arbitrations of human nature and disposition. Indeed, being treated like a dog is a pendulum that swings both ways; a cutting blade liable to spill blood and offer enlightenment whilst doing so.

Is it wrong to want loved ones to fail the better able to sup their eventual victory? To want the young to witness and experience the tribulations of youth to better prepare them for the glory of adulthood? Forsooth, I want my nephews and nieces to touch the hot oven, the better able to learn for themselves than from the guise of a drunken lout who merely chuckles and says, “I told you so.”

Scarcely, I say, is it wrong to want suffering to be a guiding light? Who, among you, reader(s), have not suffered in your own quest?

This past week I have bombarded my charges with philosophy, trying to drill it into their heads the importance of being able to think – critically – and learning from those great thinkers who have gone before us. Yet I find myself wondering (on the occasion), am I misguided in my intentions? After all, I reason, are these blokes not very much dead?

Who gives a shit about Averroes? Avicenna? Plato? Kierkegaard? Sartre? These are dead men -rotten beyond comprehension – with idle words and ideas far beyond 10th grade comprehension.

Fuck, me. They are dead. But the idea – the idea, comrades! – cannot be extinguished so swiftly.

I am a goddamned mess – a slew of vices corrupting my virtue – yet at least I am aware of my purpose. I am an example: of things to do and not to do; of things to emulate and things to ignore; of things to savor and things to revile; of things to witness and things to ignore.

To my charges reading this drivel: go to bed.

To my charges seeking enlightenment: cross the Dark Stream.

Trust me, comrades, the deeper you go, the more that makes sense.

Now then: we’re off to change the world. One cynical thought at a time. And to hell with the rest.

Ultreia

or,

Embracing Change for the better

As a new teacher, I promised myself I wouldn’t return to my classroom throughout the bulk of summer, only entering those magnificent halls once August rolled around. This promise was made to preserve what little sanity I have left, and, as any teacher will attest, it’s simply bad juju for the nerves to visit school during the off-season. Who the hell wants to work during vacation, right?

The Brunos celebrating Swiss National Day

August First being a holiday, and the second being designated Wine Recovery Day, it wasn’t until the third I finally ventured to those quiet grounds consecrated in the name of furthering erudition. I set about the laborious task of cleaning off the walls (to make room for future pupils’ artwork) and rifling through stacks of papers (who left those about?) to get the classroom back in working order. The likes of Marx, Plato, and Socrates watched in complete silence as I set about my task, never once complaining that my weird fascination with Finnish metal was maybe a bit too loud.

In the middle of my favorite part of a particular piece, the solemnity of my room was invaded by the likes of the head custodian, who proceeded to lecture me for transgressions months old. How was I supposed to know marking on the floor with semi-permanent marker was verboeten? Nobody tells me nu’fink, guv.

After her lovely list of DON’T’S and DEFINITELY DON’T’S, she left me to my 12 Labors. As I set about returning to my task, my principal entered with a sad smile: clearly someone had died.

Well, no, not really.

But she was visibly upset as she relayed the news: I had been transferred to the 10th grade and placed in charge of every. single. honors. class.

She had me sit as she explained the full scoop. No longer was I Mr. Bruelhart, Crusher of 9th Grade Dreams and Draconian Disciplinarian with a Penchant for Fun; no. Now I was Mr. Bruelhart, Upended First Year Teacher with 12 Days to Rewrite My Summer’s Work for a 10th Grade Audience.

The title is a bit long, I’ll admit, but orders are orders and the title stays.

I have oft joked that schooling is an awful lot like the military: your superiors are fighting to prevent being outflanked and outgunned by their superiors, boots on the ground catch all the flak, no one of any rank has any idea what is going on outside their immediate vicinity, departments don’t communicate with other departments, logistics is a nightmare, orders are consistently countermanded (at least thrice), and the uniform regulations are constantly changing because fuck you that’s why.

Oh, and the pay sucks.

Seriously? 14 years just to make $50,000?

In that moment as she relayed my transfer/promotion/maybe we can make him quit by playing musical teachers/reassignment, I was one part confused, one part upset, and one part elated.

Confused, because, hell, why me? I’ve only been doing this gig for a single semester. How can these people trust me to teach Honors English? For you out-of-state types, Honors is the Advanced Placement equivalent without all the fluff and nifty upper level guidelines. Thankfully I attended two Advanced Placement workshops this summer – time to put that book learnin’ to use!

Reading, and beer, makes you look cool.

Upset, because I found out about this rather significant plot development less than two weeks before school starts. Surely someone in the know could have contacted me about the transfer when orders came down from higher. And unlike a normal job, I cannot barter for more pay or privileges when a transfer is possible – not in the teacher world! Now I have to take all of my summer’s labors and tweak them for upper level, (theoretically) motivated kids who are far past the realms of Romeo and Juliet. Pain in the bottom, to be sure, but nothing that will kill me. The grinding of the teeth ended hours ago, I assure you.

Elated, because, Hell. Yeah. I get to teach Honors! And 10th grade! Imagine the look on those kids’ faces as they receive their schedules, thinking they are rid of me for good as I wallow in Freshman English, only to see ENGLISH II: BRUELHART. Ha! Fate, you magnificent bitch; this is comedic gold. What’s more, Honors is supposed to be a more strenuous and difficult classroom environment – no more telegraphing or pulling punches. These kids gon’ learn today. And Julius Caesar. I get to teach Julius Caesar! Strength and honor, comrades.

There are many times throughout our lives where we are presented with a vast change that dictates the ebb and flow of things to come. Going from 9th to 10th grade with only a semester’s experience isn’t exactly ideal, but it isn’t the worst thing to have suddenly arrived from out of the blue. On the contrary, this seems minor, all things considered. A change, most certainly, and one that shall be met head on with gusto.

That’s the least we can do, no? Rather than whimper as a beaten hound, or find a craven way out, we must keep moving forward. This isn’t the time for complaining; no, far from it. This is the time to seize the day and make something better through adversity.

Ultreia, then, is apt. We keep moving forward. 9th, 10th, whatever. This setback is going to be the catalyst of progress and change – and how I relish chaos.

Cheers. Thanks for reading.

Full of Hot Air

Hey there folks,

One of the many exciting things about Albuquerque apart from the high murder rate and unsolicited slaughter of bums is the world-renowned

Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta!

And having been a lifelong New Mexico citizen, it was high time I attended such a festival. And I must say, reader, it has its charm, but it isn’t something I’m keen on attending in the future.

Armed with the foreknowledge of my brother and his charming wife, the family set out to finally attend one of New Mexico’s greatest attractions.

balloons
That wasn’t even a third of ’em

Continue reading “Full of Hot Air”