Here's a remark Tobiel might have made if he lived today:

If you are mathematically illiterate, you might think that an algorism is a memorable statement made by one of our former Vice Presidents.

Another tiny sneak-peek into the novel

"The omniscient, omnipresent gods do not laugh at jokes.  Not even the newest ones.  They have heard them all before." — Tobiel the carpenter, Tehtena's ever-mirthful friend

A line from 'Queen Makeda's Sister'

"What man calls freedom is at best a choice between different cages, all of which derive from his own needs and beliefs." — Tehtena, Sister of Makeda, Princess of Sheba

AN ETHIOPIAN WEDDING — THE JOY AND THE HEARTACHE

Rarely have I felt more joy in my heart than yesterday when I went to an Ethiopian wedding reception, and rarely have I felt more  distraught than I did afterwards when I was alone.
   While amongst the celebrants, I felt whole in a way that went against all reason.  It seemed as if I were truly home for the first time in my life.  Every hand I shook seemed to pull me closer to where I should always have been.  Every embrace seemed to welcome me back.  Every pair of eyes I looked into seemed to ask me where I had been all these years.  And yet, none of those I met there could possibly have wanted to express any such sentiments.
You see, I am an old, white guy.  Everything about my appearance suggests that I have nothing in common with that group of people.  To top it off, I am not exactly handsome.  Compared to their striking beauty, I look actually downright hideous.  So what made me feel the way I did?
   I do not believe in reincarnation.  What I sensed, therefore, cannot have been some memory of home, some feeling of belonging that had somehow stuck with my soul across the ages and past physical dissolution.  And yet, when I sat amongst these Ethiopians, among these wonderful, wonderful strangers whom, for the most part, I had never seen even from a distance, I felt peaceful like a baby in its mother's arms.  And as I walked home throught the night afterwards, I felt abandoned.
   Why do I love those people so much?  Why do I want them around me so desperately?  Why are they so beautiful to me in every way?
There is only one way I can explain this.  I must have immersed myself too deeply into the time period of my novel.  I must have over-saturated my mind with the lore of Makeda's ancient people, whose descendants the Ethiopians are, and now I am living more in their world than I live in the here and now.  What other answer could there be?
   As I sit here in front of my computer, I find myself reluctant to continue writing my novel for fear of severing the last few strands that still connect me to my real life.  At the same time, though, I want to continue working on it forever, sensing that I will lose this sweet, new-found home the moment I move on to the next project.
   As I went home last night, I could not shake the feeling that there had been some horrible mixup and that I had been handed the wrong life to live.  Not that I did not receive countless blessings in the one I ended up with, but somehow I was certain that it all was supposed to have happened somewhere else.  It weighed heavily on my heart that there was no way to ever rectify this. 
   I had been sweating in the best suit I put on for the occasion, and as I walked through the quiet streets a cool breeze brought some comfort to my body, but not to my soul. I knew of course that the cold air had come off the Hudson and not the Blue Nile, but that wasn't quite enough to root me firmly again in my current New York life.  And for now, that is okay with me.  The novel will be better because of it.  I just pray that when it is all done and my day job and the other demands of my current existence have drawn me back into the present, I will not lose this inexplicable love.  It is so very precious to me.

Things change ;-)

When I was young, I frequently needed cold showers.
Now that I am old, hot ones serve me better:
They fog up the mirror and spare me the view.

JUST GROWING APPLES

Every once in a while people ask me where I am exhibiting my paintings. It is at such moments that I see with heightened clarity what a strange person I am, because my reaction to that question shows me how completely unimportant the fate of my creations is to me.
Truth is that I never really exhibited my works in a proper gallery, and for some reason it doesn't matter to me.  I think I am producing art more or less the way an apple tree produces apples. Both the tree and I just do what we are programmed to do.  Whether someone harvests our 'fruits' and enjoys them or whether they fall to the ground and go to waste, is of absolutely no consequence to us.
My entire focus is on doing my best.  As things grow and ripen on my 'branches', I am downright obsessed with making them as beautiful as possible.  I am somewhat of a perfectionist, and while my work is still attached to me and unfolding, I want it to be absolutely perfect.  But once I decide that it is finished, I couldn't care less what happens to it next.
Don't get me wrong, I am a shrewd businessman and if someone wants to buy one of my painting, he or she will have to pay a hefty price for it.  I also enjoy very much if someone compliments me on my work. I certainly feel a great sense of satisfaction when people are moved by it.  But I do not crave accolade enough to invest any time or effort in becoming more visible to the public.  Sure, it is possible that greater exposure might get me to a place where I did no longer depend on my day job to make a living, but then again I do not mind at all paying my bills through ordinary work.
I seem to have the same attitude when it comes to writing.  Of course I would love to be a published author, but that's not what drives me to write my novel.  There's just something within me that needs to come out and be written down on paper, but what happens to it afterwards is not really all that important to me.  I am out there on twitter and facebook, surrounding myself with other writers and artists because I feel good in their company. Their company inspires me, and if I never receive anything more than their encouraging words and kind recognition, I will still be perfectly fine.
So there you have it.  My paintings decorate mostly my own home (or are tucked away behind some cabinet), and my first novel still sits on a shelf in my studio because I have not taken any steps toward publication yet (and am also planning to do some final editing).  And Tehtena, Queen Makeda's Sister, is patiently whispering her story into my ear while I worry very little about whether it will one day be read by a large audience or not.  A friend or two, I am confident, will find the time to read it, and that would suffice for me.
Strange, isn't it? :-)

I really can't complain. :-)

Fleeting moments of happiness have tie-dyed the dark fabric of my soul in surprisingly bright colors, leaving a random pattern that makes me smile.