Bob Ward – Frontiers

Bob Ward
Frontiers

Halfway up a mountain we stepped from a swaying cable-car onto a narrow platform, a transfer point where uneasily we boarded another swaying cable car which would take us near the top. It was difficult knowing where a steady point in the world might be.

The mountain was the Zugspitze which straddles the frontier between Austria and Germany. As an act of amiable diplomacy, an Austrian Emperor had gifted a spare alpine peak to his German counterpart who could lay no claim to any mountain reaching 10,000 ft in altitude. A line was given a nudge aside on the maps.

We were making our approach from Erwald, an alpine village on the Austrian side. The second cable car brought us to a mountain hut established for skiing, still in Austria. Our intention was to walk into German territory, then make our way back down the mountain to our base. What that involved was unexpected. We had to pass through a dimly lit tunnel hewed from the solid rock. When we set out the walls were slippery with ice. There was only just enough head room as we walked in single file, on and on. Then we reached a plain blue wooden door, which we needed to pass beyond. It opened readily enough, and we entered Germany. This was the frontier: no border guards, no passports, no delays. Deep in the bowels of a mountain we had moved from one country into another with its distinct legal system, even if the language was held in common.

How deeply do national frontiers go? At the centre of the Earth they must all converge on a point and become irrelevant. Conversely how high do they rise? In outer Earth-space there seems to be a free for all where anyone can toss up a satellite.

Eventually we came out into daylight at the top of an enormous scree slope dropping away in front of us. As mountains weather under the action of frost and snow, ice gets into cracks in the rock and flakes pieces away. Trying to find secure footholds where the scree was liable to shift, we picked our way down the slope, noting that even at this altitude in such a barren terrain a few plants managed to grow.

Our immediate destination was a mountain hut, (currently assailed by bedbugs). Refreshments would be available there, much needed after what was already becoming a strenuous walk. So, this was indeed Germany, for some of us a first entry. To mark the occasion, at the hut we made sure to sign the Visitor’s Book, a trivial sort of act yet it felt significant at the time. When arriving in the USA I had to allow the border official to take a mug shot but I didn’t leave my signature anywhere to show that I’d been.

After a rest we spent the rest of the day descending the mountain on foot to return to our base. Rough paths led us up to a long ridge, an arête, which must have provided the frontier, though not marked in any way. This was the back door into another country. The route up to the ridge was steep. On the other side the slope fell away sharply. We had to edge down a series of steps holding onto a reassuring fixed rope. But the final step proved very deep and at that point the rope ran out which did nothing for the more nervous members of our party. Beyond that we just had a long trudge descending to Erwald, where the cows were let out in the mornings to saunter along the main road down to their meadow. Later in the day they would return unaccompanied to the security of each one’s own stall, just a stone frontier between them and the humans next door.

Perry McDaid – Landscapes of Memory

Landscapes of Memory
by Perry McDaid

The first time I saw our new home, I was buzzing with excitement. There was a football pitch beside us where the children were allowed to play, and what looked like a mains leak proved to be an overflowing burn which gurgled between a break in the houses offering a glimpse of a woody lane.

I wanted to explore immediately, but mother insisted she check the lay of the land first, saying hello to the neighbours and sifting through the small talk for vital information on where children were allowed to play: the grass of the park near our previous one-room home being off-limits to children, and the parkie wasn’t shy of laying about himself with an old blackthorn stick.

I didn’t mind the delay. There was such a lot of garden at the front and gable of our house that it dizzied me. Francis street – our old hovel – had a front door which would have brushed the pedestrians off the pavement had it opened outwards, and the only greenery was either off-limits inside the gates of Brooke Park and Saint Eugene’s Cathedral grounds or on the dinner plates.

In this comparative palace there was plenty to roll about in, play in, and… Good God, there was a back garden as well. I had to run indoors and exit via a back door to make sure it was ours as well. It was only later that I registered having the space to run indoors. At the bottom of what seemed a huge garden was a pond … A POND.

It wasn’t fancy or installed; it was just surface seepage from the houses up the street. Rain would pool there because of topography, not financial investment. All manner of beetles swam in that pond and various insects skimmed or hummed over the surface.

This was a new world to me. I stumbled, the blue sky, green earth and limpid pond threatening to spin. Next thing I knew I was sitting in the kitchen with diluted orange in my hands being instructed to ‘take a good glug’. The mother neighbour was chatting confidentially to my own as she hovered around me. I was sitting. That was good.

“Our May went through the same thing when we first came up – she was sick for a week.”

“Were you stung?” My mother pulled at my clothes embarrassingly, looking for a welt at the neck, waist and thigh. Short trousers.

I shook my head, immediately regretting it.

“God, the inquisition I put our May through about that. No matter how many times she said no–”

“What is it?”

“Oh I sorry, I forgot how frantic I got back then. It’s the air, dear.”

“What?”

“It’s so much cleaner and richer up here – that’s what the doctor told me – that their wee lungs aren’t used to it. It’s like hyperventilating!”

There was a lot more conversation after that, but I was too busy trying to finish off the juice before surrendering to the sudden tiredness.

“Overexcited as well, he reckoned,” the neighbour continued. “He’ll be alright in an hour or so. They just have to take it slow.”

Her words faded into my dream of exploration beneath the leafy boughs of the sycamore, oak, and poplar I had noticed at the bottom of that mysterious lane. I wondered what it would feel like to paddle up through the little brook to the hills beyond.

I wondered … and slept.

Joan Z. Shore – France Gives Stephen King a Royal Welcome

France Gives Stephen King a Royal Welcome
by Joan Z. Shore

Paris is the destination for all young, aspiring writers. So why did it take Stephen King so long to come here? — waiting until he was 66 years old and the acclaimed author of 50 books that have sold 350 million copies and spawned numerous films.

He can’t explain this, as he holds a press conference with nearly 200 fawning journalists on a rainy Paris afternoon. “I guess I felt dumb not speaking French,” he says with a shrug.

Nor can he explain where he gets his ideas for his extraordinary tales of horror. He grew up without television, so movies were his inspiration, and he says the emotional and visual impact of a story is still his focus. He says he never writes with a film in mind, yet several of his books were made into successful movies and have become embedded in American culture: “Carrie” and “The Shining” for example.

King works every day at his writing, but admits that “stories don’t come as frequently as they used to – in my 20’s and 30’s.” Also, as a younger man, he battled with alcoholism and wrote with a background of Heavy Metal music; today, he says, it’s more likely to be country music “and Heavy Metal for the re-writing!” He rarely works on more than one thing at a time: “It makes me crazy.” And he admits, “When you look back at the books you wrote, there’s some embarrassment, so it’s better not to look back at all.”

Asked about the surge of violence in films and television today, King says simply, “There are some people like time bombs. They would find other ways. Art imitates life and vice-versa.”

He thinks there is still an appetite for “a safe scare,” especially in the age group of 15 to 32, “because at that age, you feel bullet-proof! It’s harder at 50 or 60 when, like me, you’re scared of things like Alzheimer’s or dementia. I’m more interested in the experience of dying than I used to be because I’m closer to it.”

Just days away from the tragic Kennedy anniversary, King discussed his recent book, “11/22/63 A Novel” — a historical fiction about the assassination for which he had to hire a research assistant. “It wasn’t easy,” he admits, “but it was an interesting process. I love that book!”

He continues: “The assassination was one of those rare moments when someone, a little schmuck, got on the world stage. Sometimes someone gets lucky and the rest of us get catastrophically unlucky. It’s comforting to believe that things happen for a reason. But we don’t know what would have happened if Kennedy hadn’t been killed. I think in life there are more happy endings than unhappy endings. But it’s a very surrealistic moment in America right now. It’s a slow motion tantrum, where the two sides (Republicans and Democrats) won’t talk to each other.”

Asked about the self-publishing revolution and what it means for the future of literature, King is critical but resigned. “It’s Mommy Porn,” he says. “There’s really nothing you can do about it. There are no gate-keepers. “Fifty Shades of Gray” is very badly written, like so many of them, but has been a huge success. I can only say ‘caveat emptor’ — read a sample and decide for yourself.”

Although King admits he doesn’t know where his ideas come from, his ghoulish humor must be a constant inspiration. (He admitted he hoped to visit the Père Lachaise cemetery and “kiss the graves of Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison”.) When a journalist asks him what is the most horrifying way to die, he reflects a moment, and then replies, “Having a heart attack right here!”

Then he adds, “But if one of you guys had a heart attack, that would be a novel!”