Fortunately it was a winter soon after my return to follow.
In principle favourable conditions for the troublesome mission of resocialisation.
The ice on the bay of the river Havel helped.
But obviously there was a world existing beyond the ice. Pure and strong manpower
seems to accomplish works of extraterrestrial quality.
In the beginning some drawbacks had to be accepted. Continence and continent
were just impossible to unite. Nature's desire is strong .
So let's get back to the sea as fast as possible. Some good fortune allowed some
packed ice to build up on the Baltic Sea. Ulrich, Juliane, Ute and Maximilian from the team
of resocialisation present themselves as dare-devils.
Surprisingly none of us drowns.
The wideness is tempting. Somewhere out on the ice there must be a way to the arctic..?
Despite the remarkable thickness of the ice it's just the inner bay of the island of Usedom.
But the urge to migrate stayed.
Apparently there's need of some stronger remedies to learn to appreciate the world without ice.
Brrrr. The outpost of resocialisation "Paris Arr. VI" led by the local chief executive Clemens K.
arranged a project of cultivation in the city of love.
Millions of people circulate through an infinite network concrete paths.
Right here, next to a main artery I begin to sense that there might even reveal
some fascinating beauty in the manifold chaos of the populated parts of our planet.
There's artificial snow for example.
Some people in Paris have got some funny
little boxes at home as well, called "broyeur" in french
(not to be mixed up with "branleur").
Word by word that means something like "grinder" or "crusher".
Usually they are well-hid and camouflaged secretly behind the toilets.
They've got something to do with the flushing that is frequently blocked, they tell you if you ask.
If you start using such toilets properly, little Monsieur le Broyeur jerkily begins to hum and work.
As it is most obviously his duty to teach manners to hard stool or comparable matter
to fit through the sewage pipes I hereby propose as an official
translation "faeces mill". "Stool grinder" might eventually be debatable as well.
In order to pay account for future marketing purposes in the medium-term an abbreviation
seems preferable, "facmi" e.g. or may be a pet name like "shit-hummy".
However, dear dictionary authors, I kindly ask you to consider at least
the term "faeces mill". Things without a name might turn very dangerous.
In some backyard in Paris old fellows archly turn up. Actually it was a bit too
fat for Regine. But which scooter else could be placed in that way in the
resocialisation office's backyard ?
But Paris had to little snow. It helped, but it had to little snow.
Silvretta instead: tree-, grass- and guilt-free. Marcel, Kathi and Matthias
far beyond the tree line. The snow had become slightly polystyrene-like, but all
all "leiwand" to the fullest extent ( leiwand: austrian, appropx. "canvas", as beautiful
and immaculate as a canvas )
Cumbrous uphill-climbing in trance.
Next to the summit slope of Piz Buin the shock: we can't continue. The track is
getting too ambiguous. We have to turn back as fast as possible. It's very easy to
get into trouble in the mountainside, if you don't understand nature's signals.
As the high-pressure "Helga" was driven away, there's powder again on the slopes
and the way down is better than flying.
The powder lets you hover down to the valley. The freed heel is dancing the
telemark-freedom-dance.
Resocialisation seems having succeeded.
But even the most fantastic measure of resocialisation is over some time.
What remains is a rainbow in the heart.
P.S.: Recently I was informed about the decease of Regine. May she rest in peace
in the snowmobiles' heaven.
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