You are here: Dahlem

At a birthday party hosted by a goddess in a golden dress. Her legs are long, her skirt is short. She is a dangling earring. I covet the paintings on the walls. If I knew anything about them I'd post a link, all I can say is that they look very much like enlarged fashion photographs of the space between neck and breast. One clad in black, one in pink. The only false note--and here I'm reminded of poor Burger, Carrie Bradshaw's castrato--is the scrunchy on the gray-haired DJ. Male DJ. Does that make it better? Or worse? But I really don't want to write about any of that. What caught my attention was a semicolon of a man, mid-40s, pleated khakis, sports coat, maybe an ascot? As the evening matured I became mesmerized by his bouncing, snapping figure, his eyes locked on some nervously smiling, undancing companion. I could not look away. He stepped in rhythm, his body twitching from the neck down, his facial expression eager. It was St. Patrick's Day. He was dancing a jig. And just now it occurred to me that after some 35 years I may have been in the same room with Mr. Fig, an equally entrancing figure from, was it first grade? I've googled Mr. Fig (thought it might even have been Figg, somehow more dignified, no?) and he really does exist. And I was right about the tall green hat. A sort of mad hatter leprechaun. Mr. Fig dances a jig. But this one didn't have white hair. It was Dahlem after all. There you only really have to age if you choose to. Or decide to spend your money on something other than youth. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dahlem_%28Berlin%29 

https://www.google.de/search?q=dahlem+bilder&hl=de&client=firefox&hs=yXb&rls=com.yahoo:en-US:official&prmd=imvns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=blF_T9GDCYPYtAaYh5zVBA&ved=0CCsQsAQ&biw=1280&bih=563 

http://www.amazon.com/Mr-Fig-Level-3-Pre-Primer/dp/0153305037


This whole connection may have been brought on by a conversation with Jesolo about figs. I'm dancing a jig of joy as I write and shout out to Baltimore, California and Utah.