We laid together. I held her tight against me, legs folded, intimately, her back into my breast, my nose in her hair; our final hours together that would end long before the sun came up. The radio clicked on. Four o'clock arrived. "You gotta be kidding me." I pulled her closer, refusing to get out of bed, my last time in that bed, my last time with her. She reached behind her and held me by the back of the thigh. Talk radio babbled on about Sarkozy, Obama, and Wiki-leaks.
I pushed my nose into her neck one last time, then dragged myself out, grumbling at the radio and it's stupid clock and stupid 4 a.m. I got in the shower, got dressed, and gathered the last of my things. She laid in bed and watched me the way I had watched her so many mornings when she put her books in her bag and ate breakfast and sipped coffee. She went to the toilet, came back out, and put her arms around me. "I'm gonna be late if you hold me much longer. I didn't realize how much stuff I forgot to pack last night." She laid back in bed and I finished gathering.
I wrapped my neck in two scarves and pulled on my coat. Just before leaving, I crouched onto the mattress that laid on her floor. "This is it," I told her, trying to savor the last moments before walking out of the warm embrace of her flat, her bed, her eyes, and leaving into the cold morning to catch my flight. She looked back at me with a gaze I didn't understand. I kissed her goodbye anyway.
Staggering with a hiking backpack behind me, a school backpack on my front, and a guitar switching hands to allow them turns to hide in my pockets, I made my way further from her without looking back. The sun kept far away from the day. My breath lingered behind me. I reached my meeting point where Zaheer waited for me. We greeted with a handshake, put my things in the car, and pulled away for Paris.
"Where are you from in North America?" he asked me. We spoke slowly on account of the early hour and my minimal ability in his tongue, but shared polite conversation.
"Texas," I told him. "And you?"
"Pakistan," Zaheer replied.
"Oh, where in Pakistan?"
"Near to Islamabad."
I nodded, then realized I had no idea where that was, so asked.
"Close to the north." He asked about Texas.
"It's difficult because people say, 'Where are you from?' and I tell them 'Texas,' and they go 'Ahh,' with disappointment."
Zaheer looked at me confused. "Why?"
"Because of Bush."
"Oh, right," he replied understanding. He laughed. "It's difficult for me because I'm from Pakistan so everyone thinks I'm a terrorist."
I didn't know how to respond, so sat quiet. His comment didn't make me uncomfortable, but, is it worse to be called a terrorist than it is a Bush-lover? Or is the worst part not what people generalize us as, but that people make generalizations at all? I sat thinking about it, then looked out the window to the misty French countryside. The sun still hid under its blankets.
Zaheer and I spoke some more. Zaheer moved to France in 2003. He told me how beautiful the mountains in the North of Pakistan are - the mountains I have heard about only as terrorist hideaways - and how there is not much brush, but it is a lovely place. When I asked if he preferred France or Pakistan, he responded telling me, "France is good for work, but Pakistan is my home. People always prefer their home." I sat in his car, love behind me and holidays ahead, thinking about what he said. "Do you want to sleep?"
"No," I told him. Then, "Well, maybe."
He pushed a CD into the player. A language came on, not French. It sounded Arabic. A man spoke in verses, then another man chanted something I never heard before. I sat in the car beside Zaheer, barreling the ribbons that laced the hills of France between Angers and Paris, the sun peaking from its covers, and I was read the Qur'an.
My eyes opened as we pulled into a gas station. "Did you have a good sleep?"
"Oh, yes. Very good." I rubbed the crick out of my neck.
We went in for coffee. The stop was full of other early morning commuters who stopped for coffee and breakfast, gas and the toilet. Zaheer and I sipped vending machine coffee and talked some more, then got back in the car and on the road.
Further on, Zaheer asked me, "Do you have a religion?"
"My family is all Christians."
"Oh." He nodded. His words came out slowly as English was his third language and his accent was thick. "Protestant or Catholic?"
"Protestant," I told him.
"Christian, Jewiff, and Islam all have one God. They are not so different. They are very similar." Now I nodded excited to hear someone of faith explain to me what I believed. He continued, "But other religions like Buddhism and Hindu, they have many Gods and this is not right." My nodding stopped. "There is one God. If there are many Gods, it is like if there are many presidents. They would fight and nothing would be right." He seemed to have a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought of polytheism. I tried to explain my view.
"I believe religions are all the same, even if they have one God or many gods." Zaheer started to defend, then stopped himself to let me finish. "I'm not saying it's right to have many gods, but I think all religions are the same because religions are made of people who recognize that they are small and that something, if it's one God or many, is so great and so much bigger than they are, and they want to celebrate that. I don't think it is important how many gods you believe in, but that we all recognize that something is bigger than we are and we celebrate it." I paused and there was quiet. Only the road hummed. Then I said, "All paths of worship lead to God." Although he disagreed with one God and many gods being the same, Zaheer liked this statement. I didn't bother to tell him that Krishna said it in the Bhagavad-gita, Hindu's holy book.
We talked about Muslims in the US and the mosque in New York City.
"I was so frustrated by it. Why do we argue about that?" I told him. "We're supposed to be the United States of America, freedoms and all this, but we don't want Muslims to build a mosque somewhere because it offends us." I got fired up. "Muslims were in the buildings too! They were the fire fighters and police officers and victims."
Zaheer put into words what my jumbled mind struggled with. "It is politics." I became quiet. "They want to use this thing to keep the people mad at each other so that we think about the wrong things and don't see what the people with power are really doing."
The sun raised its eyebrows and we sped into the tail-end of traffic that snaked into Paris.
On an open road, the drive from Angers to Paris takes roughly three hours, perhaps less. Zaheer and I made good time until we hit the staggering traffic that wove for another three hours into the city. As we reached further into town the stagnant cars became more frustrating to us both. I had to meet a friend. Zaheer had to get to work. He mumbled slight profanities under his breath as we sat at a stop light with cars curving one way and another, perpendicular to each other, car hoods inches from car doors and mopeds trickling through slight gaps between bumpers. "Damn it," he breathed. "Shit. This pisses me off."
I sat thinking to myself, Why would I think a Muslim wouldn't get frustrated with traffic or say curse words?
I breathed quietly to myself and considered the drive and the three months I spent in Europe; three months meeting friends of friends, strangers, drug dealers, prostitutes, goths, Muslims, socialists, atheists, artists, activists, coffee shop proprietors, local bar tenders, North Africans, Dutch, French, Italians, tourists, beggars, vagabonds, and residents. All the perspectives I discovered, all the people I met, rolled over each other in my mind as I sat quiet beside Zaheer, considered them, and breathed.
I paid him the fifteen Euros we agreed on for the ride and took my things out of his car. We shook hands. "Thank you so much, Zaheer."
"You are welcome. You are my first time to do this."
"Oh, really? I hope you enjoyed it."
"Yes. Have a good day."
"You too, Zaheer." I put one bag on my back, one bag on my front, and as I reached for the guitar, Zaheer honked. I turned around. He waved to me with a smile.
I waved back to him, got the guitar and walked downstairs into the metro station to meet my friend one last time before going home.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Saturday, December 25, 2010
A Christmas Story
6:30 a.m. the alarm went off. Brother and sister jerked awake, threw off the covers, and made their plans quickly.
"You get Mom and Dad, I'll get Matt and make the coffee." Mom never let them start opening presents until she had her coffee and Matt could always wait until later to get to the gifts. He needed encouragement.
Emily ran downstairs, but not without throwing one warning shout to her oldest brother, "Matt get up, it's Christmas!"
Brian followed her and went to Matt's room. "Matt, get up. It's time to open presents!" Matt slowly opened his eyes. Brian made sure they stayed open, then dashed to the kitchen, averting his eyes so not to get a peak of the presents, to start Mom's coffee. Dad came into the living after Emily sat beside her pile of wrapped boxes, looking as if he stayed up late, didn't go to bed when he said he would, with a tuft of hair rising from the back of his head.
The coffee brewed and Brian put two Equals into Mom's mug before she made it in. The milk sat next to the pot, which dripped too slow for the anxious children, but they had waited this long since last Christmas. They could wait another couple of minutes.
Dad got excited for the kids and, to Emily, sounding like a ghost from A Christmas Carol, exclaimed, "Emmy, look at all the presents! Are all those for you?"
"No, just these," she replied.
Mom came in for her coffee, which Brian finished preparing. The four sat at their places, Emily still beside her presents, checking boxes and the few larger items Santa never bothered to wrap, Brian sitting beside his, Mom and Dad on the couch. Dad shouted, "Matt! Come open presents!" Matt came into the living room, eyes half covered by their lids.
"Can we start now?"
"Sure," Mom said.
"Tear into that sucker Brian!" Dad encouraged.
"You get Mom and Dad, I'll get Matt and make the coffee." Mom never let them start opening presents until she had her coffee and Matt could always wait until later to get to the gifts. He needed encouragement.
Emily ran downstairs, but not without throwing one warning shout to her oldest brother, "Matt get up, it's Christmas!"
Brian followed her and went to Matt's room. "Matt, get up. It's time to open presents!" Matt slowly opened his eyes. Brian made sure they stayed open, then dashed to the kitchen, averting his eyes so not to get a peak of the presents, to start Mom's coffee. Dad came into the living after Emily sat beside her pile of wrapped boxes, looking as if he stayed up late, didn't go to bed when he said he would, with a tuft of hair rising from the back of his head.
The coffee brewed and Brian put two Equals into Mom's mug before she made it in. The milk sat next to the pot, which dripped too slow for the anxious children, but they had waited this long since last Christmas. They could wait another couple of minutes.
Dad got excited for the kids and, to Emily, sounding like a ghost from A Christmas Carol, exclaimed, "Emmy, look at all the presents! Are all those for you?"
"No, just these," she replied.
Mom came in for her coffee, which Brian finished preparing. The four sat at their places, Emily still beside her presents, checking boxes and the few larger items Santa never bothered to wrap, Brian sitting beside his, Mom and Dad on the couch. Dad shouted, "Matt! Come open presents!" Matt came into the living room, eyes half covered by their lids.
"Can we start now?"
"Sure," Mom said.
"Tear into that sucker Brian!" Dad encouraged.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Ready for Bed . . ..
Awake 41 hours with a 2 hour nap.
I woke up at 8h15 today. I fell asleep before that at 6h.
Yesterday, I woke up at 6h.
The day before, I built a terrace with my cousins and uncle
for Granny for Christmas.
That was Sunday, when I woke up at 5h
after Saturday when I drove to Waxahachie.
I woke up at 4h30 that day.
Friday I took Kristel to the airport
and ate dinner with my brother, hermana, dad, and Dad's friend.
I had been awake since 8h exactly
after arriving back to home soil on Thursday afternoon.
Has your mood shifted with the full moon, eclipse, solstice, or simply in general?
I woke up at 8h15 today. I fell asleep before that at 6h.
Yesterday, I woke up at 6h.
The day before, I built a terrace with my cousins and uncle
for Granny for Christmas.
That was Sunday, when I woke up at 5h
after Saturday when I drove to Waxahachie.
I woke up at 4h30 that day.
Friday I took Kristel to the airport
and ate dinner with my brother, hermana, dad, and Dad's friend.
I had been awake since 8h exactly
after arriving back to home soil on Thursday afternoon.
Has your mood shifted with the full moon, eclipse, solstice, or simply in general?
Monday, December 20, 2010
Did you know ..............................................
.....................................................................
.............................................................................
...............................................?
I bet you didn't. But keep the decision you've already made.
.....................................................................
.............................................................................
...............................................?
I bet you didn't. But keep the decision you've already made.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
From the Flight
That man is much too big
for his seat. To think
of that large, powerful
head on a pillow such
as the one he holds. He
directs others to openings
in the luggage racks and is
awarded the same snack
the rest of the passengers eat, yet
he nibbles the crackers,
individually pinched between
his thumb and index, pinky
out-stretched. He nips
the edges with his pearly
teeth and a smile with
his eyebrows raised ecstatic.
He smiles at the pretty
girls and watches their
backsides sway down the
aisle. He nods to the guys,
not as interested. With one
massive leg in the aisle,
his head against the pillow,
and his mouth open,
he slumbers, as only a
man his size can, powerful
breath without snoring.
Sitting & waiting & cramping &
craving. Yearning & thinking & holding.
Bent & folded, upright &
molded. Lost in a direct flight.
Confused by extra-long daytime. Wading
chased by the sun. Mid-heaven questions.
Watching & hearing,
spying & belching & breathing.
Sniffling & coughing & blowing.
Again, going without knowing.
for his seat. To think
of that large, powerful
head on a pillow such
as the one he holds. He
directs others to openings
in the luggage racks and is
awarded the same snack
the rest of the passengers eat, yet
he nibbles the crackers,
individually pinched between
his thumb and index, pinky
out-stretched. He nips
the edges with his pearly
teeth and a smile with
his eyebrows raised ecstatic.
He smiles at the pretty
girls and watches their
backsides sway down the
aisle. He nods to the guys,
not as interested. With one
massive leg in the aisle,
his head against the pillow,
and his mouth open,
he slumbers, as only a
man his size can, powerful
breath without snoring.
Sitting & waiting & cramping &
craving. Yearning & thinking & holding.
Bent & folded, upright &
molded. Lost in a direct flight.
Confused by extra-long daytime. Wading
chased by the sun. Mid-heaven questions.
Watching & hearing,
spying & belching & breathing.
Sniffling & coughing & blowing.
Again, going without knowing.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Cour d'Appel d'Angers
Clouds held back by bobby pins fall into the sky after a long day.
Boot heels and dress shoes clack.
Pants swish against handbags and shopping bags.
Heads bow out of overcoats against damp, dark, and cold evening.
A congregation at the bus stop sings hymns to the weekend and, later,
psalms to each other.
Hands brave the cold to connect two bodies walking through the plaza.
Father and son share the responsibility of carrying home this year's Christmas tree.
An adolescent on his bike struggles to carry his cargo,
which happens to be his friend. The friend struggles to hold on.
They approach a drinking stranger.
Bonsoir. They ask if he needs some change.
He's lost in their question, confused.
They say never mind and, Bonsoirée.
Toi'aussi he tells them.
The kids rejoin their friends for a game of Kick the Can.
Boot heels and dress shoes clack.
Pants swish against handbags and shopping bags.
Heads bow out of overcoats against damp, dark, and cold evening.
A congregation at the bus stop sings hymns to the weekend and, later,
psalms to each other.
Hands brave the cold to connect two bodies walking through the plaza.
Father and son share the responsibility of carrying home this year's Christmas tree.
An adolescent on his bike struggles to carry his cargo,
which happens to be his friend. The friend struggles to hold on.
They approach a drinking stranger.
Bonsoir. They ask if he needs some change.
He's lost in their question, confused.
They say never mind and, Bonsoirée.
Toi'aussi he tells them.
The kids rejoin their friends for a game of Kick the Can.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Urban Suburban
"I'm ready when you are," I told Nicola on my way for a glass of water.
"Well," he replied slowly, searching his vocabulary. "We should wait for Charles to return because we don't have the key for the apartment."
Charles was out buying beer. When he returned, Nicola and I put on our jackets to head for any place providing internet. Wrapped in scarves and jackets zipped up, I remembered to check for my wallet so I could buy myself a coffee. My hand slid deep into my inside pocket, but felt nothing. My brow furrowed.
"Hm?" I questioned and reached for my other pockets. It was such a habit to leave my wallet in that inside pocket that I immediately had no idea where it could be. I panicked, but tried not to show. But I couldn't search without telling Nicola I wasn't ready yet. "I have to find my wallet."
Anais woke from her deep slumber and came out of the bedroom to find me in search and then helped . Pat, Agate, and others slowly stumbled out and looked with glassy eyes. They asked where I last saw it and where I had been, so we tried to reconstruct the previous evening using our collective mush-brains that sloshed in our heads. We searched the flat for ten minutes and I told Nicola to go ahead.
"No, I'm not going. I will help you find your wallet."
"What? You don't have to. I don't want to hold you up."
"You're not," he replied. "I don't have anything I need to do."
We agreed to go to the last place where I made a purchase the night before.
On the street I asked, "How do you say wallet?"
Nicola told me, but then said he would talk for me.
We went in and asked. The lady working the shop tried to help, then asked a coworker who, without looking up from LOTO tickets, shook her head and mumbled something in the negative. The first lady apologized and, after she gave us directions to the police station, Nicola and I left.
We found the door and went in, but there is only one Lost & Found in Paris. I didn't believe it.
You mean we have to trust not only that someone will find our wallet and return it to the police, I thought, but that they will take it to a specific police station close to the outskirts of town?
I didn't even consider going and the police told Nicola that they don't accept phone calls for lost items.
"I want to walk back to the car park where we went last night. You want to go to McDonalds and I'll meet you there?"
"No. I'm with you," Nicola replied straight.
"No, you don't have to."
"Is it far?"
"I don't think it's that far, but I have to remember how to get there." The night before was foggy and bubbly and a lot of talking without paying attention. There had been a large bottle of Leffe in my inside pocket, where my wallet had been, and I removed this bottle to share on the walk. Did it drag my wallet out with it? Surely not!
Nicola followed me along the way to the parking garage, stopping once for a sandwich, which he shared with me.
"I like walking around Paris," he told me. "Don't you?"
"I love it."
We made our way where I needed to check and went down the out ramp of the garage. Nicola asked the attendant if anyone had returned a wallet. They discussed possibilities and asked me if there was cash inside.
"Yeah, a little, I think."
The attendant explained that people who find wallets tend to take out the cash and put the wallet in the post, which is then carried by mail to the owner. This possibility didn't offer much relief as we walked out of the office and down to the third underground level to where the car had been.
I searched the corner of the lot, curbs, gutters, inside parked cars, but nothing.
Nicola stood at the door.
"Well, nothing else to do here," I conceded. There was a pause. "Well, you wanna go get a coffee and use some internet?"
"Okay." Nicola opened the door and I led us out.
I kept my head down along the same streets on our way back. Even looking deep through the morning's garbage bins, I kept a keen eye out for the bright orange of my billfold against the cold, gray, patchwork of Parisian bricks.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"Yeah, I think I'll get a mix at the sandwich shop." We crossed the street to the sidewalk window and I ordered.
"Vous as de la internet?" Nicola asked.
The lady responded in French.
As Nicola and I went inside to retrieve the coffee we ordered outside, he explained that, although the coffee cost the same, the sandwich is cheaper when purchased outside.
Nicola left for a job interview.
My time using internet ran out. My battery died on my computer. I left, hoping to meet Anais. Puffing down the winter-blown sidewalk, ignoring most everyone I saw, including the deaf mute who thrust a clipboard and pen into my pocketed hands, I eventually found a cabine to call her.
"Vous as" the recording told me, "un minu."
God, I'm running out of everything, I thought in my naivety.
I called Anais. Said, "I can't talk, only have one minute, can you call me?"
"Do you have Skype?"
"No, I'm not at a cafe."
"This is a skype number, no?"
"No. Un cabine."
"Oh. Yeah, I'll call you."
But the phone didn't work and I never got a call. Instead, I went to meet my friend Thalie at the cafe.
We sat down at a table and ordered two coffees. I complained to Thalie about many things that rolled through my mind that day regarding my wallet and otherwise. She listened patiently and asked questions that I answered after long, unnecessary rants that eventually led to a response. I had become uncharacteristically talkative in recent days.
"I just can't believe I could lose my wallet. I simply don't lose things." I explained how, no matter how briefly I stop anywhere - on a bench, in a cabine, at a restaurant - I always look behind me as I walk away, making sure nothing of mine is still there. "I want to go back to the flat and check again. I know I couldn't have lost my wallet. I mean, I looked everywhere, but I think it's there. Maybe under the mattress where my friend slept." I felt defeated. "Probably not." Then I got tired of my negativity. "But, yeah. Why shouldn't it be there? I haven't looked yet. Why not?"
We stayed in the cafe, out of the cold, for about an hour, then went back to the flat where I'd left in the morning. "I just want to have one more glance around," but I knew exactly where I wanted to glance.
I walked into the bedroom where I slept the night before, where I had used my coat as a blanket and rolled around on hard wood finding a comfortable and heated spot. Another friend, Agate, came into the room to help.
"I just want to look under the mattress," I explained. I stopped the search. "Last night, when you came in, I remember, it was so funny. Un, deux, trois!" I mimed Agate's actions from the night before. "Then the whole bed moved." Agate laughed her boisterous laugh. At 7:30 that morning she came in to sleep and, after I had received an invitation to get in the bed, she pulled out a mattress from underneath, but not without any great effort. Laughing now, "I opened my eyes, looked up, heard 'Trois!' and then the wood beams on the ceiling just went," and I gestured with my hands how they moved from right to left above me.
Laughing about it, Agate reached for the bed frame. "Here, let me do this," and she lifted so that I could slide the mattress out. I knew I would find my wallet. I felt it. As Agate held the bed in place, I lifted the mattress onto its side and checked the floor below.
"Well," he replied slowly, searching his vocabulary. "We should wait for Charles to return because we don't have the key for the apartment."
Charles was out buying beer. When he returned, Nicola and I put on our jackets to head for any place providing internet. Wrapped in scarves and jackets zipped up, I remembered to check for my wallet so I could buy myself a coffee. My hand slid deep into my inside pocket, but felt nothing. My brow furrowed.
"Hm?" I questioned and reached for my other pockets. It was such a habit to leave my wallet in that inside pocket that I immediately had no idea where it could be. I panicked, but tried not to show. But I couldn't search without telling Nicola I wasn't ready yet. "I have to find my wallet."
Anais woke from her deep slumber and came out of the bedroom to find me in search and then helped . Pat, Agate, and others slowly stumbled out and looked with glassy eyes. They asked where I last saw it and where I had been, so we tried to reconstruct the previous evening using our collective mush-brains that sloshed in our heads. We searched the flat for ten minutes and I told Nicola to go ahead.
"No, I'm not going. I will help you find your wallet."
"What? You don't have to. I don't want to hold you up."
"You're not," he replied. "I don't have anything I need to do."
We agreed to go to the last place where I made a purchase the night before.
On the street I asked, "How do you say wallet?"
Nicola told me, but then said he would talk for me.
We went in and asked. The lady working the shop tried to help, then asked a coworker who, without looking up from LOTO tickets, shook her head and mumbled something in the negative. The first lady apologized and, after she gave us directions to the police station, Nicola and I left.
We found the door and went in, but there is only one Lost & Found in Paris. I didn't believe it.
You mean we have to trust not only that someone will find our wallet and return it to the police, I thought, but that they will take it to a specific police station close to the outskirts of town?
I didn't even consider going and the police told Nicola that they don't accept phone calls for lost items.
"I want to walk back to the car park where we went last night. You want to go to McDonalds and I'll meet you there?"
"No. I'm with you," Nicola replied straight.
"No, you don't have to."
"Is it far?"
"I don't think it's that far, but I have to remember how to get there." The night before was foggy and bubbly and a lot of talking without paying attention. There had been a large bottle of Leffe in my inside pocket, where my wallet had been, and I removed this bottle to share on the walk. Did it drag my wallet out with it? Surely not!
Nicola followed me along the way to the parking garage, stopping once for a sandwich, which he shared with me.
"I like walking around Paris," he told me. "Don't you?"
"I love it."
We made our way where I needed to check and went down the out ramp of the garage. Nicola asked the attendant if anyone had returned a wallet. They discussed possibilities and asked me if there was cash inside.
"Yeah, a little, I think."
The attendant explained that people who find wallets tend to take out the cash and put the wallet in the post, which is then carried by mail to the owner. This possibility didn't offer much relief as we walked out of the office and down to the third underground level to where the car had been.
I searched the corner of the lot, curbs, gutters, inside parked cars, but nothing.
Nicola stood at the door.
"Well, nothing else to do here," I conceded. There was a pause. "Well, you wanna go get a coffee and use some internet?"
"Okay." Nicola opened the door and I led us out.
I kept my head down along the same streets on our way back. Even looking deep through the morning's garbage bins, I kept a keen eye out for the bright orange of my billfold against the cold, gray, patchwork of Parisian bricks.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"Yeah, I think I'll get a mix at the sandwich shop." We crossed the street to the sidewalk window and I ordered.
"Vous as de la internet?" Nicola asked.
The lady responded in French.
As Nicola and I went inside to retrieve the coffee we ordered outside, he explained that, although the coffee cost the same, the sandwich is cheaper when purchased outside.
Nicola left for a job interview.
My time using internet ran out. My battery died on my computer. I left, hoping to meet Anais. Puffing down the winter-blown sidewalk, ignoring most everyone I saw, including the deaf mute who thrust a clipboard and pen into my pocketed hands, I eventually found a cabine to call her.
"Vous as" the recording told me, "un minu."
God, I'm running out of everything, I thought in my naivety.
I called Anais. Said, "I can't talk, only have one minute, can you call me?"
"Do you have Skype?"
"No, I'm not at a cafe."
"This is a skype number, no?"
"No. Un cabine."
"Oh. Yeah, I'll call you."
But the phone didn't work and I never got a call. Instead, I went to meet my friend Thalie at the cafe.
We sat down at a table and ordered two coffees. I complained to Thalie about many things that rolled through my mind that day regarding my wallet and otherwise. She listened patiently and asked questions that I answered after long, unnecessary rants that eventually led to a response. I had become uncharacteristically talkative in recent days.
"I just can't believe I could lose my wallet. I simply don't lose things." I explained how, no matter how briefly I stop anywhere - on a bench, in a cabine, at a restaurant - I always look behind me as I walk away, making sure nothing of mine is still there. "I want to go back to the flat and check again. I know I couldn't have lost my wallet. I mean, I looked everywhere, but I think it's there. Maybe under the mattress where my friend slept." I felt defeated. "Probably not." Then I got tired of my negativity. "But, yeah. Why shouldn't it be there? I haven't looked yet. Why not?"
We stayed in the cafe, out of the cold, for about an hour, then went back to the flat where I'd left in the morning. "I just want to have one more glance around," but I knew exactly where I wanted to glance.
I walked into the bedroom where I slept the night before, where I had used my coat as a blanket and rolled around on hard wood finding a comfortable and heated spot. Another friend, Agate, came into the room to help.
"I just want to look under the mattress," I explained. I stopped the search. "Last night, when you came in, I remember, it was so funny. Un, deux, trois!" I mimed Agate's actions from the night before. "Then the whole bed moved." Agate laughed her boisterous laugh. At 7:30 that morning she came in to sleep and, after I had received an invitation to get in the bed, she pulled out a mattress from underneath, but not without any great effort. Laughing now, "I opened my eyes, looked up, heard 'Trois!' and then the wood beams on the ceiling just went," and I gestured with my hands how they moved from right to left above me.
Laughing about it, Agate reached for the bed frame. "Here, let me do this," and she lifted so that I could slide the mattress out. I knew I would find my wallet. I felt it. As Agate held the bed in place, I lifted the mattress onto its side and checked the floor below.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Untitled
[This is a flow of my thoughts, unedited, without removing anything some may not want to read.]
i have been crucified. this has lasted too long.
action, action!
as a child, i yurned to write horror stories.
my fear that it was the devil wanting to use me for evil thoughts scared me into passing the opportunity to practice. the constant fear that god may not approve.
education faked it's importance.
get by is fine.
the age of cable television, internet, flash advertisements - tv shows last 5 minutes at a time, then 3 minutes telling me to buy something. see it and see it again, then again. well goddamn. i just want to see my stories.
ADD, ADHD, you have given a name to our kids for something assholes wanting more money have caused. it's better if people can't sit and read a book for hours at a time. they may learn to think.
want the grades to get the classes next year. this continues for 20 years then unemployment.
what will you do? what's next? what are your plans?
i don't know, but it's going to be amazing and people are going to want to be part of it.
three years later, what have you to show?
indecision. travel stories. uncertainty. lack of confidence that increases by indecisiveness and is fed by watching peers who know what they want. oh, and i have learned that i learned nothing in 20 years of schooling.
fear of success is not a fear of the money or compliments. rather, an uncertainty how i will react to it.
you do nothing. you've nothing to fear.
a different fear. how will others react to your success?
c'est ca. afraid of how others see me, i become timid.
my desire to be polite, i become a push-over.
walking on eggshells.
step on the cracks, break mother's back.
sorry maria, i can no longer watch my steps. i have to do something without tip-toeing around what that is.
well what is it?!
lethargy comes from indecisiveness. or does indecisiveness come from lethargy?
i don't tell you because i don't want you to know. i don't want you to have what i cherish for myself, yet i demonstrate nothing of what this is that i want.
where are the clues?
look here. and there. you will see something.
empty empty promises empty goals empty attempts empty
suddenly, suddenly it does not look right seeing it over and over again.
stagnant sitting, stagnant motion because the mind does not turn these over in itself, the heart does not burn but instead wheezes, the lungs have been wrapped in papier-mâché and crinkle as they heave.
if you have no goals you can't fail.
nor can you succeed.
i need to write a horror story.
Aunt Diane drives five cousins in an old white station wagon and the boys are rough-housing in the car. She doesn't mind their fun. The boys range in age from the youngest who is four, his older brother, 8, their cousin who is also 8, his brother, 13, and the oldest cousin, who sits in the front seat, 14.
The station wagon pulls out of the neighborhood to a slope that rolls up and over the bank of train tracks. The sky is not particularly bright, but there are no clouds and the spring temperatures are just right.
"Aunt Diane!" the middle cousin begins. "Can we walk home from here?"
Three other cousins agree by clapping and "Yeah!" The youngest sits squashed against the door, not exactly wanting to get out. He senses something. But as the four agree and the aunt allows, the youngest opens the door and steps out. The others as well.
Three doors close and the aunt drives away. She pulls over the slope, bends left, and turns right out of sight of the boys, who stand there together smiling, ready to walk, except for the youngest.
Without warning, fog rolls in over the train tracks, the tinge of heat from spring changes to outright cold. Walking between the two rails, toward the boys, is a man in dark jeans and a dark jacket, hands in his pockets. He moves slowly, yet with purpose.
The five cousins understand the uncertainty of the situation. They understand, without meeting him, or even seeing him close, that he is trouble, and they begin to run.
The youngest boy, only four, cannot run as fast and is left behind.
i have been crucified. this has lasted too long.
action, action!
as a child, i yurned to write horror stories.
my fear that it was the devil wanting to use me for evil thoughts scared me into passing the opportunity to practice. the constant fear that god may not approve.
education faked it's importance.
get by is fine.
the age of cable television, internet, flash advertisements - tv shows last 5 minutes at a time, then 3 minutes telling me to buy something. see it and see it again, then again. well goddamn. i just want to see my stories.
ADD, ADHD, you have given a name to our kids for something assholes wanting more money have caused. it's better if people can't sit and read a book for hours at a time. they may learn to think.
want the grades to get the classes next year. this continues for 20 years then unemployment.
what will you do? what's next? what are your plans?
i don't know, but it's going to be amazing and people are going to want to be part of it.
three years later, what have you to show?
indecision. travel stories. uncertainty. lack of confidence that increases by indecisiveness and is fed by watching peers who know what they want. oh, and i have learned that i learned nothing in 20 years of schooling.
fear of success is not a fear of the money or compliments. rather, an uncertainty how i will react to it.
you do nothing. you've nothing to fear.
a different fear. how will others react to your success?
c'est ca. afraid of how others see me, i become timid.
my desire to be polite, i become a push-over.
walking on eggshells.
step on the cracks, break mother's back.
sorry maria, i can no longer watch my steps. i have to do something without tip-toeing around what that is.
well what is it?!
lethargy comes from indecisiveness. or does indecisiveness come from lethargy?
i don't tell you because i don't want you to know. i don't want you to have what i cherish for myself, yet i demonstrate nothing of what this is that i want.
where are the clues?
look here. and there. you will see something.
empty empty promises empty goals empty attempts empty
suddenly, suddenly it does not look right seeing it over and over again.
stagnant sitting, stagnant motion because the mind does not turn these over in itself, the heart does not burn but instead wheezes, the lungs have been wrapped in papier-mâché and crinkle as they heave.
if you have no goals you can't fail.
nor can you succeed.
i need to write a horror story.
Aunt Diane drives five cousins in an old white station wagon and the boys are rough-housing in the car. She doesn't mind their fun. The boys range in age from the youngest who is four, his older brother, 8, their cousin who is also 8, his brother, 13, and the oldest cousin, who sits in the front seat, 14.
The station wagon pulls out of the neighborhood to a slope that rolls up and over the bank of train tracks. The sky is not particularly bright, but there are no clouds and the spring temperatures are just right.
"Aunt Diane!" the middle cousin begins. "Can we walk home from here?"
Three other cousins agree by clapping and "Yeah!" The youngest sits squashed against the door, not exactly wanting to get out. He senses something. But as the four agree and the aunt allows, the youngest opens the door and steps out. The others as well.
Three doors close and the aunt drives away. She pulls over the slope, bends left, and turns right out of sight of the boys, who stand there together smiling, ready to walk, except for the youngest.
Without warning, fog rolls in over the train tracks, the tinge of heat from spring changes to outright cold. Walking between the two rails, toward the boys, is a man in dark jeans and a dark jacket, hands in his pockets. He moves slowly, yet with purpose.
The five cousins understand the uncertainty of the situation. They understand, without meeting him, or even seeing him close, that he is trouble, and they begin to run.
The youngest boy, only four, cannot run as fast and is left behind.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
* short poem
* I just had to write something, not necessarily this, but it's what came out... kinda like when you finish dinner and, unfulfilled, you know you need a bowl of peanut butter and syrup.
Bernie said
"The sadness
is beautiful,"
and he couldn't cry,
looking upon the funeral party.
This man patrolled
car lots,
smiled,
held fishing line
in his nimble fingers, able
to tie a hook.
Bernie reveled in
the splendid crevaces
found within those loose cheeks,
that white hair,
those watery, blind, wishful eyes.
The man told stories of why
he had a thumb, one finger,
and three stubs.
"I can't remember what I just told you,"
explained the old man,
"but I remember dynamite like it was yesterday."
He caressed textured
paintings. Wind eroded
his mind, having lived 13 years
on a mountain.
Art, for him, was three men
in a bathtub and
the weather,
a lady in a frying pan.
And he always asked
the same questions.
Last years, too weak to
get up; final year
too frail to hold.
Bernie can't remember
his embrace.
The man died laying
in hospice
without the breath for more stories,
staring ahead without seeing,
visited daily by those saying goodbye.
The sadness was beautiful.
Bernie said
"The sadness
is beautiful,"
and he couldn't cry,
looking upon the funeral party.
This man patrolled
car lots,
smiled,
held fishing line
in his nimble fingers, able
to tie a hook.
Bernie reveled in
the splendid crevaces
found within those loose cheeks,
that white hair,
those watery, blind, wishful eyes.
The man told stories of why
he had a thumb, one finger,
and three stubs.
"I can't remember what I just told you,"
explained the old man,
"but I remember dynamite like it was yesterday."
He caressed textured
paintings. Wind eroded
his mind, having lived 13 years
on a mountain.
Art, for him, was three men
in a bathtub and
the weather,
a lady in a frying pan.
And he always asked
the same questions.
Last years, too weak to
get up; final year
too frail to hold.
Bernie can't remember
his embrace.
The man died laying
in hospice
without the breath for more stories,
staring ahead without seeing,
visited daily by those saying goodbye.
The sadness was beautiful.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
To You, when you can, if you find me,
these are some things i want to share:
mama you been on my mind, by bob dylan
the band 'dr. dog'. especially the harmonies
Weihen Stephaner was excellent
the words to bob dylan's song, 'farewell angelina'
You are the most honest i've known
everyone questioned doing it, but i made it safe
'Remember the Mountain Bed' by Wilco (Written by Woody Guthrie)
briansgore@yahoo.com
some of my music is here
i want to make this perfect for you, but
i more prefer that it's here when you arrive.
these are some things i want to share:
mama you been on my mind, by bob dylan
the band 'dr. dog'. especially the harmonies
Weihen Stephaner was excellent
the words to bob dylan's song, 'farewell angelina'
You are the most honest i've known
everyone questioned doing it, but i made it safe
'Remember the Mountain Bed' by Wilco (Written by Woody Guthrie)
briansgore@yahoo.com
some of my music is here
i want to make this perfect for you, but
i more prefer that it's here when you arrive.
Monday, November 15, 2010
this is where i arrived, and how
Instead, I watch the rain from a warm tile floor, sipping coffee as trees lean from the wind.
I drove here with friends after tea. We walked through the weather to our van.
Beforehand, we window shopped. Televisions flickered red, mannequins donned lingerie. Today's latest appliances. Men stared or poked their heads into shops to see the game.
The new moon hid away and swans gathered with geese among ducks. Vacant boats hardly shifted along the canal walls.
Bicycles rang by with bells, or didn't, and nearly hit people a lot of the time.
Thomas guided Sasha into a parallel spot to let us out, and we stopped in at Dennins' place for a bite to tie us through the night. We didn't eat any more than snacks in our long day from a to b to c.
Previously, 80 minutes to find our cabins, two two story flats with bare walls but broad floors, then we unloaded our things.
The final stretch of the journey felt the longest as we sat in traffic and crept for one of the three hours of our trip. The roads grew dark after leaves tumbled between lanes.
Before leaving, we stopped in at a Brussels museum for a tour, but a group of guys joined me in the camera room and we took pictures in front of a green screen.
We visited the European Parliament, a famous bar, and a restaurant for lunch. On the way to the bar, I spoke with Celine and JB. At the bar I broke out, everyone lightened their moods, and we cut up cracking jokes and telling about ourselves.
We arrived to Brussels just before lunch time, after a long ride, about 6 hours, from Angers in 1a.m. We piled our bags into 2 vans, then our bodies, and drove off, listening to road-trip music, through the wet empty streets of Angers and onward toward Brussels.
I found a ride to Amsterdam but nowhere to sleep. From Angers, I gathered myself for the trip, nervously preparing to sleep on the streets of foreign and strange Amsterdam.
I drove here with friends after tea. We walked through the weather to our van.
Beforehand, we window shopped. Televisions flickered red, mannequins donned lingerie. Today's latest appliances. Men stared or poked their heads into shops to see the game.
The new moon hid away and swans gathered with geese among ducks. Vacant boats hardly shifted along the canal walls.
Bicycles rang by with bells, or didn't, and nearly hit people a lot of the time.
Thomas guided Sasha into a parallel spot to let us out, and we stopped in at Dennins' place for a bite to tie us through the night. We didn't eat any more than snacks in our long day from a to b to c.
Previously, 80 minutes to find our cabins, two two story flats with bare walls but broad floors, then we unloaded our things.
The final stretch of the journey felt the longest as we sat in traffic and crept for one of the three hours of our trip. The roads grew dark after leaves tumbled between lanes.
Before leaving, we stopped in at a Brussels museum for a tour, but a group of guys joined me in the camera room and we took pictures in front of a green screen.
We visited the European Parliament, a famous bar, and a restaurant for lunch. On the way to the bar, I spoke with Celine and JB. At the bar I broke out, everyone lightened their moods, and we cut up cracking jokes and telling about ourselves.
We arrived to Brussels just before lunch time, after a long ride, about 6 hours, from Angers in 1a.m. We piled our bags into 2 vans, then our bodies, and drove off, listening to road-trip music, through the wet empty streets of Angers and onward toward Brussels.
I found a ride to Amsterdam but nowhere to sleep. From Angers, I gathered myself for the trip, nervously preparing to sleep on the streets of foreign and strange Amsterdam.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
life is quite puzzling!
i go to amsterdam soon. i'm filled with feelings of nervous excitement. how will i pay? what will i do? why am i going? blah blah, but who cares? i am going, and that's good. it's good to be going. it's a similar feeling to when i spent a sunday afternoon loading my belongings into that grand ol' saturn i use to drive before leaving for portland the next day. i asked myself the same questions then, but dismissed them, the way i do tonight. why question myself? questions get in the way of decisions. now there's something to be said for practicality, but i'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda guy. yes, this can conjure up some trouble, but i like to live life in a reactionary way. figure it out as i go. in a way, i dig through all the pieces and, as the straight edges of this puzzle snap together, i recognize the pieces of the bigger picture, fasten them together, and start to discover the details. i've always enjoyed puzzles. life, however, is a puzzle with consequences. luckily, i accept these. on the other hand, i never finished a puzzle with more than 1000 pieces and i don't have to tell you, life has more than 1000 pieces!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
cette soir
Tonight, after a dinner of salmon pasta with mushrooms, onions, and tomato, I spent the evening with a bottle of wine, joyfully teary-eyed watching Amelie.
This video, an example of why:
Just thought I'd let you know.
This video, an example of why:
Just thought I'd let you know.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
from Marseille
It tries a person when ideas are so broad,
so plenty, and thoughtless at times.
Reading extensive menus,
people say,
"There's so many choices, I just can't choose."
Many fish in the sea.
Many things to be tried.
see The Guitarist
If I was just so bold to be this man,
brave enough to strum something
"Hide and Go Seek"
'...' is so much fun
because you get to guess!
You find out where is good to crouch
or which cubbies are too obvious to hide.
There's so much to discover!
For Example:
A Muslim woman
bows her head and holds out a grateful hand;
raises her eyes as someone passes,
knowing that, while he gave her some bits,
he didn't notice who she was.
Needle(ss) to say, you can hide anywhere.
Sometimes you don't have to try.
Sometimes you don't try and therefore
it's obvious where you are,
so people don't care.
These people desire a challenge.
Check the shadows for something darker,
preferably with a lid,
so that you can burst out when your seeker has given up.
Sometimes, clutter is great for hiding,
but be careful.
While it is useful, clutter can
distract the hider, much in the way
of fantastic antique shops,
allowing him to be found by his seeker.
When you have found that perfect spot,
never leave too soon, or the seeker
will spot you on his way out to search.
Likewise, if you stay too long,
you will be caught on his way back to base.
It is best to stay quiet and listen
for your cue
rather than peaking about.
Remember, your eyes are in the middle
of your head, whereas your ears
can perk around corners.
One last note for seekers:
Never, for any reason, give up.
You didn't search everywhere,
made obvious by the point that
the hider has not been found.
If you shout, "I give up, where are ya?"
you lose the pleasure of
discovering.
Finally, don't be afraid to play
Hot-or-Cold.
This game helps beginner and intermediate
players of Hide and Go Seek
follow their ears
to weed out obvious spots
and bring forth his next potential hideaway.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
the return
i went to the train in marseille at 5, walked on and found my place. the train pulled out on time and headed to take me to the point where i would transfer for the final leg back to angers. the ticket man came by and asked for mine. "its in my bag" i told him and stood up to go look through my things. by the time i finished rummaging for the ticket i knew wasnt there, the man had finished checking the coach and proceeded past me, answering his phone.
and so, i made it to marn la valle with not much trouble.
i waited thirty minutes for my next train, then got on. we pulled out as i found a spot and ticket men walked up and down the aisle. nervous, i pretended to be asleep. the man poked me. "monsieur," and he asked for the ticket.
again my act, went to my things, "oh my, its not here. wheres my ticket?" he told me to buy a new one, but i didnt have the cash for it. he asked if i had a credit card. i lied. so he billed my house.
he was helpful and told me that, in fact, that train was not my last, but i had another transfer and, when it came time, he pointed me in the right direction.
on this train no one checked tickets and the ride was smooth. on the other hand, the train ahead of us hit a pig.
we pulled to a stop at a small, closed train platform and mosied around to waste time. crisp autumn air does something to make stars shine brighter, and this time was no different. i questioned if that was in fact the milky way. surely not. we werent that isolated. but to have to guess yes or no is testament to the number of stars. the sky was brilliant. the train's heater kept a steady hum, the brakes let an occasional sigh, people gathered for small chit chat and after thirty minutes we kept on.
only 15 minutes later did i arrive to angers, cold and clear, stars brilliant, where i returned to my own computer, first time in a month, and had to remind myself how an american keyboard is laid out.
qwertyuiop
not azertyuiop
and asdfghjkl;
not qsdfghjklm
and so, i made it to marn la valle with not much trouble.
i waited thirty minutes for my next train, then got on. we pulled out as i found a spot and ticket men walked up and down the aisle. nervous, i pretended to be asleep. the man poked me. "monsieur," and he asked for the ticket.
again my act, went to my things, "oh my, its not here. wheres my ticket?" he told me to buy a new one, but i didnt have the cash for it. he asked if i had a credit card. i lied. so he billed my house.
he was helpful and told me that, in fact, that train was not my last, but i had another transfer and, when it came time, he pointed me in the right direction.
on this train no one checked tickets and the ride was smooth. on the other hand, the train ahead of us hit a pig.
we pulled to a stop at a small, closed train platform and mosied around to waste time. crisp autumn air does something to make stars shine brighter, and this time was no different. i questioned if that was in fact the milky way. surely not. we werent that isolated. but to have to guess yes or no is testament to the number of stars. the sky was brilliant. the train's heater kept a steady hum, the brakes let an occasional sigh, people gathered for small chit chat and after thirty minutes we kept on.
only 15 minutes later did i arrive to angers, cold and clear, stars brilliant, where i returned to my own computer, first time in a month, and had to remind myself how an american keyboard is laid out.
qwertyuiop
not azertyuiop
and asdfghjkl;
not qsdfghjklm
Friday, October 29, 2010
Sunday
Once, spring morning melted into afternoon. Drinking games lulled and after the sun rose, one by one, the party moved to the front lawn. A Fisher Price piano played on the broken couch outside; we spoke in hushed morning tones. One friend reached with a bedsheet behind her, arched with the sky, and greeted the sun.
Chorus hymns from across the street quieted for announcements, the sermon, and prayer requests after the offering. Baskets filled, hands raised, amens given, and everyone stood up. The breathing pipe organ ushered them slowly and they all congretated outside.
At our front lawn, someone brought out last nights leftovers refinished for today's brunch and the sheet was laid out for a picnic. Pink boots changed feet and a washed out bean can working as a water cup rounded the picnic like a Lazy Susan. Shirts came off for the sun.
An old man donned a thick mustache twirled upward at the ends and a grey fedora. He spoke excited, but not loud, glad to find such easily approachable people as he welcomed himself to our picnic with a smile.
<> Many great places 'round here, I tell ya. Any of you been near the hospital? There's a hill there and the sun sets jus' other side of a small pond down there at the bottom. <> Some smiled polite as they could, a couple of us shyly said no, while all eight stared in wonder. Why'd this man stop? When would he ask for something?
<> No? How 'bout the small forest there North side of town? Not much left, but its outside the gritty, you know? Quiet, <> yet no one had been.
Still blank and curious faces.
The man looked quizical. <> Well, I'll leave ya. <> He sauntered off, mumbling to himself so we could hear, <> Jus' so much great things 'round here, shame no ones been around to see 'em. <>
We continued our sluggish banter and smiled most of the time.
Ties loosened from fathers' necks, mothers said last goodbyes, and children chased each other, or stood shyly by, holding rolled up or otherwise proudly displayed colored Jesus stories. Then the road filled with motors as families went respective ways for Sunday dinner, then quieted as they ate.
Forks poked the plates and knives scratched as many mashed potatoes into as much of Granny's gravy as a mouth could hold. Green bean cassarole and chicken, sweet tea or Dr. Pepper?
Dinner finished and several relaxed. Granny tried to help with the dishes. The daughters, a husband, and the middle nephews gathered plates and glasses, put them in water, and an aunt rinsed them, fitting what would into the dishwasher. A neice wiped the table and a nephew staggard through the crowded bodies to wipe countertops. Conversation settled into old couches and the '78 television set showed the game just fine.
Our picnic finished. We each took our own dishes inside and piled them haphazardly beside the sink, among the clutter and mess of last nights party, to return to, together, after our walk.
Chorus hymns from across the street quieted for announcements, the sermon, and prayer requests after the offering. Baskets filled, hands raised, amens given, and everyone stood up. The breathing pipe organ ushered them slowly and they all congretated outside.
At our front lawn, someone brought out last nights leftovers refinished for today's brunch and the sheet was laid out for a picnic. Pink boots changed feet and a washed out bean can working as a water cup rounded the picnic like a Lazy Susan. Shirts came off for the sun.
An old man donned a thick mustache twirled upward at the ends and a grey fedora. He spoke excited, but not loud, glad to find such easily approachable people as he welcomed himself to our picnic with a smile.
<
<
Still blank and curious faces.
The man looked quizical. <
We continued our sluggish banter and smiled most of the time.
Ties loosened from fathers' necks, mothers said last goodbyes, and children chased each other, or stood shyly by, holding rolled up or otherwise proudly displayed colored Jesus stories. Then the road filled with motors as families went respective ways for Sunday dinner, then quieted as they ate.
Forks poked the plates and knives scratched as many mashed potatoes into as much of Granny's gravy as a mouth could hold. Green bean cassarole and chicken, sweet tea or Dr. Pepper?
Dinner finished and several relaxed. Granny tried to help with the dishes. The daughters, a husband, and the middle nephews gathered plates and glasses, put them in water, and an aunt rinsed them, fitting what would into the dishwasher. A neice wiped the table and a nephew staggard through the crowded bodies to wipe countertops. Conversation settled into old couches and the '78 television set showed the game just fine.
Our picnic finished. We each took our own dishes inside and piled them haphazardly beside the sink, among the clutter and mess of last nights party, to return to, together, after our walk.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Something to Send Home
A poem I'm working on I'd like to put out there is timidly called, Can't Get Out:
Eyes awaken to sunlight over coffee
and go down,
just as heavy as dawn,
after the sun has warmed the blankets.
Sky's clear, but there's mostly blue shadows.
It may be windy out -
cardboard seals four broken windows after gails snapped
the panes shut, which broke the glass
that protected the flat where I live.
Little light, lots of noise.
The trees show the bliss of a cool breeze
as they hog all the sunshine.
The boistrous, the reserved, the brave,
congregate at the streets
and share what they know,
even if they dont know much.
Everyone has so much to tell.
I cry,
"Why hide a pretty face?" and
"What a strange hat,"
a buttery bowl of malt-o-meal warming my lap.
Eyes awaken to sunlight over coffee
and go down,
just as heavy as dawn,
after the sun has warmed the blankets.
Sky's clear, but there's mostly blue shadows.
It may be windy out -
cardboard seals four broken windows after gails snapped
the panes shut, which broke the glass
that protected the flat where I live.
Little light, lots of noise.
The trees show the bliss of a cool breeze
as they hog all the sunshine.
The boistrous, the reserved, the brave,
congregate at the streets
and share what they know,
even if they dont know much.
Everyone has so much to tell.
I cry,
"Why hide a pretty face?" and
"What a strange hat,"
a buttery bowl of malt-o-meal warming my lap.
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Strike
Picnic twists the faucet nobs as far as they will go. Without hesitation, the faucet drips. "Well that's defiant!" Picnic declares.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
wandering eyes
lady walking looks lovely in her colorful, flowing hippy skirt and elegant but not gaudy blouse. shes not used to dressing up like this, especially in foreign places, unsure if she fits in paris or stands out like the pale guy in shorts and birkenstocks. i see her, but my eyes skip around too quickly and shes lost her youthful curves and developed baggy eyes. i realize, however that she didnt stun me but i liked her style, so lovely on such a great sunday afternoon. i decide she put those clothes on specifically for today; not haphazard, she planned this. i turn back to greet her in some passing manner, and smile for her choice sunday dress, but as i do, i watch her head drop ashamed, chin tucked into her neck. she wants to hide away from eyes like mine, that wander around and, before i know it, compliment or insult people without my knowing. my heart drops into my stomach and i want to vomit. this image, like others - the time i spoiled moms surprise; the eyes that questioned me as i gave up on a love i was afraid of - will forever haunt me.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
in marseille.
yesterday was the strike. trains ran slower due to a lack of conducteurs; my train rolled from outside paris into gare de lyon as my 1:15 to marseille tugged out. had i bought a ticket, i'da been out 50 to 100 euro, but i had different plans.
solene and i crossed the street to her place and dropped off my bag. natasia and thiery sat down to lunch; solene and i grabbed a few items from the fridge to down before leaving with thiery to the strike. he got his flag, i got my camera, we put on our shoes and left.
walking, solene turned holding the flag and said to me, use to, french people walked with baguettes and wine; now its strike flags. thiery turned and responded half-joking, its a new concept: the permanent revoluion.
at the metro, one train came and went without space for us, packed like a japanese subway, so we left to walk. outside, thiery and solene discussed something in french, then decided that walking would take too long, and we got on a different line to take us closer to the march. we waited from our new stop as one train came in and rolled out, then another, both bulging like balloons full of sand, so we walked.
arriving to the march: people chanting, banners, signs, people dressed like old men with walkers, afterall, this is all about retirement age. we walked toward the starting point, shooting pictures along the way; solene and i reached laurent and pauline and said goodbye to thiery, who continued to the back to meet his group.
we walked a while in the parade, but my next train left at 4:15, so i cut out early and went to the metro, but again the frequency of two minute trains was dashed to one every six, so i waited; my train came, luckily not overflowing, and i got on. from my stop i walked fifteen minutes to solenes place to get my bag, said goodbye to natasia and went to the train.
at gare de lyon, i found the platform where the train waited for its travelers to board and situate themselves; i stowed my bag, took my book and issue of new statesman (amanda) and sat in an open seat.
i chose any seat i could find since i had no seating assignment; i never bought a ticket; its strike day. im on strike.
the train pulled out and i read an article, started a short story but fell asleep. whatever time passed and i awoke to french countryside and its distant mountains; i finished the story and the lady beside me stood up to get out. at the same time i looked up, one of my few times to do so, and there leaned the man walking the aisle checking tickets.
quickly yet subtle, i went to my bag to rummage, pretend to look for something, sure, ill take my cookies. i stuffed them in my back pocket and thought to myself, as the man checking tickets made his way closer, i think theres a bathroom downstairs, as im in the top of the double-decker train car. down the steps and into the washroom, i took my time, let a little pee into the toilette, not close to as much as i tend to wait for, washed my hands - thoroughly - and slowly stepped back out.
as i went up the stairs, in the reflection i saw the man in front of my bag checking two other tickets, and i decide to not look back, go straight to my seat, and sit down. the man never returned.
i sat biting my lip so not to smile, thinking, surely its not this easy. im not clear until im off the train, i told myself. i looked out the window because the back of a head has fewer characteristics than a face; the baby's idea that if i cant see him, he cant see me.
the sun dipped closer to the mountains, shadows cast, pink ribbons bled the suns light and dark violet in the shade.
with every gasp of the air-locked glass doors behind me my heart skipped a beat. and this time i heard a lot of chatter behind me. i glanced quick to see the man discussing something with a lady across the aisle; i turned back, oh its so pretty, i cant take my eyes away from this beautiful countryside. the chatter lessened and i looked up to see if the coast cleared. no. presently, a second man with conducters cap and credit card machine held the ladys visa printing a receipt. i turned back to the view.
staring outside, i wished i could sneak out the window and ride the train top. after several minutes of a nervous stomach and feeling eyes in my back, i finally turned around.
a man stood beside my row; ah! but hes on his cellphone, walking out to talk; hes no man of concern. is this true? am i clear?
the train continued into lyon.
will he come by to check the tickets of new passengers?
he didnt.
we pulled into another smaller station, then another.
the sun dropped behind the horizon, now flat strolling into the coastline, and the colors had faded to deep blue as the overhead bell rang in the car and the conducteur came on in a soft french drone, madame et monsieur, and i understood nothing else but, marseille st charles.
the train whispered to a stop as passengers gathered their belongings and lined up at the door.
they slowly stepped out while i waited to get my bag. i packed the magazine, the book, and the cookies, went down the steps to the platform, breathing easy, not believing i made it, for free.
i tried the phones to call caro, the friend picking me up to lead to her flat where im hosted by she and her collecataire (flatmate), but they didnt work until a generous man, whom i waited to ask me for something, helped with my phone card. it finally worked and i talked to caro. i offered the man my phone card for his help and he mumbled something about needing to buy more time for his phone, do you have some change you can spare? truly i hadnt, and i said sorry as i put my phone card back. i wish i could help. its okay. we said goodbye. good luck, i told him and i found caro waiting in the station. she led me to her flat and i met the cat without getting her name, and juliette welcomed me to make as i want in the apartment, so i took off my shoes and gave them the bottle of wine i brought. we drank the wine and talked, listened to music and laughed, and eventually it became bedtime.
the girls started to pull out a folding bed and i interupted saying the couch is perfect if thats fine; i never want to be difficult, so i say no to things i think will be a hassle, thereby confusing the situation and becoming an eggshell. dang.
but theyre fine with it and caro got sheets and blankets and made up the greatest bed one can make of a couch. thoroughly impressed, it made me think of a bed & breakfast; she brought pillows and we and juliette talked some more in those late-night tones of voice, finished our drinks and went to bed.
i was tricked by marseille when i stepped out of the train station telling caro, its much quieter than paris. the piercing buzz of mopeds and vespas, grumble of trash pickup trucks, rattle of dishes and drunk-loud conversation barraded through the broken windows as i laid flat, sure it would settle after everything closed.
i woke up, and woke up, and woke up, closed the shutters which didnt help, laid back down with the pillow over my face, rolled one ear into couch cushions, held the pillow over my other. up then out and up then out and then caro came in for cigarettes and i said hello; she went back to her room and i dozed again to wake up a while later to the same sounds that shook me awake all night; this time i started my day.
solene and i crossed the street to her place and dropped off my bag. natasia and thiery sat down to lunch; solene and i grabbed a few items from the fridge to down before leaving with thiery to the strike. he got his flag, i got my camera, we put on our shoes and left.
walking, solene turned holding the flag and said to me, use to, french people walked with baguettes and wine; now its strike flags. thiery turned and responded half-joking, its a new concept: the permanent revoluion.
at the metro, one train came and went without space for us, packed like a japanese subway, so we left to walk. outside, thiery and solene discussed something in french, then decided that walking would take too long, and we got on a different line to take us closer to the march. we waited from our new stop as one train came in and rolled out, then another, both bulging like balloons full of sand, so we walked.
arriving to the march: people chanting, banners, signs, people dressed like old men with walkers, afterall, this is all about retirement age. we walked toward the starting point, shooting pictures along the way; solene and i reached laurent and pauline and said goodbye to thiery, who continued to the back to meet his group.
we walked a while in the parade, but my next train left at 4:15, so i cut out early and went to the metro, but again the frequency of two minute trains was dashed to one every six, so i waited; my train came, luckily not overflowing, and i got on. from my stop i walked fifteen minutes to solenes place to get my bag, said goodbye to natasia and went to the train.
at gare de lyon, i found the platform where the train waited for its travelers to board and situate themselves; i stowed my bag, took my book and issue of new statesman (amanda) and sat in an open seat.
i chose any seat i could find since i had no seating assignment; i never bought a ticket; its strike day. im on strike.
the train pulled out and i read an article, started a short story but fell asleep. whatever time passed and i awoke to french countryside and its distant mountains; i finished the story and the lady beside me stood up to get out. at the same time i looked up, one of my few times to do so, and there leaned the man walking the aisle checking tickets.
quickly yet subtle, i went to my bag to rummage, pretend to look for something, sure, ill take my cookies. i stuffed them in my back pocket and thought to myself, as the man checking tickets made his way closer, i think theres a bathroom downstairs, as im in the top of the double-decker train car. down the steps and into the washroom, i took my time, let a little pee into the toilette, not close to as much as i tend to wait for, washed my hands - thoroughly - and slowly stepped back out.
as i went up the stairs, in the reflection i saw the man in front of my bag checking two other tickets, and i decide to not look back, go straight to my seat, and sit down. the man never returned.
i sat biting my lip so not to smile, thinking, surely its not this easy. im not clear until im off the train, i told myself. i looked out the window because the back of a head has fewer characteristics than a face; the baby's idea that if i cant see him, he cant see me.
the sun dipped closer to the mountains, shadows cast, pink ribbons bled the suns light and dark violet in the shade.
with every gasp of the air-locked glass doors behind me my heart skipped a beat. and this time i heard a lot of chatter behind me. i glanced quick to see the man discussing something with a lady across the aisle; i turned back, oh its so pretty, i cant take my eyes away from this beautiful countryside. the chatter lessened and i looked up to see if the coast cleared. no. presently, a second man with conducters cap and credit card machine held the ladys visa printing a receipt. i turned back to the view.
staring outside, i wished i could sneak out the window and ride the train top. after several minutes of a nervous stomach and feeling eyes in my back, i finally turned around.
a man stood beside my row; ah! but hes on his cellphone, walking out to talk; hes no man of concern. is this true? am i clear?
the train continued into lyon.
will he come by to check the tickets of new passengers?
he didnt.
we pulled into another smaller station, then another.
the sun dropped behind the horizon, now flat strolling into the coastline, and the colors had faded to deep blue as the overhead bell rang in the car and the conducteur came on in a soft french drone, madame et monsieur, and i understood nothing else but, marseille st charles.
the train whispered to a stop as passengers gathered their belongings and lined up at the door.
they slowly stepped out while i waited to get my bag. i packed the magazine, the book, and the cookies, went down the steps to the platform, breathing easy, not believing i made it, for free.
i tried the phones to call caro, the friend picking me up to lead to her flat where im hosted by she and her collecataire (flatmate), but they didnt work until a generous man, whom i waited to ask me for something, helped with my phone card. it finally worked and i talked to caro. i offered the man my phone card for his help and he mumbled something about needing to buy more time for his phone, do you have some change you can spare? truly i hadnt, and i said sorry as i put my phone card back. i wish i could help. its okay. we said goodbye. good luck, i told him and i found caro waiting in the station. she led me to her flat and i met the cat without getting her name, and juliette welcomed me to make as i want in the apartment, so i took off my shoes and gave them the bottle of wine i brought. we drank the wine and talked, listened to music and laughed, and eventually it became bedtime.
the girls started to pull out a folding bed and i interupted saying the couch is perfect if thats fine; i never want to be difficult, so i say no to things i think will be a hassle, thereby confusing the situation and becoming an eggshell. dang.
but theyre fine with it and caro got sheets and blankets and made up the greatest bed one can make of a couch. thoroughly impressed, it made me think of a bed & breakfast; she brought pillows and we and juliette talked some more in those late-night tones of voice, finished our drinks and went to bed.
i was tricked by marseille when i stepped out of the train station telling caro, its much quieter than paris. the piercing buzz of mopeds and vespas, grumble of trash pickup trucks, rattle of dishes and drunk-loud conversation barraded through the broken windows as i laid flat, sure it would settle after everything closed.
i woke up, and woke up, and woke up, closed the shutters which didnt help, laid back down with the pillow over my face, rolled one ear into couch cushions, held the pillow over my other. up then out and up then out and then caro came in for cigarettes and i said hello; she went back to her room and i dozed again to wake up a while later to the same sounds that shook me awake all night; this time i started my day.
Monday, October 11, 2010
finding and finding out
moulin rouge line out the door on burlesque ave with massages for relaxation and bars with clean girls. leffe on rue blanche with peanuts corn nuts and a kernal of popcorn for a few bits from my pocket; i like changing coins more than bills. wish i didnt have to change anything. a sweet older lady in overcoat with umbrella puckers her cheeks wondering around with her cloudy eyes behind glasses; she walks beside a girl in fur and heels, tight jeans and eye shadow, who holds her own umbrella, though not one of mary poppins' character; white and black polka dots. an older man smokes outside his bar/girls and in the windows, pictures of late 19th century burlesque girls, girls showing leg, back from the days of class. behind me, a boy with lungs too young to keep up with his laughter. my beer's finished. god i'm glad they didnt waste my time with more popcorn.
this bed. its no hardwood floor, with its cotton sheets and africans dressing, cool sheets that welcome me, say bienvenu, simply, with no frills, sincere. i helped natasia and soléne make quiche. i rolled out the dough they already made and put it in the pan i buttered, not much help. the quiche baked and thiery, solénes father, natasia's boyfriend, arrived home; introduced himself in french, then in his thick accent asked We need, uh, to speak english for you? made me nervous doing this, i said I wish you didnt. he lost his accent, but not his humor. we cut up over dinner, and his generosity pulling nice wine from the cupboard, sharing with teo, natasia's son and her daughter. chopped veggies, each in its own bowl with its own sauce, the quiche, the wine, a salad, and an ice cream bar. all this after a hell of a day thinking:
damn it the french feel entitled to everything, yet share nothing. anything you want costs - phone, directions, a ride to where they're already headed. they strike if they dont like something and mope if they work; the girl at the metro piddled at her desk several minutes doing absolutely nothing, which was obvious - strighten pens on the map, open a drawer, swivel the chair - before helping, if she did, i didnt wait around to see, the one lady persistent enough, or patient, to wait. my phone card cost 7€50 and doesnt work at payphones; i used it at the taxiphone; now the card is running out of minutes and taxiphone charged me anyway - as does the hotel after the man with cellphone said No when i asked a favor.
why so upset? because people dont treat me how i like to be treated? its a long road; but for every middle finger i got hitch-hiking, i got four apologetic waves. so i decided to forget the day, except - the notre dame is breathtaking, the louvre shook with pipe organs, and moulin rouge is red, but theres no absinthe or rimbaud - and ill bask in the night spent within generosity. i was gonna sleep on a hardwood floor after an avocado for dinner.
° ° °
this bed. its no hardwood floor, with its cotton sheets and africans dressing, cool sheets that welcome me, say bienvenu, simply, with no frills, sincere. i helped natasia and soléne make quiche. i rolled out the dough they already made and put it in the pan i buttered, not much help. the quiche baked and thiery, solénes father, natasia's boyfriend, arrived home; introduced himself in french, then in his thick accent asked We need, uh, to speak english for you? made me nervous doing this, i said I wish you didnt. he lost his accent, but not his humor. we cut up over dinner, and his generosity pulling nice wine from the cupboard, sharing with teo, natasia's son and her daughter. chopped veggies, each in its own bowl with its own sauce, the quiche, the wine, a salad, and an ice cream bar. all this after a hell of a day thinking:
damn it the french feel entitled to everything, yet share nothing. anything you want costs - phone, directions, a ride to where they're already headed. they strike if they dont like something and mope if they work; the girl at the metro piddled at her desk several minutes doing absolutely nothing, which was obvious - strighten pens on the map, open a drawer, swivel the chair - before helping, if she did, i didnt wait around to see, the one lady persistent enough, or patient, to wait. my phone card cost 7€50 and doesnt work at payphones; i used it at the taxiphone; now the card is running out of minutes and taxiphone charged me anyway - as does the hotel after the man with cellphone said No when i asked a favor.
why so upset? because people dont treat me how i like to be treated? its a long road; but for every middle finger i got hitch-hiking, i got four apologetic waves. so i decided to forget the day, except - the notre dame is breathtaking, the louvre shook with pipe organs, and moulin rouge is red, but theres no absinthe or rimbaud - and ill bask in the night spent within generosity. i was gonna sleep on a hardwood floor after an avocado for dinner.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
walking
paris is walking on a bed of snakes much larger than me, and as i take steps, the snake moves forward so i go nowhere, and the snake swerves as it slithers, so i dont know if i'm still going north or west now. then another snake comes by and sweeps me off like a current, no more forgiving than the first, and there's as many snakes in this bed as feathers in a pillow.
Friday, October 8, 2010
the old man
blue light seeps through the shutters, day begins:
early morning quiet Monteparson, an old man, gaunt with grey whiskers on his cheeks and chin, stares into a tree full of red berries; his old eyes, soft blue like the sky behind its highest clouds and bags lay low below them, like puffy cumulous waiting to rain. the woman he loves starts past again, like every other day, with her trolly, a decade or two his minor; he watches her everyday. the man points abruptly in front of her startled face, Do you see those berries? he asks excitedly, eager to hear her speak. She ducks nervous to pass, yes, and continues as he turns to keep her attention. They're poisonous, but i want to eat them.
he cant keep up with her youthful pace, and lungs too abused by years to shout, he watches her go, backside swinging side to side.
early morning quiet Monteparson, an old man, gaunt with grey whiskers on his cheeks and chin, stares into a tree full of red berries; his old eyes, soft blue like the sky behind its highest clouds and bags lay low below them, like puffy cumulous waiting to rain. the woman he loves starts past again, like every other day, with her trolly, a decade or two his minor; he watches her everyday. the man points abruptly in front of her startled face, Do you see those berries? he asks excitedly, eager to hear her speak. She ducks nervous to pass, yes, and continues as he turns to keep her attention. They're poisonous, but i want to eat them.
he cant keep up with her youthful pace, and lungs too abused by years to shout, he watches her go, backside swinging side to side.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
paris
woke at 7 for the 5 hour ride-share from angers to paris; rode with olivier and another girl, forgot her name, good looking, kind. tried to stay awake, but early hour and rain made it impossible, though i didnt sleep well; car afterall. reached le mans for one more passenger then three more hours to our drive. country side spread forever with patches of trees, early in their changes preparing to shed for winter; landscape like a quilt and a flock of birds burst out of a crop of corn; a pigeon pirched atop a dead sunflower, head bowed to autumn. sleep, awake, and doze, stretch my eyes, we're close to paris, slow for traffic due to rain which holds back as we pass through a tunnel - terrorist warning issued yesterday - expecting to see d'triumph, eiffel tower, paris, i see, a busy city, roundabout with statue center, metro entrance and bus stop. we pull in, get out , pay and i'm alone; backpack on, no clue where i am, walk. back and forth, no map, not lost, just dont know where i'm going. stop for kebab; wanted one since i got to france. filled tip top, go out aimless, stop for a map. waiting - CRASH - lady runs into pillar in center of intersection. well enough, we all continue. i get the map and locate myself, walk on; starting across a bridge, looking right, ah, nice; turn left, well hell! there it is! the eiffel tower standing rusted with wisdom, distinguished, watching me stare at it. c'est cool. keeping on between buildings, wandering still no direction, step into a caffe.
reached the eiffel tower, wow that thing is tall; sat on a bench bout an hour watching peace signs for pictures, people standing 20 feet from their subject a hundred yards from the monument, but there they are at the eiffel tower, and there's the family. Hakunahmattatah said the man gonna sucker me into a 'happiness' bracelet looped on my finger so to make it as we chit chat; he's from gambia near serbia and as he takes it off my finger begins to wrap it around my wrist i say no, no, its ok; but happiness, hakunahmattatah he tells me; no give it to someone else and he knows i know, pats my shoulder with a wink, ok, and goes. i sketch. a man walks past close to me, mumbles something incoherent; i keep to my rendering and he returns after while with champagne and red wine; sits down. champagne? he offers; no thanks; wine? no, merci, i'm fine. where are you from? he asks. texas, england, no, australia, no races through. new york? yeah, you been? no. thats that. then, my friend lives there; ah great, its a great place; i love america, or us, best country in the world. thats that. whats your name? i ask; he tells me, i cant remember. his friend comes, one of the men carrying plastique eiffel towers les ogres sing about attached to a giant keychain; tells me my new friend's name; sounds like hardly working; hardly working shows me his wrist and the tattoo it dawns, says jammy; thats your name? he says something, now i think hes a boxer. his friend walks away. whats your name? he asks; david i tell him without hesitation; ah, good name; thanks. thats that, then he moves my backpack and on the side previously hidden is the aa name tag declaring Brian Gore; he puts it back. you drink? i love to, just not now; champagne? again; no thanks; red wine? 10 euro; no, mon ami, i'll wait for her; for my friend, he offers, 5 euro; no, i smile earnest, thank you, i'm ok; ok he says and walks away to sell his wine.
called soléne to meet at saint michel for drinks with friends; food and friendly conversation, then to the bar. drinks, jokes, after while we leave. i'm at the apartment of pauline and laurent, generous enough to give me the only bare space on their apartment floor. laurent reads, pauline practices portugese; put their books away, turn off their light and talk with soft night time tones. my light is the only one left on, but its early to rise, so time to switch it off.
reached the eiffel tower, wow that thing is tall; sat on a bench bout an hour watching peace signs for pictures, people standing 20 feet from their subject a hundred yards from the monument, but there they are at the eiffel tower, and there's the family. Hakunahmattatah said the man gonna sucker me into a 'happiness' bracelet looped on my finger so to make it as we chit chat; he's from gambia near serbia and as he takes it off my finger begins to wrap it around my wrist i say no, no, its ok; but happiness, hakunahmattatah he tells me; no give it to someone else and he knows i know, pats my shoulder with a wink, ok, and goes. i sketch. a man walks past close to me, mumbles something incoherent; i keep to my rendering and he returns after while with champagne and red wine; sits down. champagne? he offers; no thanks; wine? no, merci, i'm fine. where are you from? he asks. texas, england, no, australia, no races through. new york? yeah, you been? no. thats that. then, my friend lives there; ah great, its a great place; i love america, or us, best country in the world. thats that. whats your name? i ask; he tells me, i cant remember. his friend comes, one of the men carrying plastique eiffel towers les ogres sing about attached to a giant keychain; tells me my new friend's name; sounds like hardly working; hardly working shows me his wrist and the tattoo it dawns, says jammy; thats your name? he says something, now i think hes a boxer. his friend walks away. whats your name? he asks; david i tell him without hesitation; ah, good name; thanks. thats that, then he moves my backpack and on the side previously hidden is the aa name tag declaring Brian Gore; he puts it back. you drink? i love to, just not now; champagne? again; no thanks; red wine? 10 euro; no, mon ami, i'll wait for her; for my friend, he offers, 5 euro; no, i smile earnest, thank you, i'm ok; ok he says and walks away to sell his wine.
called soléne to meet at saint michel for drinks with friends; food and friendly conversation, then to the bar. drinks, jokes, after while we leave. i'm at the apartment of pauline and laurent, generous enough to give me the only bare space on their apartment floor. laurent reads, pauline practices portugese; put their books away, turn off their light and talk with soft night time tones. my light is the only one left on, but its early to rise, so time to switch it off.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Delicious
Time: 1 1/2 hours Temperature: 150-180 C (310-360 F)
Ingredients: tomatoes, garlic, onion, parsley, day-old bread, ground beef, ground pork, eggs
You need a blender and glass bread pan.
One of the many dishes I had the joy of eating while in the country visiting Mami (Anais' grandmother) was stuffed tomatoes. What she did to make them is:
take ripe tomatoes and cut the tops off like a hat. save these tops for later. bore a hole into each tomato removing the heart and pulp. you can put these in a separate bowl where you mix them with the other ingredients, which are:
garlic, onion, parsley, bread (preferably day-old bread). if you go to a bakery at the end of the day, ask if they're throwing any out... maybe you'll get it for free. but you want the bread to be firm, closer to croutons, although not that crunchy. take raw ground beef and, if you can find it, a kind of ground pork, although i'm not sure what you would call this or if it can be found easily in the states. after hard-boiling an egg or two, add it to the mixture and put it all in the blender.
after it's all blended together, stuff the tomatoes and replace the caps. you can add a little butter before replacing the caps, but it's preference, not necessary.
so! your oven's been heating up to a warm 150-180 degrees and it's ready to cook for 1 hour and 30 minutes.
when it's finished, serve it up! bon appetite!
Ingredients: tomatoes, garlic, onion, parsley, day-old bread, ground beef, ground pork, eggs
You need a blender and glass bread pan.
One of the many dishes I had the joy of eating while in the country visiting Mami (Anais' grandmother) was stuffed tomatoes. What she did to make them is:
take ripe tomatoes and cut the tops off like a hat. save these tops for later. bore a hole into each tomato removing the heart and pulp. you can put these in a separate bowl where you mix them with the other ingredients, which are:
garlic, onion, parsley, bread (preferably day-old bread). if you go to a bakery at the end of the day, ask if they're throwing any out... maybe you'll get it for free. but you want the bread to be firm, closer to croutons, although not that crunchy. take raw ground beef and, if you can find it, a kind of ground pork, although i'm not sure what you would call this or if it can be found easily in the states. after hard-boiling an egg or two, add it to the mixture and put it all in the blender.
after it's all blended together, stuff the tomatoes and replace the caps. you can add a little butter before replacing the caps, but it's preference, not necessary.
so! your oven's been heating up to a warm 150-180 degrees and it's ready to cook for 1 hour and 30 minutes.
when it's finished, serve it up! bon appetite!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Strike!
A march, parade, I don't know, lasts at least a mile, no idea where's the end. Today trains go on strike because government wants to raise retirement two years. The workers say, Non. No more trains until we work a compromise. Horns blare from a car following the drum line which followed, after 5 minutes or so, a truck with speakers shouting chants. I have no idea what's happening. Looks like a holiday.
I.M.E.
Chateau de Branson
CGT
SDIS49
firemen? Truck goes, parade stops, shouts through microphone: Un, Deux, Trois! everyone runs forward. Table ahead of me sees friends in the parade. They decided to take the day off, but skipped the strike.
I.M.E.
Chateau de Branson
CGT
SDIS49
firemen? Truck goes, parade stops, shouts through microphone: Un, Deux, Trois! everyone runs forward. Table ahead of me sees friends in the parade. They decided to take the day off, but skipped the strike.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Magic 8-Ball
Small cafe sells magazines, tobac, & racing bets. Black man with vitiligo sits at the bar front of the keeper who has a frothing lisp. People pass in their tickets for their few winnings and steam blows into milk at the espresso machine - Monsieur, mon earnings s'il vous plait. The trash bin is nearly full, mostly crumpled bets.
Monday's paper spreads across a table with horse rankings. The man with the paper hunches over the numbers, weighs the coins in his left hand, then fiddles through them with his right index, middle, & thumb. He steps away, clanking the bits between his fingers. Returns, hand in pocket, not as heavy now as he takes his seat, considers his bet, and looks to the TV for his next fortune.
Monday's paper spreads across a table with horse rankings. The man with the paper hunches over the numbers, weighs the coins in his left hand, then fiddles through them with his right index, middle, & thumb. He steps away, clanking the bits between his fingers. Returns, hand in pocket, not as heavy now as he takes his seat, considers his bet, and looks to the TV for his next fortune.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
In France
Ah, France, you are blue and green with stove pipes and electric wires, tractors for harvest and great, wonderful trees. You have construction cranes standing into clear skies. Bridges and fences, bushes and steps. Except that your men moan and your women coo - instead of grumbles and cackling in my land - we are not so far removed, you and I.
Stuck on the train, not moving. Close to 11, either before or after. Thirsty. Want to see Anais. She has to return to class and we've been sitting here for 10 minutes, Anais expecting me at the Angers train station by 10 to 1. I'm not bothered, but eager. I want to smell France, get out pressure-locked tubes and corridors. Let me sip a cafe in mild France. I have three months... but why waste time?
Putain! Still stopped. Waiting. Waiting. No idea of the time.
The baby beside me babbling and squeeling keeps me well entertained.
Un cafe, s'il vous plait from le bar. keep me up. Let's get going before I head back for Carlsberg.
Another train passes
They think there's a bomb on this train. Now I'm frustrated. Maintenance is one thing, but you know there is no bomb. It's after 1 now. We've been stopped over two hours. I've read, written, drawn, read some more, folded paper, had a coffee, used the toilet, walked back and forth, listened to some music, and sat. We still sit.
Quoi faire? Quoi faire?! Ou voiture pour mon cigaret?
The sun laps me. My day has not ended, but now we're moving backward. Whatever. Least we move. Get me to a train to take me onward! Putain! Probably, someone forgot their briefcase on the train. Merde.
10 to 2, moving from stop 1. Went 1/2 way to stop 2, stalled for bomb. Back tracked, doors opened, 5 French smoking at door, so I joined. "Welcome in France," a passenger told me. I tried in French to ask, does this happen often? "No. When it does, it's very difficult."
10 to 2, onto our second stop. Ou est Angers?! Bomb scare, but no one's afraid, just wondering when we'll get to where we're going. We're in this together.
The train is stopped again and the selfish baby wails, tired and restless. She just wants to sleep, be comfortable and sleep. As do I, child. You're not alone.
We went well while my eyes were closed. Now we're stopped again, going nowhere. Lady at le bar says Angers is 3 hours away. Pick it up France! Your first impression is struggling like my patience.
And now again we move, after another walk for coffee and a while in my seat. Another announcement. I have no idea what's going on. I just want to be to Angers.
Train man says Angers by 4h 30. It's 3:15. 1 hour 23 minutes now expected by roughly 7 hours without doing proper math. Speeding through countryside, bold green growing from pale green and living brown bushes and amber. Behind, crop fields being toiled or harvested. Wind turbines spot the landscape, grain cars parked at the mill. If everything I heard today wasn't French, I'd think the US adopted trains.
Poor girl makes me want to cry. On the wrong train since the airport. My heart sinks to try and lift hers, but I don't believe it can go low enough.
We're excited for each other! those staying on for those arriving to their destinations.
Swapped trains, free meal for inconvenience, 30 minutes to Angers. Called Anais.
Get my backpack. Thank you for helping me get here! to the girl from Brazil visiting her husband. A revoir! Grab my big pack, put it on, wait. I got up too soon. Train slows. Here we are. Finally! I'm here.
Stuck on the train, not moving. Close to 11, either before or after. Thirsty. Want to see Anais. She has to return to class and we've been sitting here for 10 minutes, Anais expecting me at the Angers train station by 10 to 1. I'm not bothered, but eager. I want to smell France, get out pressure-locked tubes and corridors. Let me sip a cafe in mild France. I have three months... but why waste time?
Putain! Still stopped. Waiting. Waiting. No idea of the time.
The baby beside me babbling and squeeling keeps me well entertained.
Un cafe, s'il vous plait from le bar. keep me up. Let's get going before I head back for Carlsberg.
Another train passes
They think there's a bomb on this train. Now I'm frustrated. Maintenance is one thing, but you know there is no bomb. It's after 1 now. We've been stopped over two hours. I've read, written, drawn, read some more, folded paper, had a coffee, used the toilet, walked back and forth, listened to some music, and sat. We still sit.
Quoi faire? Quoi faire?! Ou voiture pour mon cigaret?
The sun laps me. My day has not ended, but now we're moving backward. Whatever. Least we move. Get me to a train to take me onward! Putain! Probably, someone forgot their briefcase on the train. Merde.
10 to 2, moving from stop 1. Went 1/2 way to stop 2, stalled for bomb. Back tracked, doors opened, 5 French smoking at door, so I joined. "Welcome in France," a passenger told me. I tried in French to ask, does this happen often? "No. When it does, it's very difficult."
10 to 2, onto our second stop. Ou est Angers?! Bomb scare, but no one's afraid, just wondering when we'll get to where we're going. We're in this together.
The train is stopped again and the selfish baby wails, tired and restless. She just wants to sleep, be comfortable and sleep. As do I, child. You're not alone.
We went well while my eyes were closed. Now we're stopped again, going nowhere. Lady at le bar says Angers is 3 hours away. Pick it up France! Your first impression is struggling like my patience.
And now again we move, after another walk for coffee and a while in my seat. Another announcement. I have no idea what's going on. I just want to be to Angers.
Train man says Angers by 4h 30. It's 3:15. 1 hour 23 minutes now expected by roughly 7 hours without doing proper math. Speeding through countryside, bold green growing from pale green and living brown bushes and amber. Behind, crop fields being toiled or harvested. Wind turbines spot the landscape, grain cars parked at the mill. If everything I heard today wasn't French, I'd think the US adopted trains.
Poor girl makes me want to cry. On the wrong train since the airport. My heart sinks to try and lift hers, but I don't believe it can go low enough.
We're excited for each other! those staying on for those arriving to their destinations.
Swapped trains, free meal for inconvenience, 30 minutes to Angers. Called Anais.
Get my backpack. Thank you for helping me get here! to the girl from Brazil visiting her husband. A revoir! Grab my big pack, put it on, wait. I got up too soon. Train slows. Here we are. Finally! I'm here.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Midnight Thoughts
My uncle, I don't know very well, just the surface of his ideologies and nothing more because we're family and nothing else matters.
I know he served as a Marine in Vietnam and that I'm proud of him for that.
That's a man who believes in something greater than himself.
Disagreeing with what is greater is one thing,
but the agreement that something is beyond us
we can be comforted by this
as it holds each of us in its cupped hands.
I know he served as a Marine in Vietnam and that I'm proud of him for that.
That's a man who believes in something greater than himself.
Disagreeing with what is greater is one thing,
but the agreement that something is beyond us
we can be comforted by this
as it holds each of us in its cupped hands.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
He Didn't Talk His Way Out of It
David pulled into the parking lot quick, hit the guard rail solid at the local Whataburger. The state trooper walked up as Janet got out of the back seat, Lee stepped out the passenger side, and David opened his door.
The trooper looked at the bumper, then to David. "How you doin tonight?"
David looked up from his seat as he stood up, "I'm fine."
Lee waited at the back of the car. Janet stood beside her door. The trooper looked at David.
"This your car?"
"It's mine," Janet answered. "But we're both insured on it."
The trooper looked at David. "You alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"You been drinking tonight?"
David looked him in the eyes and said nothing.
"I asked you a question. Have you been drinking?"
He looked straight at the trooper. "I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked. I asked if you've been drinking."
"I'm not going to lie to you."
The trooper looked back at Janet and Lee. Lee rolled a cigarette. The trooper asked Janet, "What's he doing? Is he gonna throw down on me?"
"No, he's not," Janet replied. The trooper looked back at David.
"What are you doing? I'm a State Trooper." He pointed to his badge. "I don't have to put up with this shit. You know how many DWI's I give out?"
David's hands were clasped in front of his waist. "Yes sir. I understand." David's eyes never flinched. The trooper looked at Janet.
"Are you okay to drive?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
Lee lit his cigarette.
The trooper, now angry, told Janet, "You take him home now. Give her the keys."
David nodded. "I'm going to reach into my pocket and get the keys." He handed them to Janet. The trooper pointed to the passenger seat.
"You take him out of here, now."
"Yes sir."
The three got into the car and Janet slowly pulled out.
David looked at Janet and Lee. "And that's how you get out of a DWI."
The trooper looked at the bumper, then to David. "How you doin tonight?"
David looked up from his seat as he stood up, "I'm fine."
Lee waited at the back of the car. Janet stood beside her door. The trooper looked at David.
"This your car?"
"It's mine," Janet answered. "But we're both insured on it."
The trooper looked at David. "You alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"You been drinking tonight?"
David looked him in the eyes and said nothing.
"I asked you a question. Have you been drinking?"
He looked straight at the trooper. "I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked. I asked if you've been drinking."
"I'm not going to lie to you."
The trooper looked back at Janet and Lee. Lee rolled a cigarette. The trooper asked Janet, "What's he doing? Is he gonna throw down on me?"
"No, he's not," Janet replied. The trooper looked back at David.
"What are you doing? I'm a State Trooper." He pointed to his badge. "I don't have to put up with this shit. You know how many DWI's I give out?"
David's hands were clasped in front of his waist. "Yes sir. I understand." David's eyes never flinched. The trooper looked at Janet.
"Are you okay to drive?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
Lee lit his cigarette.
The trooper, now angry, told Janet, "You take him home now. Give her the keys."
David nodded. "I'm going to reach into my pocket and get the keys." He handed them to Janet. The trooper pointed to the passenger seat.
"You take him out of here, now."
"Yes sir."
The three got into the car and Janet slowly pulled out.
David looked at Janet and Lee. "And that's how you get out of a DWI."
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sophie's Days
Sophie danced in the ash storm, fell down, made an ash-angel. The children had an ash-ball fight, made an ashman, built an ash-fort, went sledding on tobacco leaves.
The next day, a beer storm melted the ash. Sophie drank the precipitation and smoked a few cigarettes.The next day was foggy. The following day was hazy. Sophie slept through both.
Three days after beer-showers, it hailed whiskey rocks. Sophie set out a bucket, let the rocks melt, drank from the bucket. She smoked some more cigarettes.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Saul's God
Saul of 1 Samuel, appointed by Samuel as king, whose son is Jonathan. The king battles constantly the Philistines. And lo, the hulking Philistine known as Goliath and who can battle him? Here he comes, a mere young man, a shepherd, but who has battled bears and beasts and "Have I not slain those which attacked my flock?" and he had, so King Saul dons him in battle garments and fetches for young David a sword for one hand, shield for another, but David looks to Saul, saying "Did I have these when I slew the beasts?" and fetched from the riverbed three smooth stones, put them into his shepherd's pouch, with his sling, and went to battle Goliath.
Approaching him, Goliath looks at David and mocks, yet, David is not afraid. He loads a stone in his sling and with precision launches the stone into the middle of Goliath's forehead and he falls face first into the ground. David takes a sword from a Philistine soldier, steps upon Goliath's frame, and takes his head as reward for Saul.
Now, Saul praises the young boy and asks him to be his servant, which David agrees to. However, Saul becomes jealous of the praise David receives. "Saul killed his thousands and David his ten thousands!" the people chant.
Stepping out of the story now to summarize, Saul's jealousy becomes anger and David's celebrity becomes problematic for how Saul reacts. With the help of Jonathan, Saul's son, David escapes. Jonathan tells David before parting, "And if we have to be separated, the Lord will be between us." Despite David's purity, he leaves and therefore misses the feast of the new moon. Saul notices and says, "His seat is empty. He must not be clean."
Ah! the fool. He takes solace in the act of this feast rather than a pure heart.
Saul continues to track David and make attempts at his life, but David is helped by the masses who love him, for he is a man of God, right and good, and slain Goliath.
Saul sends a servant after David as David hides. The servant reports David's location and Saul says to him, "Bless you of the Lord, for you have compassion on me."
Such pity, that a man against the Lord, a man of greed and jealousy, claims the name.
It's no different today. Whether terrorists or Koran burners, abortion clinic bombers or cult leaders, these people claim the voice, power, and name of God because they feel passionately that God is speaking to them.
Unfortunately this intense feeling is no different than those who introduce the Koran to their congregation as an opportunity for understanding, those who invite non-Muslims to their Eid ul-Fitr iftar feast, and those who turn the other cheek.
So what are we to do when those who do harm claim God with as much fervor as those who bring peace in the name of God?
Approaching him, Goliath looks at David and mocks, yet, David is not afraid. He loads a stone in his sling and with precision launches the stone into the middle of Goliath's forehead and he falls face first into the ground. David takes a sword from a Philistine soldier, steps upon Goliath's frame, and takes his head as reward for Saul.
Now, Saul praises the young boy and asks him to be his servant, which David agrees to. However, Saul becomes jealous of the praise David receives. "Saul killed his thousands and David his ten thousands!" the people chant.
Stepping out of the story now to summarize, Saul's jealousy becomes anger and David's celebrity becomes problematic for how Saul reacts. With the help of Jonathan, Saul's son, David escapes. Jonathan tells David before parting, "And if we have to be separated, the Lord will be between us." Despite David's purity, he leaves and therefore misses the feast of the new moon. Saul notices and says, "His seat is empty. He must not be clean."
Ah! the fool. He takes solace in the act of this feast rather than a pure heart.
Saul continues to track David and make attempts at his life, but David is helped by the masses who love him, for he is a man of God, right and good, and slain Goliath.
Saul sends a servant after David as David hides. The servant reports David's location and Saul says to him, "Bless you of the Lord, for you have compassion on me."
Such pity, that a man against the Lord, a man of greed and jealousy, claims the name.
It's no different today. Whether terrorists or Koran burners, abortion clinic bombers or cult leaders, these people claim the voice, power, and name of God because they feel passionately that God is speaking to them.
Unfortunately this intense feeling is no different than those who introduce the Koran to their congregation as an opportunity for understanding, those who invite non-Muslims to their Eid ul-Fitr iftar feast, and those who turn the other cheek.
So what are we to do when those who do harm claim God with as much fervor as those who bring peace in the name of God?
Solution to Qur'an Burning: Understanding… or an iPad.
"It's hard for people to believe, but we actually feel this is a message that we have been called to bring forth. And because of that, we do not feel like we can back down." - Pastor Terry Jones, Dove World Outreach Center
I need an iPad. It’s swank, clean, holds all my books, and doesn’t burn at 451 degrees (although it does melt with enough blow torches held up to it, but really, who wants to do that?) We have technologies unlike anything before, thousands of songs held in our pockets, an understanding of Outer Space deeper than ever imaginable, cups that hold your drink with a lid that holds your chicken nuggets! Yet we bicker like children, offended anytime someone steps on our toes, and expect each other to walk on eggshells around our sensitivities. Despite humanity’s technological and social strides, efforts toward true understanding are negligible. And I've grown sick of us.
As Krishna said in the Bhagavad gita, the Hindu holy text, "All paths of worship lead to God." It is to this end that we all must strive, this understanding that God does not care through which prophet we choose to find him, so long as we acknowledge this: God is beyond our ability to comprehend. This, everyone can agree on. There’s no need for burning books, shouting and prolonged hate.
The Qur'an is a book made of paper. The Bible is a book made of paper. The Great Gatsby is a book made of paper. The only difference is what they represent and if we get up in arms for desecrating a representation, this is idolatry. The words are sacred, not the form. So don’t worry about it.
I understand the extent of disrespect associated with the act of burning holy doctrine. That’s why people do it. But Muslims must employ a "turn the other cheek" attitude, explained by one of your prophets, Jesus, and ignore the small handful of schmucks. Christians must employ a “turn the other cheek” attitude, explained by your prophet, Jesus, and ignore the small handful of schmucks. Forget it. The people attacking your holy word are ignorant and not like the Christ they claim.
AP writer, Mitch Stacy documents, "Last month, Indonesian Muslims demonstrated outside the U.S. embassy in Jakarta…" This is fair. Be upset and tell people you are. What is so frustrating is the rest: "…threatening violence if Jones goes through with [the Qur’an burning].”
Why violence? To what end? People are so sensitive about things, then threaten violence as if this retaliation accomplishes some greater cause. Everyone is mutually perpetuating this problem. It's petty.
Speaking with my friend, she asked "Is that weird?"
"That people are sensitive?" I asked.
She said yes and I explained, "It's not weird to get upset when someone offends you. What's weird is how sensitive people have become and then threaten violence in defense of themselves."
When one is violent against you, play a passive role, a godly role, "as we forgive those who trespass against us."
Jesus teaches tolerance and love and these people burning books don't accept that. They show hate. And the muslims angered by such protests, ignore the same teachings of tolerance and love, and burn books back. And show hate.
Muslims now must recognize that these people do not represent Christianity, just as Christians must recognize that 19 hijackers do not represent Islam.
But instead, Christians show hate, so Muslims hate back. Christians get upset and burn the Qur'an. Muslims get together and burn the Bible. Christians burn down a mosque. Muslims vandalize a church. Christians are intolerant, so Muslims fight back.
Thank you who acknowledge the similarities – my Indonsian Muslim friend who, refering to Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, says, “We’re all just celebrating our blessings.” She keeps in touch with her Jewish friend in Arizona who wishes, “Happy Ramadan, Ayu.” Thank you to the numerous community leaders trying to pull everyone together in the spirit of your prophets and to the architect who respects differences of any kind. Thank you to all who are trying to understand for yourselves rather than choose a talking-head’s side because they already have an opinion for you to adopt.
No thank you news media who focus on a church of 50 hate-mongers to keep up the debate, instead of any of the kind-hearted aforementioned. But I understand conflict pays better.
But I’ve said all this and offered no direct solution, so here it is. We could all agree to get along and collectively put a stop to intolerance and book burning. To do this we must endure a great deal of reflection, understanding, and inner growth.
Or, it would be easier if we just put our Qur’ans and Bibles on our iPads. No one would dare burn one of those.
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