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.
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