joost ootside, of dooblin toon,
i took a bike a book i had a look a round...
This one I was singing, riding the bike down the road Brid had told me about. I followed the instructions of the old men: "right at this pub, left at that pub, straight on past those two pubs" and found meself in a wide green country with looks out to both sides.
There's a well up the road, said my hostess. It's a holy well. And it was.
Old Sos was sitting there when I came up, and he gave me that old thickest irish accent and the talk o the land, about the IRA and politics, the papers, votes, kids, beers, penny whistles, colleens. He let me have some tea from his thermos and smoke from his bag and a try at his flutes. And nobody came to steal my bike, while I was sitting there, drinking and thinking with ol' Sos at the well.
And the colleens come by, and the old man says "hey colleens, this lad's from America, he want's to meet some real colleens" and the colleens stop to chat a moment, and then they go on their way.
But I stop to chat some times too, with people on the road, walking the dog. And they don't show no fear at'tal. They just talk to you like you're the neighbor that you are. And they are all real friendly to me with kind voices and smiles and they show me where I am looking to go.
And I was looking to go to a place called NewGrange, and when I got there I realized I didn't even know where or what NewGrange was.
Well what it is is a big mound in the distance with some carvings or light inside, or something. I didn't go in. It costed some euros and I haven't got but 30 to get me back to America on the plane tomorrow. Instead I went up the road and asked a lady on a porch what she was up to. She showed me around the garden.
Shannaed (I don't know the spelling) showed me the boats that her hoosband built out of wicker baskets and leather, joost like they used to do in the old times. There was a little one for two people, a bigger one for oceans, and then: Holy May Flies, there was a BARGE sort of thing, made out of leather, and there was Clive the Builder of Boats and the Maker of Children, sewing the leather skins together to make the bottom.
So I sits and talks with Clive about an hour, and he gets out the words and we sing each other some irish songs we know (he speaking gaylga/gaelic with Sinnaed and the kids) and he tells me I can sleep in the corner there, but he eventually puts me in the loft.
So I spent the day walking up and down the road by the Grange, dodging all the cars on the left side of the road, and thinking in the river Boyne (spelling, again). At night, the kids came back, and 3 little irish fellows played 3 little fiddles like 3 little kings, and I was quite happy because I found what I came out here to find.
PEOPLE!
Real ones, Jesus! The people are good and I Like'em.
So Heres to you all, good people of mine
The journey is closin, I'm feeling just fine
I guess that I'll see you again some time
Til then it's been gen..uine....
Friday, May 25, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
dooblin
Aye! It has been munths. I am sorry, really, I thought I was writing it all in the journal, but I was just writing it in the Notebook, and that's not quite on the internet.
Trouble is, I been away from the internet a bit.
Last night (I just tell you last night)
I was outside a poob, in Dooblin Town, and some lads come up to me, calling me Jesus, you know, because the beard has gotten long, and then they offer me to drink a pint, called a pinta, and invite me out like, only I can't go out dressed like Jesus or they wont let me into the bars, see, but I didn't have any extra close is all, so one of them lends me his heavy leather jacket and I tell the bouncer that I am just going 'out with my lads' and I get to come in alright.
So it was what Isabelle would call a real European Experience, although not the sort of country town down home one I prefer so much. This was more a big flashy bar and all the girls dressed like popsicles sort of thing, with the drinking and the shouting over the music so popular 12 years ago. Like Spice Girls, yah?
Really, it was great, I enjoyed myself tremenssly. The boys I was out with were top notch blokes, and I met some other ones, raving about the goodness of woman and the stupidity of man. Two fellows, one pretty young like, and the other pretty strong jaw'd. First one says to me
"you look like a really peaceful type, right?"
and I nod my head and say Yes I Am, but my words get smashed and crushed by the music from the amplifier, so I just nod the old head more vigorously.
"not me" he says "I've got this rage inside me, and its like a whole different side of me, and when it gets pushed, I turns on and I can't stop it" and he shows me by puffing up his chest and his arms. Thats how he gets. All puffed up like that.
So I tell him thats just his nature, let it be, to know his self is good.
"like maybe in a past life I was oppressed or something, and now whenever I feel threatened I just...I'm Free!"
and then we clasp hands like old brothers, him and me, and get to the talking about women, like this.
"so what do you think of the irish girls?"
Aye me, what can I say?
I can see some of them, maybe those are irish, under the popsickle suits...but it is undeniable, the truth...
"they're beautiful aren't they? Even the fat ones."
Yes. They are beautiful.
So we talk women like this for a moment, how blessed we are to have them, and the beat goes on.
And I walk home to the hostel, feeling a little bit like a celebrity, with everybody calling me Jesus and shaking my hand.
Trouble is, I been away from the internet a bit.
Last night (I just tell you last night)
I was outside a poob, in Dooblin Town, and some lads come up to me, calling me Jesus, you know, because the beard has gotten long, and then they offer me to drink a pint, called a pinta, and invite me out like, only I can't go out dressed like Jesus or they wont let me into the bars, see, but I didn't have any extra close is all, so one of them lends me his heavy leather jacket and I tell the bouncer that I am just going 'out with my lads' and I get to come in alright.
So it was what Isabelle would call a real European Experience, although not the sort of country town down home one I prefer so much. This was more a big flashy bar and all the girls dressed like popsicles sort of thing, with the drinking and the shouting over the music so popular 12 years ago. Like Spice Girls, yah?
Really, it was great, I enjoyed myself tremenssly. The boys I was out with were top notch blokes, and I met some other ones, raving about the goodness of woman and the stupidity of man. Two fellows, one pretty young like, and the other pretty strong jaw'd. First one says to me
"you look like a really peaceful type, right?"
and I nod my head and say Yes I Am, but my words get smashed and crushed by the music from the amplifier, so I just nod the old head more vigorously.
"not me" he says "I've got this rage inside me, and its like a whole different side of me, and when it gets pushed, I turns on and I can't stop it" and he shows me by puffing up his chest and his arms. Thats how he gets. All puffed up like that.
So I tell him thats just his nature, let it be, to know his self is good.
"like maybe in a past life I was oppressed or something, and now whenever I feel threatened I just...I'm Free!"
and then we clasp hands like old brothers, him and me, and get to the talking about women, like this.
"so what do you think of the irish girls?"
Aye me, what can I say?
I can see some of them, maybe those are irish, under the popsickle suits...but it is undeniable, the truth...
"they're beautiful aren't they? Even the fat ones."
Yes. They are beautiful.
So we talk women like this for a moment, how blessed we are to have them, and the beat goes on.
And I walk home to the hostel, feeling a little bit like a celebrity, with everybody calling me Jesus and shaking my hand.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
rainbow
I get on the internet and Ozgun says shes going to kick my ass. My sister has been worried. She checked the police station and everybody is worried about me. I am sorry, I didnt know what I was getting into, and then I was in the forest again. So here, I present you a story that starts with a quiet city tip and ends with a flood and helicopters. HAHAHAHA.
Bike Tripping, Day One:
What a life. I have only a guitar and some pieces of paper to write on. My bicycle. A map. A helmet (for you, mom). I set out from Firenze and ride hard until the hills come and my legs burn like METAL. I look around and drink some water. Somewhere in the hills of italy. The eyes can see for miles and miles. Across the valleys full of wine vines and olive trees. I pump the day away, and push the bike up the biggest hills. 40 kilometers, arent I able? I come panting into some wine town with only mid and up scale albergi (hotels). I talk Alessandro down to 40 Euros and crash. Sleep until the rainy morning.
Bike Tripping, Day Two, the Rainy Morning:
The best thing about going up hills? Doing 10 kilometers in 5 minutes going down them again. That is how I got to Sienna early in the morning. I wandered around and ate bread and olives. I figured I would leave soon and go to Assisi, which is famous for its Saint of Nature and Love, Francesco. But on the way out I heard music and there was this tall fellow with bright eyes and a big face playing guitar. He says do I know about the rainbow gathering.
and then I know why I have come.
So I get on my bike and ride. To Brenna, 25 kms away, at the end of a road. It is just a little town, with nobody almost. I find a clerk, finally, at the only lettered place in town. A little restaurant with drinks and bread and cheese. dove e la gente nella bosque? I stutter my italian. in tenti? nella bosque, diretto. and she points me into the woods and so I buy cheese and water and go there. I pedal my bike into the woods, hoping that the rainbow kids of italy will leave a sign. and then I see it.
and I know why I have come.
a little pile of rocks like we do in America, to mark the road.
and then I hear whistling. A little army of whistling. And over a bend in the road are 10 sun browned smilers, laden with bags and tents and poles and crates of food. They are kicked out of thier first spot, so we set up another. Stay two nights by the river near the roads end in Brenna. And then into the deep forest for the time of my life.
Bike Tripping, Giorno Cinque.
The sun is on the river. I go in and come it. Cold. Fresh. Alive. The kitchen is setting up. Pasta for dinner. Music for dinner. 200 people in a field in a circle singing EVERY LITTLE CELL IN MY BODY IS HAPPY and dancing and clapping and kissing each other. There is more love in this forest, and everyone is smiling.
I want to tell you all about it. Some time, ask me...
Travis, says Elmir from his wheelchair. I waan to play some Bluues, man. Oh yes Elmir, we will. We must. The fire blows ash on us, Malin is scatting. She is on a rock, with a yellow scarf. Her voice rises and blends with the harmonica, like a bird with a flying saucer. Lao rocks with her violin, the smoke billows around her. The sun has come out on the rainy day. Everything sparkles. Children are running in italian, and in english. Lao speaks spanish to everyone who knows italian. And the languages break down. We speak kindness to each other. Someone hands me an orange. Someone passes a chocolate. Someone kisses someones cheek for no reason at all. Someone builds the fire. Someone carries wood. Someone crosses the river to get water from the spring that flows from the mountian. Someone pitches in and goes to the store. Someone carries in crate full of olive oil. Everyone laughs and sings.
I am astouned, one afternoon, to find my self in this perfectly normal situation. Someone hads the Shaman an orange. The shaman (who is always naked), hides it in his butt, and hops after her, to the great delight of most everyone there. He then takes it from his butt, and tears into it with his high pitched head'voice. He throws pieces of orange peel to everyone at the fire, urging them to catch them with their mouth. When they do, we all cheer. When he gets to the orange meat, it goes around in a similar way, every one catching a peice, or having it stuck to their head, or chest, or eating off of someone elses head. He shaman coos and laughs. The orange is finished, he stoops down and paints a dogs nose. Blue.
Now you want to hear about the helicopters?
One morning it rained. We stood, the lot of us, under the kitchen tarps, cooking the pranza and waiting for the rain to stop. I play guitar, and when the roof is full, I push up on it and the water pours over the edge. After the rain stops, the river just up an rises 4 meters. Like that. The ledge that yesterday was our high dive is under the roaring rapids of this monster river. We all stand on the edge, sort of stunned a minute, and then run to save the tents and things that are drowned and lost for good.
Two boys are stuck on a rock in the river. Thats why the helis come. Two helicopters, ambulance, a boat, forest rangers, caribeneri, officials in blue, and green, and grey, and black. Watch us do the omming. Watch us dancing. Save the kids on the island. Rainbow for everybody.
Thanks for thinking of me, I am living and well.
In Rome now, back in the land of people and computers.
Circus and psytrance.
I dont know what is weirder,
but I prefer the forest.
T
Bike Tripping, Day One:
What a life. I have only a guitar and some pieces of paper to write on. My bicycle. A map. A helmet (for you, mom). I set out from Firenze and ride hard until the hills come and my legs burn like METAL. I look around and drink some water. Somewhere in the hills of italy. The eyes can see for miles and miles. Across the valleys full of wine vines and olive trees. I pump the day away, and push the bike up the biggest hills. 40 kilometers, arent I able? I come panting into some wine town with only mid and up scale albergi (hotels). I talk Alessandro down to 40 Euros and crash. Sleep until the rainy morning.
Bike Tripping, Day Two, the Rainy Morning:
The best thing about going up hills? Doing 10 kilometers in 5 minutes going down them again. That is how I got to Sienna early in the morning. I wandered around and ate bread and olives. I figured I would leave soon and go to Assisi, which is famous for its Saint of Nature and Love, Francesco. But on the way out I heard music and there was this tall fellow with bright eyes and a big face playing guitar. He says do I know about the rainbow gathering.
and then I know why I have come.
So I get on my bike and ride. To Brenna, 25 kms away, at the end of a road. It is just a little town, with nobody almost. I find a clerk, finally, at the only lettered place in town. A little restaurant with drinks and bread and cheese. dove e la gente nella bosque? I stutter my italian. in tenti? nella bosque, diretto. and she points me into the woods and so I buy cheese and water and go there. I pedal my bike into the woods, hoping that the rainbow kids of italy will leave a sign. and then I see it.
and I know why I have come.
a little pile of rocks like we do in America, to mark the road.
and then I hear whistling. A little army of whistling. And over a bend in the road are 10 sun browned smilers, laden with bags and tents and poles and crates of food. They are kicked out of thier first spot, so we set up another. Stay two nights by the river near the roads end in Brenna. And then into the deep forest for the time of my life.
Bike Tripping, Giorno Cinque.
The sun is on the river. I go in and come it. Cold. Fresh. Alive. The kitchen is setting up. Pasta for dinner. Music for dinner. 200 people in a field in a circle singing EVERY LITTLE CELL IN MY BODY IS HAPPY and dancing and clapping and kissing each other. There is more love in this forest, and everyone is smiling.
I want to tell you all about it. Some time, ask me...
Travis, says Elmir from his wheelchair. I waan to play some Bluues, man. Oh yes Elmir, we will. We must. The fire blows ash on us, Malin is scatting. She is on a rock, with a yellow scarf. Her voice rises and blends with the harmonica, like a bird with a flying saucer. Lao rocks with her violin, the smoke billows around her. The sun has come out on the rainy day. Everything sparkles. Children are running in italian, and in english. Lao speaks spanish to everyone who knows italian. And the languages break down. We speak kindness to each other. Someone hands me an orange. Someone passes a chocolate. Someone kisses someones cheek for no reason at all. Someone builds the fire. Someone carries wood. Someone crosses the river to get water from the spring that flows from the mountian. Someone pitches in and goes to the store. Someone carries in crate full of olive oil. Everyone laughs and sings.
I am astouned, one afternoon, to find my self in this perfectly normal situation. Someone hads the Shaman an orange. The shaman (who is always naked), hides it in his butt, and hops after her, to the great delight of most everyone there. He then takes it from his butt, and tears into it with his high pitched head'voice. He throws pieces of orange peel to everyone at the fire, urging them to catch them with their mouth. When they do, we all cheer. When he gets to the orange meat, it goes around in a similar way, every one catching a peice, or having it stuck to their head, or chest, or eating off of someone elses head. He shaman coos and laughs. The orange is finished, he stoops down and paints a dogs nose. Blue.
Now you want to hear about the helicopters?
One morning it rained. We stood, the lot of us, under the kitchen tarps, cooking the pranza and waiting for the rain to stop. I play guitar, and when the roof is full, I push up on it and the water pours over the edge. After the rain stops, the river just up an rises 4 meters. Like that. The ledge that yesterday was our high dive is under the roaring rapids of this monster river. We all stand on the edge, sort of stunned a minute, and then run to save the tents and things that are drowned and lost for good.
Two boys are stuck on a rock in the river. Thats why the helis come. Two helicopters, ambulance, a boat, forest rangers, caribeneri, officials in blue, and green, and grey, and black. Watch us do the omming. Watch us dancing. Save the kids on the island. Rainbow for everybody.
Thanks for thinking of me, I am living and well.
In Rome now, back in the land of people and computers.
Circus and psytrance.
I dont know what is weirder,
but I prefer the forest.
T
Sunday, March 25, 2012
island
Una took me to the beach in Marsielles. We got subway tickets and took the bus down to the water. The mediterranian c'est beau, blue and rippling with little waves and nobody on the white sand at all. We go behind the rocks and get in, cold. Come out salted and skin stretched, oceany and happy and the wind blows us dry. Kids in swim suits come, shrieking like we just did, diving in and splashing out, fast. D'leau froid. Hows my french spelling?
We are walking across a parking lot (here is a picture I am taking for you) walking, Una and me. I am in my boots that get stinky quick, Una has her curls tied back, we foot to foot across the parking lot, there by the beach water. A pink balloon is blowing towards us, in the wind, straight towards us. It is followed by a little girl with big curly hair, crying and holding her hands out. The wind is faster than that balloon. It blows right into my hands, and she takes it from me and runs back to her mother, without saying a word.
Beautiful nights in Aix en Provence. The city has a nice market place, where the apple cider man gives me a free apple and the boys play jazz by the fountain and the pretty girl at a colorful fabric booth smiles at me. Una speaks the good French, I sort of tail along and catch what words I can. She takes me to a park with a reading tree, two guys on a park bench drink and smoke and tell us about Corse. This is especially interesting because I am aimed at Corse and so I listen, Una translates. It is not a big island, but it is so beautiful. I will find out.
On the bus to Toulon, I sit to eat my baghette and fromage du chevre and olives, but I never get to, because this guy comes cursing down the aisle and talks to me until I dont talk to him for a minute. He has may be a scottish accent when he anglaishes (englishes) but he is French. He asks me where I have been and sometimes doesnt wait for an answer. I turn to the girl in front of me, a very pretty brown girl, and she is listening to us. Tu comprend? my friend asks her, because we were speaking in sort of broken english, and she says she understands a little bit, and so we get to talking.
And then, glory be, we get to singing. I sing her snatches of all of the african songs I know, and she sings 'killing me softly' in a soft soully voice and I get to laughing a little bit because it sounds so nice. I tell her I think that I am going to be late to my ferry and she offers to guide me through Toulon. We get out the bus and jog through the city.
Well, I made it to that ferry in time for sure, and bid that kind soul good bye. Alls well and I am on the ferry, bound for Corse (the island known as Corsica). The ferry is HUGE. Floors and floors and restaurants and sleeping cabins, and very few people are there, so you can sleep on any floor space anywhere, pretty much, between the seats, only I don't sleep. I go up stairs to finally eat my dinner on the top deck and watch the city lights dissappear. A girl and her dog stop to sit for a minute, and I try to talk to her in my broke french accent which she cannot understand much of. I eat and then, fatigued, go down to bed.
Only I never make it to bed. Fifteen men are having a party on my level. They sit me down and give me wine and tell me to sing. They pass a paper plate and fill it, threatening to take it away when I stop singing. They dance, and sing, and drink, and hump each other. They laugh. Clean shaven men, all of them in black, loud and jovial, good european souls. They all work for the Tour de France, some how aide for the bikers. They are going to Corsica for a race of sorts, thats what I gathered. They were fun and welcoming, and had a large spread of food before them. They broke out the desert and we dined. They filled my plate with more than 60 euros, and after that we chatted at the bar until the wee hours.
Yes, loves. I have been dreaming of you.
Awake and asleep, I have recalled your faces and your songs.
OH the joys of arriving at dawn, on a boat, to an island, to an old city where the steeples of the churches rise over the buildings and houses over the port. The fog flees into the mountains, the people flee into the town. I sit at the train station for a while and sing about sea gulls. Three high school girls join me for a few minutes, they thought I was lonely. No, I am not lonely, I tell them. How can I be, when everyone is so friendly to me? They are cute, and bored with the island, and due to be at school at Nine o clock, so they go and leave me to sings songs about sea gulls.
The train is a wild wild west thing, with windows. The island is mountains and canyons and rivers, and as beautiful as everybody said it. Celina Jaffe caught me at the end of the train, and thus began my Corte adventure.
There is a voice in the city of Corte, that is young and graffitti'd all over the walls in the center of town. And on the out skirts. And on rocks by the beach, hours away. A voice that cries for freedom. That cries for independance. That cries for arabs to get off the island. That cries for french people to get off the island. The hand that writes the voice is different (ive been told) but I cannot see that difference yet. Black words written all over the buildings and road signs. Slogans and phrases in a language that is a mix between Italian French Spanish and something else. Maybe this is how it is, on islands.
Can you tell I have been in the mountains? My speech is deep in my head, I am just trying to tell you where I am. I am here, on Corsica. Tonight, Loic and Octav made pizzas and Charlotte came over and we all ate and then went to a movie in a little room, which is octav's apartment. The day we spent climbing up and down mountains, steering around steers (cows on the road), and hiding from the rain under big river rocks. After all that, I went to Charlotte's for tea, and parley'd in franglish until the mid of the night, with a big day tomorrow. I am full of black tea, corsican beer, french cidre, algae farts, pine sap, new words, and an ancienter appreciation of life.
Ever heard of Esperanto?
We are walking across a parking lot (here is a picture I am taking for you) walking, Una and me. I am in my boots that get stinky quick, Una has her curls tied back, we foot to foot across the parking lot, there by the beach water. A pink balloon is blowing towards us, in the wind, straight towards us. It is followed by a little girl with big curly hair, crying and holding her hands out. The wind is faster than that balloon. It blows right into my hands, and she takes it from me and runs back to her mother, without saying a word.
Beautiful nights in Aix en Provence. The city has a nice market place, where the apple cider man gives me a free apple and the boys play jazz by the fountain and the pretty girl at a colorful fabric booth smiles at me. Una speaks the good French, I sort of tail along and catch what words I can. She takes me to a park with a reading tree, two guys on a park bench drink and smoke and tell us about Corse. This is especially interesting because I am aimed at Corse and so I listen, Una translates. It is not a big island, but it is so beautiful. I will find out.
On the bus to Toulon, I sit to eat my baghette and fromage du chevre and olives, but I never get to, because this guy comes cursing down the aisle and talks to me until I dont talk to him for a minute. He has may be a scottish accent when he anglaishes (englishes) but he is French. He asks me where I have been and sometimes doesnt wait for an answer. I turn to the girl in front of me, a very pretty brown girl, and she is listening to us. Tu comprend? my friend asks her, because we were speaking in sort of broken english, and she says she understands a little bit, and so we get to talking.
And then, glory be, we get to singing. I sing her snatches of all of the african songs I know, and she sings 'killing me softly' in a soft soully voice and I get to laughing a little bit because it sounds so nice. I tell her I think that I am going to be late to my ferry and she offers to guide me through Toulon. We get out the bus and jog through the city.
Well, I made it to that ferry in time for sure, and bid that kind soul good bye. Alls well and I am on the ferry, bound for Corse (the island known as Corsica). The ferry is HUGE. Floors and floors and restaurants and sleeping cabins, and very few people are there, so you can sleep on any floor space anywhere, pretty much, between the seats, only I don't sleep. I go up stairs to finally eat my dinner on the top deck and watch the city lights dissappear. A girl and her dog stop to sit for a minute, and I try to talk to her in my broke french accent which she cannot understand much of. I eat and then, fatigued, go down to bed.
Only I never make it to bed. Fifteen men are having a party on my level. They sit me down and give me wine and tell me to sing. They pass a paper plate and fill it, threatening to take it away when I stop singing. They dance, and sing, and drink, and hump each other. They laugh. Clean shaven men, all of them in black, loud and jovial, good european souls. They all work for the Tour de France, some how aide for the bikers. They are going to Corsica for a race of sorts, thats what I gathered. They were fun and welcoming, and had a large spread of food before them. They broke out the desert and we dined. They filled my plate with more than 60 euros, and after that we chatted at the bar until the wee hours.
Yes, loves. I have been dreaming of you.
Awake and asleep, I have recalled your faces and your songs.
OH the joys of arriving at dawn, on a boat, to an island, to an old city where the steeples of the churches rise over the buildings and houses over the port. The fog flees into the mountains, the people flee into the town. I sit at the train station for a while and sing about sea gulls. Three high school girls join me for a few minutes, they thought I was lonely. No, I am not lonely, I tell them. How can I be, when everyone is so friendly to me? They are cute, and bored with the island, and due to be at school at Nine o clock, so they go and leave me to sings songs about sea gulls.
The train is a wild wild west thing, with windows. The island is mountains and canyons and rivers, and as beautiful as everybody said it. Celina Jaffe caught me at the end of the train, and thus began my Corte adventure.
There is a voice in the city of Corte, that is young and graffitti'd all over the walls in the center of town. And on the out skirts. And on rocks by the beach, hours away. A voice that cries for freedom. That cries for independance. That cries for arabs to get off the island. That cries for french people to get off the island. The hand that writes the voice is different (ive been told) but I cannot see that difference yet. Black words written all over the buildings and road signs. Slogans and phrases in a language that is a mix between Italian French Spanish and something else. Maybe this is how it is, on islands.
Can you tell I have been in the mountains? My speech is deep in my head, I am just trying to tell you where I am. I am here, on Corsica. Tonight, Loic and Octav made pizzas and Charlotte came over and we all ate and then went to a movie in a little room, which is octav's apartment. The day we spent climbing up and down mountains, steering around steers (cows on the road), and hiding from the rain under big river rocks. After all that, I went to Charlotte's for tea, and parley'd in franglish until the mid of the night, with a big day tomorrow. I am full of black tea, corsican beer, french cidre, algae farts, pine sap, new words, and an ancienter appreciation of life.
Ever heard of Esperanto?
Friday, March 16, 2012
pictures
the tower steps
up to the tower
this morning we rapelled into the garden
down to the theater and caves
where I sleep
when the dinner bell rings
through this door is where
everything smells like food
manger manger manger
at Monte Saint Michel
we see a cat
climbing a wall
and imagine monks
who live in the forest
and turn into birds
who turn into
dogs
who run in the sand
kim could see
all of us
through the camera
and now, mom,
you can see
all of us
I had a dream
where I took five photographs
this is not one of them.
4
Joe and Kim
on the Terrace over Thore La Rochette
before Kim pours the glasses full of cider
and Joe hits the table and it spills all over
swearing it was her fault for filling them full
and then we clink glasses cheers and make up
so the rest of the cider falls into my dish
with the zuccinni and mushroom pie
and it is good. and salty. and soggy.
I dreampt that I was taking five pictures
for a project
and so
here are five pictures
of my district aujard oui (today)
Kim Joe Nancy and Jean Pierre
what it looks like
over here
love you all
Travis
Sunday, March 11, 2012
refuge and refuse
Jean Pierre Dutour is eighty, sitting at the table next to me, we are drinking wine and I am eating olives, waiting for the dinner bell to ring. He is speaking to me, first bit in English; which I understand fine. We...do...Did... the first three words or so in English, and then he will say some words in French that I know, like theater or table, and then he will begin going in French, which I do not know so fast, until he is laughing and waving in his joyfullness.
Jean Pierre was in theater for years and years and years. There are masks all over the living room, costumes in the attic, a stage in the basement. He is writing and rewriting a stage play in his office, every day. How to say? He is easy to understand. He talks with his whole, wise old body face. He talks with his eyes, looking woefully at something in the next room. He talks with his hands, weaving them like birds, or pointing quickly at some precious air. He talks with his mouth, pouting, roaring, laughing, pooting. I dont know what pooting is, but I am sure Jean Pierre would.
He is laughing, and then he calls to the next room, NANCY, and Nancy comes, his wife who is the light of this LightHouse. Traducer, he says, and she translates, what he has just been telling me, which is often something like "Jean Pierre says that, there are not many Dutours in this country, but the craziest and the most famous live in this house."
I stayed in Thore La Rochette for 10 days, until Kim and Joe returned in their bed/van. We climbed into the cave riddled hills, with ropes and harnesses and cookies in baskets on our bikes. We took headlamps into the long dark corridors, past the places where the weasel left his skull, past the buried mine cart and the bricked up passage way. Through the underground where German soldiers hid guns and ammunition after the war, where some teenagers blew up themselves, as the rumours go.
I climbed up alone to the upper floor, and Nancy gave me her camera, and by its flashing light I crawled into a pit cavern. and Just like an old Dungeons and Dragons game, I never knew what was around the bend. FLASH of the camera. Another tunnel. FLASH a small room. FLASH a stone bench. So I sat there in the dark. Jean Pierre said there used to be a fortress, and there used to be a cult, and those caves have been habited for thousands of years.
Kim and Joe and I drove to Mont Saint Michel, the city on the island with the Abby of the Angel shining over the rising and falling tide. We visit Kims home town of Dieppe, walk along the beach where the Scottish regiment died round Dday, where the Canadians died. Where the fighting was. Dieppe is a new town, because the old one got bombed. The north border of France. The closest place to England.
And then back to Paris, to pick up my sister. An all night party in Paris. Guisane and I dancing in the streets, sleeping on the steps of some Cathedral, waiting for the Metros to run again.
And tonight I am again at Malakoff, where we have spent the last hour with the Devil in our hands, that is, a cart for carrying heavy shit. How do we say it in english? A dolly. Here a dolly is a devil. We carried the Devil around Malakoff, picking through the Poubell, that is the trash; because it is Sunday and that is when the trash goes out. We took our favorite trash in the devil, and put it in the basement of the house at Malakoff. That is where I will sleep tonight.
Bon réve. Good dreams.
Jean Pierre was in theater for years and years and years. There are masks all over the living room, costumes in the attic, a stage in the basement. He is writing and rewriting a stage play in his office, every day. How to say? He is easy to understand. He talks with his whole, wise old body face. He talks with his eyes, looking woefully at something in the next room. He talks with his hands, weaving them like birds, or pointing quickly at some precious air. He talks with his mouth, pouting, roaring, laughing, pooting. I dont know what pooting is, but I am sure Jean Pierre would.
He is laughing, and then he calls to the next room, NANCY, and Nancy comes, his wife who is the light of this LightHouse. Traducer, he says, and she translates, what he has just been telling me, which is often something like "Jean Pierre says that, there are not many Dutours in this country, but the craziest and the most famous live in this house."
I stayed in Thore La Rochette for 10 days, until Kim and Joe returned in their bed/van. We climbed into the cave riddled hills, with ropes and harnesses and cookies in baskets on our bikes. We took headlamps into the long dark corridors, past the places where the weasel left his skull, past the buried mine cart and the bricked up passage way. Through the underground where German soldiers hid guns and ammunition after the war, where some teenagers blew up themselves, as the rumours go.
I climbed up alone to the upper floor, and Nancy gave me her camera, and by its flashing light I crawled into a pit cavern. and Just like an old Dungeons and Dragons game, I never knew what was around the bend. FLASH of the camera. Another tunnel. FLASH a small room. FLASH a stone bench. So I sat there in the dark. Jean Pierre said there used to be a fortress, and there used to be a cult, and those caves have been habited for thousands of years.
Kim and Joe and I drove to Mont Saint Michel, the city on the island with the Abby of the Angel shining over the rising and falling tide. We visit Kims home town of Dieppe, walk along the beach where the Scottish regiment died round Dday, where the Canadians died. Where the fighting was. Dieppe is a new town, because the old one got bombed. The north border of France. The closest place to England.
And then back to Paris, to pick up my sister. An all night party in Paris. Guisane and I dancing in the streets, sleeping on the steps of some Cathedral, waiting for the Metros to run again.
And tonight I am again at Malakoff, where we have spent the last hour with the Devil in our hands, that is, a cart for carrying heavy shit. How do we say it in english? A dolly. Here a dolly is a devil. We carried the Devil around Malakoff, picking through the Poubell, that is the trash; because it is Sunday and that is when the trash goes out. We took our favorite trash in the devil, and put it in the basement of the house at Malakoff. That is where I will sleep tonight.
Bon réve. Good dreams.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
translation
I am once again in a room full of people who speak something I do not comprehend exactly. I try to Do Attention to the rises and falls in their voices, the peaks. So it is not all gibbrish. To catch hold of Something. I hear a word I think I know. Fet, they are talking about a party.
Mathilde pipes like a flying river of song, and chirps a laugh at the end of it. Patrique chops eggplant in the bathroom, wearing a top hat and swearing. Whatever he says gets knuckle punched by Tommas, who fires that punch from the other room. It flies through the walls, wrestling with every sound in its way. Martin chuckles or speaks, but his speach is new to me, it is not yet on my visible radar.
When they are laughing, it is irresistable to me and I laugh with them. I feel entirely one then, because I comprehend laughing. It is the same in my language. In the form I am also versed, though it is nice to hear people taking turns, seamlessly weaving a coat of time, of rhythm and words that repeat and rhyme. Everyone has a River of Fire Tung, wagging out of their mouth.
Their words assault me gently. French is a train, it is running over me. French is an army of jet fighters, they are bombing my force field and occasionally, a word gets through. Oujard hui, today, I know, at least, WHen. What and Who and How are lost in the rockets flare, the bombs bursting, the busting of my old mind, the paving of a new road.
I am never discouraged. I am OFten reminded that I OUght to be discouraged: I will never learn French. It is too big, too much, there are too many other things to put my mind to. I am trying hard and too slow to grasp it. Yet I am never discouraged. I shall slowly travel this letter littered road. I progress every day. I am often Encouraged. I CAN COMMUNICATE! I shall learn French.
Today I played guitar in a park with an Argentinian, a Senagal, a few Parisians and maybe some Spanish. We spoke how we could with what words we shared, and it was bright and fine for me. We made friends, sharing a song and a hand shake and teaching each other something. The Senagal man, asking the Argentinian to translate from French or Spanish into English, for me: we are young. we have a long time to learn.
To Learn, Brothers! That is the power of Natural Flight! We can LEARN! We can FLY! We can LEARN!
Mathilde pipes like a flying river of song, and chirps a laugh at the end of it. Patrique chops eggplant in the bathroom, wearing a top hat and swearing. Whatever he says gets knuckle punched by Tommas, who fires that punch from the other room. It flies through the walls, wrestling with every sound in its way. Martin chuckles or speaks, but his speach is new to me, it is not yet on my visible radar.
When they are laughing, it is irresistable to me and I laugh with them. I feel entirely one then, because I comprehend laughing. It is the same in my language. In the form I am also versed, though it is nice to hear people taking turns, seamlessly weaving a coat of time, of rhythm and words that repeat and rhyme. Everyone has a River of Fire Tung, wagging out of their mouth.
Their words assault me gently. French is a train, it is running over me. French is an army of jet fighters, they are bombing my force field and occasionally, a word gets through. Oujard hui, today, I know, at least, WHen. What and Who and How are lost in the rockets flare, the bombs bursting, the busting of my old mind, the paving of a new road.
I am never discouraged. I am OFten reminded that I OUght to be discouraged: I will never learn French. It is too big, too much, there are too many other things to put my mind to. I am trying hard and too slow to grasp it. Yet I am never discouraged. I shall slowly travel this letter littered road. I progress every day. I am often Encouraged. I CAN COMMUNICATE! I shall learn French.
Today I played guitar in a park with an Argentinian, a Senagal, a few Parisians and maybe some Spanish. We spoke how we could with what words we shared, and it was bright and fine for me. We made friends, sharing a song and a hand shake and teaching each other something. The Senagal man, asking the Argentinian to translate from French or Spanish into English, for me: we are young. we have a long time to learn.
To Learn, Brothers! That is the power of Natural Flight! We can LEARN! We can FLY! We can LEARN!
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