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!
dreams
Colorful French People, Christina Dibbs in Saera's Squirrel Costume
'I know you are a ghost,' I tell her. 'I am at your service to communicate'
The Poet's Toilet: This is a toilet owned by the city. It is very famous. Here is how it works. If you are a poet and you think of a really good poem, don't write it down. Instead, don't pee anywhere until you have ran to the Poet's Toilet. Pee there. The toilet will record your poem as a Pissing Poem, and it will be chronicled with the other pissed poems. There is a very famous one in Paris, lots of Poets have pissed their poems there.
Mathilde is in the dream, in almost every scene, but sewn in, almost as an after thought, as if she isn't meant to be there, but she is. Guiding me through the dreams as well as through the city. She hangs honey and peanut butter on a swing on a tree, because it is 'good luck'.
Abi Mustafa, I am talking to Dennis Ray Powell Junior, you show up in a van with Tiernie Mcguire and Morgan Eldritch. I gave you cherries, then sat down to read my journal. It was a particularly interesting entry, because it was describing the events of the moment as they were happening. The journal said 'we went to get beer', and so I jumped up and ran after you, because you were already on your way to get the beer with a bunch of our friends. I stopped to talk to someone on the way, and your voices (and laughter and song) faded away as you went further and further into the forest.
The Lady in Grey, with a vagina for a face, summons me to her tower, demanding that I find a magic song that will heal her neice. Okay, I will do it. Mathilde and I carve star symbols onto our arms, the symbols are triangles that glow like white neon in the dark, and that is how we make the magic song. A triangle is a 3rd eye nother way to see something. I wake up and write a song.
The Lady in Grey, younger with a vagina face, still, leads me through 'the kingdoms'. First is the Kingdom of Hearts, which is green and gold and blue, a beautiful field with a farmer's cart and a reaper's wheat. Next is the Kingdom of Dust which is baige with statues that crumble to dust. She can fly, and listen, change her size if she needs. 'a secret door is just the meaning of a word that you have never understood before'.
Mike Mcguiness' Dad is thin and alcoholic and sad. (the dream guy doesnt look a thing like Mike's real Dad). I see a car accident and get out to help. I leave a video camera on my bike and keep worrying about it.
I can fly, and run down the halls with a comforter on my back until I transform into a Flying Dog Beast. I want to fly Faster and Faster, but I go slow. Theres some physics I have got to work out.
I am a spy. I check into a secret facility. Hunter is the door man. He gives me two passes that are magnetic and grant access all over the complex. I only recognize him after I wake up. He gives me two ring-bell belly dance necklaces, one small and one big. They are obviously from Audrey. Thank you dear, I got them. I give the smaller one to Evelyn, who is mixed with Luna Ect.
'I know you are a ghost,' I tell her. 'I am at your service to communicate'
The Poet's Toilet: This is a toilet owned by the city. It is very famous. Here is how it works. If you are a poet and you think of a really good poem, don't write it down. Instead, don't pee anywhere until you have ran to the Poet's Toilet. Pee there. The toilet will record your poem as a Pissing Poem, and it will be chronicled with the other pissed poems. There is a very famous one in Paris, lots of Poets have pissed their poems there.
Mathilde is in the dream, in almost every scene, but sewn in, almost as an after thought, as if she isn't meant to be there, but she is. Guiding me through the dreams as well as through the city. She hangs honey and peanut butter on a swing on a tree, because it is 'good luck'.
Abi Mustafa, I am talking to Dennis Ray Powell Junior, you show up in a van with Tiernie Mcguire and Morgan Eldritch. I gave you cherries, then sat down to read my journal. It was a particularly interesting entry, because it was describing the events of the moment as they were happening. The journal said 'we went to get beer', and so I jumped up and ran after you, because you were already on your way to get the beer with a bunch of our friends. I stopped to talk to someone on the way, and your voices (and laughter and song) faded away as you went further and further into the forest.
The Lady in Grey, with a vagina for a face, summons me to her tower, demanding that I find a magic song that will heal her neice. Okay, I will do it. Mathilde and I carve star symbols onto our arms, the symbols are triangles that glow like white neon in the dark, and that is how we make the magic song. A triangle is a 3rd eye nother way to see something. I wake up and write a song.
The Lady in Grey, younger with a vagina face, still, leads me through 'the kingdoms'. First is the Kingdom of Hearts, which is green and gold and blue, a beautiful field with a farmer's cart and a reaper's wheat. Next is the Kingdom of Dust which is baige with statues that crumble to dust. She can fly, and listen, change her size if she needs. 'a secret door is just the meaning of a word that you have never understood before'.
Mike Mcguiness' Dad is thin and alcoholic and sad. (the dream guy doesnt look a thing like Mike's real Dad). I see a car accident and get out to help. I leave a video camera on my bike and keep worrying about it.
I can fly, and run down the halls with a comforter on my back until I transform into a Flying Dog Beast. I want to fly Faster and Faster, but I go slow. Theres some physics I have got to work out.
I am a spy. I check into a secret facility. Hunter is the door man. He gives me two passes that are magnetic and grant access all over the complex. I only recognize him after I wake up. He gives me two ring-bell belly dance necklaces, one small and one big. They are obviously from Audrey. Thank you dear, I got them. I give the smaller one to Evelyn, who is mixed with Luna Ect.
numbers
One month on the Road;
preliminaries, 400$ train and plane tickets, 65$ food
mum and dad, Jim Wahlen, Kati Glieser, David Moore, Gramma Joan, Aaron Chandler, India House & Family
week one transition from Bloomington to Cincinnatti to New York*
70$ food and subway fare
Evelyn, Serenity and Family, Marc and Claire, Eric Kincaid and the Melendez Family, Carwil and Meerkats, Saam, Odelia, Jake & Roomies, the Foxx Family, Christina Dibbs
week two, conversion from America to Paris*
90€ food, train and metro fare
Mathilde, Tomma(s), Kemi, Fanny Sabine Phillip Elody and the Birthday Party, Kemis singing work buddies and the Crepe Party, wild dream people
week three, France city to France Country*
70€ food and hostels, 100€ train
Julia & the Birthday Party, Guisane, Joe Kim Nancy & Jean Pierre, Sue & Dan, Tom Travel, Anne Caro(l)
semaine quatre, settling quietly into France*
99€ train and food
Quenton, Patrique, Guisane's Maman et Pere, IndRa Horses
Total 4 weeks about 410$ spent
and a priceless amount of FriendEndergy, which is what happens when people help people,
The council calls this 'The Courage of Kindness', it is a special thing that all people have access to. It is sort of the Engine that BardSong runs on...
preliminaries, 400$ train and plane tickets, 65$ food
mum and dad, Jim Wahlen, Kati Glieser, David Moore, Gramma Joan, Aaron Chandler, India House & Family
week one transition from Bloomington to Cincinnatti to New York*
70$ food and subway fare
Evelyn, Serenity and Family, Marc and Claire, Eric Kincaid and the Melendez Family, Carwil and Meerkats, Saam, Odelia, Jake & Roomies, the Foxx Family, Christina Dibbs
week two, conversion from America to Paris*
90€ food, train and metro fare
Mathilde, Tomma(s), Kemi, Fanny Sabine Phillip Elody and the Birthday Party, Kemis singing work buddies and the Crepe Party, wild dream people
week three, France city to France Country*
70€ food and hostels, 100€ train
Julia & the Birthday Party, Guisane, Joe Kim Nancy & Jean Pierre, Sue & Dan, Tom Travel, Anne Caro(l)
semaine quatre, settling quietly into France*
99€ train and food
Quenton, Patrique, Guisane's Maman et Pere, IndRa Horses
Total 4 weeks about 410$ spent
and a priceless amount of FriendEndergy, which is what happens when people help people,
The council calls this 'The Courage of Kindness', it is a special thing that all people have access to. It is sort of the Engine that BardSong runs on...
Sunday, February 19, 2012
de pain
Du Pon? Deh Paan? What Vowel IS that? I just want some bread!
Spent the week or week end (3 fine days and nights) with my friend Guisane and her family in another little town South of Paris. The last time the roof was re-done was 186°s or something, the house is old, and quaint, and sturdy with thick walls and those doors that open on the bottom and on the top. There are rings mounted in the stone walls, to hook the horses to. There is a hey barn and an old mossy apple tree and pine cones that must be gathered and put into a big basket by the fire for burning. There is bread in the morning and at lunch and at dinner; there is tea in the morning and wine at lunch and dinner. There is coffee after lunch and Guisanes father is a sweet man with a bright laugh who tells stories with his hands and her mother is a sweet woman who talks to me first in french and then when she is sure I don't understand, she translates.
Guisane and I went to the forest, le foret, and took the horses out to get fresh grass, and listened to french and american music on the speakers in her little room. There is a pull out bed that is a couch in the day time, the sun comes through the window when it shines and everything is like after the rain. Outside, the fields go on until you cannot see or maybe there are hills. The clouds are busy, but slowly busy, so that one day might be for covering the sky and the next day might be for uncovering it, and the day after that maybe, is for playing marbles, so we dont do anything too fast.
Except get on a train and go back to Paris.
Now you must picture me at Versailles. I am in sort of torn sweats with shoes that I dont dare take off because the sweat plus time equals smell, and my fussy fuzzy hair and beard connection. My pockets are full of a passport, train ticket, bread recipt, french childrens book I am struggling through, anglais dictionary, striped gloves with horse hair on them, glasses case with a careful cigarette saved from Tom Travel. I have an audio guide, which is like a cell phone that explains information on various sculptures and paintings, but it is in French and I like it that way.
I have never seen a palace like this before. May be the rumored taj mahal, or the fabled eldorado...
But there are the gates wrought with gold, horsed men statchuwing them from both sides. Beyond the gates is room for an army of 17000 men. More. They are all there; in their pompador uniforms. Napolean is leading them, rallying them, preparing them to go conquest the world and everything. Preparing them for the Tour de France, Le Tour de Monde. The air smells like thousands of hopes, and swet metal, and sword holsters, leather glove hands on spear handles. Horses with spurs in them.
And then my companions, a generous bunch of Americans and a German one, skip across this former field of war, which is now a major tourist spot for people of all tungs and colors. Inside there are hallways full of statues of long dead somebodies, with folded hands or fat swords. They are on peaceful on their death beds, or triumphant in their pride. Big hands, big scepters, big hair. Oh you men of valor, you.
My friends and I wandered through the halls and then the gardens, marvelling, listening to our cell phones talk about the lighting on a certain picture. Then we played with ice on the frozen lake, and I decided I like things that are living more then things that are dead.
Tada, Halleluiah Paris, happy Sunday everybody!
Spent the week or week end (3 fine days and nights) with my friend Guisane and her family in another little town South of Paris. The last time the roof was re-done was 186°s or something, the house is old, and quaint, and sturdy with thick walls and those doors that open on the bottom and on the top. There are rings mounted in the stone walls, to hook the horses to. There is a hey barn and an old mossy apple tree and pine cones that must be gathered and put into a big basket by the fire for burning. There is bread in the morning and at lunch and at dinner; there is tea in the morning and wine at lunch and dinner. There is coffee after lunch and Guisanes father is a sweet man with a bright laugh who tells stories with his hands and her mother is a sweet woman who talks to me first in french and then when she is sure I don't understand, she translates.
Guisane and I went to the forest, le foret, and took the horses out to get fresh grass, and listened to french and american music on the speakers in her little room. There is a pull out bed that is a couch in the day time, the sun comes through the window when it shines and everything is like after the rain. Outside, the fields go on until you cannot see or maybe there are hills. The clouds are busy, but slowly busy, so that one day might be for covering the sky and the next day might be for uncovering it, and the day after that maybe, is for playing marbles, so we dont do anything too fast.
Except get on a train and go back to Paris.
Now you must picture me at Versailles. I am in sort of torn sweats with shoes that I dont dare take off because the sweat plus time equals smell, and my fussy fuzzy hair and beard connection. My pockets are full of a passport, train ticket, bread recipt, french childrens book I am struggling through, anglais dictionary, striped gloves with horse hair on them, glasses case with a careful cigarette saved from Tom Travel. I have an audio guide, which is like a cell phone that explains information on various sculptures and paintings, but it is in French and I like it that way.
I have never seen a palace like this before. May be the rumored taj mahal, or the fabled eldorado...
But there are the gates wrought with gold, horsed men statchuwing them from both sides. Beyond the gates is room for an army of 17000 men. More. They are all there; in their pompador uniforms. Napolean is leading them, rallying them, preparing them to go conquest the world and everything. Preparing them for the Tour de France, Le Tour de Monde. The air smells like thousands of hopes, and swet metal, and sword holsters, leather glove hands on spear handles. Horses with spurs in them.
And then my companions, a generous bunch of Americans and a German one, skip across this former field of war, which is now a major tourist spot for people of all tungs and colors. Inside there are hallways full of statues of long dead somebodies, with folded hands or fat swords. They are on peaceful on their death beds, or triumphant in their pride. Big hands, big scepters, big hair. Oh you men of valor, you.
My friends and I wandered through the halls and then the gardens, marvelling, listening to our cell phones talk about the lighting on a certain picture. Then we played with ice on the frozen lake, and I decided I like things that are living more then things that are dead.
Tada, Halleluiah Paris, happy Sunday everybody!
Saturday, February 11, 2012
tom travel
Some times you might think that everything goes wrong. Like the car breaks down on the way to Spain, the rental cars windows get smashed in, or you run all out of money in the middle of a foreign city. Some things I have had, I don,t remember how I lost them.
I ate a meal for the price of a juice in a little bar advertizing Free Walks and Flamenco. I ate and the European town swirled around me. I stepped outside for air, and walked down one of those tiny Barcelonian alleys with my ukulele out. Careful, the people had warned, that the police dont see you playing that, or they will take your instrument. But I was not busking, only walking. There is a girl singing along, a song I don't recognize. There is a guy with headphones on, smiling, asking where I am from. I am Travis, and I tell him where from. 'Travis Travel' he says, smiling good naturedly. Are you hungry?
I told him I wasn't, that I had just eaten a meal for the price of a juice at a little bar with Free Walks and Flamenco, but a few minutes later, Tom (you hav never had tapas?) and I were drinking and laughing and eating tapas at a fine little diner at 10 on a Thursday night.
Tom is tall, his english sounds to me like UK English but it wears a thick Belgian accent on it, which makes it jovial and blunted, like a young boy jumping over things. Tom has scruff on his face, not shaved in a day or two, and a smile even when hes a bit ticked off. He is simply spoken and honest and I liked him right off.
He knew I was on my last few euros, but I told him my whole story of coming to Barcelona with some friends and how I had a ride back and money in France, if I survived the city long enough to see it. He said I could sleep at his hotel with him for this night and the next but then his girlfriend was coming from Belgium and I would have to find another place. I had a room at the hostel that night; but I would take him up on his offer on Friday.
I shall not soon forget that night and that tapas. The food is not so important to me (wild mushrooms on garlic bread, cheese in a thing, soft calamari, risotto) or the drinks that I want to remember (beer beer beer irish-coffee cava cava) it was the freeness that I felt with that new friend of mine. To be honest and feel like this guy really cared for me like a person compassionate and undertanding cares for another person, but to be treated as a genuine equal regardless of nationality or status or anything. Not that I haven't felt that before, but Tom is one of these guys that just helps a person feel that way, and he put me right at ease.
We talked about 'the Good Semaritan' story, he played me a song he had created on the computer, I gave him a Fugatives cd which the house played a track from. We laughed and felt grand and I thought to myself: "my oh my, a person can be in 'dire straights' (bad news), but if he has a friend, he knows he's alright."
And we were all right and just fine and we carreened out of the tapas bar, not feeling all drunk, only elated to be friendful and free. Around the corner we went; out came the ukelele and we started to sing, making up songs with three Danish guys that came out of a bar. Not a minute went by before the police were on us (what for singing and playing a ukulele) and they off with my (sisters) ukulele and off with my passport and into a car these things went, the car drove off then, and I am sure if not for the seasoned Europeans around me I would have been quite out of luck.
My new friends, Tom, and one of the Danish fellows called Michael, were trying to talk and reason with the Spanish police; who wrote us a ticket with no price on it, no name on it, and a scribbled hand written address of where to go in the morning if we wanted to bail out the ukulele. Sign here, he said to me, and the Dane and Tom both go 'ah no you dont! first give him back his passport'. It was a very interesting experience to be there for. Hello, foreign police.
Every day there is protests in Barcelona. One day the SpanAir crew was 100 strong (more maybe) outside of a big government building. One night I passed the same government building to a line of people being silent for peace. Over a quarter of the population of Spain is unemployed, I hear. I don't know how our issues are related, America, but maybe we can help each other.
Next day I met Tom, he was the only guy on the street with shorts and sandles. His story is, he worked from 17 to now he's in his early 30s, spending but saving enough money to see him around the world now, if he wants. He leans back in his chair by the beach, smiles through his sunglasses. "I could sit here all day", and he could, but our mission is to get the ukulele back, so we walk all over town.
How Tom and I walk all over town is this: after three blocks we have to pee, and to use the bathrooms we have to buy something. Tom will say "I've already told you, I drink too much. That's true." and order us a beer. We drink the beer, wlk three blocks, and have to pee. One time we had to walk 4 blocks then take the metro. We had to pee really bad after that, so we stopped for a beer and a tapas.
We made it to the police station place at 4, they closed at 2. You'll have to come back tomorrow.
Tom, sayz I, I just don't feel welcome here. This place wont allow me to play my music, I don't have any money, and if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have any friends. I keep thinking I should have stayed in Paris and gone slowly, maybe gone to visit my friend Guisane whos got horses in the country, I really like horses, and I like Paris and Guisane and Matilda, and the cold isn't even that bad.
And Tom said to me that it wasn't about the money or anything, that I just had to know what I wanted to do and then do it. I asked him then to loan me the money for a train to Paris, and I was going to get a different guitar and tell Kim and Joe just to meet me there. And Tom did it, you know. He loaned me all the money I needed, I to get it back to him somehow, and we had our last round at the train station.
I think I'm having second thoughts now; I told him (can you picture me, all indesisive as usual). He said 'its because of the money, now you think you've got options. But you can't think like that. The money is not what's important (the bike is not whats important, the ukuleles not whats important). No, its knowing what you really want to do, and then doing it.
Well I want to go slow(er).
I want to visit Europe, and meet the people, and that might take forever.
I got to Mathilde's this morning, and she wasn't home, but Ankara looked at me, let me in. She doesn't speak much english and my French is pitiful, but here I am, in her home, eating with people who are so much like my friends and yet so different, and wonderful to know. I spent the whole afternoon (all of it from noon to dark), with Patrique, who has sons my age and a beard, who told me in his 100 English words some of the finest things I have ever heard. He said, and I'll leave you with it.
"it is not important to run; because in the end there is death."
I ate a meal for the price of a juice in a little bar advertizing Free Walks and Flamenco. I ate and the European town swirled around me. I stepped outside for air, and walked down one of those tiny Barcelonian alleys with my ukulele out. Careful, the people had warned, that the police dont see you playing that, or they will take your instrument. But I was not busking, only walking. There is a girl singing along, a song I don't recognize. There is a guy with headphones on, smiling, asking where I am from. I am Travis, and I tell him where from. 'Travis Travel' he says, smiling good naturedly. Are you hungry?
I told him I wasn't, that I had just eaten a meal for the price of a juice at a little bar with Free Walks and Flamenco, but a few minutes later, Tom (you hav never had tapas?) and I were drinking and laughing and eating tapas at a fine little diner at 10 on a Thursday night.
Tom is tall, his english sounds to me like UK English but it wears a thick Belgian accent on it, which makes it jovial and blunted, like a young boy jumping over things. Tom has scruff on his face, not shaved in a day or two, and a smile even when hes a bit ticked off. He is simply spoken and honest and I liked him right off.
He knew I was on my last few euros, but I told him my whole story of coming to Barcelona with some friends and how I had a ride back and money in France, if I survived the city long enough to see it. He said I could sleep at his hotel with him for this night and the next but then his girlfriend was coming from Belgium and I would have to find another place. I had a room at the hostel that night; but I would take him up on his offer on Friday.
I shall not soon forget that night and that tapas. The food is not so important to me (wild mushrooms on garlic bread, cheese in a thing, soft calamari, risotto) or the drinks that I want to remember (beer beer beer irish-coffee cava cava) it was the freeness that I felt with that new friend of mine. To be honest and feel like this guy really cared for me like a person compassionate and undertanding cares for another person, but to be treated as a genuine equal regardless of nationality or status or anything. Not that I haven't felt that before, but Tom is one of these guys that just helps a person feel that way, and he put me right at ease.
We talked about 'the Good Semaritan' story, he played me a song he had created on the computer, I gave him a Fugatives cd which the house played a track from. We laughed and felt grand and I thought to myself: "my oh my, a person can be in 'dire straights' (bad news), but if he has a friend, he knows he's alright."
And we were all right and just fine and we carreened out of the tapas bar, not feeling all drunk, only elated to be friendful and free. Around the corner we went; out came the ukelele and we started to sing, making up songs with three Danish guys that came out of a bar. Not a minute went by before the police were on us (what for singing and playing a ukulele) and they off with my (sisters) ukulele and off with my passport and into a car these things went, the car drove off then, and I am sure if not for the seasoned Europeans around me I would have been quite out of luck.
My new friends, Tom, and one of the Danish fellows called Michael, were trying to talk and reason with the Spanish police; who wrote us a ticket with no price on it, no name on it, and a scribbled hand written address of where to go in the morning if we wanted to bail out the ukulele. Sign here, he said to me, and the Dane and Tom both go 'ah no you dont! first give him back his passport'. It was a very interesting experience to be there for. Hello, foreign police.
Every day there is protests in Barcelona. One day the SpanAir crew was 100 strong (more maybe) outside of a big government building. One night I passed the same government building to a line of people being silent for peace. Over a quarter of the population of Spain is unemployed, I hear. I don't know how our issues are related, America, but maybe we can help each other.
Next day I met Tom, he was the only guy on the street with shorts and sandles. His story is, he worked from 17 to now he's in his early 30s, spending but saving enough money to see him around the world now, if he wants. He leans back in his chair by the beach, smiles through his sunglasses. "I could sit here all day", and he could, but our mission is to get the ukulele back, so we walk all over town.
How Tom and I walk all over town is this: after three blocks we have to pee, and to use the bathrooms we have to buy something. Tom will say "I've already told you, I drink too much. That's true." and order us a beer. We drink the beer, wlk three blocks, and have to pee. One time we had to walk 4 blocks then take the metro. We had to pee really bad after that, so we stopped for a beer and a tapas.
We made it to the police station place at 4, they closed at 2. You'll have to come back tomorrow.
Tom, sayz I, I just don't feel welcome here. This place wont allow me to play my music, I don't have any money, and if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have any friends. I keep thinking I should have stayed in Paris and gone slowly, maybe gone to visit my friend Guisane whos got horses in the country, I really like horses, and I like Paris and Guisane and Matilda, and the cold isn't even that bad.
And Tom said to me that it wasn't about the money or anything, that I just had to know what I wanted to do and then do it. I asked him then to loan me the money for a train to Paris, and I was going to get a different guitar and tell Kim and Joe just to meet me there. And Tom did it, you know. He loaned me all the money I needed, I to get it back to him somehow, and we had our last round at the train station.
I think I'm having second thoughts now; I told him (can you picture me, all indesisive as usual). He said 'its because of the money, now you think you've got options. But you can't think like that. The money is not what's important (the bike is not whats important, the ukuleles not whats important). No, its knowing what you really want to do, and then doing it.
Well I want to go slow(er).
I want to visit Europe, and meet the people, and that might take forever.
I got to Mathilde's this morning, and she wasn't home, but Ankara looked at me, let me in. She doesn't speak much english and my French is pitiful, but here I am, in her home, eating with people who are so much like my friends and yet so different, and wonderful to know. I spent the whole afternoon (all of it from noon to dark), with Patrique, who has sons my age and a beard, who told me in his 100 English words some of the finest things I have ever heard. He said, and I'll leave you with it.
"it is not important to run; because in the end there is death."
Monday, February 6, 2012
found france
I was wandering around Rue de Republic, passed the Avenue de le Revolucion to Gambetta street, looking for Gulia's house for the party. Found the address but there was only an alley and a garage door with a paper page taped on that said something French with "Lunatic" written there. In France, where I am who I am, vwee pronunce dhees: Lunateek. Vwee pronunce everysing a bit deeferent, see.
If I wasn't minding my pees and q's; as they say; I would tell you all about it (I am typing so slow, to get used to the foreign placing of letters on the keyboard). This was a "French Expression Theme Party" and the people were all dressed fine in french expressions that need to be explained. J'suis barrè; I am crazy. A piè e poi liès. my hands and feet are tied together. I was quickly saturated in allegorical maxims I did not speak and could hardly understand.
But the people are so kind and accomadating. I have many French proffessors, now, and everyone can help me:
An Old Goal: Find a universal purpose: Then you have a reason to talk to everyone.
A Universal Purpose: I wish to learn your language, World.
The party lasts until six in the morning. There are toasts to the birthday girl; food spread and shared on the table; sofas for sitting and talking and napping; blankets for going under; a computer which plays songs for dancing: an ever occupied dance floor.
Joe tells me later; when we are walking on the rue; à le foret, how in France, at parties, they have few expectations, and that makes all the difference.
There is a certain lightness about everything I have found here; maybe it is the cheese; but it seems to run deep. There is a long enjoyment (how to say this?) a deep breathing. In New York I felt like if I stopped to take a breath, it might run away from me. Here, it is easier to see: Breathe as much as you will, we won't run. Perhaps too, this is just the feeling of getting older and seeing how much I can take my time;
At 6 30 we walk home to Mathilde and Anka's house, laughing in the streets and subways; singing in French qnd English qnd Spanish (the a's I am used to are q's, qs you cqn see). When we camboreened off the final subway into Mathilde's district the snow was falling, tiny flakes.
The next morning my friend Gizan took me to the train station to rumble down to Vendome to meet up with Kim and Joe. She is little and speaks the best of Anglais and French. Goodbye Paris, you are as lovely as everyone says.
In my little book I am writing "Aha, I have found France", while the moon rises bigger and bigger every night.
Each morning I wake up with cheese in my nose, frommage dans moi nez.
Last night I slept in the dungeon of a castle which is Kim's house. It is from there where I am writing you; on the ground floor (ha ha no, there is no ground floor) with the fireplace and the grand piano that is the same make and model of Chopin's piano that the crafty Detour's found at a garage sale. The black cat is sleeping next to me; Jean Pierre is in his study, writing the script to next summer's play. Kim and Joe and even Nancy are off siesta-ing after that irish stew we took for lunch. I spent the morning sleeping and the mid morning sledding down the nezzy streets of this little town.
There is a tall church steeple in the middle of town. and there are no lights at all around here at night after 10 except the moon.
Between the houses are gardens and above the town runs the train tracks I came on.
This is a little town like I used to see in pictures of little towns in France.
Kim's house has a stone tower that is 800 years old:
The tobagon that we sledded on is all wood and ricketty as grammaz unused garage chairs.
There are six inches of Nez on the ground.
The town is full of caves. It is a cave town. We went to Suzie's for dinner last night and she said "please fetch a bottle of wine; its in the cave." And it was.
If I wasn't minding my pees and q's; as they say; I would tell you all about it (I am typing so slow, to get used to the foreign placing of letters on the keyboard). This was a "French Expression Theme Party" and the people were all dressed fine in french expressions that need to be explained. J'suis barrè; I am crazy. A piè e poi liès. my hands and feet are tied together. I was quickly saturated in allegorical maxims I did not speak and could hardly understand.
But the people are so kind and accomadating. I have many French proffessors, now, and everyone can help me:
An Old Goal: Find a universal purpose: Then you have a reason to talk to everyone.
A Universal Purpose: I wish to learn your language, World.
The party lasts until six in the morning. There are toasts to the birthday girl; food spread and shared on the table; sofas for sitting and talking and napping; blankets for going under; a computer which plays songs for dancing: an ever occupied dance floor.
Joe tells me later; when we are walking on the rue; à le foret, how in France, at parties, they have few expectations, and that makes all the difference.
There is a certain lightness about everything I have found here; maybe it is the cheese; but it seems to run deep. There is a long enjoyment (how to say this?) a deep breathing. In New York I felt like if I stopped to take a breath, it might run away from me. Here, it is easier to see: Breathe as much as you will, we won't run. Perhaps too, this is just the feeling of getting older and seeing how much I can take my time;
At 6 30 we walk home to Mathilde and Anka's house, laughing in the streets and subways; singing in French qnd English qnd Spanish (the a's I am used to are q's, qs you cqn see). When we camboreened off the final subway into Mathilde's district the snow was falling, tiny flakes.
The next morning my friend Gizan took me to the train station to rumble down to Vendome to meet up with Kim and Joe. She is little and speaks the best of Anglais and French. Goodbye Paris, you are as lovely as everyone says.
In my little book I am writing "Aha, I have found France", while the moon rises bigger and bigger every night.
Each morning I wake up with cheese in my nose, frommage dans moi nez.
Last night I slept in the dungeon of a castle which is Kim's house. It is from there where I am writing you; on the ground floor (ha ha no, there is no ground floor) with the fireplace and the grand piano that is the same make and model of Chopin's piano that the crafty Detour's found at a garage sale. The black cat is sleeping next to me; Jean Pierre is in his study, writing the script to next summer's play. Kim and Joe and even Nancy are off siesta-ing after that irish stew we took for lunch. I spent the morning sleeping and the mid morning sledding down the nezzy streets of this little town.
There is a tall church steeple in the middle of town. and there are no lights at all around here at night after 10 except the moon.
Between the houses are gardens and above the town runs the train tracks I came on.
This is a little town like I used to see in pictures of little towns in France.
Kim's house has a stone tower that is 800 years old:
The tobagon that we sledded on is all wood and ricketty as grammaz unused garage chairs.
There are six inches of Nez on the ground.
The town is full of caves. It is a cave town. We went to Suzie's for dinner last night and she said "please fetch a bottle of wine; its in the cave." And it was.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
notre dame; montmartre
At three in the morning I awoke again. A vibrant dream about the Lady in Grey. Mathilde and I were spelunking, with glowing symbols writ on our hands, to find a magic song to heal the princess. I climbed out of bed after writing it down. Broke fast and dressed and left the house at 6. On the way out, I was looking for the hall light but instead I rang the doorbell. Please go back to sleep, Kemi, I am sorry to wake you.
The cold was turned all the way up outside. There were three of us at the gates of Notre Dame when it opened, mass began at 8. It was a beautiful catholic mass, in French. Simple and sweet, and my mind rolling over revelations. The story of the creator who dressed himself like his creations, and his creation killed him. And he loved them still, and conquered their killing, and came to them once more, patient and open. "Look at me."
Stones. Buildings like this will not burn. I imagine our Quasimoto, fighting off the legions and denizons of France. Fighting the underworld for a gypsy girl. All of them talking in French.
I ate Nutella at the Lourve. Danced beneath the Tour Eiffel. Wandered along the Seine, stuffing my scarf around my face to keep the wind off. My sox sweating.
Along the Siene was all the noise of traffic and the city.
Steps away, down an alley tight-packed with hundred year old houses it is quiet as a ville in the hille. Garbage men ride bicicles.
Mathilde and I ate lunch slowly. Crepes with cider. The cider doesn't taste like store-bought-american-brand. It tastes like aaron-pollit-home-brew (except light and barragy, like if Aaron was 200 years old and had quite perfected his elixer). The place was so crowded we had to wait a while, but nobody complained and nobody seemed stressed. All were in high spirits of lunch. Bon appetit.
End the day on the mountain of martyrs, Montmartre, overlooking all of PaRy. There is the Notre Dame, there is the Lourve, there is that boxy tower Mathilde was telling you about, sticking out like a block on a table top. Makes me think...in America, our Cities of Towers. That's all they are, yo. Cities of Towers. Sky Scraper is a fancy word for Big Fucking Tower. Hmn.
The cold was turned all the way up outside. There were three of us at the gates of Notre Dame when it opened, mass began at 8. It was a beautiful catholic mass, in French. Simple and sweet, and my mind rolling over revelations. The story of the creator who dressed himself like his creations, and his creation killed him. And he loved them still, and conquered their killing, and came to them once more, patient and open. "Look at me."
Stones. Buildings like this will not burn. I imagine our Quasimoto, fighting off the legions and denizons of France. Fighting the underworld for a gypsy girl. All of them talking in French.
I ate Nutella at the Lourve. Danced beneath the Tour Eiffel. Wandered along the Seine, stuffing my scarf around my face to keep the wind off. My sox sweating.
Along the Siene was all the noise of traffic and the city.
Steps away, down an alley tight-packed with hundred year old houses it is quiet as a ville in the hille. Garbage men ride bicicles.
Mathilde and I ate lunch slowly. Crepes with cider. The cider doesn't taste like store-bought-american-brand. It tastes like aaron-pollit-home-brew (except light and barragy, like if Aaron was 200 years old and had quite perfected his elixer). The place was so crowded we had to wait a while, but nobody complained and nobody seemed stressed. All were in high spirits of lunch. Bon appetit.
End the day on the mountain of martyrs, Montmartre, overlooking all of PaRy. There is the Notre Dame, there is the Lourve, there is that boxy tower Mathilde was telling you about, sticking out like a block on a table top. Makes me think...in America, our Cities of Towers. That's all they are, yo. Cities of Towers. Sky Scraper is a fancy word for Big Fucking Tower. Hmn.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
paris
All night I sat half wake and half slept, pressing buttons on my computer and looking out the window. We crossed the ocean in the dark, I never saw it. When the light came back there was only a sea of clouds and under that sea was another sea. We dove through them both, a silver sea bird. Under that muddy sea was Paris, where the sun shows not her face, even this new morning. The streets smell open, the voices are different. It is smaller than New York, but there is more room. The houses are smaller, but there is still more room.
I did, I spent the whole night tossing and turning, impatient to land. I kept worrying about the customs check, if they would turn me away, all sorts of things. When I got in, all they said was "bonjour" and then STAMP and then "merci", not even 'welcome'. Fine with me. Mahtilde was there to pick me up, and I have my first very fine French lesson. Train is 'train', although you say it like 'tre'. Eggs are 'uf', but not 'oof', that's like oops. Butter is 'bu', but not 'boo'. Boo is mud. In French, you don't ever prononce the last half of anything. I dunno why that is. Yet.
My life was subways and air ports. But not any more. Now my life is too much tea and too much bread. I am so happy about this. There is so much good food here I want to keep on eating it up.
I have angels in every continent. Mathilde I wrote of, Odelia I wrote of. Kemi, I will write of. Kemi is a friend of Ana Carolina de Lima (God Bless you 10000 Blessings, Little Ana). Kemi has me bunked in a quaint little room of her apartment and is feeding me the cream of Paris, breads and teas like I told you. I've just a had quiche con trois frommage, un clementine, un croissant, un bagghette, dried tomatos and jam. And tea. I had tea last night and woke up at 3. I've been writing and stretching since then, dreaming mad French dreams.
In Color:
The French in white trench coats are the Federali, they want me to go to customs. They are experimenting with brain psyonics and psykicks. The French in Purple are busty. The French in Black are young kids, they are posting fliers around a 'poets toilet'. A Poet's Toilet is a place where a poet goes pee when he thinks of a great poem. He doesn't write that poem down, he just thinks of it while he's pissing and the toilet records it and posts it up with all the other poet's poems who've pissed in that particular toilet. Christina Dibbs is there (she is another angel I met on a walk in Brooklyn) dressed up in Saera Burn's Squirrel suit, running around. A sad french in a Blue trench is ducking his head and ashamed of some thing he won't say. Finally, Kemi is there, dressed as a bright orange chicken, running around joyfullike.
On Angels:
I mustn't leave off my other angels: Carwil, Sophie, and the Meerkats. Eric Kincaid kept let me stay comfortable in his flat in Washington Heights, I spent the evening with the Melendez's, his finest neighbors. Little Miss Rose was particularly entertaining. She can sing and dance. She is a 1 million year old Goddess Dog. Did you know?
And before I got on the plane, the Foxx's picked me up and fed me twice as much as I could eat of great italian food. Bless all and Bon Matin.
I did, I spent the whole night tossing and turning, impatient to land. I kept worrying about the customs check, if they would turn me away, all sorts of things. When I got in, all they said was "bonjour" and then STAMP and then "merci", not even 'welcome'. Fine with me. Mahtilde was there to pick me up, and I have my first very fine French lesson. Train is 'train', although you say it like 'tre'. Eggs are 'uf', but not 'oof', that's like oops. Butter is 'bu', but not 'boo'. Boo is mud. In French, you don't ever prononce the last half of anything. I dunno why that is. Yet.
My life was subways and air ports. But not any more. Now my life is too much tea and too much bread. I am so happy about this. There is so much good food here I want to keep on eating it up.
I have angels in every continent. Mathilde I wrote of, Odelia I wrote of. Kemi, I will write of. Kemi is a friend of Ana Carolina de Lima (God Bless you 10000 Blessings, Little Ana). Kemi has me bunked in a quaint little room of her apartment and is feeding me the cream of Paris, breads and teas like I told you. I've just a had quiche con trois frommage, un clementine, un croissant, un bagghette, dried tomatos and jam. And tea. I had tea last night and woke up at 3. I've been writing and stretching since then, dreaming mad French dreams.
In Color:
The French in white trench coats are the Federali, they want me to go to customs. They are experimenting with brain psyonics and psykicks. The French in Purple are busty. The French in Black are young kids, they are posting fliers around a 'poets toilet'. A Poet's Toilet is a place where a poet goes pee when he thinks of a great poem. He doesn't write that poem down, he just thinks of it while he's pissing and the toilet records it and posts it up with all the other poet's poems who've pissed in that particular toilet. Christina Dibbs is there (she is another angel I met on a walk in Brooklyn) dressed up in Saera Burn's Squirrel suit, running around. A sad french in a Blue trench is ducking his head and ashamed of some thing he won't say. Finally, Kemi is there, dressed as a bright orange chicken, running around joyfullike.
On Angels:
I mustn't leave off my other angels: Carwil, Sophie, and the Meerkats. Eric Kincaid kept let me stay comfortable in his flat in Washington Heights, I spent the evening with the Melendez's, his finest neighbors. Little Miss Rose was particularly entertaining. She can sing and dance. She is a 1 million year old Goddess Dog. Did you know?
And before I got on the plane, the Foxx's picked me up and fed me twice as much as I could eat of great italian food. Bless all and Bon Matin.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
trains and subways
"Mom, I don't have a place yet. All my contacts have fallen through. The world is GOING UNDER!" I yell over the roar of the Burning Train, as all hell breaks loose. 'Stay calm,' says the motherly operator on the other end. A half-eaten train conductor flies by the window, screaming. "Your Father and I are calling everyone we know in New York. Just hang in there a little longer." Then the line goes dead.
Shite. I collapse back into my Amtrak seat. Twenty minutes to the City and I don't have a place to stay. "Here Odelia, thanks for letting me use your phone". She takes it and puts it in her pocket. "They have WyFy at Penn Station; you can use my i-phone if you want." Odelia never says a thing she doesn't have to say, in all the hours I've known her (since yesterday at 4am). She is short and to the point, with curly reddish hair and black gloves that haven't any fingers. She leads me from the train, to a little restaurant in Penn Station.
The Station is Big. It looks like a market place, as I've seen market places look in Seattle or ChinaTown. There are a few Benches, but everything else is Hallways, Stairs, Signs, and People. There is more people here than anyplace. They are all going some where, except a couple of them are sitting, strangly positioned, in the hallways. One covers its head with its hands, another is surrounded by papers and signs and leans diagonally in his scarves. There are men in coats, women with purses, old ladies with luggage. I keep a close eye on Odelia, afraid I might loose her in the throng.
We go upstairs, and I phone home again while she has a smoke. Someone asks us if we would like him to buy us two sandwiches. After he goes, Odelia tells me he's obviously not from around here. I am living in a whirlwind, I didn't notice, everyone here looks homeless.
Mom comes through, again, she always does. I've got a place to stay with her college friend's son (Jake Stevens). I tell Odelia where, and she says that's close to her place. So again, I am in the happy position of having a guide through the labyrinth of Subway tunnels and trains under the City. She makes short, direct work of it, and we are on our way in no time. The trains roar coming in, they roar going out. It is the most delightful music. They click and whine and siiiing. Rythm, but a sad rythm, and an irregular rythm, that I would catch and understand had I time to sit through a few rounds....
The E bus, the F bus, finally, we find our Subway and take it over the bridge into Brooklyn. I watch out the window, astounded by the amount of people. I look in every open, lighted window. There is a lady making a bed, there is another looking intently at something on a table. They go by so quickly, the train slows and speeds and slows. Odelia leaves me with her number and a warning. It isn't the Best neighborhood, be careful, and I will be.
When she is gone, I find my stop and hop through the chilly winter air, under the subway now, on the street. Graffitti of the city, shops and news papers blowing past, the grime of the gutter, black tar scraped onto the curbsides. Metal and Rock and Glass. People go by, a motercycle idles behind a chain fence. Bars on the windows. A mural says 'we have a right to film police officers'. I knock on the door of Jake's place and am Safe unto my Dreams.
Shite. I collapse back into my Amtrak seat. Twenty minutes to the City and I don't have a place to stay. "Here Odelia, thanks for letting me use your phone". She takes it and puts it in her pocket. "They have WyFy at Penn Station; you can use my i-phone if you want." Odelia never says a thing she doesn't have to say, in all the hours I've known her (since yesterday at 4am). She is short and to the point, with curly reddish hair and black gloves that haven't any fingers. She leads me from the train, to a little restaurant in Penn Station.
The Station is Big. It looks like a market place, as I've seen market places look in Seattle or ChinaTown. There are a few Benches, but everything else is Hallways, Stairs, Signs, and People. There is more people here than anyplace. They are all going some where, except a couple of them are sitting, strangly positioned, in the hallways. One covers its head with its hands, another is surrounded by papers and signs and leans diagonally in his scarves. There are men in coats, women with purses, old ladies with luggage. I keep a close eye on Odelia, afraid I might loose her in the throng.
We go upstairs, and I phone home again while she has a smoke. Someone asks us if we would like him to buy us two sandwiches. After he goes, Odelia tells me he's obviously not from around here. I am living in a whirlwind, I didn't notice, everyone here looks homeless.
Mom comes through, again, she always does. I've got a place to stay with her college friend's son (Jake Stevens). I tell Odelia where, and she says that's close to her place. So again, I am in the happy position of having a guide through the labyrinth of Subway tunnels and trains under the City. She makes short, direct work of it, and we are on our way in no time. The trains roar coming in, they roar going out. It is the most delightful music. They click and whine and siiiing. Rythm, but a sad rythm, and an irregular rythm, that I would catch and understand had I time to sit through a few rounds....
The E bus, the F bus, finally, we find our Subway and take it over the bridge into Brooklyn. I watch out the window, astounded by the amount of people. I look in every open, lighted window. There is a lady making a bed, there is another looking intently at something on a table. They go by so quickly, the train slows and speeds and slows. Odelia leaves me with her number and a warning. It isn't the Best neighborhood, be careful, and I will be.
When she is gone, I find my stop and hop through the chilly winter air, under the subway now, on the street. Graffitti of the city, shops and news papers blowing past, the grime of the gutter, black tar scraped onto the curbsides. Metal and Rock and Glass. People go by, a motercycle idles behind a chain fence. Bars on the windows. A mural says 'we have a right to film police officers'. I knock on the door of Jake's place and am Safe unto my Dreams.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Bardsong Preliminaries (I re aquaint myself with journaling)
Dear Dire E. Have left Bloomington after two weeks of 'leaving' Bloomington. Everybody was awesome. I mean awe full, they were nice. That last night in the town was fine. My teachers always said not to use describing worbages like nice and fine because they're bland. Anyway, Here I am in Cincinnati.
That last night in Bloomington was the last night in Bloomington. Andrew invited me into Roots with all my baggage to play some parting music on the ukelele, and I played that song that Rachel taught me when Joshua was getting arrested about the 'arting glass' (that's parting glass with a p). Then we sat and sang in the base ment of the Runciple Spoon. Kati was there, and Leroy painting a picture of a woman. "I guess I'll give her eyes tonight" he said "before I go" and I remembered how when Geppetto gave Pinochio his eyes they started to look all around the place.
(please excuse my rambling story telling intro, it has been a long time since I wrote you, or any one, I am still getting my writing hat all sorted out)
Evelyn and I woke up early for breakfast and tea. her ice scraper broke at the blade, so we walked to the gas station to find another one. The whole world was ice. Luckily, I had on my ice booties. They are these chains that cover my feet like road tire chains for those artic farmers who really needd them. Ev and I partnered up arm in arm, like a horse, but sideways, and we walked over there and got the ice scraper. It was the last one they had.
Then, now, we are off across Indiana, I slept for a while. We ate lunch in the slushy grey afternoon of downtown Cincinnati. Maesyn showed me how to make this meal, it's a good one. Slice apples on a suchi flat, add kale and cheese and anything else you have around. Soy sauce, cumin, salt, oils. Then eat it. That's my meal for the next few weeks.
Ev leaves me with my bags. a big back pack with clothes and books (a french dictionary, a french poetry anthologie, the mormon book of, demian, and two sketch bookis) a ukelele case with papers for transcribing into my sketch books, and a bag of food like the food I have already mentioned. No need to be exact about anything.
I wait four hours in a coffee shop for my friend Serenity. Mean while I put all the french things I had written on scraps of paper into my sketch books. Then all the spanish things in there too. I drank a tea and watched people.
Serenity, when that kind creature came, took me in the car to the purple people bridge and we walked across it 16 times. We ate dinner at her parent's house in the city, they are so kind. Her father played with us the music, and we gospel'd and warbled aand maked up some new songs into the wee hours of the Grandmother morning, when we finally had to go. I stayed the night at Ren's Friend's house, a kindest of souls named Saam. Slept like a little king baby on a couch, ate the good food of Saam in the morning. Oats and nuts and an orange. He walked me to the bus station.
Evelyn, God bless her, called her friends Marc and Claire, that's where I am now, at their house. Marc and Abe and Colby are sleeping on the floor by the fire, and all but Marc of those is a dog. The meal we ate was pfarm pork in a stew and corn bread, the work we did was hauling 16 barrels of nice looking produce from the grocer to the chicken house. Oh those chickens. Perchin like that in the rafters. Creepy and cute at the same time. Mosnter birds.
The weather is windy, the people are FINE. The folks on the city bus helped me to find this place. I said i thought it was a Farm. They said " in the middle of the city? a farm?" and you probly wouldn't be lieve it. But here I am. On a 200 acre farm inthe mid of the city. T'morrow we're posting hole posters.
That last night in Bloomington was the last night in Bloomington. Andrew invited me into Roots with all my baggage to play some parting music on the ukelele, and I played that song that Rachel taught me when Joshua was getting arrested about the 'arting glass' (that's parting glass with a p). Then we sat and sang in the base ment of the Runciple Spoon. Kati was there, and Leroy painting a picture of a woman. "I guess I'll give her eyes tonight" he said "before I go" and I remembered how when Geppetto gave Pinochio his eyes they started to look all around the place.
(please excuse my rambling story telling intro, it has been a long time since I wrote you, or any one, I am still getting my writing hat all sorted out)
Evelyn and I woke up early for breakfast and tea. her ice scraper broke at the blade, so we walked to the gas station to find another one. The whole world was ice. Luckily, I had on my ice booties. They are these chains that cover my feet like road tire chains for those artic farmers who really needd them. Ev and I partnered up arm in arm, like a horse, but sideways, and we walked over there and got the ice scraper. It was the last one they had.
Then, now, we are off across Indiana, I slept for a while. We ate lunch in the slushy grey afternoon of downtown Cincinnati. Maesyn showed me how to make this meal, it's a good one. Slice apples on a suchi flat, add kale and cheese and anything else you have around. Soy sauce, cumin, salt, oils. Then eat it. That's my meal for the next few weeks.
Ev leaves me with my bags. a big back pack with clothes and books (a french dictionary, a french poetry anthologie, the mormon book of, demian, and two sketch bookis) a ukelele case with papers for transcribing into my sketch books, and a bag of food like the food I have already mentioned. No need to be exact about anything.
I wait four hours in a coffee shop for my friend Serenity. Mean while I put all the french things I had written on scraps of paper into my sketch books. Then all the spanish things in there too. I drank a tea and watched people.
Serenity, when that kind creature came, took me in the car to the purple people bridge and we walked across it 16 times. We ate dinner at her parent's house in the city, they are so kind. Her father played with us the music, and we gospel'd and warbled aand maked up some new songs into the wee hours of the Grandmother morning, when we finally had to go. I stayed the night at Ren's Friend's house, a kindest of souls named Saam. Slept like a little king baby on a couch, ate the good food of Saam in the morning. Oats and nuts and an orange. He walked me to the bus station.
Evelyn, God bless her, called her friends Marc and Claire, that's where I am now, at their house. Marc and Abe and Colby are sleeping on the floor by the fire, and all but Marc of those is a dog. The meal we ate was pfarm pork in a stew and corn bread, the work we did was hauling 16 barrels of nice looking produce from the grocer to the chicken house. Oh those chickens. Perchin like that in the rafters. Creepy and cute at the same time. Mosnter birds.
The weather is windy, the people are FINE. The folks on the city bus helped me to find this place. I said i thought it was a Farm. They said " in the middle of the city? a farm?" and you probly wouldn't be lieve it. But here I am. On a 200 acre farm inthe mid of the city. T'morrow we're posting hole posters.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Loading up the Old Milk Wagon
Travis is starting a journey. A mind and soul journey. To the Un Known. Okay, testing the instruments. In good order for travel ling? Yes...testing...
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