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.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
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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