A day at the beach

Here's a picture and its worth... lovely day indeed.

The Quotable Mr. Kirson

"Remember bro, I'm a caveman"


"No problem, no problem... I go with the flow... like water on a rock"

"When you get to the Metreon call me and I'll tell you how far away I am"
"You know what bro, there are more ATMs than payphones here!"

A 10 year overdue meeting is no longer in deficit.

__________________________________

The grayhound station in SF: Afterhours: Its a sketchy sketchy place.

Sitting waiting for Mr. Kirson to arrive from S.D. Couple comes in, man is saggin' really low like a b-boy. He walks past me as I read the Guardian looking for the skinny on what's going down this weekend. He inserts a five dollar bill into a vending machine; The machine eats his money and doesn't give him anything.

His girlfriend, a skinny blond with a large umbrella under her arm comes around. We have to go, "I aint leavin' without my muthafucken five dollahs"

She goes to see the sole ticket seller behind the counter. At the same time two security guards are trying to wake up a man completely passed out in the hallway. The light is a very sterile kind of flourescence without illuminating anything. It cast more shadows than it dispelled. Maybe it was the karma of the terminal.

She comes back telling him that they don't have the key to the machine. "We have to go we're going to mis sour buss, I'll give you the five dollars on Monday."

"I aint going, I want mah muthafucken money."

"Baby, if you love me you'll stop this and come away."

"Fuck that, I want my money"

"If you keep this up they'll call the cops and you'll wind up in jail"

"Shut up bitch!"

WHACK!

I didn't see him slap her in the head, only her double up next to me and scamper off, and he walked off in antoher direction. Cops arrived 5 minutes later to wake the drunk and get him up. She came back "Did you see the guy that was causing all that trouble?"

I pointed to the hall he disapeared down.

She went back to the cops.

I heard the bus pull up.

I walked out onto the run way an there was Mr. Kirson...

Lingering thought: That was your chance to leave a man who thought you were worth less than five dollars. Yet you pleaded for him to go. He was perfectly happy sitting there waiting for someone with a key that may or may not materialize tomorrow (more likely not as those were independantly owned machines). You had your chance.

I will never understand obsession with that kind of misery. It's an odd safety being able to expect despair... to be able to say this is my lot, and that's just all there is to it.

I saw a man sitting on the stairs, he had the most inwardly terrified stare I've seen in a long time.

I'm done...

But I don't feel it yet... the elation is underwhelming to say the least... Maybe because I signed up for another 2 years of graduate studies to finish an MFA, who knows, whatever the case or reason, it's not a monumental feeling by any means. Perhaps when I get to Russia and actually take my first vacation in a year it will settle in my gut like a shot of vodka, warming everything on the way down. I don't know, but it's not there yet... but it's still nice.

An odd interlude...

Driving to work this morning from the Russian Consulat in Pac. Heights I had a strange and bizarre run in. I was heading down Gough when a big Cadillac sedan pulls along side me. I ignore it until I realize the driver, a grizzled old ogre of a man, is trying to get my attention. I roll down the window thinking this will be yet another offer to "fix those dents". To my surprise he asks me "Do you know what old Submarine seamen call that?" pointing to the missing door guard along my passenger side that I scraped off in a tight parking space in my old flat by an iron pole hidden in a shrub. I replied "no." He said "Too much speed and not enough rudder!" and then drove on laughing as I said "Thanks." Needless to say, I was left feeling puzzled, like maybe this was some kernal of divine knowledge and I wasn't grocking it...

This land is not your land...

Driving in this morning I was listening to NPR, getting my dose of somewhat liberal radio when a report came in about a fundraising dinner/show of support for Trent Lott in D.C. the night before.

Two things:

1) I wasn't surprised that a dinner was thrown in the honor of this ethically challenged congressman. I wasn't surprise to hear that the conservative coalitions banded together to celebrate the disenfranchisement of gays and lesbians from entering into unions of marriage, continued hacking at Roe v. Wade. I wasn't surprise to hear another joker call Lott "A man who gets things done in Washington. Not the prayers, the hoopla, the cost of the plates nothing surprised me, or the fact that this was done in order to combat his dwindling image in the media. No, what did shock me was the appropriation of the tune "If I had a hammer" to celebrate Trent "The Hammer" Lott's political career. That song, at least in my mind, was always linked to a folk/hippy/counter culture movement. The rendition of it played on the radio angered me.

2) Protestors outside the hall where this red faction played out were conducting a carnival protest. They handed out bars of soap to the guests coming in. Nothing new, liberals and their antics. What was of interest was the carnival concept, for it brought ot mind a joke by Billy Crystal from his standup show in Moscow many moons ago "Midnight Train To Moscow" where he said to the whos who of the Kremlin, pre perestroika, "The Soviet Union & America aren't very different when you think about it. Lets see, you had Borishnikov, we have Borishnikov. You have the moscow circuse, we have congress."

Elegy For Noc Noc

I don't even have a poem in my head, just grief: pure unadulterated grief over the state of affairs that is Noc Noc. My favorite bar, for the last two years, located on the haight (lower) between Filmore & Steiner, a grotto, a cavern of post modern apocolypses in art turned on its head, is no longer a smoking establishment. Not that SF has allowed smoking in its pubs for years now, but this place, this place was special, it did, its dark facade covered in grafiti was a sanctuary for nicotine fiends that cavorted like neanderthals in a dark cave.

I saw gangsters hanging out with hipsters, marina types mingling with punks, never heard an angry word there. The beats were eclectic, you might hear a piano concerto right after the incredible bongo band followed by Deep Purple and then maybe some simple minds and breakbeats right after. It was unreal, and now, sadly, its joined the reality of our PC culture. Its a sad day.

The story from behind the bar was simple, someone ratted them out. Som granola crunching pink lunged lame-ass let the cat out of the bag and took away our sanctuary, there's no more smoking, and their business has suffered since. If I knew the name of this imbecil I would crucify him right infront of Mythic Pizza, two doors down, so that his or her corpse could hang as a reminder to those that venture outside of their lines and can't leave well enough alone. I would drive the nails in slowly, allowing for the salt to do its job with each agonizing strike of the mallet. This I would accomplish with the utmost joy and gratitude... but like an old nag or a dog thats past its prime... I hope that Noc Noc soon closes.

I don't want to think of it without smoke, without a thick wonderful cloud of tobacco smoke filling every nook and cranny: as if the bomb that hangs in the center of the room had exploded. In many ways, that bomb has detonated and we are left with a bar that isn't unlike Terry Shaivo, soulless, a shell of its former self, for this, I hope it closes its doors so that the memory and joy I had there over the last two years will remain intact. I should be extatic: I turned in my thesis this morning, but I'm sad, I had planned a night of quiet celebration but found dissapointment... good bye my dearest Noc.

Mothers and Days of Rememberence

Yesterday was mother's day. Today is the 60th anniversary of the end of the war in Europe, VE Day. May 7th was the official surrender, May 8th the surrender was ratified and celebrated. The majority of the world celebrates on May 9th. Yet in Russia, its still the 8th. However, Bush is in Russia hanging out with Putin today. He's watching Goose Stepping soldiers march up and down Red Square with old soviet flags in commemoration of an event that still unforgettable. St. Isaacs Cathedral in St. Petersburg is riddled with bullet holes on one side and a plaque to commemorate the blockade and bravery of those that kept the city from falling. Near this day is Yom Hashoah, the day of Rememberence for the 6 million jews who perished in the "Shoah" (catastrophe) as its known in Hebrew. Horst Koehler, Germany's president declared that "racism and right-wing extremism have no chance in a modern Germany." About a mile away 3,000 neo-nazis pledged their hearts to Rudolph Hess (Hitler's Deputy). Its a confusing time filled with more emotion than any made for TV movie can capture. Everone has a stake in something like this, a piece of collective memory that is ever ripe for harvest. Whatever the distance, historically and physically, from these times and places, sitting on the right of my grandmother yesterday at brunch for her, my other grandmother and my mother, I know the five of us raised a glass to the end of the war that shaped so many lives and fortunes. This much I know personally, it's still here, over a half decade later, there's still memory surrounding this day.

Translation of Hillary's Casa Milà

Radial

I can’t draw a straight line
bodies aren’t lined

yet there’s a course to round
if my hands draw thighs

suggesting the St. Louis Arch
the same Cassiopeia at night as in

the slatted light in your bedroom
egg cartonned a captive grace

enough for expansion
as a road to a mountain

and maybe from obscurity
through the inadequacy of straights

your delicate smile appears.

Akvarium Lyrics

Mariya kindly helped me translate the lyrics of a song by Akvarium: Dead Sailors Don't Sleep. I'm currently obsessed with it... I can't remember how many times I've listened to it... and so I thought it best to post them here... if you get a chance, find it, listen to it! Boris Grebenshikov's lyrics paint a barely liminal picture obscurred by the sea and a well of tears. Its rather stirring... anyway, here goes:

Who would've thought
we'd meet under this star

I didn't look at my watch
I thought I was passing through

But keep yourself safe
don't waste your poison on me

Everything's already happened
and dead sailors don't sleep

I didn't think I was part of this war
I was going about my business
and fell down in the crossfire

I doubt I'll ever know
for whom this shot was meant
but its just as well -
dead sailors don't sleep

don't ask me I can't remember
how to feel sadness

the salty water has allowed me to remain silent
the salty water knows me by heart

if i knew ahead of time what was awaiting me
I would have carved your name in my chest

everything happened so fast
I didn't even notice your gaze
but now I know:
dead sailors don't sleep
dead sailors don't sleep


And the original...

Мертвые матросы не спят

Кто бы сказал, что мы встретимся под этой звездой,
Я не смотрел на часы, я думал у меня проездной.
Побереги себя, не трать на меня весь свой яд.
Все уже случилось. Мертвые матросы не спят.

Я не знал, что я участвую в этой войне
Я шел по своим делам, я пал в перекрестном огне
Едва ли я узнаю, кому был назначен заряд
Впрочем, все равно. Мертвые матросы не спят.

Не спрашивай меня;
Я не знаю, как испытывать грусть.
Соленая вода разрешила мне молчать.
Соленая вода знает меня наизусть.

Знать бы загодя, что уготовано мне впереди,
Я бы вырезал твое имя у себя на груди;
Все было так быстро, я даже не запомнил твой взгляд,
Но теперь я в курсе, а мертвые матросы не спят.
Мертвые матросы не спят.

What would you say if the universe wanted
the sleeping poet’s penchant to prevail
in making the audience believe in

illusion

through a filthy aperture or –

a race of sailors.

(St. Petersburg, 2004)