To _________,
long ago
I went to the museum
to see Van Gogh's self
portrait,
the one without
bandages
and remembered--
how small a drop
of paint lasts
to be itself
remembered
and removed
from withholding
too much
--unwinding
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Paradise Now
There's a feeling of helplessness as the camera pans and tightens on Said's (Kais Nashef) eyes in the last frames of the film. You want so very much to prevent the inevitable but his eyes, his very fierce eyes might as well lull you into complacency as you're split into the part of you that agrees and accepts and the other part that is balanced with horror and is preparing to mourn.
Is Paradise now a call for peace? Perhaps, there's the voice of Suha who advocates other forms of resistance, she's the rational one. There's Said who has a hidden past that seems to foment his actions and there's Khaled (Ali Suliman), the hot-head, the one you're sure will be dependable right until the end. But Khaled's dependability is ultimately at question in this film as he's the character hat has the greatest change of heart or turn around. Its this turn of heart makes me question the believability of this film. Can it really happen like that? Someone who has pledged to be a human weapon, resolving to carry out an operation of martyrdom, sees that there are other options?
I really want to believe this is possible, but the conversion is too fast and too easy. I don't see where there's a real problem with what he has chosen to do and a kind of realization of what one isn't supposed to do. There's a heated conversation with Suha, the daughter of a respected resistance fighter, who is for the cause, but not the actions of her countrymen. She believes in a war of morals, one where the Palestinians have to stop the violence, so that there's never a justification for Israeli violence and then let the battle be an ideological one where the world will see the Palestinian cause as grounded in a peaceful effort toward coexistance. Her strongest argument, the one that if I suspend my doubt as to her effectiveness in changing Khaled's mind, is the question of "what about us, the ones you leave behind? what are we to do?" This question about the martyr's families, the survivors, the women who have historically born the brunt on the homefront of any armed conflit, resistance or offensive, is poignant. It is asking Khaled to step outside himself, to see a picture that is larger than his narrow view of the world and ultimately, his narcissism about paradise.
"What will happen after?" asks Khaled as he rides in a car toward the launch point of his mission "two angels come down and bring you up to paradise" answeres Jamal. "Really?" asks Khaled with a certain tinge of uncertainty. That uncertainty is ultimately his undoing, but it seems that its minor as Jamal explains it away as 'of course' in his very certain and religiously dogmatic attitude.
Both Khaled & Said's features and acting are excellent, but its the women that steal this show. Said's mother played by Hiam Abass and Suha, Lubna Azabal, are marvelous in their ability to let silence speak volumes. Hiam has a small part, something, fleeting, but in those moments she eats up the screen with the simple and quotidian act of preparing a dinner, and later, talking to her son. There's a part of you that very much wants to sit at this woman's table as she chops fresh vegetables for mezedes and hands it to Said to be carried out for the family to eat.
You can eat this piece alive as you watch the struggle, as you cry out in silence hoping to change what you know has a trajectory and life of its own, or you can sit back and wonder if this kind of moral drama does play out, or if the decision to kill yourself and other people along with you is an easy one to make and that the ritual around the martyr is nothing more than window-dressing for a factory operation called suicide bombing.
Is Paradise now a call for peace? Perhaps, there's the voice of Suha who advocates other forms of resistance, she's the rational one. There's Said who has a hidden past that seems to foment his actions and there's Khaled (Ali Suliman), the hot-head, the one you're sure will be dependable right until the end. But Khaled's dependability is ultimately at question in this film as he's the character hat has the greatest change of heart or turn around. Its this turn of heart makes me question the believability of this film. Can it really happen like that? Someone who has pledged to be a human weapon, resolving to carry out an operation of martyrdom, sees that there are other options?
I really want to believe this is possible, but the conversion is too fast and too easy. I don't see where there's a real problem with what he has chosen to do and a kind of realization of what one isn't supposed to do. There's a heated conversation with Suha, the daughter of a respected resistance fighter, who is for the cause, but not the actions of her countrymen. She believes in a war of morals, one where the Palestinians have to stop the violence, so that there's never a justification for Israeli violence and then let the battle be an ideological one where the world will see the Palestinian cause as grounded in a peaceful effort toward coexistance. Her strongest argument, the one that if I suspend my doubt as to her effectiveness in changing Khaled's mind, is the question of "what about us, the ones you leave behind? what are we to do?" This question about the martyr's families, the survivors, the women who have historically born the brunt on the homefront of any armed conflit, resistance or offensive, is poignant. It is asking Khaled to step outside himself, to see a picture that is larger than his narrow view of the world and ultimately, his narcissism about paradise.
"What will happen after?" asks Khaled as he rides in a car toward the launch point of his mission "two angels come down and bring you up to paradise" answeres Jamal. "Really?" asks Khaled with a certain tinge of uncertainty. That uncertainty is ultimately his undoing, but it seems that its minor as Jamal explains it away as 'of course' in his very certain and religiously dogmatic attitude.
Both Khaled & Said's features and acting are excellent, but its the women that steal this show. Said's mother played by Hiam Abass and Suha, Lubna Azabal, are marvelous in their ability to let silence speak volumes. Hiam has a small part, something, fleeting, but in those moments she eats up the screen with the simple and quotidian act of preparing a dinner, and later, talking to her son. There's a part of you that very much wants to sit at this woman's table as she chops fresh vegetables for mezedes and hands it to Said to be carried out for the family to eat.
You can eat this piece alive as you watch the struggle, as you cry out in silence hoping to change what you know has a trajectory and life of its own, or you can sit back and wonder if this kind of moral drama does play out, or if the decision to kill yourself and other people along with you is an easy one to make and that the ritual around the martyr is nothing more than window-dressing for a factory operation called suicide bombing.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
[untitled]
Did you say
solipsistic
i love that
word
gently used
reeds and
willows
face me
speaking
about face
condensed
bread crumb
back toward
this way
walk this way
like the walk
of this road
will lead you
back to me.
XCVIII
3 were charged after messages striking a chord in the prime of youth – their youth wasn't in question – but 18 more than the previous year reported – in an underage way – under reporting absence clearly states – there's more – to be dragged 3 miles till the arms teeter out and depending on the road – this is where it might seem redundant – 63 incidents are collectively enshrined – 34,000 destroyed after they were already destroyed in 2 days no less – on this site there will be a monument – for the numbers were a record – and the 1 was stoned by many on the seventh day in accordance – something written ends relation – 6 million weren't all sacrificed – or by fire – to forget the 20 million trampled by steel – 6,000 lined the Via Appia in 72 – years before 3 on the hill – and later in nome de patre – or it's what you oughtn't to do but you do anyway – some dispute differences between 100,000 gone in prison and another 10,000 at the stake – but revision is modernity's sole resolve toward enlightenment – the figures say now that maybe 31,912 over 400 years – young governments came and went and took with them 1 million or so Anatolians – it was around the 1st great one the record clearly states 9 million fighting men and boys and 7 million others – and every generation is supposed to out do the one before – when everything became possible after Auschwitz – 937,000 laid to waste in 100 days – so many Cain's and even more Able – to understand the origin – 10-20% never made it sailing the ocean blue – another 15-33% couldn't be seasoned out – this season's ripe count measures success totally unaware that eye deep in hell an abacus still clicks and counts.
3 were charged after messages striking a chord in the prime of youth – their youth wasn't in question – but 18 more than the previous year reported – in an underage way – under reporting absence clearly states – there's more – to be dragged 3 miles till the arms teeter out and depending on the road – this is where it might seem redundant – 63 incidents are collectively enshrined – 34,000 destroyed after they were already destroyed in 2 days no less – on this site there will be a monument – for the numbers were a record – and the 1 was stoned by many on the seventh day in accordance – something written ends relation – 6 million weren't all sacrificed – or by fire – to forget the 20 million trampled by steel – 6,000 lined the Via Appia in 72 – years before 3 on the hill – and later in nome de patre – or it's what you oughtn't to do but you do anyway – some dispute differences between 100,000 gone in prison and another 10,000 at the stake – but revision is modernity's sole resolve toward enlightenment – the figures say now that maybe 31,912 over 400 years – young governments came and went and took with them 1 million or so Anatolians – it was around the 1st great one the record clearly states 9 million fighting men and boys and 7 million others – and every generation is supposed to out do the one before – when everything became possible after Auschwitz – 937,000 laid to waste in 100 days – so many Cain's and even more Able – to understand the origin – 10-20% never made it sailing the ocean blue – another 15-33% couldn't be seasoned out – this season's ripe count measures success totally unaware that eye deep in hell an abacus still clicks and counts.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Away but back...
So its been a bloody long time since I postd anything. I think I need a break from thinking out loud. Now that I've taken a break from thinking to myself, or maybe for myself, or maybe not, I don't know; it
On Broadway at Columbus
you can drink a lesson
like loitering for shadows
when the drummer vanishes
ice melts faster in liquor
first the fingers and then
the fingers
might feel a stab of cold
when you’re crazy
you don’t miss the sun
if you weren’t paying attention
let’s fake letters in lights
park the rhythm in back
inviolate clocks
the violence’s been timed
four-four swings the sound
while sips turn to pound
standards are foreign
friends have come far
On Broadway at Columbus
you can drink a lesson
like loitering for shadows
when the drummer vanishes
ice melts faster in liquor
first the fingers and then
the fingers
might feel a stab of cold
when you’re crazy
you don’t miss the sun
if you weren’t paying attention
let’s fake letters in lights
park the rhythm in back
inviolate clocks
the violence’s been timed
four-four swings the sound
while sips turn to pound
standards are foreign
friends have come far
Friday, November 18, 2005
Translating Miss Atomic by Jason Flick
Cut of the whole looked at mouth learning-dissolute kinder they both had been. S. long as our double leftist her waging the mensch, flirtation or homely. Too toe fathoms pleather flings stood delicately. all the grooms, all the racks, carved up. It’s off those pallbearers heads gotten or interned. Romantico, held me or for twixt us smashed et all to __c, housing slash proto-kid like crustaceans and flanged sponges pitied the short hem out her indecision durst the lentil place, e_c. your. hindering resembles and no.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
For Litopolis
There’s a socially acceptable way of being crazy
when it’s in the public interest to keep everyone comfortably numb
lets just say I needed a walk around the block
hustling the sand for a stake next to the weeds
a yellow you can’t quite rub off the curb
tawny until you spend an hour at an angle
there’s the ruins and the way new things ruin
every good old thing you ever came to depend on
when you dimmed the lights and your room crept in
or sometime later you learned to sneak out
your window’s not only a west facing portal
the best sex ever had was across the street
totally impressive how far the softest cry might
just carry if the moon weren’t so loud
nothing particularly fantastic in a name
it’s the kind of place to hide in your pocket
hoping to fill another page of a journal
that refuses to write itself
you could burry a poet there and watch the sand
scribble a note from the one in his breast pocket
that he kept hidden so that when he died
he’d have something to say to the ocean
while sitting at the beach you forget
all roads eventually lead you to roaming
the thing is that its all quite literally behind you
something is planned mathematically
and eventually appears flawed
when the maps are straighter than the streets
you can’t quite depend on human hands
and you’re content to trace a word in the sand.
when it’s in the public interest to keep everyone comfortably numb
lets just say I needed a walk around the block
hustling the sand for a stake next to the weeds
a yellow you can’t quite rub off the curb
tawny until you spend an hour at an angle
there’s the ruins and the way new things ruin
every good old thing you ever came to depend on
when you dimmed the lights and your room crept in
or sometime later you learned to sneak out
your window’s not only a west facing portal
the best sex ever had was across the street
totally impressive how far the softest cry might
just carry if the moon weren’t so loud
nothing particularly fantastic in a name
it’s the kind of place to hide in your pocket
hoping to fill another page of a journal
that refuses to write itself
you could burry a poet there and watch the sand
scribble a note from the one in his breast pocket
that he kept hidden so that when he died
he’d have something to say to the ocean
while sitting at the beach you forget
all roads eventually lead you to roaming
the thing is that its all quite literally behind you
something is planned mathematically
and eventually appears flawed
when the maps are straighter than the streets
you can’t quite depend on human hands
and you’re content to trace a word in the sand.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Montreal and back to the grind
I wasn't at all prepared for what I found in Montreal. Yeah, I'll be quite honest, I wasn't. I had no clue the extent to which it was a liberal city and at the same time, extremely religious. Quebecoise slang, or expressions employed in hitting your thumb with a hammer, are derived from the church: "tabernac!" "sacremen!" (tabernacle and sacrement). Its an odd place.
Before I get into that I suppose I should back up and tell you about the 1 hour of sleep I had on my way into Montreal. You heard right, 1 hour. I slept 1 hour in Beantown before I roused and showered and caught a shuttle from the less than stellar holiday inn where I was staying back to Logan and then on a tiny two by two plane up north. I arrived and took a "car" to the hotel, yeah so I splurged and took a ride in a nice leather lincoln, I'm trying to learn from my very well travelled collegue, DF.
My driver clued me into something I didn't know up until that moment: Montreal is an Island. So I wasn't asleep as we flew over the St. Lawrence, but I didn't quite take note that it was a giant island we were passing over. What I saw was a river, and that it looked as if it split here and there. I had no clue that it wasn't a choice of "river banks" but rather mainland vs. island.
The trip to the hotel took markedly longer "inbound" than it did on the way out. It was morning about half past eight and people were on their way to work. I cursed and I spit and I wished that I had made that morning flight. My skin was crawling with caffeine poisoning already. I made a pot at the hotel, bought a cup at the airport and could already feel the need, the hunger, the absolute mania that comes with knowing that it will do nothing but knowing that its better than just that, nothing.
I checked in, the woman behind the desk was cute and her french accent made her even cuter. It was my first "run-in" with the cute french accent. It became old after a while, or rather I didn't notice it, it just became something very pleassant, hearing mixed francaphone and englephone conversations.
The room was great, a wonderful view of the city from the 16th floor and out to the river. I dropped my things and jumped into the conference. I'm not going to go into great detail about the MAAWG conference, only that it was an illuminating experience and I have a stack of great business cards. I met people that I had spoken to on the phone, via email, and in some cases only read and hear about. Scott Richter, one of the most notorious spammers, was there. When asked about his past he responded: "I was a high volume mailer at one time, but now I'm a low volume mailer." (second hand from Kate). I mean the guy's whitelisted at AOL even though he was prosecuted under CAN-SPAM. Yeah, many interesting and intriguing people crossed my path. I think it was wednesday night though that takes the cake. Not sure quite how, but I know that it had something to do with a tall brunette from RBC (royal bank of canada), that I wound up on the 28th floor in the suite of Johnathan, the cat from Bell Canada, for the VIP after gala reception, party party. He was wandering around the mezzanine. Most of the folks either left after the free booz dried up, or went to the bar, or to bed, but a few brave souls were definately around. He gathere all that were left on the mezzanine and heareded us up to this suite that had an entire bathtub full of beer. People began to arrive, two large bottles of bacardi materializeed, a case of wine became fair game and I just continued to drink beer ontop of the gawd awful canadian club whiskey I had downstairs. While avoiding a particularly drunk woman from RSA I found my "friend" for the night, Foy. A good ol' boy from the south who did his time in the military, and then had a kind of spiritual awakening. We spent hours talking. People would come to our corner, where we made a makeshift ashtray, and stood discussing Nietzsche, hesse, nabokov and anything else we could sink our teeth into. We crossed the proverbial good conduct lines and discussed religion and politics, two things that should never be discussed at either the dinner table, or the bar.
The following morning was very painful. As a matter of fact I'm just going to pretend it didn't happen. Woke, showered, packed, checked out, missed all important conferences to medicate with ginger ale and catching up on email. Said adieu to new found friends and hopped the metro for St. Henri and Fiona.
Turns out I was maybe 10 - 12 minutes by train from her nieghborhood, Place St. Henri, which also happens to be the neighborhood where Oscar Peterson came from. I arrived to a large and modern metro station, hopped the escalator heading up and heard from above my name "Shneyder!" I turned round and round and finally found the bouret wearing speck that grew larger as I rode skyward. It was a hug and we were off for the pad. As we stepped outside the station the first snow began to fall. It was, well it wasn't quite snow, it like glitter, or maybe it was my imagination, but something passed through the air that Fiona called snow and it fluttered around, swirled a bit even, and then vanished as if it hadn't ever been there. That was the first snow.
We dropped my things, had a pot of tea and then headed out. Our first stop was Cafe Popolo where I met several of her friends: Heater and her beau Neal, both students, one at Concordia and the other at an engineering school, McGill I think. From the cafe we went to shopping, oh yeah, it was Fi's birthday and she had geld to spend from her vati. We eventually found our way to a shop, the name escapes me, but where the clothes are all hand made by the propieter who spent a good half hour talking music and playing different CDs for my eager ears. I took three of them with me "Len, you're single handedly supporting the independant music scene here in Montreal." I know, what can I say, I'm a whore for new music at all times.
From there it was off to another cafe, this time the name I can't even begin to recall, bumped into another classmate (this was to become a routine, in a city of 3 million its pretty common), and sat around waiting for Richard to return from visiting his father in Ottowa. Richard is Fi's boyfriend, they live together and I'm quite fond of both of them. I had met Fiona in St. Petersburg and had some rather great conversations, not to mention a fabo dance partner at "The Bunker". You know how you meet two people and there's something about their dynamic, about the simplicity of it, or maybe the way their personalities magnify each other, that seems perfect? yeah, that was kinda the two of them. It was fun hanging out with them for that reason alone.
Richard arrived and we were off to a Peruvian restaraunt to meet Sam, the other dinner guest. He was already there when we arrive and sit down to learn that almost half the menu is unavaialable because a massive group came in without phoning ahead, in the range of 30 - 40 people, when we arrived they were wrapping up, and the restaurant was a desolate place once they had departed. Anyway, there was no fish, there was no chorizo, there was... well what, I had... heart ke-bobs or chicken. I settled for a beef soup that was out of this world and the heart kebobs which were tasty if you like liver as much as I do. During dinner another concordia classmate joined, us Katia. She ordered a plate of veggies hung out.
From the restaurant it was off to a brew pub that amazing beer while merrily walking through the streets rasta style, yeah, its quite liberal there. As a matter of fact, its very liberal there in that regard. The pub was incredibly small and corwded and it seemed as if everyone in the area and beyond wanted to go exactly there and drink the same thing. Conversations flowed through the room on the breath of the heavy smoke in fractured forms of English and French. It was wonderful.
Eventually, the overwpowering smoke, drove Fiona out, she can't really take it, but by that point, I was fealing the night hanging heavy and was happy to go.
And that's how I closed out my first night in Montreal, free of the MAAWG. Part two and three will have to wait until the morrow, I'm tired and its time to head to Ireland's 32 for the Torri release party reading with friends Kris & John.
I'll end this post with a photo of Piere Trudeau, the JFK of Canada if you will. He was a wildly populare primeminister and something of an icon. He was caught at Buckingham palace, while the Queen's back was turned, doing a pirouette. The airport is named after him.
Before I get into that I suppose I should back up and tell you about the 1 hour of sleep I had on my way into Montreal. You heard right, 1 hour. I slept 1 hour in Beantown before I roused and showered and caught a shuttle from the less than stellar holiday inn where I was staying back to Logan and then on a tiny two by two plane up north. I arrived and took a "car" to the hotel, yeah so I splurged and took a ride in a nice leather lincoln, I'm trying to learn from my very well travelled collegue, DF.
My driver clued me into something I didn't know up until that moment: Montreal is an Island. So I wasn't asleep as we flew over the St. Lawrence, but I didn't quite take note that it was a giant island we were passing over. What I saw was a river, and that it looked as if it split here and there. I had no clue that it wasn't a choice of "river banks" but rather mainland vs. island.
The trip to the hotel took markedly longer "inbound" than it did on the way out. It was morning about half past eight and people were on their way to work. I cursed and I spit and I wished that I had made that morning flight. My skin was crawling with caffeine poisoning already. I made a pot at the hotel, bought a cup at the airport and could already feel the need, the hunger, the absolute mania that comes with knowing that it will do nothing but knowing that its better than just that, nothing.
I checked in, the woman behind the desk was cute and her french accent made her even cuter. It was my first "run-in" with the cute french accent. It became old after a while, or rather I didn't notice it, it just became something very pleassant, hearing mixed francaphone and englephone conversations.
The room was great, a wonderful view of the city from the 16th floor and out to the river. I dropped my things and jumped into the conference. I'm not going to go into great detail about the MAAWG conference, only that it was an illuminating experience and I have a stack of great business cards. I met people that I had spoken to on the phone, via email, and in some cases only read and hear about. Scott Richter, one of the most notorious spammers, was there. When asked about his past he responded: "I was a high volume mailer at one time, but now I'm a low volume mailer." (second hand from Kate). I mean the guy's whitelisted at AOL even though he was prosecuted under CAN-SPAM. Yeah, many interesting and intriguing people crossed my path. I think it was wednesday night though that takes the cake. Not sure quite how, but I know that it had something to do with a tall brunette from RBC (royal bank of canada), that I wound up on the 28th floor in the suite of Johnathan, the cat from Bell Canada, for the VIP after gala reception, party party. He was wandering around the mezzanine. Most of the folks either left after the free booz dried up, or went to the bar, or to bed, but a few brave souls were definately around. He gathere all that were left on the mezzanine and heareded us up to this suite that had an entire bathtub full of beer. People began to arrive, two large bottles of bacardi materializeed, a case of wine became fair game and I just continued to drink beer ontop of the gawd awful canadian club whiskey I had downstairs. While avoiding a particularly drunk woman from RSA I found my "friend" for the night, Foy. A good ol' boy from the south who did his time in the military, and then had a kind of spiritual awakening. We spent hours talking. People would come to our corner, where we made a makeshift ashtray, and stood discussing Nietzsche, hesse, nabokov and anything else we could sink our teeth into. We crossed the proverbial good conduct lines and discussed religion and politics, two things that should never be discussed at either the dinner table, or the bar.
The following morning was very painful. As a matter of fact I'm just going to pretend it didn't happen. Woke, showered, packed, checked out, missed all important conferences to medicate with ginger ale and catching up on email. Said adieu to new found friends and hopped the metro for St. Henri and Fiona.
Turns out I was maybe 10 - 12 minutes by train from her nieghborhood, Place St. Henri, which also happens to be the neighborhood where Oscar Peterson came from. I arrived to a large and modern metro station, hopped the escalator heading up and heard from above my name "Shneyder!" I turned round and round and finally found the bouret wearing speck that grew larger as I rode skyward. It was a hug and we were off for the pad. As we stepped outside the station the first snow began to fall. It was, well it wasn't quite snow, it like glitter, or maybe it was my imagination, but something passed through the air that Fiona called snow and it fluttered around, swirled a bit even, and then vanished as if it hadn't ever been there. That was the first snow.
We dropped my things, had a pot of tea and then headed out. Our first stop was Cafe Popolo where I met several of her friends: Heater and her beau Neal, both students, one at Concordia and the other at an engineering school, McGill I think. From the cafe we went to shopping, oh yeah, it was Fi's birthday and she had geld to spend from her vati. We eventually found our way to a shop, the name escapes me, but where the clothes are all hand made by the propieter who spent a good half hour talking music and playing different CDs for my eager ears. I took three of them with me "Len, you're single handedly supporting the independant music scene here in Montreal." I know, what can I say, I'm a whore for new music at all times.
From there it was off to another cafe, this time the name I can't even begin to recall, bumped into another classmate (this was to become a routine, in a city of 3 million its pretty common), and sat around waiting for Richard to return from visiting his father in Ottowa. Richard is Fi's boyfriend, they live together and I'm quite fond of both of them. I had met Fiona in St. Petersburg and had some rather great conversations, not to mention a fabo dance partner at "The Bunker". You know how you meet two people and there's something about their dynamic, about the simplicity of it, or maybe the way their personalities magnify each other, that seems perfect? yeah, that was kinda the two of them. It was fun hanging out with them for that reason alone.
Richard arrived and we were off to a Peruvian restaraunt to meet Sam, the other dinner guest. He was already there when we arrive and sit down to learn that almost half the menu is unavaialable because a massive group came in without phoning ahead, in the range of 30 - 40 people, when we arrived they were wrapping up, and the restaurant was a desolate place once they had departed. Anyway, there was no fish, there was no chorizo, there was... well what, I had... heart ke-bobs or chicken. I settled for a beef soup that was out of this world and the heart kebobs which were tasty if you like liver as much as I do. During dinner another concordia classmate joined, us Katia. She ordered a plate of veggies hung out.
From the restaurant it was off to a brew pub that amazing beer while merrily walking through the streets rasta style, yeah, its quite liberal there. As a matter of fact, its very liberal there in that regard. The pub was incredibly small and corwded and it seemed as if everyone in the area and beyond wanted to go exactly there and drink the same thing. Conversations flowed through the room on the breath of the heavy smoke in fractured forms of English and French. It was wonderful.
Eventually, the overwpowering smoke, drove Fiona out, she can't really take it, but by that point, I was fealing the night hanging heavy and was happy to go.
And that's how I closed out my first night in Montreal, free of the MAAWG. Part two and three will have to wait until the morrow, I'm tired and its time to head to Ireland's 32 for the Torri release party reading with friends Kris & John.
I'll end this post with a photo of Piere Trudeau, the JFK of Canada if you will. He was a wildly populare primeminister and something of an icon. He was caught at Buckingham palace, while the Queen's back was turned, doing a pirouette. The airport is named after him.
Monday, November 07, 2005
On the road again
Boston... I don't know what the nickname of this city is, like Philly being the city of brotherly love, but I'd like to think of it as long vowels and chowder. Made it in, but didn't make it out. Well let me back up... Morning started well enough. I arrived to the airport and hopped on my plane. I had a window seat. A gent sat down in the aisle seat on my row and said "I've a treat for you, I bought the middle seat. Its so cheap to fly Jetblue I like the extra room, makes the flight more pleasant, so enjoy." I thanked him profusrely for his random act of kindness. I heard that there was a strong wind coming in from the west, perfect I thought, a tail wind. Captain came on and said that our time to Boston was going to be under five hours! Magnificent! I pulled out a paper and began to grade it. Time went by and I realized we were long overdue to leave, yet we were still at the gate. Our advantage and lead time was dissapearing and with it my hopes of making my connection to Montreal. Finally, an hour after the plane was supposed to depart we finally taxied onto the runway and left the ground.
The flight was unneventful, fast and turbulence free. We arrived, I had about 30 minutes from the time we touched down. The captain's voice came on the loudspeaker once more, this time I knew the news was bad as the pane had come to a standstill just a few meters from turning left into the gate: "There's a plane at our gate that's running behind schedule so we'll just sit here for a bit until it leaves." When the doors finally openned and the 13 rows ahead of me filed out, I broke out down the gangway and began a fruitless dash to the Air Canada counter. I arrived with aout 7 minutes left and was told what I had known before I began my mad dash: "your SOL."
Its now 1 in the morning and I can't sleep. Still on PST and I have to be up in 3 hours to catch my connection to Montreal. This trip has been a quiet disaster. My partner has the flu and left a message on my mobile while I was in the air saying he wasn't going to make it to the conference. I dropped my bags at the hotel, made some calls, some arrangements and then caught the train into downtown. I arrived at the state street station and found the Union Oyster House, a true colonial restaurant, owned by Hancock at one time if I remember correctly. Next door is the Green Dragon, one of the planning spots of the revolution. Dinner at the oyster house was fabo, yeah, I can't complain. Lobster and chowder, I mean I'm here, I might as well indulge a bit. It was pricey but I didn't regret it.
After dinner I mosied back to the hotel laughing all the while that the outbound destination of the train is "WONDERLAND" all kinds of connotations there. I like the feel of the cobblestones under my feet, walking through the brick walled alleys. The taverns are fabulous, I peaked inside: all wood panelled and bursting with history. I like this town already and I've only seen a fraction. I'm looking forward to seeing it on the way back and experiencing a bit of the history during the daylight hours. Sleep would be nice, but its not coming any time soon, which really sucks for me and being conscious during tomorrow's conference. I have a feeling drinking and fraternizing will have to wait until wednesday night and I'll just get to bed early, or so I hope.
I scribled some stuff for NOT US tonight. I'm being workshopped next week when I get back. Last thursday Duncan McNaughton read with Lews McAdams and as Duncan said "its a gas." I lifted one off his lines, its burried in this poem... like everything else written before, its burried and steeped in something that came before and in perfect reverse harmony is a manefistation of what was once written, writing it again anew.
XCIV
to d.m. (maybe) as l.z.
Calling down
the downs
drown out
the rounds
which must’ve
left the hounds
nothing quite
like nature
for hellfire
quickly appeasing
luck being
a weirdo tonight
old jig and song
not yours
are your dead
counted (2x)
where it stands
where it stood
fore gone to sea
enough clay
bones to shore
foundation’s drilling
into soils
it’s a rotten thing
when you can’t
depend on the dead
to hold up living
omits the light
where the moon
wears a human
ambiguous face
seems as young
as some might’ve
seemed to have
been happening
to understood
what’s come.
The flight was unneventful, fast and turbulence free. We arrived, I had about 30 minutes from the time we touched down. The captain's voice came on the loudspeaker once more, this time I knew the news was bad as the pane had come to a standstill just a few meters from turning left into the gate: "There's a plane at our gate that's running behind schedule so we'll just sit here for a bit until it leaves." When the doors finally openned and the 13 rows ahead of me filed out, I broke out down the gangway and began a fruitless dash to the Air Canada counter. I arrived with aout 7 minutes left and was told what I had known before I began my mad dash: "your SOL."
Its now 1 in the morning and I can't sleep. Still on PST and I have to be up in 3 hours to catch my connection to Montreal. This trip has been a quiet disaster. My partner has the flu and left a message on my mobile while I was in the air saying he wasn't going to make it to the conference. I dropped my bags at the hotel, made some calls, some arrangements and then caught the train into downtown. I arrived at the state street station and found the Union Oyster House, a true colonial restaurant, owned by Hancock at one time if I remember correctly. Next door is the Green Dragon, one of the planning spots of the revolution. Dinner at the oyster house was fabo, yeah, I can't complain. Lobster and chowder, I mean I'm here, I might as well indulge a bit. It was pricey but I didn't regret it.
After dinner I mosied back to the hotel laughing all the while that the outbound destination of the train is "WONDERLAND" all kinds of connotations there. I like the feel of the cobblestones under my feet, walking through the brick walled alleys. The taverns are fabulous, I peaked inside: all wood panelled and bursting with history. I like this town already and I've only seen a fraction. I'm looking forward to seeing it on the way back and experiencing a bit of the history during the daylight hours. Sleep would be nice, but its not coming any time soon, which really sucks for me and being conscious during tomorrow's conference. I have a feeling drinking and fraternizing will have to wait until wednesday night and I'll just get to bed early, or so I hope.
I scribled some stuff for NOT US tonight. I'm being workshopped next week when I get back. Last thursday Duncan McNaughton read with Lews McAdams and as Duncan said "its a gas." I lifted one off his lines, its burried in this poem... like everything else written before, its burried and steeped in something that came before and in perfect reverse harmony is a manefistation of what was once written, writing it again anew.
XCIV
to d.m. (maybe) as l.z.
Calling down
the downs
drown out
the rounds
which must’ve
left the hounds
nothing quite
like nature
for hellfire
quickly appeasing
luck being
a weirdo tonight
old jig and song
not yours
are your dead
counted (2x)
where it stands
where it stood
fore gone to sea
enough clay
bones to shore
foundation’s drilling
into soils
it’s a rotten thing
when you can’t
depend on the dead
to hold up living
omits the light
where the moon
wears a human
ambiguous face
seems as young
as some might’ve
seemed to have
been happening
to understood
what’s come.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
The San Francisco Quiz - How about you?
| Da Mayor You scored 82 barbary coastal! |
Congratulations! You know your stuff when it comes to San Francisco. You know how to stay away from the tourist traps, and where to find lots of the cool hidden secrets tucked inside this city. You might even be a real live NATIVE! Native San Franciscans are slightly less rare than thylacines, you know. |
 |
My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender:
|
| Link: The San Francisco Trivia Test written by abracadaver on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test |
Sunday, October 23, 2005
A Gogol Bordello Weekend
"We've conquered Jamaican dance hall, what's next? Peruvian rumbah speed metal?"
In that one sentence Eugene Hutz summed up the lingua franca that is Gogol's music. There's something for everyone in the gypsy part of town. Or you can say that from the screaming violin that makes one think of a fiddler on the roof of the world hopped up on steroids and speed, a juggernaut of that viiolent screaming little fiddle. Maybe its the accordian player in his striped shirt that makes you think convict and sailor wrapped up in one, or the two girls that come dancing out on stage beating cymbals and bass drum, who knows, sometimes I think its Eugene's ability to turn the slamming of a mike into a new percussion section that sets them apart. Whatever the secret sauce, seeing them live was both a treat and a joy that is incomporable. If you ever get a chance, run, don't walk, and do whatever needs be done in order to procure tickets to see their under dog world strike.
So really, what makes it that amazing? Simply put, energy. "Fuck it! Its Friday night" was their raison d'être to play a 45 minute encore that was nearly as long as their set. Yeah, they gave of themselves for two friggin hours! I couldn't keep up, I don't know how they were able to do it, but Slim's was on fire. People were jumping, fans were screaming and "dogs were barking." Its unreal how much they bring to bear, sonically on stage. How you can get lost in that perverse folkloric feal that is amped, stretched, pulled and refashioned into a sound bolder than the lands from which it hails. Its gypsy music that appropriated punk rock, that stole the gypsy soul, that commandeered the rhythm section from a couple dozen different countries and created a unique flavor of rock and roll that leaves you deaf, drained and exhausted from the joy of participating in something that is as much give as it is take. I'm not sure these cats could've sustained that rampage for that long had it not been for the fact the crowd was a perfect conduit to share in that electrical feeling of complete abandon that comes from live music. Yeah, its Dionysian in the pure sense of intoxication, it brings the entire audience, the space which they fill, the sound which permeates all of them, into that unique state of primordial oneness when all form ceases to matter: it doesn't matter how you dance so long as you're dancing, or how you applaude, or how you salute, nothing ceases to matter as you melt into a cosmic vibration.
Ok, so I'm waxing a little poetic here. I know, a bit of the deep end, but so was the entire show. But it was kinda perfect that way, you know? The end of the show, or the encore, or their second set as the case may be, featured the girls back on stage with cymbals and bass drum. The drum found its way onto the hands of the crowd and the girl lept up onto the drum straddling it and continuing to play while the crowd held her atop their heads. She came down off the drum while Eugene turned the mike into a small bongo by placing a plastic bucket over it and using a pair of drumsticks to knock out a rockin' rhythm. He decided to trade places with the little drummer girl and lept up on the drum and proceeded to stand straight up, nearly to the height of the lighting tressel with arms raised proclaiming victory. Yeah, they left their mark.
The next night after my hearing returned we went to see Everything Is Illuminated that features Eugene as co(?)star? I don't know, he kinda stole the show if you ask me and although "the rigid search" is the brainchild of Jonathan, it seems like we're more interested in the life and well being of Alex, our hip-hop loving Ukranian Jew in denial. There's a kind of unfinished quality to the movie, something that is left to be questioned when its all over. The film is a mixture of black humor (the first half) and family drama that reaches back to the war years and reminds us about the very personal, humbling stories of individuals. Those vast numbers of dead mean little unless charged with the intimacy of a single face, a pair of hands, the birth and death that is one person's life. I was reminded of the life and daeth of Celan, Amery and Borowski. They all lived, survived the camps, the war but succumbed to their own questions: survivor's guilt.
See both, the latter being more accessable than the first, but if you can, see them, at the very least, you'll get a kick out of the antics, at the most, you'll fall passionately in love with the night and feel drunk even if you hardly drank.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Just a sunday night with nothing really interesting to write...
As I approached mi casa I heard the familiar tenor of Russian being spoken. I looked up and noticed two people walking up Balboa. Both were thoroughly engaged on their cell phones, they were both speaking russian, they were both on their cell phones. Some part of me chuckled hearing how "Zhenya, wait wait wait, the garage door will be openned, we'll be right there." They were infinately important in their own minds. I kinda dug it and at the same time had to say "oy vey!"
Went to see "Two For The Money" this weekend with Pacino and Mathew (I'm not even gonna try spelling that last name.) Well, what can I say? Al is always kinda brilliant, but the role is far to safe. We know he can be fired up, we know he can seem creepy. WE've seen him be fired up like a batptist minister way too often: Devil's Advocate, City Hall, Any Given Sunday and Heat. He does those roles well. It feels a little like the guy is getting type cast. I mean he needs to take some more risks. I suppose this late in his career he's had a whole bag of risks and has done the great roles, but it seems there are more in store for him if he wanted them. I want to see more small projects like Searching for Richard or even a Frankie & Johnny or say something like Angels in America. Thats where the untapped potential lies. Since the days of "Dog Day Afternoon" we know this man can do rage. We know he can raise the little man complex to all new level as seen Scarface, he has the fire in his belly and a voice to fan the flames to temperatures deep in the Kelvin. I want to see the quiet side of paccino, something a bit more refined, or at least contrasted against his fiery and explosive side. I think that's what I loved about Scent of a Woman, Frank, the character, was a serious looser, and you could see that in the fatigue of a man who is almost as tired of being an asshole as he is a cripple. But hell, he's a pleasure to watch, don't get me wrong, I just want to see him in a different capacity, that's all.
I wondering if I have the strength to wake myself up around 3 am and see if I can catch the moon hang over Ocean Beach from Sutro Heights Park. It would be a lovely sight for sure. Take the medium format up there and hope I can snap off a couple longish exposures in black and white without having the frames overlap. It would truly tickle me, hell, we'll see... (Breath should not be held in any way shape or form).
Went to see "Two For The Money" this weekend with Pacino and Mathew (I'm not even gonna try spelling that last name.) Well, what can I say? Al is always kinda brilliant, but the role is far to safe. We know he can be fired up, we know he can seem creepy. WE've seen him be fired up like a batptist minister way too often: Devil's Advocate, City Hall, Any Given Sunday and Heat. He does those roles well. It feels a little like the guy is getting type cast. I mean he needs to take some more risks. I suppose this late in his career he's had a whole bag of risks and has done the great roles, but it seems there are more in store for him if he wanted them. I want to see more small projects like Searching for Richard or even a Frankie & Johnny or say something like Angels in America. Thats where the untapped potential lies. Since the days of "Dog Day Afternoon" we know this man can do rage. We know he can raise the little man complex to all new level as seen Scarface, he has the fire in his belly and a voice to fan the flames to temperatures deep in the Kelvin. I want to see the quiet side of paccino, something a bit more refined, or at least contrasted against his fiery and explosive side. I think that's what I loved about Scent of a Woman, Frank, the character, was a serious looser, and you could see that in the fatigue of a man who is almost as tired of being an asshole as he is a cripple. But hell, he's a pleasure to watch, don't get me wrong, I just want to see him in a different capacity, that's all.
I wondering if I have the strength to wake myself up around 3 am and see if I can catch the moon hang over Ocean Beach from Sutro Heights Park. It would be a lovely sight for sure. Take the medium format up there and hope I can snap off a couple longish exposures in black and white without having the frames overlap. It would truly tickle me, hell, we'll see... (Breath should not be held in any way shape or form).
Friday, September 30, 2005
Just a little silliness...
Its been quite a while since I decided to boldly strike out and do something with my never ending supply of facial hair. There was a time when I would change it, constantly, not it goes from somewhat smooth shaven, to rough, to corse, to stubbly to downright dangerous and scraggy. I chop it off and it grows back. So, I've decided to have a little fun with it, as its been a while, a short progression or history of my moustache which started as a goatie leading up to and in NYC, and, well just got shorter when I came back...
The Fu Man Chu
The Fu Man Chu a la Gene Simmons
Inspired by the Goombah
Rapier thin... mu ha ha ha
Thursday, September 29, 2005
more... more... more... not us...
raise your arms
to speak your mind
raise your arms
and cross the line
raise your arms
and raise them high
raise your arms
prepare to...
to speak your mind
raise your arms
and cross the line
raise your arms
and raise them high
raise your arms
prepare to...
"unnumbered" for Not us
promise you won't
tell a soul what's
been told to do
shouldn'tve been
done to anyone
tell a soul what's
been told to do
shouldn'tve been
done to anyone
More f[or](rom) PANOPTICON
Readership existed before the work had found adequate spaces. The unfolding of distance became regarded as the annex of space. Tearing up the script he hoped that it might stop the pendulum from swinging, tearing up the script he thought it might acquit him of swinging. His actions seemed just a matter for theoretical principle. He’s hamstrung the poor halfwit still feels possibility is just as possible as event prior to memory. Simple formations of sincere gestures might serve as both the penal colony and the code (of arms) to distinguish the guilty from the already punished. But he faced it like it was foregoing both the blindfold and the cigarette he watched in astonishment as the light passed through.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
PANOPTICON
He stepped in a room where the light fell exactly in the same place at the same moment and stopped falling into its own space. The ownership of the light’s space must seem a comical thing: to say it with precision one must preface it with the owning of the owner. Walking circumferentially about the central luminosity he stopped to discover the absence of both color and prismatic possibility. Pondering the separation, by degrees, by a metric system yet to be invented in the west or east, or a by way of directional analysis, pondering it slowly he discovered how it was ennobled appearing spiritualized with so much fear in a shimmering refraction. Insofar as origins: its dangerous to be one’s own accomplice.
Not surprisingly the descending stair case actually was heading up. For years he had sat by the river hoping to write himself into a book; this caused him great anguish and he cried himself to sleep in a waterless bed of smooth rock. Morning came from the smell of something faintly aromatic about the night. One wasn’t suggestive of the other yet he could’ve sworn that something like twenty of each had passed. Being caught unawares was not unlike waking from a dream having lost something you never really had before you went to sleep, curling around the pillow he swore that the face he was kissing was made of more than just feathers and strand. This much is known for certain when the pillow was ripped open with a knife.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
