I Can’t Help Myself

This is totally unrelated and irrelevant to anything I’ve been posting on this site for the last few months. But, it’s amazing, and I can’t help myself. One of my favorite songs performed live. So powerful. It leaves me smiling. Just turn up the volume, and make sure you have decent headphones or speakers.

I Forgot Something

I don’t need to be naming this post. In fact, I probably should just place this bit of text in my previous post since it’s part of things I have or have not been doing.

I began a new blog, The Cosmological Eye. It’s a photoblog. I’ll be uploading photos that I have shot over the past five years (actually, screenshots of them since the files are so huge), and, eventually, I’ll have all of my European Adventure film developed and scanned, and then I will be able to upload those as well. It’s mostly black and white, but there will be a bit of color in there.

All About How I’ve Not Been Doing Anything II

My life has been very uneventful. Nope, not a change since the last time I typed that, however long ago that was. Today Doug and I brainstormed filling hollow bananas with creams and chocolates and things, and then possibly turning them into cannoli by wrapping them in the famed, Italian pastry shell. This is what my life has become, although, it’s never been much of anything but nonsense. Reminds me of an old Zen, death poem “From the bathtub to the bathtub I have uttered stuff and nonsense.”

I’ve been working on a few poems the last few weeks, sketching a bit, visiting with a beautiful girl (rather, she was visiting with me), not planning the long trip across the country (because that’s not my responsibility) and wishing I had money for developer so as to develop the film I shot in Europe.

Here’s a poem I started a couple weeks back but just now finished (I think):

Oh, flickering flame, from your provenance lifts your gaze. Your sight is warm and cheering. Yours is a great path to follow. You dispel, dissolve, throw back the gloom. And as I look around I see.

I see that all I see is what you see.

But I want more.

I look out beyond the umbrella of your gaze. I see the face that I long for: a memory which is stored in a tiny music box that never needs winding and never plays out of key.

But moving nearer means nothing. And walking farther I slip. Beyond the boundary of your light I dare not go. Yet, I see that face—it falls away like a mist.

Oh, flickering flame, I see all these things around me, negligible things (as things are wont to be), but who I really want beside me is beyond the vision of your gaze.

Oh, were that you weren’t so diminutive, that you might cast wide much larger nets from your eye; but I do not put you down. Grateful I am for every scrap, every shred of light, orange, like the sunrise which will awaken me tomorrow.

Things Going On

Obviously I’ve not been here much since arriving home from my grand European adventure; ah, the sad monotony of everyday life—little to do, even less to write about. This is only a half truth of course. I’m enjoying my life currently, besides, there is another grand adventure in the works (I’ll be getting to that shortly); it’s just that, though my life be enjoyable, it is not something that I feel is worth writing about. I’m doing lots of relaxing. I’ve become addicted to Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations; every episode is up on Netflix for my, and your, viewing pleasure. I’m broke so I can’t develop my film because I have no developer or fixer; this is sad because I’m quite excited to see what I shot while in Europe. I’ve been working on a second blog/website lately for my photography: The Cosmological Eye. My Aix/Michigan girl is coming to visit in a couple days—something I’m looking forward to. Aaaannnd I’ve been working at a cafe a few days a week, doing the barista thing. Those are, I suppose, the most salient details of my day to day right now.

Now for the big trip. The latest and greatest in Scotty’s Grand Adventures. A very good friend of mine happens to be a diabetic—a type one diabetic; this means he was essentially born with the disease; it is not a result of eating poorly and being lazy. He’s also a long distance runner. Two years ago, he decided to take it upon himself to make plans for a run across the country. These plans are finally coming to fruition. In late January of this coming year he will be setting off. From Los Angeles he will make his way across the United States of America solely on foot, running 30 miles a day for four solid months, ending in New York City. It is a call for one’s own concern for his/her health; a call to abandon laziness and apathy and live a more active lifestyle; a call to stop eating shit out of cans and bread with more than three or four ingredients in it (I’m reminded of an essay just now that Henry Miller wrote, called, The Staff of Life); it is a silent alarm crying out that every year more and more people are being diagnosed with diabetes, and that this is something that is preventable if only we looked in the mirror and realized our way of living is a twisted, cancerous mess, like a knot tied in a double helix or a ten car pile-up.

He has a website: 1Run. I ask that you take a look at it and spread it around. This is an historical event, and for a great cause. I will be going along with him; as blogger, as photographer, as friend, and as something as simple as an extra hand. I can’t express how honored I am to be accompanying him on this trip. Doug is one of those extraordinary people who only a select few are, by some sort of divine providence, lucky enough to know. If I had not known it then I would surely have discovered it by now.

My Last Day in Dublin (nearly a month ago, now)

Ahhh, my last day in Dublin, and as fine a day as there’s ever been. They sky, bright blue, strafing with streaks of cloud, buildings glimmering and glistening as though freshly windexed, the bridges over the Liffey creaking with the masses of pedestrians—old Ha’penny arched like an aggravated cat. Strolling along Bachelors Walk. A mad frenzy of gulls, and a woman, arm outstretched and flinging crumbs into the crisp autumn air, in the middle of it all. The eye in the storm. An axle upon all of this which I have just described is turning. Her stillness is an anchor in the insanity of reality. It runs deep, through the physicality of things to another, ether realm where even something like a cloud carries the weight of a mountain, or a human voice. Strange, then, when I turned around for just a moment and she was gone. Gulls scattered, their primal cause for being having vanished. The world spins out of control for just a moment, its fulcrum on which it pivots having snapped. I let myself be carried by the tide. . . . Washed up on Grafton Street. More insanity. This of a more bizarre nature. A cross between idiot asylum and carnival. Immediately upon entering I notice the same man sculpting the same dog from sand. This, on the busiest street, in the middle of Dublin. He’s here every day—the same tarp, the same sand, the same dog, the same dumb pose. Ev-er-y day (every day the same day). Between times I don’t know what it is he does. He can’t possibly make enough dough to support himself and yet he’s always here, in his spot. Further along, people holding signs directing traffic to this restaurant, or that shop selling these things. Clumps of them. I don’t even know what it is most of the time they’re advertising. Nothing I’m interested in. Nothing anybody without money would be interested in (or even those with money). Even still, places that need to advertise like that, that bother to pay for that advertisement strike me as places best avoided.

Reading Tropic of Cancer — “The main thing is to eat. Trust to Providence for the rest!” And so it is! I am eating. A fine meal: huge bowl of cream of vegetable soup, and a Thanksgiving sandwich from Fallon & Byrne. Gazing out the window, watching flocks of beautiful women meander past. Where they were the first two weeks I was here I haven’t a clue. It’s as though they’ve flown in for a brief stopover during some migratory turn. . . .

Nothing to do, wandering around, I decide to take one last walk through Trinity College. Gliding over the cobblestone walks and gazing at these hundreds years old buildings, and thinking about the great minds that have studied here, and the countless books residing in the dim, hidden hall of the old library a halcyon sense of clarity and righteousness rises within me, like a silver spire crowned with a garland of flame that warms me from within, but also guides my eye, my mind, unfailingly, incorruptibly. Everything seen, heard, touched, felt at this moment is at the very peak of perfection (if there be such a thing, such a peak). I see everything with a lucid eye—the stones in their formations, laid out just so; the bright edges of every block used to create every building; the scattered lawns, blackened in the light of dark; the miraculously free limbs of the trees, a filigree of webbing against the crazy violet of the twilight sky that glows like a diadem worn over the scalp of the world; and even the queer, brick building which stands out like a blot amongst the beautiful melange of greys that make up all the other buildings on the campus, and the pathways winding from each and the other, too. Everything is viewed in the minutest detail, the most scrupulous design, and this goes on seemingly forever, like a seance. The spell is only broken when I step beyond the college grounds, and turning, walk . . . and walk, and walk until Trinity College is out of my site, but still, there remains that silver spire which never burns, that garland of flame which never goes out imprinted in my memory and within my chest. I carry them with me. They light my way in the cold and dark of winter. I won’t ever be lost again.

The Ground Falls Away

The ground falls away, like flakes of rust.

Below me lie splinters . . . fragments.

A prick, and a memory resolves itself in the form of fleecy, white clouds, scattered

Like dandruff;

Exfoliations of past in present tense.

I am speaking now.

Below, a landscape of fungi and mold,

All bizarrely colored, like death, or a bruise

   , or an oil spill.

Bits of rust.

Shreds of lichen.

A forest floor, or a rotting log seen through a magnifying glass.

Above me lies the dirty laundry of the sky;

It’s like being submerged beneath the surface of a pond and peering upwards through layers of greasy scum—

The chalk blue of the sky obscured by someone’s dirty dressing gown thrown over the bulb of the sun.

Orange tips on the wings breathe like flames,

Burn like matchsticks, as we tear through all this dirty linen.

Our destination is yet unseen, but our course is fixed.

Guide us on our way.

Portrait of a Man in an Airport

Jotted down a week or so back:

A man sitting across from me inside Marseille airport. Both of us waiting for our flights to be called for boarding, while a rabble of kids disturbs everyone within earshot (read: everyone in this area of the airport) with their pandemonious clamorings and carryings-on. A salt-pepper beard shorn close to a tanned and creased face; hard to tell whether that’s how he sports it, is in the early stages of growing it in thicker or if he’s simply being lazy; soft, liquid eyes and a nose like Appalachia. Brown walking shoes on his feet, and comfortable, dark blue jeans. Brown belt to match, and a tattersall outdoorsman shirt under a simple, black zip-up sweater. This is a man who has worked hard his whole life, and his hard work has finally paid off. I have a certain admiration for this gentleman. What I would like to do is give him a warm handshake and a clap on the back. “Congratulations! Enjoy your vacation! It’s been well earned.” He seems to me the only bright spot (unless you count the clamor in the corner) in this rather dismal quarter of the airport. Thank God I won’t have to fly Ryanair ever again. Only 9:30 and already the shops and food joints are closing up (is this normal?). Dreary, grey floors; corrugated aluminum and steel I-beam ceilings, bare as a skeleton; wires and cables dangling throughout like veins, arteries, sinew and gristle. I can see now that they rent out whatever empty square meterage of an airport is available, equip it as minimally as possible, throw up a few signs and monitors and, voila!, cheap flights. “Cheap” being the operative word.

I’m hot in my layers of shirts. Just so long as the plane takes off and lands. . . .

Bad Wine

Awful red wine. Simply awful. But I still intend to drink it. Something to do with having spent money. Three and a half euros, sure, but it’s a bottle of wine and it needs to be drunk. And I’m not quite sure I understand the rationale here, except that I am about to put a pizza in the oven and I want some wine with it and I don’t want to go back out and spend more money on another bottle that likely won’t be much better. One could argue that I might spend more money . . . .

Back in Madrid. Sitting in the kitchen. Only a couple roommates about. One hiding in her room and the other making a sandwich. I’ve been here three days so far and have six left before my flight home. I can’t say that I know what I’m doing beyond simply waiting for my flight. I’m not fond of the city. I don’t like walking around it. I don’t like walking through it. I don’t like smelling it. I don’t like looking at much of anything here. I don’t really like Madrid at all. I’m in somewhat of a malaise — nothing to do, sick of perambulating about with my camera, sick of taking pictures, sick of drinking bad wine and being on a budget. The people I’m living with are good folks though, and enjoyable to be around. There is that much to say. And, while I’m drinking bad wine, at least I’m drinking wine. The Prado is free from 6-8 pm, so I may go look at some art works this evening. It’s not a bad walk until one hits the Gran Via in which case the sidewalks turn into a stampede of people, some with their bags and others with their cameras, some in groups of four and others in groups of ten, everybody pushing and jostling trying to get somewhere God only knows, some of them gawking at store displays, others stopping in front of you for no reason whatsoever, elderly people walking together gumming up the works with their laboriously slow movements . . . . Maybe I’ll take the metro. Maybe I won’t go. Maybe I’ll just read, write, play Secret of Mana, listen to a new Retronauts podcast, get drunk, fall asleep, talk to Maia. A million and one things I can do and I’ve been doing them all since I got here, but when one doesn’t like where he is it’s not particularly easy finding a reason to get out of the house.

Going Back In Time

So. I want to go back to Dublin briefly, and though I have certain other things I still want to put down about the city, here I only wish to post some pictures and mention a certain coffee bar which my friend whom I’ve written of previously introduced me. This spectacular place is called Third Floor Espresso, or, 3FE for short. It’s where I went nearly every day of my stay for my coffee fix. They do things simple there, or, rather, I should say they make things simple for the customer. The job of the baristas being more complex since they’re constantly adjusting for new coffee varieties, constantly improving and making each cup of coffee, or espresso or what have you the best. House made sandwiches (good!), brownies (good!) and muffins (also good!). Nice teas. The friendliest and most knowledgeable staff of people. If you like great coffee, and you’re in Dublin this is a place you must visit.

Coffee

Morning in Aix. A chill, damp morning. Leaves plastered to the cobblestone walk, the streets and sidewalks slick beneath my feet. Sitting outside a cafe, the market in the square in full swing, filled with vendors selling all kinds of colorful, delicious provender — carrots; parsnips; radishes; onions; squashes of various colors, flavors, sizes, shapes; apples; pears; oranges; persimmons; lemons; mangos; walnuts; chestnuts; loaves of bread, some spherical, some conical, others rectangular and still others like footballs; jars of many colored jams stacked upwards and backwards; long tables full of every kind of spice in open sacks; wheels and wedges of all different cheeses; fresh flounders, mackerels, snappers, shrimps and shellfish; mushrooms the size of a fist and bigger . . . .

A short, squat pudge of a woman toddles by in her pink rain slicker and pink slippers, a bag in each hand. I can’t imagine where she’s come from or where she could be going. Something lizard-like in the quality about which she moves, however, no sun under which she can bask, nor are there any rocks on which she may lie. Just the wet, slippery pavements and stacks upon stacks of apartments with shutters flung wide or pulled tightly shut. Another woman creeps past dragging a suitcase behind her, crutch in her other hand. An admirable show of strength and will, I think; she is out!  This is very important; out of the apartment or whatever hole she lives in. ”Out,” being the operative word here.  Just, out! Doesn’t matter what for, or where to. Nothing doing sitting around inside all day, but to rot. Out, out, out I say!

I was watching a man trim a fish just now. A strange thing to see these days where I’m from, though it didn’t use to be that way.There was a time when fish were yanked by the net-full out of the Chesapeake and unloaded for sale at the market (when the market was a market). Not anymore though, sadly. But, perhaps again, one day . . . . ‘Snip!’ goes the tail and, ‘Snip!’ goes the dorsal, and then the ‘scrape scrape scratch’ of the removal of the scales. An incision made along the pearly white of the belly and the guts removed and tossed. A ‘sPlASh’ and a rinse in a bucket of water and the fish is wrapped and bagged and borne gently into the expectant hands of its new owner. It’s a lovely thing to watch, the execution of a sale like this. It certainly goes far beyond a simple exchange of goods/services and money. It’s as though there is no difference at all between the woman catching and cleaning the fish herself, and the transaction which just took place in front of me. It’s hard to put one’s finger on the immensity of this, like the faint pulse of a culture that hasn’t yet died. It’s such a pleasure to watch all these people working happily, busily doing these things which they enjoy and which others appreciate so. And all this enveloped in that French language which is so musical to my ears.

The sun is beginning to show itself at last, peering between tree leaves and limbs, leaping off windowpanes and dappling the faces of buildings in dark and light. A flight of pigeons lifts off and twirls into the sky to disappear beyond the awnings and apartments of the square. The remainder of the foam of my cappuccino has dissolved into a little, white pool at the bottom of the cup. Money is left. It is time then I left too.