Occurances: Too Many

You're a mysterious body I can't quite coordinate.

And yet everything is laid out before me. Don't say a word.

What is it? Why this impulse, this magnetism surrounding the atmosphere? And. With one baleful glance on the corner street: flashing by yet again.

Thoreau of "House-Warming"

The perfect recipe for a home:


"I sometimes dream of a large and more populous house, standing in a golden age, of enduring materials, and without gingerbread-work, which shall still consist only of one room...a house which you have got into when you have opened the outside door, and the ceremony is over; where the weary traveller may wash, and eat, and converse, and sleep, without further journey; such a shelter as you would be glad to reach in a tempestuous night, containing all the essentials of a house, and nothing for house-keeping, where you can see all the treasures of the house at one view, and everything hangs upon its peg that a man should use; at once kitchen, pantry, parlor, chamber, store-house, and garret; where you can see so necessary a thing as a barrel or ladder, so convenient a thing as a cupboard, and hear the pot boil, and pay your respects to the fire that cooks your dinner and the oven that bakes your bread, and the necessary furniture and utensils are the chief ornaments...where to be a guest is to be presented with the freedom of the house, and not to be carefully excluded from seven eights of it, shut up in a particular cell, and told to make yourself at home there--in solitary confinement."

Thoreau of "Solitude"

This is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself.


I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence of and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it; and that is no more I than it is you.

A Home Not a House

A house. A home with one shut eye. The other spies out, keeping in contact with the world. Making sure the Coriolis Effect's still working and that life goes on. A home keeping house. Keeping everything in check while the owners sign off; disconnect. They have a right, right? It's their home acting as house--engaging with the world, its people its elements. Every weight rests on its wooden shoulders, its almighty rooftop which is God. And God isn't always perfect. No--sometimes the weight just falls, collapsing, crushing, screaming on top of all it ever loved.
But this home looks out onto the world, unafraid.

Costumes Encouraged

Races. Trunk craft show. Kinetic sculpture. Public art. Music. Beer & Wine & Fine Food. Costumes encouraged.

"A terrifying steam-punk orgy!"

Check it out:
The Great Handcar Regatta

Kaleidoscope Street

Looking out upon that sky-bright ceiling-blue space--
Doors blend,
Concrete and dizzy smells
mixed up the hill-tops
which we pace.

From Emerson's "Nature"

But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds will separate between him and what he touches. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent with the design, to give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime. Seen in the streets of cities, how great they are! If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which has been shown! But every night come these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.



It is this which distinguishes the stick of timber of the wood-cutter from the tree of the poet. The charming landscape which I saw this morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them own the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man had but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet.

10:21 PM

It has a strong, strong
blackberry taste. The nose sucks.
That just went down wrong.
Chuck.
…complete tale.
I didn’t dislike it.
Yea. Yea. Yeah.
Damn those must be old.
I prefer whiskey buzzes.
Nice, sit in your belly—nice candle
burning in your belly.
Music: play some music.
Netflix.
It’s on my bed.
We all sort of rely on you for
music
Drinking the kool-aid.
Bullshit what you talking about.
…ready to agree with him?
This is not a joke so please stop smiling.
What do you mean by death?
I am trying to break your heart.
What the Fu—I mean this is Bull—…
I absolutely believe this
at all…
Sand bag…that night
It’s not about having guts or…
I guess I am just saying…
That was delicious.
It was a...2003 was one of the best
years in France.
Some kind of bitter—
It’s a lot of air; have to let it sit
for at least 20-30 seconds.
Tastes more alcoholic.

From the hand of Djuna Barnes

Excerpt from Nightwood

Those who love everything are despised by everything, as those who love a city, in its profoundest sense, become the shame of that city, the détraqués, the paupers; their good is incommunicable, outwitted, being the rudiment of a life that has developed, as in man's body are found evidences of lost needs.

Morning Catalyst

Maybe it's time to try that 5 AM wonderment of waking up and acting on that dream or impulse - rather, sloshing from side to side in your head, for you would have been sleeping anyway (and sleep--what is sleep to the dreamer who needs a reality of uninhibited dreams to instill the strength of dreaming further? Why, wake up!).

Open Your Hand

Open your hand
tightly.
Each vertebra—
bone by bone—
submerged
below cracks of mountainous veins.

Twist into two
and preserve yourself
There
in time
tautly clasped,
walking down the rue.

T.S. Eliot Made Me Do It

They come and go
They come and go
Talking of the tide that’s low
Thinking that they’ll have a go
With an almond filled croissant.

Often times they come in to flaunt
The hummer they drive, the jewels they want
(These are issues of importance for young debutantes!)
I could continue—on and on—but I shaun’t
For one is now at the front to weigh

His options; so after much strenuous delay,
Digging through purses, pockets, pickles, he finally pays
Then starts to chitchat of the day
Remarking “how do you like your job” by the way;
I merely laugh and prepare the over-calorific drink.

Next moment, hot water near the sink
Splashes on a girl who’s pink
And red due to the ignorant fink—
The one who originally started the kink
In the coffee maker.

All of the jolly, sweet-tongued bakers
Crowd the joint—a place ridiculous to exclaim an acre—
Debating with the boss, (the ultimate creator),
If the lad should be kept, tossed or dealt with later
But good ol’ Bruno makes a speech.

He first glances inside each
Of the bakers’ eyes to angrily leach
Out the truth of the matter; their motive to impeach
The youthful boy who did nothing worse than James of the Peach,
But fair is fair and Bruno begins his words:

“My boy you did not learn from your last curd,
When you tripped over the herd
Of baguettes lined up to be shipped to Lord Uward,
The greatest ruler I have ever heard
Who cried straight 88 nights in a row.

You did not think that I would see you and every crow
Who fumbles more than once running to and fro,
Losing my money with each cup he spills on a newly ironed bow,
(The ones you can only purchase in Cairo!)
No—you did not think at all.

Well, what’s done is done, so time to make that call
The one to the girl who you caused a fall
And gain a new burn, an original
One on her left shoulder, halting her admittance in the semi-final
Coffee Making Competition.

Oh ominous partition
I am forced to graze upon! Tell me lad, what’s your definition?
What’s the cause of this debacle? Was it a premonition?
Was I or my shop worthy of your spiteful ammunition?
I have no more to question upon.

The decision is made; Son, go wait out there on the lawn.
I will call ahead my workers who never once partook in a con
Or thought to thwart their jobs; Mon Dieu they always got here at dawn
To serve my people without the slightest yawn.
But wait, what’s this, a possible rumor…

A letter from a fellow consumer,
A kindly one who thought it a humor
Of the situation I made for tad boy (which frankly has given me the greatest tumor!)
I’d be better off to rest with slices of cucumber
On my eyes. Alas! No time for that, let’s forget the note.

I am faltering, fading away like a little boat.
Quick get me to bed, I might roll over right now of this tumultuous goat,
The boy who ruined me. I am done. Je suis fini was all he wrote.
They said some prayers and then wrapped him in his red petticoat…
But onward his café continued for all relations near or not of kin.

A Blank Page

You told me to write, so I'll write. And I'll write, and I'll write and I'll write.

How could it have slipped away? Itself, a privilege with time (and damn- there is only so much). Nowadays they prescribe a quantitative, not qualitative measuring dose of time. How much you got? Value? Scotch value. It's all about the number of lines crossed off the list. A day in the park with the dog would be nice, but no- you've got work to do. Let's dissolve this method. Let's loosen it up. Breathe some fresh air and get outside. Let it all melt down to the wick. Prerequisites and thesis galore: throw them up in the air. Let them flutter and fly. Give them the life they deserve and grasp onto your own.

It's known as a requirement of life; necessary by all means. You want to make it in life don't you? What kind of question is that? What if I do, what if I don't? I'll take my own route, thank you. I wont' put up with that. You'll get squashed, they say. Hey now, at least I tried. I'm gonna put an end to the numbering of what's important in life. What's now merely an act forced between a coffee here, an essay there; it needs to die. Stop it, just stop it! Write. Go ahead now, the pages are crisp, creamy and waiting.

Les 'Elms,' Au Revoir!

"After years of study and with advice from arborists and plant pathologists, the College has made a difficult decision regarding the dying elm trees that form Scripps' historic and beloved Elm Tree Lawn. Rather than continue the policy of replacement as needed, which Scripps has followed since late 1999, the College will renew the entire landscape with contract-grown trees in five or six years.

Elm Tree Lawn, an allée of 18 paired American elms, is one of the signature landscapes at Scripps.Annual commencement exercises and other major events at the College take place under this canopy, designed by Edward Huntsman-Trout in 1939. For several years, the College has had concerns with the health of the trees. Elm trees are not native to Southern California; in this climate, they live for only 75-80 years.

Over the past several years, the College has engaged two consulting arborists to study the condition of the elm trees. In December 1999, the Buildings and Grounds Committee of the Board decided to remove and replace trees as they neared the end of their lives or became a safety concern. One tree was removed in 2001 for safety reasons, and three of the weakest trees were removed during the 2004-05 semester break.

In the summer of 2004, Jim Clark, a plant pathologist with a specialty in elm trees, was contacted to examine the trees. His report was received by the Buildings and Grounds Committee in September 2004. Along with the recommendation to renew the entire landscape with contract-grown trees in five or six years, Dr. Clark advised that the College continue to carefully onitor and prune the remaining elms until the replacement trees reach a height of 25 or 30 feet.According to Lola Trafecanty, director of grounds, the replacement trees will be disease-resistant Princeton elms.

Don Johnson, chairman of the Buildings and Grounds Committee, said:

'Contemplating the removal of the trees in Elm Tree Lawn has been one of the more difficult topics we have faced on the Buildings and Grounds Committee over the last several years...The difficulty has been in arriving at an approach which will provide for the safety of all persons on campus and preserve the traditional setting for our graduation ceremonies. Elm Tree Lawn is a special place on campus and is in the heart of each and every alumna.The adopted approach of removing any trees posing a hazard, while contract growing replacement trees, will provide the required safety while minimizing the impact upon the campus.'"

Excerpt from "The Fall" by Camus

"Besides, this country inspires me. I like those people swarming on the sidewalks, wedged into a little space of houses and canals, hemmed in by fogs, cold hands, and the sea steaming like a wet wash. I like them, for they are double. They are here and elsewhere.
Yes, indeed! From hearing their heavy tread on the damp pavement, from seeing them move heavily between their shops full of gilded herrings and jewels the color of dead leaves, you probably think they are here this evening? You are like everybody else; you take these good people for a tribe of syndics and merchants counting their gold crowns with their chances of eternal life, whose only lyricism consists in occasionally, without doffing their broad-brimmed hats, taking anatomy lessons? You are wrong. They walk along with us, to be sure, and yet see where their heads are: in that fog compounded of neon, gin, and mint emanating from the shop signs above them. Holland is a dream, monsieur, a dream of gold and smoke- smokier by day, more gilded by night. And night and day that dream is peopled with Lohengrins like these, dreamily riding their black bicycles with high handle-bars, funeral swans consistently drifting throughout the whole land, around the seas, along the canals. Their heads in their copper-colored clouds, they dream; they cycle in circles; they pray, somnambulists in the fog's gilded incense; they have ceased to be here. They have gone thousands of miles away, toward Java, the distant isle. They pray to those grimacing gods of Indonesia with which they have decorated all their shopwindows and which at this moment are floating aimlessly above us before alighting, like sumptuous monkeys, on the signs and stepped roofs to remind these homesick colonials that Holland is not only the Europe of merchants but also the sea, the sea that leads to Cipango and to those islands where men die mad and happy. "

A Day, A Thought - Vanished

Glitter skims the horizon with beauty breathless each time.

Freedom to be- as I please; walk the earth without a woven rhyme.

Shake of the trees balance sun

and shoulder invisible whispers made for none

but the birds.

Start something, Now;

before fog masks another cogitation to allow.

Morning ignites unseasoned thoughts,

Till evanescent hang the words once bought

upon a dusk - A silence.

It's Creeping Under My Skin

Paris was never wrong. It was always right.

I was almost displeased when I first arrived and it wasn't the Paris that I imagined. I waited to see everyone's face thick with lines from concentration and a cigarette balanced on one side. I waited to find the gypsy accordion players and the boys riding on scooters with roses in their mouth. No- most of that I found, just not as sappy. In fact, I am glad Paris is not a whimsical dream in reality.

I've walked through hundreds of rues already, seen many arrondissements and assimilated into the Parisian student's life. I went to the park across the Cite Universitaire and sat and watched the people, the dogs, and the sun move along until darkness arrived around 10.

Monday I walked to Shakespeare and Co. from the Notre Dame. The British boy asked me, "Are you here for the reading?" Why, of course. It was a change from all of the constant French I have been surrounded by. Two NYU professors with a strong American presence of plaid shirts read pieces of their poetry while rain tapped on the rooftop. The enthusiasts were all smashed together between books and bodies and legs.

Tuesday I sat in the Jardin du Luxembourg to read "A Moveable Feast." I didn't get far, before I turned the page an Argentinean-French boy plopped beside me and said something I had no comprehension of. We somehow managed to discuss music, history, Paris, and politics in our broken french. Julie and Justin arrived from class to accompany us in the park. There was one thing we understood: the sound of the choir singing under the windblown trees as the storm approached. What a lovely July afternoon. I am beginning to see these small details quite like nothing that can be discovered back home.

PARIS

Oh, I am here and it is lovely, tres lovely. I am staying in the southern part of Paris. Commuting by metro and RER is like breathing. To listen to Carla Bruni, walk the streets in chilly July weather and see the Seine at night- that is Paris. I must go do all of the above right now. No time for sleep. The city is calling.

Au Revoir.

Previous Travels

The slash means you are now leaving Bocholtz. I followed this road surrounded by thick fog.

First beer in Holland. Holland pride- before they lost the eurocup.

A parking lot in Amsterdam.

The Roots world music festival in Amsterdam.

Near the hostel in Berlin.

Berlin.

Berlin- Mitte, the historic district.

Prague- the city.

Little boys and girls danced to slavic music near the Prague castle.

The view from the hostel in Prague.

First Amsterdam- then Berlin- now Prague

Europe is becoming a normal habit. I no longer listen to the streets in the middle of the night and break out in excitement just from the sound of a motor scooter. I feel apart of the lifestyle.

In Amsterdam we went to a world music festival. The sunshine was perfect. We sat on the lawn grass listening to beats from Marsailles. Everyone basked in the sun and absorbed the day. We went to a small jazz club and everyone was smiling and enjoying the dark atmosphere.

Berlin is not one city. It is multiple districts within one city. We stayed in the old district- the Mitte. It took one day to orient ourselves with the underground. After a few hours of taking metros back and forth we found our way. Many of the people in the open air market could not speak English. We gestered back and forth to agree on a price. I purchased a pair of glasses with beautiful brown frames for only a euro. I eyed a pipe which was crafted of wood and the seller wanted me to smoke it right away. He ran to the back and filled up the pipe with something. I said it was not for me and started speaking in French because I feel deprived with only German around me. He just laughed. How guffy he was. The whole market stared at me.

I am now in Prague. It fees like I am inside a wonderland of icing and cake. Art Nouveau buildings are everwhere. We went to the Moucha museum and learned that he decorated the stained glass windows of the cathedral at the top of the hill. A man from South Vietnam insisted that he take a picture with us. Then he took an individual shot with Christina. Perhaps because she had long hair. Some children around 12 years old were dancing in the street. They were flicking their brown heels and spinning in circles with their military jackets and long veils of white linen. I do not feel that I can stay here forever as a resident but only as a passer by. Perhaps I will be back again. I see the green hills beyond the Charles bridge and picture a deep fog rolling in with sojourners arriving on horsback a long time ago. Now it is unbearably hot. Some man on the train from the Czech Republic with bright blue eyes asked why I was heading to Prague. Hmmm... Only because of the beautious architecture and the central Eurpean red rooftop houses and the coffee and the fact that I am in central europe, perhaps...Christina and I are planning to move the Carroll family back to Europe to rediscover their roots.