I pushed the heavy glass door of the municipal building onto the cold October rain. Leaving the building's concrete overhang, I walked briskly towards the train station's descending escalator.
Nearby, under the concrete overhang and sheltering from the ceaseless rain, sat an aging, thin black woman, wrapped in a black robe like some death shroud, her face insensate, her body inanimate. Next to her sat an aging white man with dirty, fading blond hair, his bloated body in poor fitting clothes sat astride a manual wheelchair, two legs sticking out from his belly and ending at the knees like fat tree stumps.
White man and black woman: The top rung and the bottom rung of the ladder of power. Both were dashed against the rocks of the municipal building by the waves of history, like human detritus . Perhaps she was a Muslim refugee from a war-torn country. Perhaps he was a forgotten veteran from a war-torn era.
As I descended on the moving escalator, I looked up and saw the wall surrounding the station rise into the wet night and blot out the sight of the vagabonds. The refugee sat death-still, eyes closed to life. The veteran looked vacantly at the constant rain.
What was there to say to them? "Good evening, Mr. Flotsam. Good evening, Ms. Jetsam."
On the train, watching the lights play on the passing tunnels, I noted a handful of people in the car, going home from a long workday in the modern world, staring vacantly at the air before them. One woman had her eyes closed, head nodding.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Drunken Stumbling
I was paying minimum attention. The article said: "There has probably never been a poetry at once as massively energetic yet as coolly nonchalant as [Francis] Picabia's in -"
What? How's that?
The article later said:
"But I'm telling disinterested lies / It's almost the same thing / The soul's truth / Is the great cowardice of academic / arrogance / Looking into your eyes / I'm content / In my forgotten solitude."
What? What does this mean?
I was lost; had taken a wrong turn down a road filled with criticism of post-World War I French poetry movements. I read the lines three times but realized they held meaning only in the fantasy of a generation now long forgotten, a telegram from a dead, blasted world.
The article also said: "He is so radically focused on the immediate presence of each line that the connections between them can be left to fend for themselves."
I'm content . . . In my forgotten solitude . . . no connection. It was no use. The words had arrived, yes, but like a letter in the mail written in a language no longer spoken - a letter in Akkadian.
But then the article said something in English. It said, "Drunken Stumbling" and it went like this:
I'm afraid that your memory
will go when you go
your lips
will leave
my lips
your heart
be gone
with the rest
I, too, have stumbled drunk, thinking, "Where did he go?" Down the long corridor of the years he is now farther away - what I remembered.
What? How's that?
The article later said:
"But I'm telling disinterested lies / It's almost the same thing / The soul's truth / Is the great cowardice of academic / arrogance / Looking into your eyes / I'm content / In my forgotten solitude."
What? What does this mean?
I was lost; had taken a wrong turn down a road filled with criticism of post-World War I French poetry movements. I read the lines three times but realized they held meaning only in the fantasy of a generation now long forgotten, a telegram from a dead, blasted world.
The article also said: "He is so radically focused on the immediate presence of each line that the connections between them can be left to fend for themselves."
I'm content . . . In my forgotten solitude . . . no connection. It was no use. The words had arrived, yes, but like a letter in the mail written in a language no longer spoken - a letter in Akkadian.
But then the article said something in English. It said, "Drunken Stumbling" and it went like this:
I'm afraid that your memory
will go when you go
your lips
will leave
my lips
your heart
be gone
with the rest
I, too, have stumbled drunk, thinking, "Where did he go?" Down the long corridor of the years he is now farther away - what I remembered.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
The Art Studio
In the cool autumn air, my friend brought me to the art studio to sketch. She had been coming to the studio for years on Tuesday evenings. It was my first time; I was a sketch pad virgin. There was a paid model. He was an old man with parts sagging and other parts in the right place. But he was beautiful. This was so because I had adjusted to seeing him with the same eyes as the other artists. Artists, I hear tell, only see beauty.
We socialized for the first hour with wine bought by the woman who rents the studio, an older well-to-do woman, beautiful for her age, tall and gaunt and all angles. It was the birthday of my friend, one of the artists. Her husband surprised her with a chocolate cake. Then we sat down to draw the life model for two hours. The old man took off his black satin robe and posed nude on top of blue sheets and white cushions under the glare of the studio lights. He was a professional so he only took one brief break and managed to keep his pose the whole time. Beautiful music played throughout, something Celtic I want to say.
It was a grand space with the artists' works posted all over walls that reached far above our heads. The place was a former warehouse that had been converted into a series of large rooms, what in New York became known as a loft, but this one was more functional - without any stainless steel fixtures or ultra-modern furniture. There were lots of canvases stacked against walls and paint lying about and stains on the hardwood floors.
The artists complemented my haphazard sketches. I forced myself to draw the things I hated to draw - hands. The apparent consensus was that hands are really difficult to draw. I gave up and drew the old man as a cloud. I love to draw clouds, having been fascinated by clouds since I was a child. I drew another abstract form of the old man, which is difficult to describe now but I did get compliments on that, too. I didn't know at first if the artists were being insincere or if I really did have talent that they recognized. I decided that they had seen enough to make that kind of judgment. So I committed to see how far I can take this art journey.
Maybe I will develop some real talent. Or maybe I will end up drawing clouds all my days. At least I will create a collection of sketch pads that I can share with my few visitors. We are on this world for such a short time. Art is one good way to invite one another to experience our vision of the world, rather than force our vision upon others, as in, say religious indoctrination or military invasion. Maybe Pentagon generals should take art classes . . .
We socialized for the first hour with wine bought by the woman who rents the studio, an older well-to-do woman, beautiful for her age, tall and gaunt and all angles. It was the birthday of my friend, one of the artists. Her husband surprised her with a chocolate cake. Then we sat down to draw the life model for two hours. The old man took off his black satin robe and posed nude on top of blue sheets and white cushions under the glare of the studio lights. He was a professional so he only took one brief break and managed to keep his pose the whole time. Beautiful music played throughout, something Celtic I want to say.
It was a grand space with the artists' works posted all over walls that reached far above our heads. The place was a former warehouse that had been converted into a series of large rooms, what in New York became known as a loft, but this one was more functional - without any stainless steel fixtures or ultra-modern furniture. There were lots of canvases stacked against walls and paint lying about and stains on the hardwood floors.
The artists complemented my haphazard sketches. I forced myself to draw the things I hated to draw - hands. The apparent consensus was that hands are really difficult to draw. I gave up and drew the old man as a cloud. I love to draw clouds, having been fascinated by clouds since I was a child. I drew another abstract form of the old man, which is difficult to describe now but I did get compliments on that, too. I didn't know at first if the artists were being insincere or if I really did have talent that they recognized. I decided that they had seen enough to make that kind of judgment. So I committed to see how far I can take this art journey.
Maybe I will develop some real talent. Or maybe I will end up drawing clouds all my days. At least I will create a collection of sketch pads that I can share with my few visitors. We are on this world for such a short time. Art is one good way to invite one another to experience our vision of the world, rather than force our vision upon others, as in, say religious indoctrination or military invasion. Maybe Pentagon generals should take art classes . . .
Saturday, October 20, 2007
4:00 A.M.
When he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror it was four in the morning and outside the frosty air was smearing the window panes with tiny liquid pearls. There in the mirror he saw reflected, in wordless presence, the sadness.
It was the same sadness that had been with him through all the years. But he had always taken pains not to see it, shifting his focus instead through one distraction after another. Mostly he just worked hard, long hours. Still the sadness was there - obvious in the silent, unfocused moments when the mind wavers. Despite the rumbling speed of his life, when distractions failed, he became aware of it as though gazing out the passenger window and noticing a vast, barren landscape.
That night he carried the sadness home in the cold under the misty streetlamps. The distraction that was the thunderous music of the nightclub had faded, leaving his mind and body exhausted. In the cacophony of that sound circus, he had twirled himself into profound distraction, one performer lost among the clowns and freaks reflected in the club's mirrors under the dizzying light.
Swirling in the club's madness there had been some fleeting words sung, something about sex and music. Visions of male faces with wanton stares - vacant windows - and liquid smiles, rushed past in the torrent of beating sound. And then the sound swirled into the drain of silence and the crowd poured out and someone vomited in a corner; he pressed his way out and walked quietly home.
There was no point to avoidance. Even if he should traverse that wide, barren landscape in an attempt to elude capture, the sadness always pursued without effort. How could he outrun the moon hanging in the night sky? He looked deep into the mirror and said, yes, I am here, to the sadness, and we will be together for some time yet.
It was the same sadness that had been with him through all the years. But he had always taken pains not to see it, shifting his focus instead through one distraction after another. Mostly he just worked hard, long hours. Still the sadness was there - obvious in the silent, unfocused moments when the mind wavers. Despite the rumbling speed of his life, when distractions failed, he became aware of it as though gazing out the passenger window and noticing a vast, barren landscape.
That night he carried the sadness home in the cold under the misty streetlamps. The distraction that was the thunderous music of the nightclub had faded, leaving his mind and body exhausted. In the cacophony of that sound circus, he had twirled himself into profound distraction, one performer lost among the clowns and freaks reflected in the club's mirrors under the dizzying light.
Swirling in the club's madness there had been some fleeting words sung, something about sex and music. Visions of male faces with wanton stares - vacant windows - and liquid smiles, rushed past in the torrent of beating sound. And then the sound swirled into the drain of silence and the crowd poured out and someone vomited in a corner; he pressed his way out and walked quietly home.
There was no point to avoidance. Even if he should traverse that wide, barren landscape in an attempt to elude capture, the sadness always pursued without effort. How could he outrun the moon hanging in the night sky? He looked deep into the mirror and said, yes, I am here, to the sadness, and we will be together for some time yet.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Our House
The house had too many rooms. Some were richly furnished. Some were sparsely laid out and others were empty. There were rooms with open doorways or simple archways; others had doors that required an effort to open. Still other rooms had locked doors but no one knew who held the keys. None of us knew how we got here since none of us could recall having been invited. Nevertheless, we were all guests in the House of Life, in for the Long Night, and it fell to us to find a safe and warm room to pass the hours until the arrival of our host with the morning light.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
The Congolese Line
I finished off the last of the routine, daily turkey sandwich and the last sentence of the article, surrounded by Americana - pictures of Reagan, Brezhnev, King, the Kennedys, and cowboys. Suspended in the brash guitar music and the loud laughter of Americans chewing on meat, the article stared back at me, accusing.
Everybody was blamed: The Belgians historically plundered the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The Congolese political class - terribly corrupt - worshipped money and did little for their people to bring development, including critical schools and clinics. The international community - the French, the Americans, and others - manipulated the Congolese to obtain the best contracts for their national companies. The World Bank - itself lending the Congo billions that slipped through the drains of corruption - invested heavily in logging companies that were in the process of destroying the second largest forest region on the planet without regard to sustainable logging practices.
The Congolese forests are considered the planet's second lung, next to the dwindling Amazon rain forests, absorbing carbon dioxide that otherwise would flood the atmosphere and trap heat, raising world temperatures with disastrous results around the globe.
In faraway Africa, the cries of the villagers of Baloulambila, are not heard amid the laughter cutting the air in between slurps of old-fashioned American milkshakes. Powerless, the villagers of Baloulambila watch as the American logging company Safbois levels the forest, taking sacred trees, causing the wild beasts that were once part of the village diet to disappear. The schools and clinics that the company had promised are revealed for the lies that they are.
Somewhere, deep in the heart of darkness, a line emerged, connecting Baloulambila, the World Bank, Safbois, milkshakes, turkey sandwiches, laughing Americans, and ancient trees floating down a choked river . . .
I felt the cold of the line start to grip me so I hurried home in the neon night.
Everybody was blamed: The Belgians historically plundered the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The Congolese political class - terribly corrupt - worshipped money and did little for their people to bring development, including critical schools and clinics. The international community - the French, the Americans, and others - manipulated the Congolese to obtain the best contracts for their national companies. The World Bank - itself lending the Congo billions that slipped through the drains of corruption - invested heavily in logging companies that were in the process of destroying the second largest forest region on the planet without regard to sustainable logging practices.
The Congolese forests are considered the planet's second lung, next to the dwindling Amazon rain forests, absorbing carbon dioxide that otherwise would flood the atmosphere and trap heat, raising world temperatures with disastrous results around the globe.
In faraway Africa, the cries of the villagers of Baloulambila, are not heard amid the laughter cutting the air in between slurps of old-fashioned American milkshakes. Powerless, the villagers of Baloulambila watch as the American logging company Safbois levels the forest, taking sacred trees, causing the wild beasts that were once part of the village diet to disappear. The schools and clinics that the company had promised are revealed for the lies that they are.
Somewhere, deep in the heart of darkness, a line emerged, connecting Baloulambila, the World Bank, Safbois, milkshakes, turkey sandwiches, laughing Americans, and ancient trees floating down a choked river . . .
I felt the cold of the line start to grip me so I hurried home in the neon night.
Massacre at Barceloneta
I awoke this morning with vague unhappy thoughts . . . there was a dream somewhere that I peed on myself. Maybe it was the morning cold. After I flushed the toilet, I sat down in front of the computer - and saw this article:
"SAN JUAN, Puerto Rico - Animal control workers seized dozens of dogs and cats from housing projects in the town of Barceloneta and hurled them from a bridge to their deaths, authorities and witnesses said Friday. Mayor Sol Luis Fontanez blamed a contractor hired to take the animals to a shelter."
It also said: "Fontanez said the city hired Animal Control Solution to clear three housing projects of pets after warning residents about a no-pet policy."
It also said: "But instead of being taken to a shelter, the pets and strays were thrown 50 feet from a bridge in the neighboring town of Vega Baja, according to Fontanez, witnesses and activists, apparently before dawn Tuesday."
Today is Saturday. For four days, this story has been marching up the long road to international consciousness. I am so embarrassed. I have barbarian brethren.
"SAN JUAN, Puerto Rico - Animal control workers seized dozens of dogs and cats from housing projects in the town of Barceloneta and hurled them from a bridge to their deaths, authorities and witnesses said Friday. Mayor Sol Luis Fontanez blamed a contractor hired to take the animals to a shelter."
It also said: "Fontanez said the city hired Animal Control Solution to clear three housing projects of pets after warning residents about a no-pet policy."
It also said: "But instead of being taken to a shelter, the pets and strays were thrown 50 feet from a bridge in the neighboring town of Vega Baja, according to Fontanez, witnesses and activists, apparently before dawn Tuesday."
Today is Saturday. For four days, this story has been marching up the long road to international consciousness. I am so embarrassed. I have barbarian brethren.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Postal Prison
The large manila envelope was stuffed in my mailbox and I pulled it out, noting the red scrawls and the tape that the prison had used to seal it when they returned it. In the yellow light of my kitchen I opened the envelope; inside was a standard prison form with the appropriate box marked: magazines not accepted, inmates must receive magazines directly from the publisher.
I shook my head with a rising sense of irony. The magazine I had included with my letter had an article reviewing a number of recent books, all of which flashed a harsh spotlight on the cancerous prison industry and criticized all aspects of this inhuman American institution. The sense of irony welled up, expanded against the walls of my small, narrow kitchen, slid across and out the window, like a cloud, joining the other invisible clouds of irony blowing across the fair city, the capital of the free world.
It is not enough to punish a man who has committed a wrong by removing his freedom of movement. The severity of the wrongdoing is irrelevant, it seems. Without this most precious freedom - movement - a man can do nothing but be still and wither like a wraith. Without movement, he cannot marry; raise children; gain meaningful employment; see the world. Technology may bring the world to the prison but they are taunting images - holograms.
Being penned in is not enough, no, he must be kept ignorant; deprived of the power of the vote; his spiritual faith even must be regulated. To kill is to become worse than a slave.
I took out a new envelope and sent my brother the letter to the prison address again, this time without the prison system's scathing critique.
I shook my head with a rising sense of irony. The magazine I had included with my letter had an article reviewing a number of recent books, all of which flashed a harsh spotlight on the cancerous prison industry and criticized all aspects of this inhuman American institution. The sense of irony welled up, expanded against the walls of my small, narrow kitchen, slid across and out the window, like a cloud, joining the other invisible clouds of irony blowing across the fair city, the capital of the free world.
It is not enough to punish a man who has committed a wrong by removing his freedom of movement. The severity of the wrongdoing is irrelevant, it seems. Without this most precious freedom - movement - a man can do nothing but be still and wither like a wraith. Without movement, he cannot marry; raise children; gain meaningful employment; see the world. Technology may bring the world to the prison but they are taunting images - holograms.
Being penned in is not enough, no, he must be kept ignorant; deprived of the power of the vote; his spiritual faith even must be regulated. To kill is to become worse than a slave.
I took out a new envelope and sent my brother the letter to the prison address again, this time without the prison system's scathing critique.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Dear John
Dear John:
I woke up this morning not having slept enough, yet feeling strangely refreshed. It must have been the invigorating conversation of the prior evening. Nevertheless, I groped around inside of me for the switch to flip but I couldn't find it.
You know the switch inside you, the one you flip and that really amazing person standing before you in life is gone - because you have managed to transport yourself miles away in every way. You have used that switch all too often, I imagine, instantly abandoning all those wonderful people. Well, I couldn't find the switch. The light of the morning didn't help me find it, either. I think I must have thrown it away, down a well, in a cavern someplace. So I determined to carry on, living the day without the switch.
I managed to read two whole paragraphs in the six minutes on the train. It's some progress - but most of the six minutes I spent thinking of silly things I could do to make you laugh. I wasn't coming up with much because I wasn't sufficiently caffeinated. As the train clattered on and the dark tunnels rushed past outside the window, I wondered what Kismet held for our future. In the end, if we could not laugh, the world would be a dark cavern with no light switch.
One of my new colleagues, let's call her Hilda, she could have been a strict Catholic school marm 50 years ago. Hilda was in charge of the Water Club (that's WC for short though I hear that stands for toilet in Europe). She would not allow me to drink until today so she could calculate the prorated expenses of each person who partook of the cooler. Still thinking about making your eyes wrinkle, I got some water and made some hot tea and with the caffeine thus produced threw myself into my work with the abandon of the flipped switch.
And then it seemed a whole other day had passed and it was time to go home in the sudden cold. Where did this cold originate today? I hope my mood didn't bring it on. Talk about bad kismet.
I got online just now and noticed that I had a new email message. I got briefly excited, feeling slightly caffeinated in my imagination, and looked to see who might have written, who might have sent me a little hello.
Some guy was selling a cheap calling plan to Europe, asking me to switch now. Spam: Kismet?
I woke up this morning not having slept enough, yet feeling strangely refreshed. It must have been the invigorating conversation of the prior evening. Nevertheless, I groped around inside of me for the switch to flip but I couldn't find it.
You know the switch inside you, the one you flip and that really amazing person standing before you in life is gone - because you have managed to transport yourself miles away in every way. You have used that switch all too often, I imagine, instantly abandoning all those wonderful people. Well, I couldn't find the switch. The light of the morning didn't help me find it, either. I think I must have thrown it away, down a well, in a cavern someplace. So I determined to carry on, living the day without the switch.
I managed to read two whole paragraphs in the six minutes on the train. It's some progress - but most of the six minutes I spent thinking of silly things I could do to make you laugh. I wasn't coming up with much because I wasn't sufficiently caffeinated. As the train clattered on and the dark tunnels rushed past outside the window, I wondered what Kismet held for our future. In the end, if we could not laugh, the world would be a dark cavern with no light switch.
One of my new colleagues, let's call her Hilda, she could have been a strict Catholic school marm 50 years ago. Hilda was in charge of the Water Club (that's WC for short though I hear that stands for toilet in Europe). She would not allow me to drink until today so she could calculate the prorated expenses of each person who partook of the cooler. Still thinking about making your eyes wrinkle, I got some water and made some hot tea and with the caffeine thus produced threw myself into my work with the abandon of the flipped switch.
And then it seemed a whole other day had passed and it was time to go home in the sudden cold. Where did this cold originate today? I hope my mood didn't bring it on. Talk about bad kismet.
I got online just now and noticed that I had a new email message. I got briefly excited, feeling slightly caffeinated in my imagination, and looked to see who might have written, who might have sent me a little hello.
Some guy was selling a cheap calling plan to Europe, asking me to switch now. Spam: Kismet?
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Honeycomb America
Under a slightly muggy September sky, I pulled the luggage along, its wheels rolling bumpety-bump over the cracks in the sidewalk and before long - a taxi. In a few moments I breathed heavily, exhaling relief as we whisked onto the highway to join the swirl of five-thirty traffic. My flight wasn't until seven-thirty. Even in the thickest of traffic jams, there would be time, I thought.
Oh no, traffic can be very bad, though only a short way, the deep blue turban of the cab driver was saying. I could not see his face in the rear view mirror. The turban was saying that he was going to take a short cut. It turned from side to side, eyeing the flow of traffic, ebbing slowly like poured honey.
All at once, all those cars pouring along the highway seemed to me like a swarm of bees, each one a distinct, oddly mindless individual, but all functioning in unison like an entity working for the greater glory of the Queen - the national economy, the numberless industries, the rearing of countless larvae through school and college. We were linked - each to each - like the interlocking connections of empty honeycomb cells: one driver leaves her office early and ends up in front of another, slowing him down so that he feels compelled to speed down his exit ramp but is caught by a traffic officer who slows him down further with a citation, preventing him from being home in time to let his son who has come from school into the house; so the child wanders around the neighborhood until the son of the man who employed the woman who left early from her office pulls up to the child in his car and offers the boy a ride.
In the next minute the whole swarm of cars swerved away, offering a clear trajectory to the airport exit ramp. The blue turban cannot believe it. "It is never like this, so fast, " he is saying.
"Never is a very long time," I say.
Oh no, traffic can be very bad, though only a short way, the deep blue turban of the cab driver was saying. I could not see his face in the rear view mirror. The turban was saying that he was going to take a short cut. It turned from side to side, eyeing the flow of traffic, ebbing slowly like poured honey.
All at once, all those cars pouring along the highway seemed to me like a swarm of bees, each one a distinct, oddly mindless individual, but all functioning in unison like an entity working for the greater glory of the Queen - the national economy, the numberless industries, the rearing of countless larvae through school and college. We were linked - each to each - like the interlocking connections of empty honeycomb cells: one driver leaves her office early and ends up in front of another, slowing him down so that he feels compelled to speed down his exit ramp but is caught by a traffic officer who slows him down further with a citation, preventing him from being home in time to let his son who has come from school into the house; so the child wanders around the neighborhood until the son of the man who employed the woman who left early from her office pulls up to the child in his car and offers the boy a ride.
In the next minute the whole swarm of cars swerved away, offering a clear trajectory to the airport exit ramp. The blue turban cannot believe it. "It is never like this, so fast, " he is saying.
"Never is a very long time," I say.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Mecca at Starbucks
I did not hear the greeting at first; he said hello quickly in his low voice. I heard it again and lifted my head; my face had been buried in the article I was reading. At first I could not see his face. His tight white t-shirt was dazzling in the sudden brilliance of the neon streetlamp. His dark face was lost in the solid white until he smiled and then I recognized him.
In the mere seconds of this exchange I could only manage a slow but polite hello. By the time the smile was completed on my face, he had entered the cafe, no doubt to get his coffee before coming back out to sit here among the sidewalk tables.
My mind traveled backward across the months, reluctantly recalling the many times we had seen each other at this cafe and smiled politely, said a few words of greeting on occasion, even once engaging in two or three minutes of small talk. I traveled back across the months to the numerous times that I had seen him elsewhere, passing by on the sidewalk plugged into his music device, in the gym - sweating at the machines and plugged into his music device - at the gym showers, wrapped in his towel walking to a stall with his smooth black skin glistening. Always there was the polite smile and nod of the head but nothing more. His smiles were like tonight, noncommittal, like smiling to a fellow passenger on a train bound into the caffeine night.
Back in those days, I was the disciple of Beauty; wherever She was rumored to be holding forth, teaching Her devotees by way of example, I would seek Her out.
My face was buried again in the article. I sensed him pass behind me and pick a table near the end of the outdoor seating area.
Like all poor disciples, there came the time when I too grew disillusioned with my Prophet. Beauty had ultimately failed; Her teachings proved fleeting, the promised meaning never appearing with each disappointing glimpse. Still, distant as this Avatar of Beauty had been, I held the hope that I could one day say more than hello, sit comfortably and talk with him a while under the black sky and the neon streetlamps with all the people rushing by as they did just now, the constant tumult of pedestrians causing me to read the same sentence three times:
"L'Abri, though intense and strange, had not prepared Frank for the open money-grubbing cynicism of Big Religion in America, for the outright contempt many of the big pastors felt toward their followers and the commercialization of everything Jesus."
Or was it something else distracting me; yes, there it was, the thought that I should get up, walk over to him and offer him the magazine, talk about the book review on a founder of the Religious Right, or about the article on the Iraq War veterans who were routinely denied medical benefits.
I stood up. There, at my feet, I could almost see lines radiating from them along the ground in all directions, like spokes on a great wheel - lines that represented possible futures - one such line leading directly to the table at the far end, a return pilgrimage to the Prophet Beauty.
Then the French people arrived. The wheel began to turn. But tonight I would be crushed under the wheel if I stayed. The French people always came, a community of expatriates who talked long and loud and smoked incessantly, probably comfortable that no American would understand their conversation - they did not know that I understood them fully but had never responded to their greetings in anything other than English. Tonight the French would detain me with their talk and I would be rooted to the spot, glancing up as he left the cafe before I could say anything.
As I got up to leave, one of the Frenchmen greeted me; we engaged in polite small talk about the long days of work. Then I wished him goodnight and walked away, in the opposite direction of Mecca.
In the mere seconds of this exchange I could only manage a slow but polite hello. By the time the smile was completed on my face, he had entered the cafe, no doubt to get his coffee before coming back out to sit here among the sidewalk tables.
My mind traveled backward across the months, reluctantly recalling the many times we had seen each other at this cafe and smiled politely, said a few words of greeting on occasion, even once engaging in two or three minutes of small talk. I traveled back across the months to the numerous times that I had seen him elsewhere, passing by on the sidewalk plugged into his music device, in the gym - sweating at the machines and plugged into his music device - at the gym showers, wrapped in his towel walking to a stall with his smooth black skin glistening. Always there was the polite smile and nod of the head but nothing more. His smiles were like tonight, noncommittal, like smiling to a fellow passenger on a train bound into the caffeine night.
Back in those days, I was the disciple of Beauty; wherever She was rumored to be holding forth, teaching Her devotees by way of example, I would seek Her out.
My face was buried again in the article. I sensed him pass behind me and pick a table near the end of the outdoor seating area.
Like all poor disciples, there came the time when I too grew disillusioned with my Prophet. Beauty had ultimately failed; Her teachings proved fleeting, the promised meaning never appearing with each disappointing glimpse. Still, distant as this Avatar of Beauty had been, I held the hope that I could one day say more than hello, sit comfortably and talk with him a while under the black sky and the neon streetlamps with all the people rushing by as they did just now, the constant tumult of pedestrians causing me to read the same sentence three times:
"L'Abri, though intense and strange, had not prepared Frank for the open money-grubbing cynicism of Big Religion in America, for the outright contempt many of the big pastors felt toward their followers and the commercialization of everything Jesus."
Or was it something else distracting me; yes, there it was, the thought that I should get up, walk over to him and offer him the magazine, talk about the book review on a founder of the Religious Right, or about the article on the Iraq War veterans who were routinely denied medical benefits.
I stood up. There, at my feet, I could almost see lines radiating from them along the ground in all directions, like spokes on a great wheel - lines that represented possible futures - one such line leading directly to the table at the far end, a return pilgrimage to the Prophet Beauty.
Then the French people arrived. The wheel began to turn. But tonight I would be crushed under the wheel if I stayed. The French people always came, a community of expatriates who talked long and loud and smoked incessantly, probably comfortable that no American would understand their conversation - they did not know that I understood them fully but had never responded to their greetings in anything other than English. Tonight the French would detain me with their talk and I would be rooted to the spot, glancing up as he left the cafe before I could say anything.
As I got up to leave, one of the Frenchmen greeted me; we engaged in polite small talk about the long days of work. Then I wished him goodnight and walked away, in the opposite direction of Mecca.
The Old Couple - 09.16.07
In the brilliant September noon light, the old couple sat down to eat brunch; they were seated at a nearby table and I watched them. There was nothing remarkable about the old man and the old woman. Clearly, they were tourists: the old man's hefty camera hanging like a scarlet letter around his neck. They were dressed conservatively in long monotone shorts. The old man wore a dun shirt, the old woman a light striped blouse.
There was nothing remarkable about the old couple, I noticed, until they started eating. The old man said a word to the woman, which I could not hear. She nodded. She made a motion that seemed to complete the sentence that the old man started but did not finish. In time, I noticed - or decided - that the old couple's movements while they ate communicated whole thoughts to each other. They were married, I decided. In fact, they had been married for 40 years.
After 40 years, the old couple had probably said all that they had to say to each other. After living together for so long, words had lost their sense of urgency. It was sufficient to be present, to still breathe in each other's company. This is how wordless telepathy develops, slowly, over the long years traced by photographs . . .
In one moment, the old man lifted his camera and aimed the lens across the small table at his wife, who was aware of the powerful zoom lens but was wholly unconcerned as she turned the pages of a magazine slowly, waiting for dessert.
It was then I noticed that the camera must have been quite expensive, armed with an enormous zoom lens, the kind that professional bird watchers would have. The old man pointed the lens at his favorite bird - who had by now become accustomed to having her casual preening captured - and fidgeted with the lens, the magnifying strength of the lens being tested to its limit.
There I decided that the old man was peering ever closer into his wife's face, to see what she had not yet shown through her words or her motions. There I decided that the old man could see the cells of his wife's face, dying on her cheeks - and he snapped the photo.
Then he adjusted the lens, going deeper still, deep within the dying cells, where the molecules were in constant motion despite death. Deeper still, the atoms within were a blur of screaming motion, colliding in tremendous explosions that released sub-atomic particles, the building blocks of all reality - and deep within the particles were more particles still, awaiting discovery by scientists searching for something to say to the modern world.
Past the speeding, blinding collisions the lens penetrated to the very depths until at the end of the smallest matter, the old man's eyes emerged at the other end of the universe, where gigantic clouds of interstellar dust signaled the long-dead presence of ancient stars that had been torn apart by the gravitational pull of a black hole that sucked in all light, all gas, all matter into yet another universe. But the lens could not peer through the darkness.
The old woman put the magazine to the side and raised her head. In response, the old man let the camera hang from his neck. Dessert had arrived.
There was nothing remarkable about the old couple, I noticed, until they started eating. The old man said a word to the woman, which I could not hear. She nodded. She made a motion that seemed to complete the sentence that the old man started but did not finish. In time, I noticed - or decided - that the old couple's movements while they ate communicated whole thoughts to each other. They were married, I decided. In fact, they had been married for 40 years.
After 40 years, the old couple had probably said all that they had to say to each other. After living together for so long, words had lost their sense of urgency. It was sufficient to be present, to still breathe in each other's company. This is how wordless telepathy develops, slowly, over the long years traced by photographs . . .
In one moment, the old man lifted his camera and aimed the lens across the small table at his wife, who was aware of the powerful zoom lens but was wholly unconcerned as she turned the pages of a magazine slowly, waiting for dessert.
It was then I noticed that the camera must have been quite expensive, armed with an enormous zoom lens, the kind that professional bird watchers would have. The old man pointed the lens at his favorite bird - who had by now become accustomed to having her casual preening captured - and fidgeted with the lens, the magnifying strength of the lens being tested to its limit.
There I decided that the old man was peering ever closer into his wife's face, to see what she had not yet shown through her words or her motions. There I decided that the old man could see the cells of his wife's face, dying on her cheeks - and he snapped the photo.
Then he adjusted the lens, going deeper still, deep within the dying cells, where the molecules were in constant motion despite death. Deeper still, the atoms within were a blur of screaming motion, colliding in tremendous explosions that released sub-atomic particles, the building blocks of all reality - and deep within the particles were more particles still, awaiting discovery by scientists searching for something to say to the modern world.
Past the speeding, blinding collisions the lens penetrated to the very depths until at the end of the smallest matter, the old man's eyes emerged at the other end of the universe, where gigantic clouds of interstellar dust signaled the long-dead presence of ancient stars that had been torn apart by the gravitational pull of a black hole that sucked in all light, all gas, all matter into yet another universe. But the lens could not peer through the darkness.
The old woman put the magazine to the side and raised her head. In response, the old man let the camera hang from his neck. Dessert had arrived.
The Taxi Ride - 09.09.07
Pushing my feet in their worn-out sandals, stinging from the cold autumn air, I rushed into the cab this evening. The old driver, a shock of snow-white hair melting from the top, asked me how I was tonight. "Cold," I replied.
"Do you want a mint?" he asked. "If you keep your mouth moving you might get warm."
As we sped across the Washington streets with the bright lights and the sparse Sunday night traffic, the old driver kept his mouth moving. Mostly he mumbled. There was something about a strike. From time to time, I would say, "Hmm." I said this in various tones and at the right intervals to convey that A) I was listening; B) I was in general agreement; or C) I was at least not offended by what the old driver was saying.
Mostly people just want someone to listen. I listen, but what is there to say most of the time? How many different ways can you howl into this modern world? It's been some time since anyone told me a quiet story.
There was some cool jazz playing on the cab radio. Finally home, the old driver tried to overcharge me until I corrected him that I had taken many cab rides to my office. I knew the price to pay.
"Do you want a mint?" he asked. "If you keep your mouth moving you might get warm."
As we sped across the Washington streets with the bright lights and the sparse Sunday night traffic, the old driver kept his mouth moving. Mostly he mumbled. There was something about a strike. From time to time, I would say, "Hmm." I said this in various tones and at the right intervals to convey that A) I was listening; B) I was in general agreement; or C) I was at least not offended by what the old driver was saying.
Mostly people just want someone to listen. I listen, but what is there to say most of the time? How many different ways can you howl into this modern world? It's been some time since anyone told me a quiet story.
There was some cool jazz playing on the cab radio. Finally home, the old driver tried to overcharge me until I corrected him that I had taken many cab rides to my office. I knew the price to pay.
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