Notes From Me
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Tuesday, May 31, 2005
passed from 1. I don't have my own computer. 2. the last cd i bought...hmmm...i mean burned- shingu no mix with tom waits, richie havens, nike drake, toots ebert. One of those songs, "dirt in the ground," moves me no matter how many times I hear it. The quill from a buzzard, blood writes the word/I want to know am I the sky/or a bird 3. no song playing at the moment, last song was "street spirit" (radiohead). 4. Other music and songs occuring recently and since I have been overseas: My friend Tim who has been living in Amsterdam for several years now brought me to his friend's place where she put on several different Brazilian songs, jumped up during a lot of them to sing or dance. I loved the music and cannot say what or who it was. But the one that stays with me is a recording she made of kids at a guest house in Brazil. Two of them, maybe five and six years old, were singing this well-known song that keeps returning to, "Fumar fumar..." and to hear children sing it was surprisingly sweet. Their tiny enthusiastic voices are still with me. In Japan, I played djembe at a little festival with two friends (one singing and guitaring, one on harmonica). Mostly we did blues, but my pick was Ali Farka Toure, "I Go Ka". The song sounds like, "genki by the river" but the river is old and deep. A little ticking rhythm is the beat I had to keep though much louder when I played. Getting to play it brought me somewhere I would never have gotten to go otherwise. Repetition in this song is more like the creation of something new every moment. Lastly (for today), one of my all-time favorite songs is bob dylan's "It's All Right, Ma (i'm only bleeding)." Although the entire thing is lyrically amazing, succinct with non-annoying rhyme, and lifetimes of wisdom fit into one song, I won't put them all here. Just A question in your nerves is lit/ yet you know there is no answer fit/ to satisfy insure you not to quit/ to keep it in your mind and not forget/ that it is not he or she or them or it/ that you belong to. /Although the masters make the rules/ for the wise men and the fools/ I got nothing, Ma, to live up to./ For them that must obey authority/ that they do not respect in any degree/ who despise their jobs, their destinies/ speak jealously of them that are free/ cultivate their flowers to be/ nothing more than something/ they invest in. Thank you for posting about music, KT. This portion of the relay, in order not to resemble in any way a chain letter, shall cross one of the many finishing points. 
having nearly completed a full round, begun February 19th 2004. going west to the far east, encircling this huge infinitesimal world with most of it yet unseen, my approximation of what comprises it has deepened tremendously, yet still is so, so tiny. 
Saturday, May 28, 2005
"ain't got nothin' to declare" 
Friday, May 27, 2005
Two days ago I was sitting at Mekong, a restaurant in an old building I stopped at because of its antquity, when I remembered two sisters I had met in Bangkok. They were from Canada, their parents born in China, and one of them had said she lived in New York City. I knew she worked at a sandwich shop, nothing more. I was thinking momentarily of running into her, and then the impossibility of it or of finding a sandwich place without knowing its name. Plus, I couldn't remember hers. Sitting outside Mekong in the wind and light rain, because it is late May and I won't be deterred (and it is not as cold as Amsterdam, so it is not cold), I wrote down all the names of my Japanese students I could remember. I remembered that I had a student named Enzo, which was never funny while I was there. Last night after visiting the new Moma (which is a fantastic place though they charge twenty unwarrented dollars to go in), I was eating bi bim bap with Staying Pinoy, whom it was a pleasure to meet, when I looked up to see that the person pouring water for me was the very same one I had met in Bangkok; she works, only for one week more, at the Korean restaurant we were in. Much needed inspirations. Also from my cousin who just published a book (about 80s music, but a published book all the same; it is also a game you play for points), and from his father my uncle, who actually gets paid to tell stories. There are very few artists in my family, but this uncle makes up for it. We told each other stories all day on Monday. I learned that another uncle used to be a detective on a homicide squad (before he got a job with Exxon; that part I knew). And my uncle told a story of a woman in the 1800s who walked across America from Seattle to New York. Her family had become extremely poor and was in danger of losing their ranch, so she decided to take the offer of some people in the garment district of NYC who were offering ten thousand dollars to anyone who would walk across the country wearing their company's clothing. So, even though at that time women were not seen about on their own except it very unusual circumstances, she did it. But, almost there, she turned her ankle and arrived three days past the deadline. They wouldn't give her any money, not even enough to go back home. Here is something I will post after having read a post of Turtlechild's, in which was included: librarychik has posted a meme over at swimming in it, which gives the following instructions:1. Grab the nearest book.2. Open the book to page 123. 3. Find the fifth sentence.4. Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog, along with these instructions. (I just opened a book of stories published by NPR to find that page 123 merely says, Slapstick.) Okay: I went back to the low-pitched tent in the shelter of a dune. I lay down beside Sergeant Hamano, and closed my eyes. This time sleep came to me--a deep sleep that all but pulled me by the ankles to the bottom of the sea. -Haruki Murakami Thursday, May 26, 2005
windwoken, gotta go slowly O japan ease raining and wildly pretty, the sky over new york admitting the unessentiality of uninterruptible surety surprising difference on faces of humans when they think no one is looking AT MY COUSIN'S HUGE OLD HOUSE IN BROOKLYN, HEARING HAIL TO THE THEIF FOR THE FIRST TIME IN OVER A YEAR, WONDERING WHAT THE NEW MOMA WILL BE LIKE LATER TODAY, WITH AS MANY JUNCTURES AS THERE ARE RAINDROPS BETWEEN HERE AND THERE. Tuesday, May 24, 2005
It's funny, but it feels like each state is its own country. I did not so much notice before how many different countries' people and their descendents inhabit New Jersey. At a small movie theater in Paris I saw Bukowski: Born Into This. Very inspiring film for me. Also saw Before Sunset at a cinema that has a comfortably worn, all-wooden bar out front and subterranean theaters. Huis Marseille in Amsterdam had great photo exhibitions. a little fiction: A travel clerk, bored and harassed by ten in the morning, told her there was no bus information, that she would have to go to the station. "Metro line two," he wheezed, when actually it was line four. After inquiries and platform changes, she arrived at the correct stop, emerged into a biting chill, and looked around. No station. Separate from the department stores, a small building had INFORMATION printed over its opaque door. Buses idled about the lot. All the windows of the building were tinted. Pushing open the door, she found a group who stared without expression, greeting her in various languages. "The bus station?" she asked. "But yes," said a woman with Italian green eyes and white hair. "Down the metro." "I just took--" "In the metro," said a young French man proudly, "go down one long corridor." He gestured palms-up as if finding the station couldn't get any easier. "Okay. Merci. Ciao. Thanks." Underground, dirty concrete led the way. Halfway along, a stench of urine took over. Thus, the ticket vending room presented itself. It was large and dingy with eight service windows labeled in four languages offering the sale of tickets, but only two clerks were positioned to do the job. A line stood motionless, filling several rows cordoned-off in amusement park fashion. Loud crackly speakers issued r&b rejects that intensified the insufficiency of the lighting. After forty-one timeless minutes, a stubbornly long buzzer ushered her to a window where she asked for a ticket. "Yes. Okay," the clerk said, "but you must be registered." "To ride a bus?" "I.D. please." "What registered?" she asked. "Don't worry, it can be done here. Just a little performance." "Eh?" she said testily. The clerk drew back in indignation. "Unless you want to...fly. This isn't the airport you know." "Of course--" "We are not," the clerk's eyes cast about, "merely splotches on the sidewalk." The line shuffled, weary. A few warm beers were hastily cracked and the discomforting tones of Whitney Houston trickled from the old ripped speakers. A sham levitator set up his act on the Leidseplein. Going to Forro dance classes to watch my friend inspired me also because dancing is one of the best things in all the world. I got to borrow a bicycle while I was in Amsterdam, which was so great. Gorgeous, gorgeous. Monday, May 23, 2005
 athens from the acropolis 
 the morning fish truck has its followers (manarola, cinque terre, italy)
 paris alleyway
 in amsterdam
 in vondelpark with a good friend of mine
 amsterdam
 found these all over rome
Sunday, May 15, 2005
There is a photo of Athens I have to scan to post so I will do so later... My last night in Rome I was taken by my impeccable host on the fastest motorbike ride I've ever been on. A thankfully quiet yet very powerful bike. I was prepared to just go with my light jacket but Maurizio said, "But no, you will wear this," and handed me a sleek blue synthetic Italian motorbike jacket that looked almost bulletproof. Both of us helmeted and on the bike, he then said, "You will hold on me, and if you are scared you will knock me like this: bam, bam, bam." "Okay," I said, "but I will not be scared." I much prefer holding the metal bar behind the seat, or the seat itself if there isn't one, unless I know the driver well. In Vietnam I got a ride across Saigon with a woman I met, and she too said, "You hold on," and when I put my hands on her waist she said, "More. Because I have big belly," and she laughed. How this illogic was supposed to encourage me...anyway with Maurizio I am glad I held on because I would have flown off the back if I hadn't. The acceleration made me start smiling automatically, motivated by adrenaline. I got to see many places. My favorite thing was this: We drove to the end of a street and stopped. From there you could see a lit cityscape with a really good view of the dome of the Basilica of St. Peter's at the Vatican. Then, Maurizio told me to keep my eye on the dome, which I had to turn around to do as we drove off. Instead of receding, the lit up dome appeared grow and to follow us, more and more until it was looming. Not disappearing. "An illusion," he said, "because this road narrows." It was like a visual version of gravity hill in Cotati, CA. Saturday, May 14, 2005
 so much symmetry
 fountain near the vatican
 approaching the basilica at the vatican
 closer
 going inside
 no description necessary
 the basilica is so immense, statues that look life-sized are actually gigantic, their shadows can subsume whole dreams at a time
 cinzia (in italy)
 fabio (in italy)
 graffiti on a mural
 i like doors
 another
 on a walk
 cinque terre in italy
 largest vending machine i've seen
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The Journal
Define and Concur, wild like cloudlight The Writer
Wooden boats, musical instruments and fireworks are some of the best inventions. And cameras. I don't believe in following any one person or set of ideas. There are tiny satiations like orchids along the viny forest floor, blooming unseen, more gorgeous than some could keep from weeping over. Whenever I see the occasional sun rise the colors always surprise me like the flavor of tahini in Holland. Subway cars make great rhythm along the tracks, as does wind in treebranches, the sound pattern of running engines, and sometimes clothes in a dryer. I like Sumerian poetry. Archives
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