Notes From Me
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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. |
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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