Poems Starting with And

shelf!

2006-06-25T14:28:00.000-05:00

yesterday, while my friends were all at the beach, I bought, assembled, and loaded a spanking new particle board bookshelf. I used to two bottom shelves for my LPs, even taking the time to separate out those which I would or should probably listen to from the streisand and streisand-esque. A one-per-every-25 streisand to everything else LP ratio is compulsory in the record collecting world. Still, the majesty of Yentl aside, the bookshelf made me happy. It was probably the best thin that happened to me all week. Sure, it was no French chick in Granada... no 5am trip across Gibraltar as a refugee...and certainly no cafe con leche, but I suppose that I have to get my simple pleasure somewhere.
Which reminds me. Hello! And welcome back to Poems Starting with And, my Europe journal turned latent aesthetic manifesto, turned other-blog. It has now been a little over three months since my shotgun movement through and from the world of jet-setting world traveller to Charlestonian workaholic. It seems like another lifetime. I have much to tell about the last three months and, despite the fact that few, if any people are listeing, I will divulge these lessons, stories, and maxims over the coming days and pages. For now, to the laundry mat.

Triangulating Schlegel

2006-04-05T07:09:00.000-05:00

The following will examine three rather lengthy fragments of Schlegel. Somewhere within, and perhaps more importantly, in between these three aphorisms turned miniature treatises is a contradiction, a paradox, or even a beautifully orchestrated symbiosis. It is through these explications that we will attempt to see whether or not it is through faith alone that we believe Schlegel to have intended the latter, or if his short bursts of genius are, in actuality, only the tips of the proverbial icebergs of his logical system. To begin:
352. “It’s an invention of historians of nature that her creative powers labored long in vain exertions and that, after exhausting themselves in forms that could have no lasting life conceived still others that, though living, were doomed to perish because they lacked the strength to reproduce themselves. The self-creative power of mankind is still at this level. Few live, and most of those who do only have fleeting existence. If they have found their egos in a propitious moment, then they still lack the strength to procreate them out of their own selves. Death is their habitual state, and if they once come to life, they imagine themselves transported into another world."
Schlegel begins this fragment with a familiar consideration. The personified nature in the minds of the historians is weak or imperfect. These forms mentioned first that “could have no lasting life” probably are referring to inanimate objects which, though long if not everlasting, are incapable of godly things like creation (or criticism). Trying once again, the Mother Nature here creates life and the highest order thereof, humans. In doing so, once again in the mind of these historians, the gods failed again in creating a godly thing. For, as any of us who have ever tried to use a skateboard know, we are far from perfect. The assumption here is that because the gods have failed in creating a perfect thing that they are incapable of creating a perfect thing and thus imperfect themselves. This omits however, as Schlegel was no doubt aware, the idea of the limits of perspective. That is, from the perspective of an imperfect being, it is rather rash to assume anything about perfection or lack thereof in one’s creator. The being about which these historians speak is instead themselves, as Schlegel goes on to say. It is man who is incapable (at least in large part) of self-creation. That is pulling one’s ego, one’s self, apart from the primordial collective ooze and up to the higher plane of existence that is to truly be alive. And it is only the men capable of this that are capable of producing anything (art) with a life of its own, short-lived as it may be.
But Schlegel’s Will to Power rant stops short of being just that, and in another fragment we can see what at first might seem contradictory, or at least not as guns-a-blazin’.
37. "In order to write well about something one should not be interested in it anymore. To express an idea with due circumspection one must have relegated it wholly to one's past, one must no longer be preoccupied with it. As long as the artist is in a process of discovery and inspiration, he is in a state which, as far as communication is concerned, is at very least intolerant. He wants to blurt out everything, which is the fault of young geniuses or a legitimate prejudice of old buglers. And so he fails to recognize the value and the dignity of self restriction which is after all, for the artist as well as the man, the first and the last, the most necessary and highest duty. Most necessary because where one does not restrict one's self, one is restricted by the world; and that makes one a slave. The highest because one can only restrict oneself at those points and places where one possesses infinite power, self creation, and self destruction. Even a friendly conversation which cannot be freely broken off at any moment, completely arbitrarily, has something intolerant about it. But a writer who can and does talk himself out, who keeps nothing back for himself, and like to tell everything he knows, is very much to be pitied. There are only three mistakes to guard against. First: What appears to be unlimited free will, and consequently seems and should seem to be irrational or supra-rational, nonetheless must still at bottom be simply necessary and rational; otherwise the whim becomes willful, becomes intolerant, and self restriction turns into self-destruction. Second: Don’t be in too much of a hurry for self-restriction, but first give rein to self-creation, invention, and inspiration, until you’re ready. Third: Don’t exaggerate self-restriction.”
Proceeding with caution, and with much deliberation over these words, it still may seem to a reader that they are in contradiction to the aforementioned fragment. This, however, is incorrect. Schlegel is adamant that the artist, in this case a writer, restrain himself in his quest for Quality. In fact, he calls self-restriction “the most necessary and highest duty” for all men. Not only does this seem contradictory because it asks for restraint rather than unbridled doing, but also because it seems to assume that all men have something emanating from them which need be restrained, when before it was said that “few live”. But as he continues, we begin to see how these two ideas, of restraint and of fleeting propitious movement of the ego, perfectly complement each other. Guarding against the mistake of the assumed infinitely free will we have our own restraint. This restraint is powered by the very same thing which was used to command the ego into existence and action: the will. These two actions working harmoniously (and only such) produce an art of quality or a man of quality: necessary, rational, and self-creative. An absence of this harmony produces not only the lack of self creation, but actual self-destruction, something Schlegel is here to vehemently warn us against. Through giving us such direct advice it seems as if he seeks to create values system applicable and necessary to the creation not only of quality art but of quality life; these being one and the same.
355. “Pitiful, to be sure, is why the pragmatic philosophy of French and English is, though considered to be so well versed in the knowledge of what man is, despite their failure to speculate on what he should be. Every organic being has rules, its duties; and if one doesn’t know them how can one possibly understand that being? Where do they get the organizing principle of their scientific descriptions, and what standards do they use to measure man? But at least they’re just as good as those who begin and end with the concept of duty. The latter class aren’t aware that the moral man rotates around his axis freely by means of his own power. They’ve discovered the point outside the earth that only a mathematician should try to find, but they’ve lost the earth itself. In order to say what a man should do, one has to be a man, and know it too.”
Here the mention of “rules”, “standards”, and “organizing principles” show again how it is through pragmatic (ahem, German) albeit organic systems that Quality is given rise and the rest restrained. To attempt to understand what man should do is to claim that there is a something which a man should do: an action of higher value than any other action possible in a given circumstance. Schlegel challenges the French and English thinkers’ ability to measure man. For they know not against what to measure him. In the same boat to self-destruction are people who claim to know the should of to be a man, and call it simply duty. But whence this duty? In the case described in the first two fragments the duty comes from the same place to which it is owed: the self-creating ego, brought into existence and creative by means of its own will.

Questions for Jesus

2006-03-27T22:31:00.000-05:00

If the Eastbound doves burn the flag, and the southbound hounds trample it in the mud, who’s to say which is luckier?

If the girl writes home and says that she’s the type who doesn’t go for them, and they think they just want to fuck her, who calls them all back?

Can a dump-truck take a day’s vacation?

When the door slams in the face of the man who let you down, and you still can’t get the stain out, do you yell at the stain?

Do you?

Huh?

Are your guitar strings overdue?

2006-03-26T11:57:00.000-05:00

You know, the only thing better than seeing a live band that really does it for you, is seeing one who sucks. And mind you, the difference of appreciation is slight.

A Fish In An Aquarium

2006-03-19T15:39:00.000-05:00

I’ve been wanting to pen an entry about the closing days, hours, minutos of my European excursion for quite sometime, though, between customs procedure, freedom fry saucing, automobiling, and other more general forms of not walking, my time has been somewhat limited.

The Sunday of my departure from Katherine, Spain, Europe, vacation, lightheartedness, etc etc started early. Rising at 8 in the AM for coffee and yogurt, I dashed down to the local bus station for my 10 o’clock depature. (On Sundays the trains run later in the day, the earliest Madrid arrival time not early enough for my flight). To Amsterdam.

At 7:45 I made my way past the small man who accosted me asking “are you Swedish?” with a glimour of wonder in his eye, and to whom I responded, “maybe, I’m American” and onto my flight towards Grasstown EU. A beautiful night flight over Paris had even the Parisians themselves glued to the windows.

Upon arrival, giddy as a fourteen year old school girl finding a shoebox stuffed cache of brother broken Barbie heads, I and my newly acquired accomplice Matt, a 20 year old student from the Midwest, made our way to the coffee shop -- Dyyyying for a cup!

After what seemed like three months of smoking and staring at the 24 hr EuroSport coverage on LCD flat panel I told my first five minute friends that I must take their leave, citing my preference of loneliness to fogged, dogged accompaniment.

I wandered in the Northern Euro cold, for which I was amply unprepared, for more than an hour then ducked into one of the few open bars. Beer, Beer, so then I left and I bought a slice off a streetside vender who moments before was witnessed forced to fotograph a group of disgusting Americans with ranch slathered slices held high. I, along with the Spanish pizza seller, was disgusted. So back to the airport for 6 hours of fetal position linoleum tile sleeping.

In short, Amsterdam is a great place, if you and all your friends are completely without Spirit, intellect, class, or anything more on their minds than herbs.

Look for more postings in the near future as my adventuring has not ended yet and likely never will. I now live in downtown Charleston, South Carolina and I’m sure to have some interesting experiences. If not, I can always spin them into abstruse yarns, referencing spontaneously created flash fiction outlines.

Whoever you people are, maintain that anonymity --It’s all you’ve got!!!!

Guest Book

2006-03-10T05:20:00.000-05:00

If you have yet to make a single comment, devouring my prose like a cloaked coldwar rogue would a munich bus schedule, make one now. Tell me what you have enjoyed, loathed. Or simply use the space for your own pretentious rant, unrelated with my topic. Just put your name cowards.

If {impasse} Then Push{ingles} Capiche?

2006-03-09T06:36:00.001-05:00

Last night at around 1130 pm I rolled into Madrid after a long sleepless trainride. Snoring assholes have been the bain of my exsistance for the past few weeks and this train, while mostly empty, contained just enough of these to make them unavoidable, even upon switiching coches.
Well known to and reccommended by most any and all travelers in Spain in Cat´s Hostel in Madrid. So, a short hike from the Atocha train station brought me there. (I say I´m backpacking Europe, though I´ve had to make special effort to actually walk long distances with the thing on my back. At first I was taking cabs do to my unfamliarity with the areas. Now I just take off walking towards the lights and honking cars.) The place is great, more like a night club or bar with beds upstairs. Tons of Americans sure, but also everyone else. After checking in and throwing my stuf in my dorm I made my way down to the bar which was dark, crowded, and serving up liter cups of beer for 2 euros 50. Kids everywhere, spilling out into the street, a regular Spanish Wednesday night. I made friends with a group: a student from Chile studying economics and two German solo travellers. After typical conversation....the weakness of the dollar versus the fate of the Euro, German philosophy and its creation of an enlightened if unhappy people and so forth....we made our was down to the basement -the internet room slash nightclub looking area. as we four gentlement tired of each other slightly, and one of the german´s libido kicked up, he crossed the room and asked two birds in the corner to join us. Now these guys are all students here, only one speaking Spanish fluently, the others a sort of slow textbook castillano that I can actually understand. So as the girls walked over we all looked at each other and took a quick worried survey of the linguistic abilities between us, figuring them to be native spanish speakers. Nay, .....Italian birds. Born and raised in Florence. I couldn´t get over their nationality much the same as they couldnt get over mine, though my fascination was returned with disdain. I´m used to this by now. The Chilean bloke struck up a conversation with one of the birds though she spoke less Spanish than Italian or even English. He´s a smart dude, so that helped, but what´s more is how similar Italian and Spanish are. He would speak his native tounge and she hers and they rolled through what was to me a Romantic Recitative from an abscure Florentein opera, to them...small talk. But the really interesting point, the thing which my German national, English conversing comrade of the evening told me to expect, the entire reason for this story, is that when the two Romance speakers arrive at an impasse -the ommission or addition of a terminal vowell usually- it was always quickly, mechanically resolved with -you guessed it- English. The language of finance, engineering, and computer programming......"alright...what´s the noun....whats the verb....ok got it".....but not a language of love. English has great use all over the world for this purpose, which is kindof cool, but its sort of like using sissors to complete a puzzle instead of sense, trial, and corrected error. So guys...the odds are stacked quite against you with European broads. Sorry.

Rift

2006-03-07T15:31:00.000-05:00

It’s true, you really never slash always are alone in this world. After leaving Sevilla to escape my three frat roommates I now find myself in a four person dorm at a hostal with three other solo travelers. All of them also talk similarly to each other and different from me; they are all Japanese. Obviously, I consider this a huge step up from my previous situation but it is still a shame that I feel the need to apologize for or run from my Americanism. It’s not that people ask for apology, but if I myself am dodging Americans left and right, pretending to be French in more than one instance to avoid sorority girls and the like, how can I expect the world likes these people. I think that the states are full of competent, intelligent, worldly folks –I’ve made my friends out of them- but it certainly seems like many of our worst examples are roving the streets of Europe looking for their next fix. Sadly, I find it tough to differentiate myself, in action as well as the way I am perceived. I am one, no matter what I do. In fact, the worst example of Americans I’ve seen are those who try so hard to deny there nationality, going to far as to develop this disgusting euro-world accent that sounds like a mix between French, Cockney, and a slight case of Cerebral Palsy. Faceless, cultural nomads in a series of lands in which everyone’s nationality is strong, they are truly lost. Believe it or not, this is what America is lacking. I don’t mean to say that we need to buy more novelty flags –that’s more supportive of Chinese industry anyhow. There is something missing, something beyond, or perhaps before politics. The French and the Spaniards know this. Forget the government for ten minutes a day and think about your country. The dirt, the air, the trees, the rivers, the trees, the food, the cities, the trees, hell –the people. After a while I think we will all be able to find common ground on one or two things. Who cares what G____ B____ does? The baker bakes the bread, the druggist sells the drugs, the cars go round and round and we all have a party on Friday night! It’s the people (sprung from and shaped by the land) that matter, the government is only a very, very small group of people, and all that concrete and red carpet they stand on has severed their ties with the dirt. This is internationally universal. So, stupid antiwar hippies, get a hobby; compared to what you consider a decent lifestyle, no president, representative, or minister will ever been pleasing…so why think about it? I thought you guys were all about love and crap? Fervent pro war southern accent faking Carhartted fratters, …… I dunno….take a long walk by yourself maybe. Regardless life is way to short for a lot of the crap we Americans take so seriously for no reason other than boredom ……the surest sign of a lack of creativity, which can be cultivated!!

I’m not here to blast Americans because I’ve achieved some new wave euro view or something. In fact, everyday I think of more and more reasons why the states are awesome. But there is a serious divide between us and the rest of the world……but it’s nothing a slowly sipped espresso and milk over light, non-political small talk can’t fix.

Shredddddd!!!!!

2006-03-06T14:07:00.000-05:00

After a good nights sleep interrupted only for a few hours by the group of awful drunken America fratters with which I shared a room I decided at the drop of a hat (such luxury is afforded only to us hapless solo wanderers) to board a train to Granada, a place fervently recommended by any and all with which I’ve spoken. To the east and in the mountains it promises to be a much more attractive lay of land than bland sniffles ridden Sevilla. I’m still reeling from my car rental trip to the south and had thought I might spend more time in Sevilla to recover, but my time here is somehow already running short and I don’t feel that I’ve done nearly enough traveling. Sevilla is a great place to meet people that speak English and want to drink and ruin themselves everynight, then talk it over the next waking afternoon -mere hours from a repeat. Sound familiar?

But I don’t want to sound like I have nothing good to say about the city or the people whom I’ve met. Like them or not, you meet people in need of a beer or a meal at the same time and you go together, chat, make friends even, then go your separate ways. Some people I’ve met, -self proclaimed “professional backpackers”- have been traveling in excess of one or even two years. Sasha, an American with such a track record and with whom I dined last night spoke of a worry that her skin had become too tough to goodbyes, a necessity I suppose for the cultural nomad.

My Spanish has gotten pretty good actually. Not conversational really, especially considering the speed with which they (or any of us for that matter) rattle off familiarisms. Still, I have no trouble ordering food, knowing what I’m ordering, asking directions and other common tasks. I’ve even gotten past the backjerked head response to my awful pronunciation that plagued me upon arrival. I’m even at times mistaken for a better speaker than I am. I nod and smile often.

Now I’m pulling into the Granada station in mere minutes and I can see the snow-capped mountains to the south. Perhaps some snow skiing is a possibility. The beach, I discovered in the south, is not.

Thanks for reading folks, more jokes next time. Perhaps more in the direction of Dan Brown and his ferociously pseudo-mystery devouring ever obedient flock.

Addendum:

The above was of course written on the train during my approach. Now I am in Granada and I am in love with this city. Now I’m not so afraid to say it….Sevilla sucks.

A lesson in patience: I mentioned in a previous blog that patience was I virtue that I was quickly learning on my journeys, well a good example manifested itself today. I’ve been itching to play guitar…I’ve gone in and out of a few shops…played some guits….dragged myself away. I had a piece of shit guitar in my hand in Morocco that I’m now quite glad the dude didn’t take my asshole lowball offer for. Today, after checking into the coolest hostal I’ve yet stayed in….and the cheapest, I went for a walk. Not but two doors down from me was a music store….not a music store…a guitar store….not a guitar store…..a luthier’s shop with guitars handmade by him. I now have a sweet guitar/another bag to carry. Tomorrow I will hit the street corners armed with a few Shins, Dead, and Dylan ballads to try to pay for the thing. I am happy.

Gibraltar Jump

2006-03-05T16:04:00.000-05:00

Whew, I thought I might never see decent internet again. In the deeper and coastal south of Spain where I’ve been for the past four days there is an internet “café” on every corner: a room with three or four sooped-up Coleco-Visions and as many VOIP babbling locals. If you’re lucky, which you almost certainly won’t be, one of the machines will be available and you can navigate its lent twisted, grease covered mouse towards an email check.

My new friend, and already merely a memory Piers and I rented a car and drove to the south and to Cadiz just in time for Thursday night Carnival. Cadiz is a great city, possibly my favourite in Espana so far. All the locals and plenty of travelers crowd to the center of town where different fixed and roving groups of entertainers draw attentive crowds with silly, light-hearted song and dance routines. We met some dudes from Holland, drank some booze, roamed the safe, forgiving streets of Cadiz until the early morning, when we went to a bar. Just before sunrise we hit the sack in an awesome hostal that’s basically small apartments complete with bedrooms, kitchen, and living room, all for fifty euros. Really would be a great place for a future holiday with some friends.

In the morning, after Piers surfed a bit and I read on the beach we headed further south through a few even smaller towns, surfers paradise really, though the cold and lack of gear kept me, and even Piers for the most part, out of the water. Eventually we hit Tarifa, a beautiful town on the very south-western end of Spain, directly opposite Africa and Tangier, and followed along to coast afterwards to Algeciras a wretched port town opposite the bay from Gibraltar –the rock/British province. Upon arrival and dusk (now is a good time to point out that the first line about Algeciras in my guide book says to “keep your wits about you”….why wouldn’t I? When don’t I? Why so especially here? Thanks for nothing once more Lonely Planet) we took lodging in the first building we could find that wasn’t part of the port infrastructure or one of the aforementioned cafes: The Hostal Marrakech, known for its opium den living room and fundamentalist dressed Muslim crew. They did not like us, this much was clear, but all we needed was a bed and an ice cold shower, both of which the Hostal Marrakech was prepared to provide.

The next morning we bought tickets for a crossing to Morocco, drove back up the coast to Tarifa, and boarded a twin hulled speed ship for a beautiful 30 minute crossing to Tangier, my 5^th country and 3^rd continent. Yeah, it’s a bit freaky. Yeah, everyone does look at you, especially when you’re a six foot three blonde Yankee. But for the most part I’m here to tell you that the Moroccans are wonderful people. Most anyone with which I made eye contact shouted “Hel-lo…..Wel-come” with a smile. We ate traditional Morrocan food and bought as little cheap tourist shit as they would let us get away without. The real fun came when returned to the port for our return ship to Spain which was cancelled do to inclement weather and a would-be three boat loads of commuters were forced onto one boat which took us to Ageciras over the course of three hours. I stood on the top of the ship and watched the lights of Africa fade away and of Spain grow brighter while the rest slept in the ship, it looked like Jonestown inside, I alone on top felt like a giddy child.

Following a complimentary bus ride back to Tarifa we were able to take lodgings at about five this morning. The beautiful ride up the coats brought us back to Sevilla, my sort of operations base. Piers and I parted, and I’m once again on my own, though I’m back at the hostal where we met and am covered up once again in people with which to talk, spin yarns.

I’m tired, very tired, and this is a boring blog, unable even with full rest and enthusiasm to do reality justice. Go to Morocco. Couscous. Yum.

Concerned about culture shock upon my return. Why don’t we have trains?

DOWN WITH ROADSIDE BILLBOARDS FOR GODSSAKE!

Dear Diary

2006-03-01T11:02:00.001-05:00

Hello all! Im writing you from Beautiful and warm Sevilla, Andalucia. Now for some facts: I spent the last two nights at a hostal that seems very popular with the Brits, Americans and Aussies so I've had plenty of people to gab with. Yesterday was a holiday here in in the south of Spain. And not holiday in the get drunk in the streets sense, holiday in the everything is closed sense. So that was kindof shitty but it allowed me to relax, recover, and read. I ended up last night with a big group of hostalers; a couple from Canada, a trio from Jersey, and a few other random loners like myself. All really great folks and all looking to make friends. We walked around all evening to a few different restaurants (tapas are super cheap, and the people here seem to eat constantly) then eventually to a flamenco club were some spainish chicks danced to guitars and clapping. It was cool, in its own way. But for a fan of pseudo electronic space rockjam, it was lacking a bit of depth, though dense with emotion. I miss my guitar painfully.
This morning I pack up my stuff, left the hostal and walked about 100 meters to a different, cheaper one. It costs much less and I have a private room, which is nice considering the british chick I stayed with vomited in the sink and the other dude saws logs all night. But thats hostal life I guess. Everything is back hopping in Sevilla today and I have spent most of the day walking around taking in the sights. Sevilla is like a really tiny paris in that it revolves around multiple centers and isnt neccesarily a grid. So I just walk untill my dogs start barking, take a rest in a park or on a bridge, then turn around, completely lost, and try to find my way back again. There's musicians in the street here. And I mean musicians. Classical quartets playing mozart for whatever you'll throw in the case, I spent an hour just sitting right next to a group listening, twas nice.
Tommorow I, the canadian couple, and an aussie dude named Piers are going to hire (in American: rent) a car and drive to the coast to go surfing. Hoepfully I will catch a big enough wave that I can ride it all the way to Africa. (Screw you guys and your fear) Its 65 and sunny today yet everyone is pretending its winter -wrapped in peacoats and scarves like regular parsians or londoners. Gotta wear all those clothes sometime huh? Me, tshirt and jeans. I reek of the States. Anyways, I find this style of blog to be painfuly boring, no?

If you've been to the south of spain and have a recomendation for me as far as where I need to go let me know, theres alot of cool stuff only a 10 euro train ride away and I cant decide!

Enjoy your backyards... these people are jealous of them.

Triste

2006-02-27T20:25:00.000-05:00

I must admit at the outset that my drive to write is currently less than fervent. Writing from what is intended to be not a voice, but my voice has its drawbacks. Were I to be writing, say, a semi-fictional, gratuitously embellished, first person auto biographical account of an eighteenth century widower, mother of three, with a grapefruit sized goiter and a penchant for fresh taffy, leaving her children unattended during her three day trips to the nearest bay city, I would have an easier time writing on a night like tonight. But lo, I feel, and hence can speak as nothing more than a hapless wanderer on an often too lonely planet. Aside from reading the closing pages of my novel –once a vastly satisfying series of moments, now in my older age and preference for realist, that is, lacking happy endings literature, a profound resurgence of goalless yearning- what is more potent, palpable is my seemingly all too soon leave taking of my Hispaniola rooted amica. Verily, the leg of my trip through the British and French metropoli, and through the would-be otherwise unvisited (save of course, San Fermin and Ernest Hemingway) city of Pamplona was intended to be the shorter of my travels. Still, I neglected to realize how much my anticipation of reunion with long friends kept my spirits high in the prior. Now, I am truly left to none but my own devices -the fancy of the bird admiring, cubicle loathing day dreamer, no?

Adventurer, space-traveler as I am, as we all are, we crave, even require a track on which to clasp our ever restless wheels of otherwise unbridled desire. Without such, a planetless moon, we tumble through time without the simple joy of pulling out a tide or lighting the way for a weary traveler, needing only enough reflected radiance to distinguish water from brine.

But enough pretentious metaphors and disharmonic yarn spinning, my body, not my mind makes decisions at this hour, and rest, with a side of repair is the order tonight.

Un Poquito De Sol

2006-02-25T10:03:00.000-05:00

When I awoke, or rather, when I was awoken by a French train operator shaking me and saying a number of things to which my simply standing and gathering my things was luckily satisfying, I had come, over the course of about five hours, to the French border town of Hendaye (Onn-Dye). A quaint port town resting at the feet of the Pyrenees, Hendaye might make a good quiet getaway for a writer of cheap, recycled-paper bound mystery novels, the kind the would-be-surprise end of which the experienced reader is aware hundred pages before the end, yet finishes it for the same as yet unintelligible reason behind the unbridled success of such tripe as the Da Vinci Code (Tom Hanks, truly, you are the ace in the hole). But my stay here was brief, allowing barely enough time to enjoy a baguette y hamon y uno pint de Kronenburg. Soon enough, a privately operated train left from across the parking lot that promised to take me to San Sebastian (check your pronunciation; it’s wrong) for the nominal fee of one Euro and thirty-five cents. The ensuing ride through the Basque country (do your own research) was the first time yet that I had begun to ask myself just exactly into what I had gotten myself now. Dilapidated apartment buildings, the type with clothes hanging on all the balconies (I suppose for drying, though the weather has been anything but dry, ensuring must, mold) set off the skyline while the ground was covered, when not simply with trash, by tent like residences, resembling a refugee camp from TeeVee. This continued for about 35 minutes when finally the train arrived at its terminus in the heart of San Sebastian. A beautifully planned and constructed port/beach city, S. Sebastian is home to brave coldwater surfers, tourism in the warmer months surely, and a bustling café and boutique atmosphere. My momentary fears were heartily dismissed.
This is the first place yet where people, once they find out I speak not French, Basque, or Spain, are surprised, curious what exactly has brought me these many thousand kilometers to their relatively small town. To some, I am an interest, especially as I am traveling alone, to others, a nuisance, wasting their time trying to explain myself. Regardless, and I cannot stress this enough, I am overjoyed to be doing this on my own. Everything I do is exciting and a challenge. On my seat on the trains, I literally sit on the edge. Any compatriot with which I might travel would surely tire of me, and I of them, wasting energy and attention better directed at unfamiliar experience. An exception might be made in the form a female comrade whose required heartiness (that is, ability to not bitch) might certainly have a negative effect on her aesthetic quality. Perhaps I could find a tenable combination somewhere in the Eastern block.
My mind is firing a million bursts a second, digging tunnels through my grey matter in a valiant effort to adapt to my fish flapping on the carpet circumstances, and this can be exhausting, if not merely exhilarating. So after a hot meal and a beer I made my way to my room and shut down my circuits for the night, at 8:30 local time, falling asleep to the tune of Spanish-language coverage of the USA v. Norway Olympic Curling competition.
The following day I had to myself, as my train to Pamplona departed not until 8 pm. I spent most of my time on the beach with my novel (The American by Henry James, purchased from a second hand bookseller on the Thames walk) enjoying the first sunshine I have yet to see my entire trip. Though the air estaba frio, I laid in pants and a t-shirt for the better part of two hours in complete comfort. Then, when clouds blew back over the sun I found a music shop, the first one I have been able to locate yet, and shredded for an hour. Upon deciding the proprietor had had his fill of my art, I made my way down the street and into another music shop, where I preceded to do the same thing for another hour. By now it was time to catch my train. Two hours through the darkness to the tune of the Lips (my travels’ theme music) brought me to Pamplona, Katherine, and a night on the town where I made a great number of friends, even having a philosophical conversation with two philosophy majors in broken spanglish with subjects ranging from the LA attitude of Adorno, to the lack of academic attention given to the Pragmatists (Perth, James) in the States. Needless to say, I was a pig in pigslop.

2006-02-23T12:51:00.000-05:00

Quiet Time

2006-02-23T12:40:00.000-05:00

For someone like myself, who often needs to be reminded that often a moment of silence can be more effective, more informative even, than two minutes of mindless chatter, Europe is the perfect place for lessons on what, for the sake of clarity, I shall call shutting the hell up. Of course, this proves easier when all I really have to say is “Hello”, “Please”, “Thank you”, “Which way to the bordello”, “Can I have a cigarette with my croissant”, and other all too common colloquialisms. Like a novel, film, or one of the later, more dramatic episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 the true fabric of conversation lies in the subtext. Listen to the words spoken to you, digest them and choose the words you would like to use in rapport. It’s the time left in between that allows the extra-earthly author, who’s actually penning the events from some higher dimensional plane to provide his or her 7^th dimensional pink robot shapeshifter audience with supplementary descriptions of eye movement, all the while building suspense not to be released until the silence is once again broken, and it turns out that you actually were supposed to be an elephant.

I Am Benjamin Franklin

2006-02-23T12:37:00.000-05:00

Really, it’s true what they (the well-traveled cosmopolitan intelligentsia into which I have only recently gained entrance) say, Paris is magnificent. London is big, without a doubt, but whereas everything revolves outward from Central London (home to Westminster Abbey, the houses of Parliament, droves of camera wielding tourists, etc.) forming different boroughs in a grid like manner, similar to New York, Paris is different. Most every intersection in the city is the intersection of five, six, or seven roads, all with different names on either side of the center. The subway map resembles one of those multi-coloured wire & wooden sliding ball apparatuses found in doctor’s office waiting rooms, and enjoyed by so many children. Their play, however, is usually less concerned with travel productivity and line transfers than with simply occupying the time that they might usually devote to other activities: eating, spitting up, crying, and other more general forms of annoyance to their parents; I’m trying to find a particular café! Another thing that makes Paris so confusing, yet also adds significantly to its charm, is that all or much of the architecture is in a similar style. After making three transfers between wet spaghetti noodle lines and spending nearly half an hour on crowded trains, I arrived, climbed the stairs and could have sworn I was in the same place I started: A statue of De Gaul, three or so corner cafes, and you guess it, a Starbucks. But, fortunately for my dumb-faced non French speaking ass, it was not, and out of the crowd of scarved, hatted, and pea-coated Parisians came a shout of my name en Anglais.

After a lunch and espresso at a cozy corner café, I and my old friend/impromptu tour guide Claire made our way through the tourist sites of central Paris. Pictures were taken, and will be displayed soon, when I have time, and access to a MacDonalds (free wifi). But truly, I am unconcerned with relating the specifics of my sightseeing, as you can surely receive a better education on the subject via a postcard collection and a medium sized figurine of the Eiffel Tower. A more important endeavor, as far as my concern, is to gain a better understanding of the French people by means other than their architecture or gift shops. (To whichever of you might have secretly wished for such a souvenir, I offer my deepest regret. Not that I will have disappointed you, but that I have a comrade with such poor taste) .

My night on the town in Paris was from a dream. As I walked home around 430 this morning I was caught talking aloud to myself by numerous passers-by. Imagine a dirty drunk foreigner walking the streets of your capital city, smiling ear to ear, laughing, discussing his evening with himself, generally raving. I had the good fortune of visiting Paris on a night when a band including members Claire’s high school posse, some good friends she had not seen in years, had a gig at a good club. The music --traditional French meets bouncing reggae meets country—was, for sincere lack of poetic voice-- awesome. Jubilant, smiling and boundlessly attentive twenty-somethings packed La Scene (no, it’s not pronounced how you think) wall to wall dancing and clapping to the beat, even singing along (the headlining band playing after my new friends’ is evidently quite well known in Paris). After the show (which, while probably not on par for a masochistic self-and-everyone-else-hating Athens hipster indie townie crowd, was nevertheless incredible) the band took their winds and strings to the center of the dance floor for an encore acoustic session, with all the patrons allowing for a circle and sitting cross legged on the floor. It was intimate, and immeasurably enjoyable to all.

Afterwards, as the American/guy with the beautiful French girl on his arm, I found myself backstage for free beer, treats, and at times painstaking conversation. All the French speak English, some better than others, but with at least three in the room, sense can usually be triangulated. Thus began our night traveling from bar to bar, buying beers out of shops when inbetween clubs, generally the agents of good-natured mischief until near five this morning. The friends I have made through Claire I am sure to contact in the future, one I mght even meet next week in Madrid. But now I leave Paris reluctantly, and enchante!

Now, as I write I am on a train through France to the South. My next goal is Pamplona, home of my friend Katherine. I am lucky to have two friends to guide me, and beautiful women at that! To leave a bit of suspense…a cliffhanger as they say…..the train I’m on is not the one I intended to take at all. At Claire’s advice I changed my course and am now fairly unaware of exactly where I’m going, because as we have discussed, my French is far below snuff. To be sure, the scenery is beautiful, and though I slept a mere 3 hours before leaving Paris, I am reluctant to go to sleep, which is exactly what I am going to do right now. More blog when my delirium subsides.

2006-02-21T13:24:00.000-05:00

View from my hotel room. Parfait! Later this evening I have a story to tell to wrap up my adventures en Londres. For now, Jazz. Sante!

Beer to Coffee Ratio a Solid 1 to 1. Got to Keep My Wits!

2006-02-20T11:58:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, at the advice of one Sir Sharles, I boarded the Underground towards Camden Town. My hostel, at which I have extended my stay one more night, is not but a few blocks from Victoria Station, one of the main hubs for the tube (the Underground), the station also has long haul departures out of London. This makes it a ripe place for people watching, and for Starbucks outlets -- three inside and one on the street without. So, after procuring a Venti Columbian with a spot of pouring cream, I stuffed my body through the doors and ‘mongst the hoards of commuters, “minding the gap” as I stepped on of course. The tension on these dilapidated 60’s model trains is palpable following the recent bombings. Anyone with large luggage or cargo that isn’t dressed hippest of hip (this, in the capital of the culture industry –sorry LA, being more likely to draw suspicion than nationality of skin colour) is instantly aware that the eyes of the car are upon them, thence making every opportunity to exchange glance-nods and ease tensions. When the train arrives at your station you follow the “way out” signs towards the escalators. Here, I have witnessed a wonderful thing: First, for those of you who don’t already know, escalators are not rides. They are not there for your entertainment or enjoyment but rather to expediate your climbing. Britons are full aware of this and instantly cling single file, often sacrificing their groups, to the right had side, allowing those of us comfortable making our own way up to pass. It is truly a beautiful site to behold, and I can only hope for the future subscription to such mores in the states.

So eleven minutes later I arrive in Camdentown, the “Amsterdam of the UK”. Similar, for you Atlantans, to our little five points district, only much larger, the area is a haven for head shops, hipster clothing outlets, streetside “skunk” sellers, and of course, droves of tourists. After spending the first hour our so searching in vain for a guitar shop (I’m jonesin’ to shred!) the first all-out rains of my holiday forced me indoors. Luckily I found myself in what’s probably the coolest pub I’ve yet visited. The expression “pulling pints” has a little bit more weight over here as to draw a full beer takes four of five tugs on an enormous hydraulic system, releasing some damn fine brew served at near room temperature. I think that when your beer is cold we have more of an inclination to devour it before it goes warm, thinking this a bad thing. Being unconcerned with temperature in the first leads to a much more relaxed and slower drinking pace all around. I was even chastised by a Czech acquaintance for my haste. Damn my American consumerism.

I made a number of friends at the pub while we waited out the rains including a couple on holiday, Matt and Amy, from a town just West of Slough, whose name I forget. Turns out Matt was also on the hunt for a guitar to shred as he missed his rig too. An effects freak and vamp-jazz jammer as well, we talked shop for half an hour --much to Amy’s dismay—until the rains let up and the clouds parted, revealing another layer of slighted more altitudinous and everso slighty lighter clouds. Beautiful really…

Back down the tube towards Westminster, as the trains stop at 12 and I was more than a few hours walk from home. A pub just down the street, The Camel, offers a burger and a pint for 6 pounds, quite a steal. What’s more, as it was Sunday, the place was maddeningly slow save a few die hard football fans watching Isle of Man vs. Manchester. This allowed my waitress, an absolutely stunning Australian sojourner, to go so far as to sit down with me while I ate and drank. My favorite people I have met so far have been Australians, and there are many here, particularly in the service industry. So separated geographically, yet intertwined politically with the US and UK, spending a two-year work visa in London seems a common rite of passage for Aussie twenty-somethings. When Linda’s visa runs up next month she and her friends are planning a trip to and across the US and Canada, hopefully she will accept my offer of lodging direction in the South, only time will tell.

The rest of the night I spent in the laptop lobby of the hostel listening to a fellow traveler play some of the most sublime jazz piano I have ever heard, all on his crappy Yamaha beatbox keyboard. The hostel is full of semi-permanently residing artists, some starving, some successful.

Still, I am ready to make leave of Londontown, the 1 for 2 exchange on the dollar is draining my resources, and I can’t eat anymore fish and/or chips. So, tomorrow I will make my way to Paris, via the Eurostar chunnel, a journey which will take three hours, landing me in the center of town at 3 pm. I am excited to have booked a hotel (note the omission of the telling “s”) as the hostels I looked into were actually more expensive than a room I was able to get for 50 Europes. Having a friend to visit makes the prospect of staying alone much more acceptable, and the expectation of a hot, sufficiently pressured shower makes me tingle with greasy-haired and body-odored excitement. Still, I am wary that the Parisians will be as judgmental and corrupt as all the Brits I’ve spoken to claim. To this effect, I will only stay in Paris for about 48 hours at which point I have a 30 euro flight to Barcelona, my gateway to Pamplona, home of my good friend Katherine, and to the rest of Spain towards Gibraltar and Africa.

Post Scriptum: I want to sincerely thank everyone for taking the time to peruse my verbose and pretentious ramblings, an audience is a genuinely exciting prospect for me, literally fueling my drive to look, do, and remember. I am anxious for your comments!

The Times, 72 font: "Bird Flu Now a Mere 400 Miles From Britain!"

2006-02-18T19:20:00.000-05:00

I think what I find so interesting about London, and at the same time, so grossly unappealing aside from the "eye", is that an extremely large majority of the people you pass on the street are not Londoners. Sure, it's an international city, with travelers from all over the world taking snapshot after snapshot after relentlessly repeated photograph. But not only multi-nationals crowd the best picture taking sidewalk space --"oh excuse me, I didn't see that you were taking a picture here....I'll walk in the street........Oh right...on the left side.." -- It's Britons by the Tubeload! When I think of it, which I did earlier and you can now, London is to the fog-breathers as New York is to us Yanks: We know its there, hell, we can drive to it; it's the capitol -- well....I mean really, are we ready to give up this D.C. charade? -- We almost consider it part of our daily lives (esp. when it's bombed!). But truth is, the average...say...Carolinian is about as familiar with the best place to find a reuben in New York as is your common bloke from Derbyshire with the bloody Waterloo Bridge!
Still, its good time spent. The more people I meet the more similarities I see. I mean, who doesn't like sausage and beans two meals a day and tea at seven and five? Interesting to note is that the Hostel at which I am currently struggling to draw a word out of some and a smile out of the Germans is full not neccesarily of travelers like myself. Sure, a group of midwestern fems checked in today, and Hayes, my roommate, 35, from LA, is still finding himself. But near half of the folks I have met are semi permanent residents, looking for and even tending to service industry positions here in town, all while dropping 80 pounds (~$150) a week to share a room with six. Remarkably, this is still cheaper than most flats. Though, I can only imagine, terrible after six months!
I have decided(90%) that I will take leave of London town come Monday, when my tenure at the lovely AstorVictoria expires. To Paris, for a short visit of a friend, then south.....Morocco calls.... For now, the chitterchat and drunkenmunch of rich American sorority broads has derailed my train. We are becoming a world of tacky tourists...

Welcome

2006-02-17T07:35:00.000-05:00

Welcome all, to the modernstauv blogspot! Check daily, no, hourly! I will write much.

All hail the Astor Victoria, London -and their free wifi!

Port to Port

2006-02-17T07:33:00.000-05:00

Originally intending to say “broadcasting live from Hartsfield-such-and-such Airport in Atlanta” and to compliment the establishment on their long overdue addition of wifi coverage, this entry’s publication will be delayed until arrival at Charles DeGaul in Paris, an international bastion of the truly free internet. Yes, for a mere 9.95 USD I could log in join the “Boingo” system and log on to publish, though I will certainly abstain, citing the ridiculous name among other faults.

An airport, the Atlanta airport: a veritable rift in the time/space continuum. Here you can arrive on Thursday, board a steel tube, hibernate, and reanimate in a foreign time and place, all for a nominal fee/temporary abandonment of personal rights. “Are your papers in order?” “Are they hanging around your neck?” “Could you hang them around your neck please” “And give me all your lighters…..all of them…..here’s 20 books of matches”

“Which way to the smoking coffin?”

And then there’s Air Fraunce. You know they (I) have, in the past, among friends, and in various academic papers, accused the French of being nihilists. While this may still be true, at least in their theoretical linguistic endeavors, they do, I now know, believe in a few things. Hot stewardesses: fuck equal rights in the tube, is it so much to ask for a pretty face to serve me drinks? Which brings me to their next strongest belief: Boos.

“Oui, red wine please……..two actually”

“Merci”

“And a glass of scotch to round it off, neat, merci”

The Future

2006-02-07T21:01:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking about...no, I've decided. Im going to reach out, spread my wings, get my head screwed on straight. For too long now have I dilly-dallied around without a plan. Sure I thought I had a plan. I was going to work, because you have to. From there I would get money, which I would then use to buy things. You know, food, tshirts, wallhangings, gaz, and of course, shiny metals for my sweet. But you gotta look beyond that, you gotta want something more, something bigger, something that you can sit on top of in order to gain a better vantage point. Something like forty thousand dollars. Yep, forty Gs, I could buy a house, or a stock, or maybe even one of those new Nissan Zcars. You know, get my life on the right track.
The only thing is, do you think they'll let me not have to kill people? I could do the laundry and mending, or cook. I'd even be willing to be a motorcycle messenger or something. That would be sweet.
It's not that I'm against killing those people, I mean, we gotta do somethin' you know? It's just that, honestly, I'm worried I wouldn't be good at it...

Triangulating Schlegel

2006-01-29T14:51:00.000-05:00

Hot Act

2005-10-28T15:01:00.000-05:00

+++++ Origionally intended for Speed Magazine which was destroyed in Katrina.+++++++

The Athens music scene can often seem to be strongly divided among differing tastes of genre. This of course refers not only to the type of music but also to the sense of fashion accompanying each style and the venues at which you might catch a show. Within five minutes at a given concert it is often all too easy to discern to which group the artist, and perhaps more acutely, the audience belongs. But here and again those of us who spend our time searching for undeniable and universalizable quality find just such a treat: a group or singular artist who defies categorization and in doing so bridges, rather than further divides, the gap between scenes. Recently, on an otherwise uneventful Tuesday evening, one such artist caught my ear and my soul; and enthralled a jaded Athens audience to the point at which they forgot who they were supposed to be, and if only for a fleeting moment, remembered who they all were.

Hailing originally from a small town in Northern California, Jeffery Holloway has since traveled around the country looking for a place to plant his musical and ideological roots. Jeff comes by way of Denver, then New York, through the Virginias, and with a small spell in Asheville, all the way down to our humble town. Having lived in the Athens area for almost three months now, Jeff is complementary of the local scene but stops short of calling it home –citing all too appropriate Bob Dylan lyrics.

Influence, considered by most to be an important issue, if only for pre-concert discussion, is a tricky issue when it comes to Holloway. His lyrical structure and two or three chord verse constructions lead the first time listener into unavoidable comparisons with the likes of the aforementioned poet laureate of rock, David Byrne, Jerry Garcia (acoustic), and other Golden Age Folk Bards. But to stop here is a common mistake. Holloway uses his apparently traditional instrumentation --solo acoustic guitar and occasional harmonica overlay—to create phrasing and sound structure previously unassociated with Folk, and perhaps previously unheard altogether. Breaking from the time-honored verse-chorus-solo dynamic and into uncharted waters, Jeff takes willing listeners on a musical and even metaphysical journey not able to be explained in lines, his own or mine. His arrhythmic and atonal “solos” force the listener to reevaluate all that they know, or rather think they know, about what music is. Combining fixed form folk and even rock structure with avant-garde neo-classical composition technique he aims to tear down the walls that we as fans construct around our music. But don’t let this verbose and overly critical examination of Holloway’s act dissuade you from coming out and making your own decisions, after all, the shows are free. And, if his creation is something that you would like to call your own, reasonably priced and professionally recorded CDs (via Lavender Road Records) are usually available at the show, the next of which will take place on September 1^st at the Caledonia Lounge, and if you cant wait that long Jeff can be seen appearing at numerous house parties in the coming month. Visit his Myspace page at www.myspace.com/thefoolonthahill for information and party locales.