Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Holding Out . . .

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Random Winter Thoughts
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Although the shortest day of the year
Is well behind us
The coldest months
Are in front of us
To be borne as one may
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In the Spring the sap rose
Circulating through arboreal veins
Bringing life to buds
Which burst forth in leaves
Leaves basking
In the summer sun
Green faces breathing
Weaving and waving when the wind blew
As they have been doing
These past few hundred million years or so
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When the Fall came
The sap began to withdraw
The leaves began to wither
Changing from green to gold to brown
Toward the end of October
The winds blew harder
The rains came
The leaves began to fall
Soon in droves they let go
Released, they traced
Their various paths
Inevitably down
Back down to the ground
Returning to the Earth
To become soil again
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Yet in the last days of November
I saw there were still a few survivors
Who refused to let go
Hanging on tenaciously
Looking down from their height
Not willing to return to the mud
Maybe loving the view
From up there
Company only to birds
Who might alight
For a moment
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For a few days
I marvelled at those survivors
Though they finally succumbed
To the same forces
As their brethren leaves
Before them
What will then drove them
To hang on longer
Clinging against all hope
To their tiny uppermost branch
Unwilling to let go
What desire what motive
What emotion
Inspired them
To stay just one more day
And then another ?
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And what matter all this ?
I thought I might say something deep
Something quite profound
But I fear what I have uttered here
Is trite, perhaps rather shallow
Like a field that’s lying fallow
With potential buried
But no life growing
Barren
Where no seed was sown
And time wanders onward
I wonder if I’ve grown ?
What matter these words
This heart that beats
This breath that pains to speak ?
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Yet I would hold on
Like those leaves
I would hold on
Another day
Just one more day
One more breath
Fighting
The wind
The heartless
Winter wind
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At the end of November
The skies gave way to grey from blue
And then there were two . . .
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Sunday, December 27, 2009

For A Friend . . .

Over the past I don't know how many months there has been an exchange of friendly banter going on between the owner of this page with its roots in France, and the artist in Canada who is the driving force behind Décolleté Glimpses. She goes by the nickname "Louciao" when leaving comments, but is also known as Lynne Ciacco if you stop into her website dedicated purely to the excellent art she creates, Lynne Ciacco, Original Fine Art.
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So Lynne Louciao, I just wanted to dedicate this little post to you, to say : "Thank you for being there, and for being so much fun !" I can't tell you how exceedingly pleased I was when your Christmas card came through in the snail mail the other day . . . which makes me the proud owner of an original, signed, Lynne Ciacco masterpiece, which I will treasure :
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And I was equally pleased, Lynne, when the card you sent from the Equinox Gallery, in Vancouver, Canada, came through a few weeks back, featuring the photographic art of Fred Herzog. Fred Herzog is one of my larger scale heroes, there is something in his work which just positively sets me to salivating, which is a polite way to say literally drooling, slobbering, and foaming at the mouth . . . The Equinox Gallery website is probably the best place on the web to view an assortment of Fred Herzog's photographs, which are naturally for sale there. If you are interested in acquiring fine photographs of truly exceptional quality, do pay them a visit. And I hope they will forgive me for scanning the below image from the card that Lynne sent, its appearance here is not for commercial gain, but simply to pay heartfelt tribute to one of the greatest photographers ever, in my most humble opinion. The title of the below Fred Herzog photograph is "Two Boys, 1960". Which just happens to be the year I was born.
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Friday, December 25, 2009

Happy Holidays To All ! ! !

Whatever your religious persuasion, wherever you may be in the world, and I am truly amazed by where you all have come from to spend a moment or two from time to time in these pages. I would like to wish you the happiest of holidays, and an excellent end to 2009, may 2010 bring you many happy returns.
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Yes indeed, it astounds me that there are visitors coming here from New Zealand, Australia, Canada, India, Singapore, Romania, Norway, Sweden, France, the USA, Mexico, Italy, Belgium, Greece, Egypt, Lebanon, and more, and I am flattered, yes overwhelmed with the warmth of your company, as one step at a time we travel the blogging trails together. Thank you from the heart to each of you . . .
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The PC is more or less working now, the Magic Lantern Show will be getting back to basics going into 2010, bringing you photos and poems and thoughts from Mr Toad's travel diary, as I make my way through this strange world as best I may, stopping to marvel at the oddities that one may stumble on by the roadside, searching, ever searching for the places seen in dreams.
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Peace to all of you, may this world find peace . . . may the violence end . . .
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And as Christmas day was winding down to Christmas night, even the northern France cold winter sky gave us a bit of a light show . . . sweet dreams to all of you . . .
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Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Will Be Back Soon . . . Missing You All . . .

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Just in case anyone's wondering, I haven't fallen off a cliff . . .
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Am not going to go into details about work here, as that is not what this blog is about, this bog is the opposite of work; but work has been absolutely crazy for the past two weeks or so, and is going to stay crazy until Xmas is behind us. My job could be comparable to being one of Santa's elves. Everyone wants their presents at Christmas. The problem is, every year on this planet, there are more and more "everyones". . . and that means more and more work for Santa's elves. Sigh . . .
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To add to the madness, I took inspiration from Steve at Bloggertropolis, and decided to finally get a new PC after years of procrastinating. The problem is, new PCs come with Windows 7, in either a 32 or 64 bit version, and Bill Gates / Microsoft have not made anything alot easier for us poor users out here with this latest version of Windows. My main beef after just a couple days of getting-started-hell is that Windows 7 does not recognize a certain number of pieces of software and hardware that worked perfectly fine with my older Windows XP. My scanner is no longer supported for example, there is no driver for it compatible with Windows 7. Guess I'm going to have to get a new scanner. My printer is the same, and didn't have a USB cable anyway, so it's obsolete now. Other software disks I had which worked cheerfully with Windows XP are now balking with Windows 7. I had to spend hours downloading and installing a new Windows 7 compatible program to support one of my cameras, and the real injury was with my internet connection from a service provided by France Telecom, the software disk which worked previously did not work now, and I had to spend time on the phone with their technical support to find a solution, which leaves me without the same e-mail configuration I had before . . . in short, you'd think they could have made it easy for us, and made everything that worked in previous versions of Windows compatible with the new one. . . but no, this is the face of "progress". And consumer-driven-capitalism, as it forces idiots like me to go out and buy new "stuff" which we can't necessarily afford . . .
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So, work has been nuts, the PC nightmare was lengthy, and Xmas has been sneaking up on me and I've hardly prepared a bit for it. And I haven't even been out to see the re-make of Dickens' A Christmas Carol which by all reports is worth the detour. In any case, I just wanted to say to all you wonderful people out there that I have not given up on blogging, and will be around to visit just as soon as I'm able, and would like to thank each and every one of you for the fantastic several months that have just gone by in your company. What a trip this blogging business is turning out to be !
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Happy holidays to one and all !
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Saturday, December 19, 2009

Dark and Wet and Cold . . . but Smiling . . .

It is so hard to write about moods. About feelings. About hoping things are going to be alright, when we are constantly assaulted by stories of violence and purveyors of fear. I want to go back to some safer place, a safer time. And yet I fear it may not exist. But I keep searching for that dream house, keep driving those dream cars through the night, the cold, dark, wet night. (just click on Dream House or Dream Car in the labels list in the side bar if you're curious about what I'm going on about here . . .)
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But every once in a while one stumbles on a piece of art which just happens to perfectly capture a mood or a train of thought. Had one of those moments the other day. I finally started using an iPod which I'd brought back from the USA well over a year ago, finally figured out a way to make it play in the car. And shortly after putting it on the "shuffle songs" setting to let it play things at random, I stumbled on a piece of music I'd never heard before, and in fact, am not exactly sure how it got there. . . but such is life, and magic. And this is it. Let me know if you've heard this one before ? I have no idea if Greg Brown is widely known or not ? A hidden treasure if not . . . a diamond in the rough if ever there was one . . .
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. . . Cold & Dark & Wet
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I fell in love like a drunk in a pond.
That twisted gal of whom I was fond,
She found a new man on the internet.
Wham I'm spam and it's cold and dark and wet.
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Tell me what is a fella supposed to do
When a car costs what a house used to
And a house is a pile of chipboard, paint, and debt.
I'm at the city limits and it's cold and dark and wet
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Big rig rolling over me in a blizzard -
I'm living on beans and chicken gizzards.
One day I was young, the next day I was old.
Late November, it's wet and dark and cold.
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Jobs, I guess they're like wild geese -
They all went flying overseas.
I'm standing in the rain smoking my last cigarette.
Morning in America is cold and dark and wet.
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Christmas lights are going up,
I could use a little joy juice in my cup.
Life is not a walk across the park,
Not when it's wet and cold and dark.
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And this may be the twisted gal of whom he was fond, she ran off to join a travelling circus in France . . . where I spotted her the other day on the back of a truck. This may be what is known in some places as a painted lady . . .
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"I could use a little joy juice in my cup" . . . what a line ! Traces of old posters make me feel like that every time . . . sort of like saying, ok, the party is over . . .
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"Life is not a walk across the park, not when it's wet and cold and dark" . . .
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At several times over the years I've had a recurring dream of being in a vast space where there were staircases going in various directions, not always making logical sense in a cartesian manner, more like something from one of Escher's etchings . . . These stairs by a cliff . . . where are they going ? Where are they coming from ? Do they have a beginning ? An ending ? Could we climb these stairs forever, as though trying to reach a Floating Bridge of Dreams ?
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If you've been in the Gare d'Orsay Museum in Paris you may recal seeing a rather large painting by Gustave Courbet titled "Burial et Ornans", or l'Enterrement à Ornans". In that painting the backdrop are white cliffs in the distance. The scene intrigued me enough to want to make the trip to Ornans, in eastern France, south of Besançon . . . and this is what it looks like on a cold, foggy morning . . .
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Thursday, December 17, 2009

When They Bring That Wagon 'Round . . .

To quote one of my favorite songs . . .
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"When they come to take you down
When they bring that wagon 'round
When they come to call on you
And drag your poor body down
Just one thing I ask of you
Just one thing for me
Please forget you knew my name
My darling Sugaree"
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(the photo is from one of my favorite regions in France. . . les Causses. . .)
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Monday, December 14, 2009

If I Saw You In Heaven . . .

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For some unfathomable reason
I've been hearing about alot of deaths of late
Guess that's part of life
A part we don't like to think about
Here today, far gone tomorrow
Over the rainbow
Across the river Styx
And those who remain behind
Must carry on
Waiting their turn
Getting on with the daily inanities, insanities
Of our oh so modern lives
Lives that maybe leave us poorly equipped
For the day that phone call comes
Saying someone close is gone
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Over at More Canterbury Tales, Amanda just did a beautiful post about a series of roadside memorials she saw the other day, and stopped to photograph. If I may echo her post here, on a road I take to work there is a cross I stopped to photograph not long ago . . . with similar thoughts in mind, on the vagaries of life. And Jo at a Majority of Two also just did one of the most touching, poignant posts I've ever read about the subject.
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Quoi que l'on fasse
Où que l'on soit
Rien ne s'efface
On pense à toi
A notre amour
Julien 18 ans
25 janvier 2006
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Whatever we do
Wherever we are
Nothing is forgotten
We think of you
Our Love
Julien 18 years old
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And as we make our way through our daily lives, our various paths, we all have our demons, some have perhaps done a better job than others at exorcising them, but we all have demons . . . and sometimes, as seems to be happening here, the demons carry us off, to wherever, and they seem to be enjoying their work. Impacts on the wall would be from shrapnel or bullets from World War I . . .
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In a cemetery the other day, this broken stained glass, with traces of corroding copper on the wall caught my eye. Nothing lasts . . . this photo is the "natural" version . . .
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And this is the "un-natural" version . . . in the garish light of a nuclear explosion ?
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And on a slightly lighter olfactory note, in the comments on the post just below this one, @eloh (her blog is elohssanatahw) described a toilet she had seen in France years ago, which sounded to me to be the classic Turkish toilet, as they are called here, or Turkish shoe-wash if you like, and she asked if I'd ever seen one like what she was describing. Well, I have, they are rather common still in many places in France. I spotted a two-seater, lacking the seats of course, recently while out strolling in the Brittany city of Morlaix. So, this is more proof for those who doubt, there do exist some public toilets in France . . . even if they stink to high heaven . . .
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Saturday, December 12, 2009

Keeping Abreast of Brest . . .

While strolling in Brest not long ago, very close to the prison that was photographed just a few posts down, in the oddest of places I happened to find this colorful public toilet. Now, if you've been reading these pages for any length of time, you may be aware that there has been quite a debate going about whether there are any public toilets in France. It has been established that in Paris, near the Madeleine, there are indeed some beautiful old public toilets. But elsewhere in France, the quest to locate one can be long and difficult at times, particularly if one is really desperate to find one fast rather than resorting to peeing by the roadside, which is a common sight in France, for the reasons just touched on. And for the fairer sex, peeing by the roadside is not always a viable option when there are no trees or shrubbery nearby.
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So, I was pleasantly surprised in one of the oldest streets in Brest to find this colorful pleasure palace, and well equipped at that, with a toddler's potty, and a whisk broom to sweep up with. (In case one misses ?)
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Not far away on a wall there was this bit of graffiti, which echoed the colors of the toilet rather nicely I thought . . . as you can see I'm a color coordinated fashion oriented kind of guy . . .
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And finally, in this third (that's right Loulou, three photos!), there was a magical opening in a heavy metal gate into another dimension, where colors don't exist, and all is black and white. I wouldn't mind trying life like that for a while . . .
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Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Can't See the Forest . . .

It was one of those shining, radiant, luminous moments of being a parent . . . This past August while vacationing in Brittany, one Sunday morning my two daughters came scampering into the room, obviously quite excited about something, and cried out, "Papa, papa, come quick and see ! Hurry, bring your camera, you are going to love this !" As I'd been quite comfortable with a good book in a cosy chair, and the weather was rather grey and gloomy that day, I wasn't thrilled about being dragged out into the elements, but there it was, who could resist the energy of two girls with bright shining eyes and expectant giggles on their lips, urging me to hurry up, hurry papa, you have to get pictures of this for your blog . . .
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Yes, over the past several months, even my daughters have begun to understand what an integral part of my life this blog has become, and they want to help, being the kind young souls that they are. So I had no idea what they wanted to show me with such rambunctious enthusiasm, and after a little prodding, and feigned disinterest, they finally let on that they had seen a shopping cart up in a tree whilst returning from the market.
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"A shopping cart in a tree ?", I said, "That can't be, shopping carts don't climb trees, for heaven's sake, you must be pulling my leg. !" But they insisted that it was so, and off we went . . . From a distance, at least I could see that they were not fibbing about the tree in question, for there it was . . .
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And as we drew closer . . . Why, there it was ! A shopping cart perched precariously well up in the large lower branches of this lovely old pine . . . What a mighty heave it must have taken to loft it clear up there !
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In this third image lies the clue that probably explains more than anything else the presence of the shopping cart well up in the branches of this pine tree, the fuel, as it were, that had been consumed the night before, that had inspired the artists' minds, as this was surely a group exhibition of situational artwork . . .
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Just a very short distance away from the base of the tree these purple "Whatevertheyares", a rare botanical species rarely seen outside Brittany, were quietly flourishing in the sun's bright spotlight, doing their best to gain the attention of people passing by, but for the most part were being ignored, the shopping cart in the tree was by far the more intriguing entertainment that day. (my apologies to those of you who don't care much for blogs festooned with scads of flower pictures)
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And just up the street in a side alley rarely visited someone had decided to decorate the side of a house, although that too was being ignored for the most part, because even if you really hunted for it in Carantec, you'd have to make an effort to find it. . . up the obscure alley where it is, though not far from the world famous Hotel de Carantec that I wrote about a few posts down here. (well, I'm assuming that it is world famous now that I wrote about it. Ok, that's a bit pretentious of me, it was already world famous, and surely wasn't waiting for me to come along to make it any more so. . . :-) (And I may have to scale that wall some night with the help of a ladder and paint a shopping cart into the tree to complete this image.)
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Sunday, December 6, 2009

The Magical Light of Friends . . .

On a chilly, blustery October afternoon a few weeks ago I set out to do what I love best, just wandering, exploring, stopping in small villages and roaming their streets, their graveyards, their souls. After spending a long moment in a cemetery, soaking up history, I was walking back up the main street of a small town, when the bakery turned on the interior lights; it was starting to get dark outside, dusk was falling. Something warm and bright that spoke of home, of comfort, of friends.
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The world of blogging has opened up contacts to people and places I would never have dreamed possible. People doing simply beautiful work, in images, in words, in spirit, in life, in love. There are so many of you out there I would like to shine the warm lights of friendship on with special dedications, and in time I will, I hope, should time be granted.
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But today, I would like to speak of two. Two intensely radiant lights. Two magical photographers, two indelible poets . . . If you have not been there yet, please do take a few moments and go explore :
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Photo Sans Cible, by Clo in the South of France, that haven of light. . . and please wish her well, she was a little bit under the weather for a while there . . .
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The Floating Bridge of Dreams, by Roxana in Romania, sorceress in light . . .
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And if you like what you see there, spread the love, and leave a kind word in their comment box to let them know what you think. In my humblest of humble opinions, both of these blogs deserve to be known the world over. Warm light is flooding from their windows, as is bathing the grey stones here in this obscure village in northern France. . .
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In the cemetery in the same town, there were three portraits that stood out for me, in varying states of disappearance, disintegration, fading away back to the nothingness from whence we spring, to which we return. And illustrating the importance, the primordial importance of holding on to those we love while we can, showing and sharing our love for family and friends while they are there; before we find ourselves hearing the refrain from that timeless Bob Dylan song, Going, Going, Gone . . .
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Saturday, December 5, 2009

Canary Island Flight . . .

I had to go all the way to the Canary Island of Tenerife to take this photo in early 1994. There was construction going on all over the coast near where we stayed on the western end of Tenerife ; I suppose these toilets were stacked up waiting to go into the bathrooms of yet another tourist hotel. Does this photo say anything about my views on the world ? Better let the psychologists answer that one. There is a poem that goes with this, that I wrote on the first night in the hotel near where these toilets were waiting to start serving their destined purpose.
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Also, I'd just like to say, I recntly had the great pleasure of stumbling by serendipitous chance on a sublime blog with the magical title Dreams, Delirium, and Mind Talk, written by the enchanting Nevine Sultan, who I am starting to believe is descended from ancient Egyptian royalty, for it would be easy, extremely easy, to try to describe her spell-binding writing in poetry and prose as nothing short of divinely inspired, in an entirely mystical sense. I encourage you, click on the link to her blog, see what you think. I was hooked from the first few phrases. Today she published a piece called "freefalling", and if you give it a read, you will see why I pulled out the below piece as a counter point. (the poem I mean, not the photo...)
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....Canary Flight
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Homer Stern was sitting
At the white table
Which stretched away before him
Like an arctic waste
An empty ashtray miles away
On the wind swept horizon
Eleven floors up
In a concrete tower
No ivory nor ebony
Only iron girders cloaked
In irony
A prison playing at paradise
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The water purification plant
In the washed out ravine
Behind the hotel
Is scrambling shit
For all it’s worth
Churning like a Santa Fe freight
Climbing the long grade
Up toward Donner pass
Homer doubts that sleep
Will be forthcoming
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The motor driven blades
Plowing through the fecal matter
Sound like a flock of C-130’s
Bearing down on a jump zone
And Homer steps to the window
Looks down at the tennis court
Eleven floors below in the darkness
The white lines faintly gleaming
Beckoning like a helicopter pad
To a tired pilot
He imagines the descent
The jolt of landing
Bright light followed by no light
Preceeded by a few vicious seconds
Of total awareness
While falling, flailing, falling
Senses screaming
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In the morning the entire west side
Of the hotel would be on their balconies
Looking down on the carnage
Dried ketchup spray
The local west-side story
For a day two
Homer restrains himself
Despite the shit grinding din
Of late night sewage treatment
More or less akin
To late night TV
He doesn’t want to cast a pall
On so many people’s
Vacation here in paradise
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Thursday, December 3, 2009

Heavy Haitian Machinery . . .

Not too long ago I did a post about the side of a mountain being torn down in Haiti, being mined for minerals. In the following three photos (that's right Loulou, count 'em, 1 - 2 - 3 !) are some of the heavy machinery used for tearing down a mountain and carting it off. This of course begs the question as to whether the mountain wanted to be torn down or not. But the mountain was not answering quickly, as it was probably reasoning in geologic time rather than human time measured in greedy minutes.
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Sometimes I wish I had some similar heavy equipment to clear away some of the deadwood that's grown up in great thickets in certain parts of my life. I will not bore you to tears with a long list of woes, but if I had a bulldozer like this one to clear off the piles of tax forms and bills and car repair estimates and cat hair off the top of my desk, that would already be a good start. So I could have some clear space to sit down and write a poem or two that have been brewing in the back of this cluttered mind of mine. And so forth . . .
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Did you ever wish you had a bulldozer at your disposal ?
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In Haiti, broken down or wrecked cars are called "voitures désolées", or sorry, desolate old cars. This is a bulldozer désolé, and a camion désolé . . .
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And after I was done using the bulldozer, I'd probably be wanting a truck just like this one to haul all the plowed off junk to the great galactic dump in the sky . . . (note the rock under the back wheel to keep it from rolling off . . . does it have any brakes ?)
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Tuesday, December 1, 2009

A Day For Thanks . . .

At work the other day I found myself trying to explain to several French colleagues where the history of the tradition of Thanksgiving had started, and what it meant to us folks who were born in America. When I got to the part about how Native Americans had helped the Pilgrims through the first cold winters in what would become Massachussetts, one of them quipped something to the effect of, "yes, and look at how you repaid their kindness." Indeed, indeed, the history of the Native Americans is a long and bitterly sad story. I doubt they are thankful for much on Thanksgiving Day. Thankful to be living on reservations ?
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On a lighter note, my good parents near Philadelphia sent me an article this weekend on the subject of Thanksgiving that I'd never heard of before, a delightful piece by Art Buchwald (R.I.P.) about the very subject of Thanksgiving and the French, from the 1950's. Thanks Mom and Dad ! . I sincerely hope I'm not infringing on anyone's copyright here, in any case, it is not for commercial benefit, purely for the edification of a handful of patient and wonderful blog readers. And I'd like to give Thanks to all of you, each and every one, who stop by here from time to time bringing your good cheer and warmth . . .
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Explaining Thanksgiving to the French (by Art Buchwald)
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One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donnant.
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Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims (Pélerins) who fled from l'Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World (le Nouveau Monde) where they could shoot Indians (les Peaux-Rouges) and eat turkey (dinde) to their hearts' content.
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They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Américaine) in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower (or Fleur de Mai) in 1620. But while the Pélerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pélerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pélerins was when they taught them to grow corn (mais). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pélerins.
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In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pélerins' crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more mais was raised by the Pélerins than Pélerins were killed by Peaux-Rouges.
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Every year on le Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration.
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It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as Kilomètres Deboutish) and a young, shy lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of them were in love with a flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no translation). The vieux capitaine said to the jeune lieutenant:
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"Go to the damsel Priscilla (allez tres vite chez Priscilla), the loveliest maiden of Plymouth (la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth). Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of action (un vieux Fanfan la Tulipe), offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this, in short, is my meaning.
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"I am a maker of war (je suis un fabricant de la guerre) and not a maker of phrases. You, bred as a scholar (vous, qui êtes pain comme un étudiant), can say it in elegant language, such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, such as you think best adapted to win the heart of the maiden."
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Although Jean was fit to be tied (convenable à être emballi), friendship prevailed over love and he went to his duty. But instead of using elegant language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and sorrow (rendue muette par l'étonnement et las tristesse).
At length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: "If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?" (Où est-il, le vieux Kilomètres? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas aupres de moi pour tenter sa chance?)
Jean said that Kilomètres Deboutish was very busy and didn't have time for those things. He staggered on, telling what a wonderful husband Kilomètres would make. Finally Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, Jean?" (Chacun a son gout.)
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And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes, and for the only time during the year eat better than the French do. .
No one can deny that le Jour de Merci Donnant is a grande fête and no matter how well fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilomètres Deboutish, who made this great day possible.
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