Poem No. 5: Pity

Squandering is hard. 
I'd like to believe  
you know this,
but I'm not so sure.

We make it seem
easy. To entertain - 
to be entertained - 
to pleasure - 
to feel pleasured
by another,
through warmth
by conversation
through settling in 
common ground,
to have the opportunity
for boredom to become
friendship, the best
present of them all,
an honor that requires
nothing to give,
nothing to take.

(Because you won't
find it if you're not looking.
Stillness is a movement 
that allows for nothing 
to happen, to really 
happen so we can turn 
our insides out. And 
later, laugh real laughs 
at the soul-carrying face.
So it's hard to find fellow
squanderers when no one 
looks. But luckily
for me, I can name a few.)

Though I've squandered alone.
It's against your rules, but
tell me, is squandering so
different than daydreaming?
Staring out into space,
thinking, forgetting where
you are in wondering without
thought, in feeling the simple
fact of existing: asking that 
question: Am I really here?
I know, for some, that causes
fear. It never did me. I 
like pure sentience. And 
playing with it. Like light
through fingertips, like
a song emanating from 
my mouth, but not knowing 
from where. What is a 
mouth? A song?

I don't know 
in this instance
how to speak directly
to your musings on
production, waste,
excess, punishment,
time pre-spent (to what end?)
Capital, wealth, and
decadence.. the sun.

But (I think)
I get it, and 
I know
I like it.
I'll be able
to speak to it
one day. You 
said something 
about cooking?
I don't really
know how.
Were there days
we just found food?
To burn, to eat.

I'm aware of
oxygen thieves (as a
teacher used to say):
when a body stays
as merely a refusal 
of anyone else being there,
I wonder why?
To that lie 
I'm sorry for this truth:
how sad. 

An English Honeymoon: Day VI

Our sixth day in England was a day we had planned the night before. This day was grayer, subdued, a bit colder, but still without rain. The first thing on our agenda was to visit the famous Beatles crossing at Abbey Road, something Dan, being a fan, was very excited about (he's just excited about music in general). We took a taxi there, it was a little far from Kensington, and the cab driver took us right to the spot. It was really cool (although for me, just a little anti-climactic, as if I expected the Beatles to materialize in front of me) to see it in real life. There were already small groups of people standing on each side of the road (indeed, Abbey Road) waiting for the traffic to pass (they made no accommodations for car traffic in exchange for the people traffic, and I hope they never do) and Dan and I waited our turn to cross. We had to get photos. We did. 

We both got a kick out of it, actually. We were able to glimpse the front door of where many of our favorite musicians recorded their albums. Pink Floyd was/is a favorite of mine so it felt kinda cool to be there, close the space where they produced that sounds that filled my ears and steered my mind during high school, that feeling like long ago, and imagining how much older those recordings actually are.

Along the sidewalk fans had signed and written their signatures and notes. We both signed our simple signatures. Just names. I really liked this stamped dedication to LUCY. I can only believe that was for Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds. 

So it was my turn next... meaning Dan chose where he wanted to go in the morning... and I got the next choice for where to go in the afternoon (which is completely unfair and ridiculous because I basically chose everywhere up to this point during our stay. Yes... I'm a bit spoiled by him). It took a while to get there... we passed by the Royal Albert Hall and all these other places. Dan swears he saw Eric Clapton? All I saw was a man with glasses and a hat but Dan is sure it was Eric Clapton. We started to lose track of time and we were having a grand time exploring... I don't really remember what we did or what we saw... I just remember it was fun... and then we reached our destination! THE BRITISH LIBRARY. 

The architecture was gorgeous. And they had a café and bar outside. Inside was a large, echoey lobby with lots of free (meaning without a library card) art and art exhibits. 

In their special collections, which was open to ALL the public too (many of the books were not - those rooms required a library card) we were able to see original writing on the original parchment of the greatest people in the history of the world... like Charlotte Bronte, Lewis Carroll... THE MAGNA CARTA... original scores written by Chopin, Beethoven... so much more... it took my breath away. We spent a lot of time in the darkened room, looking at things separately, eyes wide with wonder, eavesdropping on the classes moving about, their teacher's instructions, coming together again to drag one another to see what we had seen. 

After exploring a little more and checking out the Imaginary Cities exhibit, we went outside to have a drink and a snack. I took one last long glance at the building and walked outside. 

It was Dan's turn again... I almost think it was an accident. Don't remember. But we came across a Hard Rock Cafe that just happened to be the OG Hard Rock. Which is mostly a big deal for Dan, not so much for me. I grumbled about having dinner there for two minutes and soon quit... first, there was a fun gift shop and I got myself a really nice jacket. Plus, I was getting hungry. We sat down to eat and I think our server was high on cocaine. 

We ate surrounded by all these instruments, all this music, and tons of loud and obnoxious people. But we had a grand time anyway and after dinner we took a tour of the basement... which was super interesting to me because it truly looked like a high school kid's basement that was never renovated and crammed with memorabilia and that was what made it so awesome. I guess someone stole Jimmy Hendrix's drummer's drum sticks? Because all this stuff was just laying out, not locked up or behind glass (at least half it).

Dan was very much blown away by it all. Like he was able to see treasure. And it wasn't about owning it or possessing it, just being able to see it. He didn't even want to touch anything when he clearly had the opportunity to. I did and I think he was slightly perturbed that I would do such a thing! Haha. I love this picture of him I took as he exited that room... and I like that sign the Hard Rock people put above the door.

I was yawning at this point... a pleasant tiredness. We somehow found ourselves in the train station where they filmed Platform 9 1/2 for the Harry Potter movies. Eye roll. But still. I bought a bag with Dobby on it. Here's the swag I purchased that day (a small portion of it):

Then we went home to our small cozy room. I opened up Max Adams' In the Land of Giants before turning in... I guess this is what I was reading that night...

We went to bed smiling. We still had a week left in England!

- F

P.S. I apologize for my lack of interesting writing here. As the memories slowly fade as time passes, there are only certain things I remember. Which doesn't make the effect of remembering any less powerful. But I think, at least in terms of journal-like recording, my writing gets weaker if I go a while without writing about my immediate experience. I don't really care though. I'm glad I'm writing out the trip in this way. It's the only way I've been able to. But for those who are reading these entries, apologizes for a less than robust post. I hope you are enjoying the pictures, at least :)

Poem No. 4: Devil's Advocate

What if we don't 
swagger - what 
if we are born
to die?

Really (not in that Lana Del Rey way. 
Sorry). 

Just because
we know that this
isn't any more 
about survival than it
is about
being seen. 

I see
swagger.
That's you.

And me - 
who literally 
owns swag,
the second-hand
and gifted,
driven by pity
and necessity;
the pride and humility
of what has been 
achieved to receive it. 

The swagger of which 
you speak does nothing. 
And it is not interesting
or interested. It needs
to be coddled - 
rustling for an attention 
it does not own,
nor deserves
to. 

Swagger is your 
dead star,
sunken in the ocean;
deep, bleached, then beached;
an artifact,
a beautiful trophy. 

Stop pretending 
to understand beyond
your own experience,
like you really care.

(I know it is death
that both of us
care about.)

I know rage. La rabbia.
I am its subject.

When rage is 
a slap in your face, when
rage is your being
slap-happy, pissing
them off for it - 
then that swag
borrowed and given and taken, 
walks in.

Eyes quiver, 
the body shakes and
there is nothing
cool about it;
and they, they 
humble in their 
rage, seeing
that what they've 
done is as helpless
as their pain. 

And as for me,
I'm not sober.
Am I ever?
This unloading 
of it all, onto 
me, onto my 
self, well,
it belongs to 
you. 

A telling of Hans Christian Andersen's The Rose Elf" (Part I)

Here's Part I of my telling of Hans Christian Andersen's The Rose Elf. You can listen and watch, or just listen. Keep in mind that these are just practices for my own peace of mind to help me smooth out the process of storytelling and my research into fairy-tales... that being said, more to come, including Part II. I'm hoping that these videos will continue to improve as I continue! 

- F