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

Thoughts on Upcoming Fairy-Tales Presentation (May 2020) - includes a reading of Hans Christian Andersen's The Rose-Elf"

Getting ready for my presentation this upcoming May... wanted to share my thoughts on it. This video includes a reading of Hans Christian Andersen's "The Rose-Elf" which I found at HathiTrust

Picture from the text:

- F

P.S. Here's a picture of me from earlier in the day at work (now yesterday), when I was way less tired... :)

To Drink the Unknown

Does some sweet medicine rest at the top of two entwined branches of epistemology and ontology, pouring forth an effervescent broth of the unknown, quenching the ground its allowed to reach? If it rests there, shall we drink from it, if no snake guards it? I would, and have already, freely and gladly. I've already tasted it; it is a potion without poison, for I have been found guilty of no crime. Does a cross suggest or infer entanglement? Have you taken from these branches? Have you helped them grow? I'd rather not know.

Winged Figure by Abbott Handerson Thayer (1889) from The Art Institute of Chicago, CC0 Public Domain Designation (https://www.artic.edu/artworks/59798/winged-figure)

- F

An English Honeymoon: Day V

This fifth day of our trip began the same as all others. If you've been reading what I've written thus far about our honeymoon, you'll know, of course, that the morning was sunny, warm, and bright. But today was also going to be different. Dan and I didn't plan a whole bunch for the day; we didn't even have anything scheduled. So we woke up late. And, once awake, we decided to have Afternoon Tea at Kensington Palace. We walked there from our hotel, enjoying the hustle and bustle of Kensington Square Gardens and noticed the crowds disperse as we got closer to our destination. 

There is a special room designed for afternoon tea at the palace. The whole room is made of glass, and with the sunlight coming in that day, the room was so warm in a lovely (and not terribly sweaty) way. Everyone's voice was low and hushed, and the clink of the silverware and pottery chimed like bells from heaven. Once sitting, I looked at the array of the room, with straw chairs and other beautiful furniture and furnishing, and plants, and thought of India. 

A detail from our menu:

After a few minutes, the warmth and the sounds and the entire bright atmosphere of the place began to sooth me, and so I settled in my chair and really got comfortable. I felt as if relaxation was granted to me, and I didn't fight it, for I knew it was a rare occurrence. I marveled at our table. I don't remember what tea we ordered, but once it came and steeped, both Dan and I poured gracefully without a hurry. Tea in the cup, slowly, then the whitest richest, cream next, then a gentle drop of a sugar cube. Then, to pick up the silver spoon, and slowly spin it in the cup, watching it all melt and mix together. Sigh. It was... lovely. A tea party! For two. 

We waited patiently for the three tiered food we ordered. I don't remember... but it had a special name. Dan doesn't share this opinion with me... but I swear it was the best "meal" I ever had. I love bread, I love butter, I love fresh things and baked things. The butter was whipped, and the bread was so warm and so soft and in perfectly sized proportions, and the cucumber in the sandwiches was so fresh and everything was so succulent and lightly delicious. The tny slices of ham were juicy and watery and sweet. And the jam! Just look!

All this with the warm tea, dripping like... morphine or some magic down our throats into our happy bellies... all this made me giddy. I laughed like I hadn't in quite some time, just about the experience. I felt I was a child again, enjoying a tea party with my best friend. 

Dan must've felt like the Mad Hatter or some other dandy. I could see it, his jovial face brightening, turning a bit ruddy with the heat. We sat and sat until we felt sedate. Only then did we know it was time to get up and walk back to Hyde Park.

Once at Hyde Park, we sat at our favorite bench and saw the most beautiful white swans. 

It was if they were floating past just to greet us, like something out of a fairy-tale. In truth, they were probably wondering if we had food... the next day we came back with bread and were swarmed by starlings, swans, ducks...

Here's another lone swan we spotted, preening:

We also found ducklings protected ferociously by their parents. It was hilarious. Whenever a human tried to look closely at the babies, the mom and dad ducks would shoo them away, charging at them with webbed feet and wings spread. OK! Got it, we all said, and I zoomed in for a picture of the cute ducklings huddling for warmth. 

When we were done playing with the birds, I stopped by the outdoor fruit market for some fresh goods. I found apricots! They were so yummy.

Passing through the park again, I stopped for a picture of this cute, fat squirrel with a soft white belly that reminded my of my cat Grigio. I began to miss her. 

We went back to the hotel (after stopping by some store and buying really cheap liquor) and watched really funny British television game shows until we fell asleep. It was another good day. 

Day VI coming soon.

- F

P.S. I forgot to include this picutre of the Kensington Palace Royal Garden that I took after our Tea:

Poem No. 3: Sight Unseen

I'd ask you 

Be my eyes.

Mine are poor;

one practically dead

the other

virtually blind. 

But...

you've made 

me realize - 

I like the way I 

see. I see

intuitively

noticing 

what needs 

addressing;

addressing what

asks to be noticed. 

See, there are

two skills,

two talents. 

Ours aren't 

different;

though they

diverge. 

Mine:

knowing 

a subject 

(object)

malleable

such as myself,

making 

contact 

that knows 

it's malleable

too.

Yours:

reciprocation

communication

a sharing of

thoughts

like memory.

Paths split 

by your expectation

and my desire:

two ways

to see. 

What were 

you expecting?

I know.

I am 

wrong, 

plenty. 

Still,

I do think

we'll meet

somewhere - 

either here

or after. 

Poem No. 2: Class is an Archipelago

Class, in the way we talk about it,
a categorization of similar things
brought together by money -
or any other kind of capital,
is easy to fake. No?

But for those who are sharp,
who've been whittled down to their
breaking backs by manual,
intellectual, emotional,
spiritual, physical,
mental, dare I say
labor, will see
through.

The mind is
a quick blade.
And each pose
is noted.

Class, in the way I like to fantasize,
is like an archipelago. A cluster
of things visually dissimilar,
high, low, above, below,
seen and unseen -
various shapes
textures
styles.

Of, and in
its own;
in and
of itself.

The class of which I speak
is presence alone: an appearance
that speaks for its labor and
there is no need
to mark its meaning;
a crude value manifested from
talks walks clothes
taste opinions interests
etc / et. al

The class of which I speak
does not care - for this
cannot be taught, or earned
cannot be bought, or borrowed
cannot be ritualized
cannot be inundated by habit.

It is experienced by being
beat - dead beat - beat all the time
until nothing remains but the darkness.
That empty beautiful blackness
waiting, just waiting
for someone like you
to light it up.

An English Honeymoon: Day IV, Part II

After our morning of shopping at Oxford Street and lounging at the cafe, we went back to our hotel and napped with the Kensington breeze coming in through the open windows, the rooftops outside bare and empty, the occasional bird landing, clouds gauzy and light in the blue open sky. We woke up refreshed much later, got dressed again, and walked towards Portobello Road. Our destination: the movie theater Electric Cinema. We passed fancy shops and boutiques, coffee shops and delis... and finally we turned onto Portobello Road.

Everything had a time warpy feel to it. The stores seemed to come from all eras from the '50s to present day. There were lots of folks smoking and hanging out outside as the stores closed.

The only movie showing that night, much to Dan's delight, was Avengers: End Game, which we had already seen in the theaters back home in the States. Though it wasn't my first choice of movie, I didn't mind seeing it again, especially as Electric Cinema seemed so awesome from what I'd read about it. And it was!

But first, before the theater opened, we had to get some dinner. The Electric Cinema Restaurant is located right next to the theater - the restaurant is actually part of the same building - and it is renowned for it's amazing food. It's a '50s style diner, American style, but dim and English-y. It kind of looks like a fallout shelter. There weren't too many people in there, some guys hanging out at the bar, some groups in the booths, the open grill flickering with oil and steam and fire. We got cozy and got our drinks and food (gin for me, beer for Dan) and as an appetizer: TRUFFLED DEVILED EGGS. We splurged. But it was worth it.

Afterwards, we sat and chatted (again, no one was rushing us out to leave) and then headed to the theater part of the building. We gasped and laughed with excitement. It was the nicest movie theater we had ever been in, the most comfortable, and even offered cozy blankets from inside the footstool (as Michael Caine's voice informed us over the speakers). We replenished our beverages and settled in to view the movie. 

It had this Victorian - '20s style vibe I enjoyed... as well as the enormous armchairs, side tables, and lamps. It was cool to hear Brits laughing at cheesy American jokes. When we left, around 1 am, the moon was bright as we followed our previous path back towards our hotel. The moon shone above us, there was no one in the streets, the lampposts each shed their electricity on the empty sidewalks as we walked along. Then briefly, we heard a group of people singing from an upstairs apartment somewhere. They were really happy and cheerful and loud, and that energy passed on right to us as we began to plan the next day. 

- F