Friday, December 18, 2009


When I was a kid, learning French, I found the word fiancee expressed the past tense; as in "fianceed".. So then what did it mean to BE a fiance? (I resent the difficulty of including the proper accent notations, aigu and grave.. But it's OK.) The approximate equal would be betrothed: There does exist one for whom I have expressed devotion, one to whom I will always be true! Hence be-truthed. But that is just between her and me. We established this a few years ago in Meknes. Now for everyone else...

I feel the natural state of a fiance (me) is in tension, like an unrequited letter.. Now that the visa petition has been sent off, the bureaucratic wheels are in motion! I have chased my pathetic bank balance into a corner, whimpering, to get things this far, and there's MORE... But as with any honest fiancee, a tension is held tight within me, nervous and excited, one I don't care to resolve at the moment. I am becoming a connoisseur of tension: I know the permanent resolution I desire!

She may be seen here, in August 2007.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

anyone want a trilingual teacher??

I wonder if this works....

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Bother All That Noise

Found me a new house...

Saturday, February 7, 2009

A pattern like this covered the walls of my hotel room where, after a few weeks, I could barely walk. Better to just look at the walls.

Friday, February 6, 2009

And Yet It Keeps Moving

Gazing pensively out the window, a sun-dappled morning in the spring, shadows of new leaves spread generously… Krusty has a Deep Thought.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever hit anybody—“
I stare at him incredulously. His shoulders are three times the width of mine.
Falstaff, strongly reminiscent, a big character, roaring with passion and life-be-damned enthusiasm for any number of colorful chemicals, a man pigmented by the hues of his fierce appetite for such things.
-- So what, are you packing that thing?
-- I found something.
-- What’s the story with the heat in this house? It’s roasting in my room.
-- We made some nachos. Knock yourself out.
What did the magic number mean, we only smoked twice a day, if we were awake in the middle of the night? No, there was a different stripe of ideology to resist. You never wanted to hear about a crystal again as long as you lived. Remembering the Drainbow.
-- It’s about the comfortability.

I remembered in time not to cover myself. I had no need of self-protection, any thought of vulnerability was an illusion. I am not a hijabia. So, I understood, you stand where you know you are right, and you don’t give an inch. However, Real Life may not call for such a combative outlook at every moment, and this may alienate fragile people. Besides, when you do give your inch and feel bad about it, you must have some capacity for self-apology or some such. Because, yes, you will sustain through this moment, and you should have enough room for yourself the next day. Embarrassing as it is to express. But I will be back on that couch at some point. Lord, you can see that it’s true…

I am so tired.

Why do you say you left your heart there?
Truth seemed to be clearer there. It was closer to the Source.

What do you mean by that?
It seemed that there was less fragmentation between the Source from which all things originate and their eventual destination in the sand. The things which were good were extraordinarily so, the tastes, aromas, appearances of the place would sear themselves on your experience. The honey was of some transcendent substance, a smear of simple magic collected safely in a small glass jar, provided in accommodation with cakes for breakfast.

The word of the evening will be reification. By this the process of distinction is highlighted; the transiently, vague border separating the belief from the superstition is made distinct. So we abandon our comfortable wishes, we cease our stubborn disregard of what is plainly incontrovertible, and we gather familiar stones and make a fire pit.
Repetition of closely held values is typical; in case there was any doubt. It’s all about the comfortability.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

More Mumbling

I can almost hear my eyes creak, opening to blue slices of pale sunshine through the thin blanket. The pattern on the couch is familiar, still glimmering darkly from last night’s festivities. Growling, I pull myself to my feet and look around the room. Empty beers, something cheap, crowd the table and cluster by the feet of chairs, ashtrays overflowing.
-- What happened last night?
-- Ambushed by lysergic storm troopers.
Of course. Why I still feel bubbly, wobbly as a Jello salad. We observed the table as some distant coral reef.. And giggling we recalled when, with unreliable gait, I found myself stranded on a glacier, which was really an icy driveway.
-- Any of that crummy dust left?
-- Some, but you can’t both sneer and smoke.. Pick one or the other.
-- Jeez, won’t you have some coffee first?
We saw the edges glistening in shy suggestion of another realm, we saw the pinpricks of the cosmic light that gleamed through the wispy substance of this veil, we laughed at the massive cosmic joke. Then one character began speaking only in gibberish.

Some sniffingly disdain such people as those who resist growth, who seek to maintain their youth in the perpetual Now. There may be some purchase to this analysis, but my own idealist pragmatism stays unchanged. What good does such a conclusion do me? Am I to avoid the very people who offered me their shelter and shared with me their food? Such is the burden of the informed: what do I do now?

Thursday, January 1, 2009

I don't go to those parties anymore

They always get out of hand... Bonne Année...