We left and caught the sky waking in the deep blue dawn. Thinking about the long miles ahead.
Crossing the border was no problem, Americans should fall for any travel alibi that involved baseball. We had some lovely breakfast foodstuff at McDonald's in Niagra Falls, but we didn't see the falls. Picked up some duty-free bourbon, and bounced through Buffalo, gray under the clouds. The real fun started when we entered Pennsylvania. Hours of huge downpours, broken by valleys and bridges and toll stations. We circled up old coal hills, most of them had their tops sliced off. There was forest all around. The sky turned black, so dark and wet I could barely see. Making our way over the endless twists and valleys, we made it to Philadelphia at 4, and by then the rain had stopped and it suddenly became a scorching humid day. Driving into the valley forge, winding down into the city, there was horrendous traffic at this point and I was quite agitated. There were also madmen on the radio, talking hosts screaming about parasites like hobos, homos, and atheists. We parked the car in a quiet, shady tree-lined district and of course our first desire was the infamous Phili cheese steak and o we indulged in a massive American meal. We didn't do too much that day.. we just kinda lingered around, bloated, walked slow. We passed through empty lots, saw beautiful graffiti, rode the transit, just moved our bones around. Made it to the water (found no waterfront) had a few beers on the patios in the old district and ate ice cream at night. Kieran suggested we sleep in New Jersey because it would save money.
So we crossed the river and entered what some would call the suburban wasteland. We didn't even see any homes. It's just a rotting electrified pile of highways and interstates and turnpikes and exits and fast food chains and gas stations and box stores and sleaze motels. Maybe there was more, but it was out of our way. After being turned down at one and turned around and unable to make left turns for miles upon miles everyone just started gathering rage at the absurdity of New Jersey until we finally found a place, where we tried to haggle (we were 4 when they gave prices for 2) and apparently Kman got caught in his own web of lies so he sent me in and I pleaded for mercy and we eventually got a room. For some reason most the motel landlords are Indian. It was a small smoky room but clean, with AC and ice and we drank sweet bourbon, watched Top Gun but it was too drunk to see. Cyrus and Sean got burgers and probably picked some fights around midnight.
The next day was fantastic, we went back into Phili, had an amazing breakfast at a diner with mmmperfect eggs benedict, and walked around the old district. Beautiful streets, some older than Montreal, but no one living there. We watched street music and almost went into the constitutional museum but it looked like a sham, praising freedom and stealing ours. After some more Phili cheese steaks we decided to look for Will Smith in west Philadelphia (born and raised, on the playground maybe). We entered the ghettos, saw bulletproof windows in corner stores, street bbq's, police cars everywhere that closed off entire streets, basically all black (though there weren't many whites downtown either which was a nice change) We were just cruisin' in the minivan but the place gave off some strange vibes.
We probably looked ridiculous as we each bought blue 30oz gatorades in a pharmacy (outside was a drive through pharma-pickup station). All in all we decided Will Smith probably wasn't there and we drove back into Phili to maybe find Brett Thalmann on the U Penn campus. This was a cool green area and obviously a university district. We reverted to our white bread ways, bought a baguette and Sean got a carton of camembert and we picnicked on the campus grass. Some crazy hippie traveller spoke to us but he was about the only American on the trip who shared a sustained conversation. We lounged around, threw the ball, unfortunately I think Cyrus got heat stroke. We drove way down South to the river to catch a ball game, drove through another ghetto, bought a dozen $1 miller pint cans at a corner store and got a buzz in the parking lot along with another thousand drunk Americans. We sat in the bleachers and it was nice to have a break and look North towards the smoggy skyline but it was a blowout so we left
a bit early and Kieran soberly drove towards more accomodation. We stayed outside of Reading, PA. On our way it seemed like the darkest highways and brightest headlights. Stayed in a luxurious Days inn for another negotiated price and this time Cyrus and I slept while Kieran and Sean got smashed on wild turkey bourbon until about 4:30 in the morning. Good God they even tried to get more Phili cheesteaks in some gas stations.
The next morning I was well rested but Kieran was incapable of coherent speech and we quickly left the room, drank as much coffee as possible at the "continental breakfast" with ludicrous Disney cartoons blaring at us and staring at us were fat babies. The drive to Pittsburgh was a breeze, great speeds on winding highways through valleys and tunnels but again, scorching heat, we were sweating profusely. Stopped just outside of Steeltown for some disgustingly filling rest stop burgers along with hundreds of others. Food, gas, energy, grease, bliss.
We drove right to PNC Park to see the second half of the game (it was a 1:30 start) got some scalped tickets and got burned because they weren't together but it didn't matter because after one inning a massive thunderstorm descended on the city. I mean beyond massive, this was one of the greatest. Everyone huddled by the walls, just barely inside, the stadium is mostly open but has some protection under the bleachers. It looks out across the river (Pittsburgh sits on the banks of the Ohio, Allegheny and another one) into the skyline and electric bolts lit up the buildings. You don't need homeruns for fireworks. The wind howled constantly and children screamed as rivers fell from higher up, everyone seemed to be having a blast, they played an old 70s championship game on the screen but no one watched. No baseball, the field was drenched, there were trenches of water (2 feet high) in the stands, it was chaos.
We eventually got back into Pittsburgh but it was completely deserted being a Sunday and of course we returned to McD's for more burgers and coffee. A few rainy day walkers were out, the city had a strange vibe too it, pretty dying buildings. Modern and forgotten. We just wanted to book it and get back home plus it was already 6 or 7 so we wandered some more, saw the fattest man in the entire world barely hanging on to the earth with his ass and drove north, away from the hills and back into familiar lands. Paid a large toll that ate our meat money and we blasted the coffee sweats and both new and old school chili peppers funk. Kieran took the wheel as I took a short snooze. Night descended on us somewhere south of Erie and we stopped at Wendy's to complete the cholesterol parade, Cyrus had his 5th cheeseburger of the day, Kieran ate 4 more and chili to boot and we were really fearing for his life back there but I had to relegate him to the back seat. More gas and grease. A great drive home, the pace quickened by Fela Cuti past only a couple of midnight crazies. We discovered that Buffalo is a scary place at night, and finally back on the QEW, past the buried treasure. On the bumpy ride home I watched the lines and my passengers fade in and out of sleep.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Monday, May 01, 2006
ARAZ
Ali Raouf Abdel Zaki,
Salaam Alaikum. I wonder if we will ever meet again.
You cannot read my words. My eyes pass over the last record of you that I have kept, all these years. It contains a few addresses, some names, hurried notes from strangers, little maps directing you where to go. The fading blue scrawls on this sheet of paper give me no comfort, nor do your notes hiding in the margin, written in frantic Arabic. I had them translated, only to learn the words have no meaning. Were you a deceiver, Abdel Zaki? Forgive my caution. I often look back on the day we met. I remember the despair of those who could not help you, and I regret the ignorance of those who could not speak to you. I regret this, and I resent the feelings of hopelessness that rise up in my stomach and stifle my lungs, when my mind drifts back to that day. There can be no other explanation but to… no, was it not possible... no, no! A thousand times, no. I will not condemn you and submit to shame, submit myself to this blindness of convenience.
I only ask, do you remember?
I found you at the desk of the security agency, wiping your brow, glad to have the sun off your back, shaded from the sweating streets. There was patience here, before the flurry of words unleashed in the heat. You were first in line, and I was behind, beneath you, invisible perhaps. It did not occur to me what could have happened before this instant, but I knew the tension in the room had been slowly mounting. You wanted answers. You asked for a lawyer, a computer, directions, your hepatitis blood results, the location of your son. Not in that order, but in a jerky careless chaos. One must work up to such demands, in the presence of the state. “Min Fadilak, Min Fadilak!” you pleaded again and again but their words were foreign, and the authority behind the table could not trust your face or your gruff, pained accent.
“Whut is yur bizness, sir?” said the woman, slitting her eyes, curling her lips. Her hair was pulled back taut, it stretched her face and drew my eyes to her jaw, a pointed unmoving V.
“I need to know, please, this information, please.”
Would it have mattered, would you have believed it? What lies behind the table, what shameless fabrications of the truth, we spin. I could not imagine a greater torture.
No one could understand where you wanted to be. You dressed well. Your identity was overflowing from a bunchy dark purple denim jacket, retro, threaded in Singapore. Your sweat smelled of vegetables and tobacco. Your shoes were scuffed and dusty, like your face. I did not know why, but I wanted very much to touch your nose.
Things turned out for the worst on that day, Ali. Despite all that you would have me believe, I could not be your son. In that moment of inspection, you took my hand, you wanted me to be your freedom. Your eyes reached out, but we had little knowledge of your language. You became a mad howl, shouting for help, cursing perhaps, and we were all helpless there in that stuffy entrance. It was as if you had arrived from another planet to do urgent business, and you were unimpressed with our technology. What was it that you wanted?
“Wee can’t help yew, sir!” cried the receptionista at the table, for the seventh time.
I was there to see Joe. Joe Yoblonski. A man with a gun gave me his card once: “Corporate Recruiting Manager” it whispered, in fine italic font. Joe managed a security agency for State buildings and offices. I could have taken you to the Sheriff. Not the one with the ten gallon hat, the Sheriff of Lands. You must have been searching for the Registrar of Identities.
Just think! We could have abandoned them, made a fast break and a stiff drink for the road ahead. But no, we were barking up impossible dreams. You were focused on the moment. But the only place I knew was the Sheriff’s office, the only thing I understood was land title registration. It is not where I would have taken you. The results would have been exactly the same.
You were used to believe these places in your dreams existed, but you could not chase lonely paths through the network, not without an identity. They would only steal you from your children, Ab. They did not tell you where you could find them.
No, Ab, the strangers around us were not honest like you. There is no life for the faithful in a world that shows no hospitality. We are but tramps in a world that refuses to excuse our existence. You did not ask for money, or food, or shelter. You simply wanted information; access to the treasury of words and numbers that remain locked away in a blinking box. The voice of the authority behind the table was never meant to be revealed. She was mystified, trying to empty your identity into little digits on her screen, but no, she was not successful. Ab, you did not realise the irony of the moment. As they were cutting up your dignity, they feared you, because everything about you could not be represented. You could not see what I saw. The shaking beads of sweat on their faces, the empty blinking eyes of data fields… these things you could not have seen.
In the stuttering uncertainty, you reached for something deep within your jacket, and eyes seized your every move. They trust no one, accept nothing. You waited for their muscles to untense. With no destiny to mold, no papers bearing gold, they would betray you with suspicion. Without a word, you deposited your entire briefcase of papers on their desk. I bent down and began to pick up the ones that had fallen to the floor. I could not have seen your eyes, but the rage was bursting on your face, and without speaking, without a word, you asked them: what am I worth?
You were given the shove, the boot laced with gracious words, politely pleading exile from the property of the state.
“Yew hafta speak aienglesh!” she howled in distress for the seventeenth time, as you hobbled out the door, getting smaller through the doorway. You were the vanishing point in my perspective. You looked left, you turned right, and I never saw you again.
I would never judge you Ali Raouf Abdel Zaki, and forgive me if I have done so.
Salaam Alaikum. I wonder if we will ever meet again.
You cannot read my words. My eyes pass over the last record of you that I have kept, all these years. It contains a few addresses, some names, hurried notes from strangers, little maps directing you where to go. The fading blue scrawls on this sheet of paper give me no comfort, nor do your notes hiding in the margin, written in frantic Arabic. I had them translated, only to learn the words have no meaning. Were you a deceiver, Abdel Zaki? Forgive my caution. I often look back on the day we met. I remember the despair of those who could not help you, and I regret the ignorance of those who could not speak to you. I regret this, and I resent the feelings of hopelessness that rise up in my stomach and stifle my lungs, when my mind drifts back to that day. There can be no other explanation but to… no, was it not possible... no, no! A thousand times, no. I will not condemn you and submit to shame, submit myself to this blindness of convenience.
I only ask, do you remember?
I found you at the desk of the security agency, wiping your brow, glad to have the sun off your back, shaded from the sweating streets. There was patience here, before the flurry of words unleashed in the heat. You were first in line, and I was behind, beneath you, invisible perhaps. It did not occur to me what could have happened before this instant, but I knew the tension in the room had been slowly mounting. You wanted answers. You asked for a lawyer, a computer, directions, your hepatitis blood results, the location of your son. Not in that order, but in a jerky careless chaos. One must work up to such demands, in the presence of the state. “Min Fadilak, Min Fadilak!” you pleaded again and again but their words were foreign, and the authority behind the table could not trust your face or your gruff, pained accent.
“Whut is yur bizness, sir?” said the woman, slitting her eyes, curling her lips. Her hair was pulled back taut, it stretched her face and drew my eyes to her jaw, a pointed unmoving V.
“I need to know, please, this information, please.”
Would it have mattered, would you have believed it? What lies behind the table, what shameless fabrications of the truth, we spin. I could not imagine a greater torture.
No one could understand where you wanted to be. You dressed well. Your identity was overflowing from a bunchy dark purple denim jacket, retro, threaded in Singapore. Your sweat smelled of vegetables and tobacco. Your shoes were scuffed and dusty, like your face. I did not know why, but I wanted very much to touch your nose.
Things turned out for the worst on that day, Ali. Despite all that you would have me believe, I could not be your son. In that moment of inspection, you took my hand, you wanted me to be your freedom. Your eyes reached out, but we had little knowledge of your language. You became a mad howl, shouting for help, cursing perhaps, and we were all helpless there in that stuffy entrance. It was as if you had arrived from another planet to do urgent business, and you were unimpressed with our technology. What was it that you wanted?
“Wee can’t help yew, sir!” cried the receptionista at the table, for the seventh time.
I was there to see Joe. Joe Yoblonski. A man with a gun gave me his card once: “Corporate Recruiting Manager” it whispered, in fine italic font. Joe managed a security agency for State buildings and offices. I could have taken you to the Sheriff. Not the one with the ten gallon hat, the Sheriff of Lands. You must have been searching for the Registrar of Identities.
Just think! We could have abandoned them, made a fast break and a stiff drink for the road ahead. But no, we were barking up impossible dreams. You were focused on the moment. But the only place I knew was the Sheriff’s office, the only thing I understood was land title registration. It is not where I would have taken you. The results would have been exactly the same.
You were used to believe these places in your dreams existed, but you could not chase lonely paths through the network, not without an identity. They would only steal you from your children, Ab. They did not tell you where you could find them.
No, Ab, the strangers around us were not honest like you. There is no life for the faithful in a world that shows no hospitality. We are but tramps in a world that refuses to excuse our existence. You did not ask for money, or food, or shelter. You simply wanted information; access to the treasury of words and numbers that remain locked away in a blinking box. The voice of the authority behind the table was never meant to be revealed. She was mystified, trying to empty your identity into little digits on her screen, but no, she was not successful. Ab, you did not realise the irony of the moment. As they were cutting up your dignity, they feared you, because everything about you could not be represented. You could not see what I saw. The shaking beads of sweat on their faces, the empty blinking eyes of data fields… these things you could not have seen.
In the stuttering uncertainty, you reached for something deep within your jacket, and eyes seized your every move. They trust no one, accept nothing. You waited for their muscles to untense. With no destiny to mold, no papers bearing gold, they would betray you with suspicion. Without a word, you deposited your entire briefcase of papers on their desk. I bent down and began to pick up the ones that had fallen to the floor. I could not have seen your eyes, but the rage was bursting on your face, and without speaking, without a word, you asked them: what am I worth?
You were given the shove, the boot laced with gracious words, politely pleading exile from the property of the state.
“Yew hafta speak aienglesh!” she howled in distress for the seventeenth time, as you hobbled out the door, getting smaller through the doorway. You were the vanishing point in my perspective. You looked left, you turned right, and I never saw you again.
I would never judge you Ali Raouf Abdel Zaki, and forgive me if I have done so.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
girl on a motorbike
Dans une maison sur une colline, il y avait deux amants. Une était le maître, et l’autre son esclave. Toujours ensemble, ils ne sentaient jamais les solitudes des heures incomplètes. C’était seulement en se perdre, tombant dans leurs pensées, qu’ils étaient libres. Dans le marché-super, dans la monastère, et dans leur petit lit.
-une dialogue-
[Esclave] – Si je mourrai demain, est-ce que vous me manquera?
[Maître] – Bien entendu, mais non. J’aurais les souvenirs. Approche, tu es bête.
-silence-
[Quelqu’un] – Je ferme la lumière. Toucher dormir vieillir.
-un jour-
[Esclave] – Si j’étais dans un accident de voiture, ma figure manglée et déchirée, des cicatrices vilaines, ma peau pleine de trous, ma cheveux toute brûlée… Tu me voudras toujours?
[Maître] – Quelle enfant misérable! Arrêter ces histoires. J’aurais tes ris, tes cris. La musique de tes mots, tournoyant des fils dans ma tête.
[Esclave] – Tu dois apprendre de craindre la peur.
[Maître] – Tu dois apprendre comment l’embrasser.
Et les jours tournaient, le cheveu devenait long, les lignes sur les visages s’étendaient. Un jour dans le train, l’esclave touchait la fenêtre avec son nez, en regardant les fils électroniques qui montaient et tombaient comme des vagues, comme la portée de la clef. L’esclave ne parler plus.
-un jour-
[Esclave] – Tu ne souffres pour personne, mais je souffre pour tout le monde.
[Maître] – Quelles beaux mots insensés, incompréhensibles.
[Esclave] – Je suis un objet de destruction, et mes pensées son les miennes.
[Maître] – Impossible. Je dois détruire tout ce que je ne peux pas posséder.
[Esclave] – Tu n’aurais jamais ma voix.
[Maître] – (En coupant la gorge de l’esclave) - Ma pauvre petite cigale. Laisse sortir toutes pensées de ta tête, bête.
Tout les sensations se vider; elle voulez lui toucher a ce instant. Ils et elles, toujours ensemble, fesaient des petits cris. Quand le stupeur et tremblements arrêtait, le maître tiré sur le duvet pour se dormir. Le duvet a crié des profanités terribles, dans angoisse profonde :
[Le Duvet] – Laisse-moi!
Le temps passe et passait. La neige et les feuilles et les moustiques tombés des arbres, du ciel. Ils et elles ont décidés de ne parler jamais de cette nuit, de l’oublier complètement.
-un jour-
[Maître] (Étoffant sur ses sanglots) – C’est… m-m-ma faute… Je suis fini, tout est perdu.
La voix de l’esclave lui hanter toujours, et le maître se noyé dans les sons.
Dans un moment sans les sons, tu tombes dans un rêve. Tu oublies les rencontres oubliables, et tu glisses dans la mer. Tu restes seul avec ton corps, quelques pouces sous les vagues, et tu dormes.
-une dialogue-
[Esclave] – Si je mourrai demain, est-ce que vous me manquera?
[Maître] – Bien entendu, mais non. J’aurais les souvenirs. Approche, tu es bête.
-silence-
[Quelqu’un] – Je ferme la lumière. Toucher dormir vieillir.
-un jour-
[Esclave] – Si j’étais dans un accident de voiture, ma figure manglée et déchirée, des cicatrices vilaines, ma peau pleine de trous, ma cheveux toute brûlée… Tu me voudras toujours?
[Maître] – Quelle enfant misérable! Arrêter ces histoires. J’aurais tes ris, tes cris. La musique de tes mots, tournoyant des fils dans ma tête.
[Esclave] – Tu dois apprendre de craindre la peur.
[Maître] – Tu dois apprendre comment l’embrasser.
Et les jours tournaient, le cheveu devenait long, les lignes sur les visages s’étendaient. Un jour dans le train, l’esclave touchait la fenêtre avec son nez, en regardant les fils électroniques qui montaient et tombaient comme des vagues, comme la portée de la clef. L’esclave ne parler plus.
-un jour-
[Esclave] – Tu ne souffres pour personne, mais je souffre pour tout le monde.
[Maître] – Quelles beaux mots insensés, incompréhensibles.
[Esclave] – Je suis un objet de destruction, et mes pensées son les miennes.
[Maître] – Impossible. Je dois détruire tout ce que je ne peux pas posséder.
[Esclave] – Tu n’aurais jamais ma voix.
[Maître] – (En coupant la gorge de l’esclave) - Ma pauvre petite cigale. Laisse sortir toutes pensées de ta tête, bête.
Tout les sensations se vider; elle voulez lui toucher a ce instant. Ils et elles, toujours ensemble, fesaient des petits cris. Quand le stupeur et tremblements arrêtait, le maître tiré sur le duvet pour se dormir. Le duvet a crié des profanités terribles, dans angoisse profonde :
[Le Duvet] – Laisse-moi!
Le temps passe et passait. La neige et les feuilles et les moustiques tombés des arbres, du ciel. Ils et elles ont décidés de ne parler jamais de cette nuit, de l’oublier complètement.
-un jour-
[Maître] (Étoffant sur ses sanglots) – C’est… m-m-ma faute… Je suis fini, tout est perdu.
La voix de l’esclave lui hanter toujours, et le maître se noyé dans les sons.
Dans un moment sans les sons, tu tombes dans un rêve. Tu oublies les rencontres oubliables, et tu glisses dans la mer. Tu restes seul avec ton corps, quelques pouces sous les vagues, et tu dormes.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Fogs
[Halifax at night]
Pang pang pang pang Pang goes some metal tapping in the distance, a streetlamp swinging its metal bulb back and forth, but there is no-one dancing beneath the light here. Just the moon and me and the bones, white clouds slipping down into the deep sea of the blue sky. A quiet storm is brewing, because I hear the wind change the language. I feel that nothing is lying under my feet, and I float through the mist without thinking, just gliding, like a spirit.
I was gliding up Henry street when I decided to stop beside a garage, the loading dock near the Arts building. The man with a flashlight came out of nowhere. He came out of a building, but noiseless, like a ghost. There was something else. I never turned around, never saw his face. His eyes bore through my back as he quietly recited his line: "Please move, I'm closing this now." These were our final stage directions, we walked off in opposite directions, in silence.
Then I started thinking about time. Your breathing conscious life and your memories are on two tracks, like a double helix, rolling off at the edges. The only future is the instant when you realise past life and present meet, because there lies the pattern.
I continued walking beside the side-walk and a bear-horse-dog looked at me with onimous eyes. Laer on I saw a dog that looked like my dead stuffed animal. It was a strange evening.
Pang pang pang pang Pang goes some metal tapping in the distance, a streetlamp swinging its metal bulb back and forth, but there is no-one dancing beneath the light here. Just the moon and me and the bones, white clouds slipping down into the deep sea of the blue sky. A quiet storm is brewing, because I hear the wind change the language. I feel that nothing is lying under my feet, and I float through the mist without thinking, just gliding, like a spirit.
I was gliding up Henry street when I decided to stop beside a garage, the loading dock near the Arts building. The man with a flashlight came out of nowhere. He came out of a building, but noiseless, like a ghost. There was something else. I never turned around, never saw his face. His eyes bore through my back as he quietly recited his line: "Please move, I'm closing this now." These were our final stage directions, we walked off in opposite directions, in silence.
Then I started thinking about time. Your breathing conscious life and your memories are on two tracks, like a double helix, rolling off at the edges. The only future is the instant when you realise past life and present meet, because there lies the pattern.
I continued walking beside the side-walk and a bear-horse-dog looked at me with onimous eyes. Laer on I saw a dog that looked like my dead stuffed animal. It was a strange evening.
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