Beautiful Cynicism III

It can be difficult to appreciate one’s surroundings, under the circumstances.

Now, sitting on a very bouncy bed, many kilometers away in a ragtag hostel, with peeling walls and a cobweb-draped washroom, the sounds of other travelers so very audible through the paper-thin walls, it’s easy to feel nostalgic about my fluffy comforter and complimentary bottle of wine downtown. But, this is what traveling is all about. Besides, it was time to start paying my own way again – and at $55/night for a private room, as ratty as it may be, it’s a steal…

“I will move the last deux ou trois autres ici.”

It is in cases like these that illustrate that language is a living, evolving thing, more than a collection of letters ensconced in dusty dictionaries. I’ve been working with several people these past few days at a bilingual conference, and when one of us speaks English, the others reply in English; when one speaks in French, the others reply in French. If someone speaks Franglais, others will follow suit, creating their own hybrids, combining words and expressions of different languages like linguistic Lego blocks. And yet, somehow, we all know what we mean. There’s a certain freedom in that.

Sage, ce n’est pas une question de temps, c’est une question de coeur et le coeur n’est pas dans le temps.
-Christian Bobin

Pour Ely, la plus « wild » des « goats »

dis-com-bob-u-la-ted
I love to go a-wandering/Along the mountain track/And as I go, I love to sing/My knapsack on my back
this song replays itself over and over between my temples. or not
the actual song, but a version of itself
a modern-day remixing of old and new
a marriage of yodels and beats
idiosyncrasies
but this is not exact, not correct
for where do I wander?
(I wander out yonder)
my mind wanders when I work (shh, don’t tell)
my fingers wander over his curves and angles
my eyes wander and settle upon beauty
my tongue wanders over delicious territory
my feet wander until they hurt
I am constantly in motion, even when at a standstill.
discombobulated? perhaps
it’s a constant state, not an aberration.
and yet, regardless how many times I’m surprised
(plesantly and unpleasantly both)
how many times I’m disappointed,
how many times I’m doubtful,
how many times I’m impressed,
how many times I’m unsure,
how many times I’m broken,
I remain hopeful.
Regardless…
a heavy night leads into a clear morning
and it’s just that.
everything becomes clear, and the night previous
slinks away into the darkness
the tint of blue in the sky,
the glint of sunlight on ancient windows,
the scent of coffee bubbling nearby,
the hustle and bustle of daily life all around
somehow makes everything all right.
and I feel it inside of me, growing
sometimes snarling, sometimes purring,
always growing:
that undeniable, unerring sense
that everything is going to be
fine.

A difficult weekend. But why? No outwards change; sunny skies; money in my pocket… But no free time. What moments I steal end up inducing guilt, because I could/should be doing something else more productive. Four projects on the go, running behind on nearly all of them, many personal connections left in the dust too. Bad feelings all around. And yet, and yet… The air is crisp and sweet, the ground firm and crackling, the sun a deep gold, the wind sharp. Autumn is upon us, and I struggle to crawl out from beneath my burdens to enjoy it; even watching it from afar, windows between us, is a small joy. It is not unrelenting; there are always moments of life breathed into me. Bouncing around town from one small ethnic shop to another – Polish, German, Italian; walking hand in hand over frosty evening ground, just as the stars being poking through the darkness above; eating a home-cooked meal whilst camped out on the living room floor, in a pile of blankets; these things matter. And for all the uncertainty that’s out there, there is still something to lean on, something to count on, even if its lifespan is yet unknown.

Photo: robt via Flickr

It has a personality of its own;
is a character (like that old drunk Lacoste,
exhaling amber, and toppling on his pins);
it is alive; individual; and no less
an identity than those about it. And
it is tradition. Centuries have been flicked
from its arcs, alternatively flicked and pinned.
It rolls with the gait of St. Malo. It is act

A.M. Klein, The Rocking Chair

A slice of English life, a mere thirty-seven seconds long. A camera captures these Londoners on their “morning commute” one foggy July day in 1896 – only a few years after the first motion pictures were made. I don’t know why, but this fascinates me.

Le charme dangereux de la mort est en toi,
Automne, on le respire en ton souffle, on le boit,
Tu fais le ciel couleur de cendre et de fumée,
Et ton ombre est si douce, ô saison bien-aimée,
Que dès qu’elle a touché, pâle encor, notre seuil,
L’âme faible s’y couche ainsi qu’en un cercueil.
Elle entend s’élever tes plaintes à nos portes
Dans le frémissement soyeux des feuilles mortes;
Elle sait que les yeux des astres sont fermés,
Que les ardents parfums des fleurs se sont calmés,

Albert Lozeau

Good morning, lethargy. Litchi liqueur. Monstrous little beasties. You cannot take your pretty hands off me. Bubbly, bubbly Eno. Fuzzy and blue (and orange). Monkey in a bird cage. Subdued grey, punctuated by bursts of colour. Mr. Frosticles. Counterfeit marriage? I’m a winner!

A-t-on bien vu que, lorsque le destin s’en mêle, il va comme le vent et jonche la route avec les coeurs – nos pauvres coeurs humains ? Ainsi se font les feuilles mortes.
-Edouard Estaunié