Next week I am in Mexico city.
The distance from Mexico city to Guatemala is 600 miles. From Mexico city to Los Angeles in 1150 miles.
I thought which would make sense.
And then I went and bought my ticket to Los Angeles.
In Redondo beach, there is a restaurant that serves tapas over flamenco performances.
And there is a sunset.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Dinner At A Batternberg Castle
Battenberg family is important to anglophiles. It was Prince Luis of the family that relinquished the German titles to become the first Mountbatten (Berg is mountain in German).
Two days ago, I had the rare occation to have a meal in one of their castles. Castle is perhaps a bit too fanciful a word, but it was nevertheless impressive, dating from the 15th century. We were a group of thirty and we walked from room to room eating bite-sized chunks of food and tasting a different wine in each room.
It was actually enjoyable for once. I just realized through the day that I was having fun. Which is something.
It was cold and rainy outside. Inside the fires were burning. I stood by a window where Queen Vicctoria signed her name by scartching the letters into the wood with her diamond ring. Outside, darkness was complete.
At 12:30 I got back to my hotel and realized that I had to iron my shirt before sleeping. So by the time I was done, it was 2:00. At 6:30 the car waiting to take me to the airport. I was the only passenger in the company plane that morning.
Landing back here, on the way to my office, I imagined what would it be to become the idle rich.
Then I realized I was late for a meeting.
Two days ago, I had the rare occation to have a meal in one of their castles. Castle is perhaps a bit too fanciful a word, but it was nevertheless impressive, dating from the 15th century. We were a group of thirty and we walked from room to room eating bite-sized chunks of food and tasting a different wine in each room.
It was actually enjoyable for once. I just realized through the day that I was having fun. Which is something.
It was cold and rainy outside. Inside the fires were burning. I stood by a window where Queen Vicctoria signed her name by scartching the letters into the wood with her diamond ring. Outside, darkness was complete.
At 12:30 I got back to my hotel and realized that I had to iron my shirt before sleeping. So by the time I was done, it was 2:00. At 6:30 the car waiting to take me to the airport. I was the only passenger in the company plane that morning.
Landing back here, on the way to my office, I imagined what would it be to become the idle rich.
Then I realized I was late for a meeting.
Gruyère Again
I park my car at the exact same spot as before. Except this time, it is light out and the air is only just nippy. I did not lose my way and found it in the most intelligent way; using my GPS. I climbed over the winding path to the top. There on the cobble streets, tourists were still marveling the souvenir shops and the fondue restaurants. I stopped by the restaurant with beautiful panoramic views below and then went to the fort.
Like last time, the fort was closed.
I tried to remember a poem. Or a quote.
There was nothing. I wanted to remember. There were no memories. I wanted to stand still and admire the fort in its lit-glory. But the lights were off.
On the way back, I just looked out into the darkening vista and commiserated with the cows.
Like last time, the fort was closed.
I tried to remember a poem. Or a quote.
There was nothing. I wanted to remember. There were no memories. I wanted to stand still and admire the fort in its lit-glory. But the lights were off.
On the way back, I just looked out into the darkening vista and commiserated with the cows.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
What is next for me?
I sometimes wonder when this life in the fast lane will come to an end. What is next? One day i will wake up and know when I have had enough of Europe and the travel and the stress and competition. And then what will I do?
I dream about being an olive farmer in California. Butthat may be more of a dream. I am not sure if that is what is in the cards next. Knowing my life, I have never had anything that i was actually looking for, even though life has indeed taken me to places where the end results were not terrible. Things could improve, and I have a few major regrets in my life, but in general, at least from a career point, I ought not complain.
So I think the more likely scenario is that i will end up in Downer's Grove, Orange County or Redwood City, some non-exotic and flavorless suburb back in America working in a job that perhaps would have less international travel but with a reasonable profile.I will probably keep better hours and travel less.
It is about giving up.
In one of the stories of Jorge Borges titled "The man on the treshold" he attempts to recall a story in second person from North India in Buenos Aires. He says, "what sort of exactness can the names Aritsar and Udh be expected to convey to Buenos Aires?"
Exactly.
What sort of exactness can these realities convey to you? what sort of geographic exactness comes through in my stories as they are spread through my own consciousness as think as butter spread over bread? Would it ever make sense to you why I am the way I am and why it is so difficult to change.
You couldn't possibly know.
As Sartre said, our life is only a long waiting; first waiting for the realization of our ends and especially waiting for ourselves.
I am still waiting for the first. But there is an olive garden somewhere in santa Ynes valley that is waiting for me.
I dream about being an olive farmer in California. Butthat may be more of a dream. I am not sure if that is what is in the cards next. Knowing my life, I have never had anything that i was actually looking for, even though life has indeed taken me to places where the end results were not terrible. Things could improve, and I have a few major regrets in my life, but in general, at least from a career point, I ought not complain.
So I think the more likely scenario is that i will end up in Downer's Grove, Orange County or Redwood City, some non-exotic and flavorless suburb back in America working in a job that perhaps would have less international travel but with a reasonable profile.I will probably keep better hours and travel less.
It is about giving up.
In one of the stories of Jorge Borges titled "The man on the treshold" he attempts to recall a story in second person from North India in Buenos Aires. He says, "what sort of exactness can the names Aritsar and Udh be expected to convey to Buenos Aires?"
Exactly.
What sort of exactness can these realities convey to you? what sort of geographic exactness comes through in my stories as they are spread through my own consciousness as think as butter spread over bread? Would it ever make sense to you why I am the way I am and why it is so difficult to change.
You couldn't possibly know.
As Sartre said, our life is only a long waiting; first waiting for the realization of our ends and especially waiting for ourselves.
I am still waiting for the first. But there is an olive garden somewhere in santa Ynes valley that is waiting for me.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Lights and sounds
Am I destined to follow the light around the planet?
I know the futility of this writing.
I know minds are made up and dreams are crushed
and movies are made and shown
Dirges are played
A house is bought and lost
an afternoon in a cafe
A dinner in a restaurant
An early morning
A breeze that comes like a whisper.
Am I destined to follow the sound
through the echoes?
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Ps: I made a lot of calls today to California. Throughout the day I thought what it would be to look into the Canyon and the hills beyond it all over again. I have seen little conejos running around the place at night. an ocational cayote when I walk springs out and stares. I miss it. Today, more than ever.
I know the futility of this writing.
I know minds are made up and dreams are crushed
and movies are made and shown
Dirges are played
A house is bought and lost
an afternoon in a cafe
A dinner in a restaurant
An early morning
A breeze that comes like a whisper.
Am I destined to follow the sound
through the echoes?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ps: I made a lot of calls today to California. Throughout the day I thought what it would be to look into the Canyon and the hills beyond it all over again. I have seen little conejos running around the place at night. an ocational cayote when I walk springs out and stares. I miss it. Today, more than ever.
Objects In The Mirror
I have an early morning flight to Rome tomorrow. Here I am sitting up sleepless and tired. I had a very very late dinner with Stefan at a restaurant where the woman apologized for running out of bread.
It is important to record these details of the daily grind because such days you forget. When you are seventy and you sit on the porch and wonder what you did with your youth, you need to remember the meal at the restaurant with no bread.
That is where your youth went. Also in the morning commute, in the irrascible crevices of memory and silly precipices of mere existence.
I have been dreaming weird dreams lately.My father's aunt has a house in a small town. When it was being buing built, I used to climb on top and look down from the terrace. I haven't seen that house in 22 years. Last night I dreamt that I eviced some Geneva partygoers from that terrace.
That is where my youth went. In nightmares and anxieties. In flight schedules and airports.
But I still want to live.
It is important to record these details of the daily grind because such days you forget. When you are seventy and you sit on the porch and wonder what you did with your youth, you need to remember the meal at the restaurant with no bread.
That is where your youth went. Also in the morning commute, in the irrascible crevices of memory and silly precipices of mere existence.
I have been dreaming weird dreams lately.My father's aunt has a house in a small town. When it was being buing built, I used to climb on top and look down from the terrace. I haven't seen that house in 22 years. Last night I dreamt that I eviced some Geneva partygoers from that terrace.
That is where my youth went. In nightmares and anxieties. In flight schedules and airports.
But I still want to live.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Lost
In the darkness everyone looks the same.
The streets of l'Hivernage are dark except for
the light from passing cars
But I am not alone, there are many people around me
yet I barely see them.
A man comes straight to me and I tense and make a fist
but he passes without a glance.
My feet hurt.
Dead words
Today I wander. There is always a fixed route when I wander. so is it even wandering if one follows the same path?
The lake is where I usually start. Well everything must start at the lake anyway, it is a rule around here. The lake is noisy today with a fair. I pay very little attention to the people around me. Lasy year this time I was dancing in one of these makeshift dancefloors by the lake; this time i don't feel like going in. Instead I walk away and towards the hotel. I stop in front of the non-descript building where a missing woman's poster still lingers. Her body was discovered buried in her own backyard months ago. But the poster still hangs. On the door a polite warning reminds the reader that the building is under video surveillance.
The side windows of the bar display newer paintings; nudes of African women done by a female swiss artist. They are tasteful and competent but not captivating. On the other end of the street, I sit on a street bench under a tree. I count to ten.
On the courtyard in front of the Kabab place, silence lingers. There is no sign of life. A fallen yet forgotten rain has left a little wetness on the ground. I stand there lost and look at the door of Edelweiss. This is a central point for meetings and running-ins. The Turkish restaurant that no one ever went to is now Bollywood cafe. They seemed to be having better luck than the Turks.
The video parlour is open. I cannot see inside. If I walk past it through the narrow roads, I will get to my old apartment. There on the balcony, if I leaned back with a lit cigarette I would see the lake.
Black and purple. That is now imagine this world. Sometimes, after you walk long enough on a path, you forget to notice. may be because you know those things are there, even when you don't look. I know where the youth hostel is, where the best breakfast is even though my seat is invariably always damn near the toilet, I know how the monuments look even when I don't see it.
Wandering along, I forgot why I was wandering in the first place.
Because summer is almost over. And the words are still dead within me.
The lake is where I usually start. Well everything must start at the lake anyway, it is a rule around here. The lake is noisy today with a fair. I pay very little attention to the people around me. Lasy year this time I was dancing in one of these makeshift dancefloors by the lake; this time i don't feel like going in. Instead I walk away and towards the hotel. I stop in front of the non-descript building where a missing woman's poster still lingers. Her body was discovered buried in her own backyard months ago. But the poster still hangs. On the door a polite warning reminds the reader that the building is under video surveillance.
The side windows of the bar display newer paintings; nudes of African women done by a female swiss artist. They are tasteful and competent but not captivating. On the other end of the street, I sit on a street bench under a tree. I count to ten.
On the courtyard in front of the Kabab place, silence lingers. There is no sign of life. A fallen yet forgotten rain has left a little wetness on the ground. I stand there lost and look at the door of Edelweiss. This is a central point for meetings and running-ins. The Turkish restaurant that no one ever went to is now Bollywood cafe. They seemed to be having better luck than the Turks.
The video parlour is open. I cannot see inside. If I walk past it through the narrow roads, I will get to my old apartment. There on the balcony, if I leaned back with a lit cigarette I would see the lake.
Black and purple. That is now imagine this world. Sometimes, after you walk long enough on a path, you forget to notice. may be because you know those things are there, even when you don't look. I know where the youth hostel is, where the best breakfast is even though my seat is invariably always damn near the toilet, I know how the monuments look even when I don't see it.
Wandering along, I forgot why I was wandering in the first place.
Because summer is almost over. And the words are still dead within me.
An unusual evening
Whenever I come to this city and drive around the neighborhood, I imagine myself living here. In one of these brownstones. I let my imagination wander.
There was a death in the family next door , so the house came on the rental market. Lucky. Perhaps.
May be that is not the story. But it is my imagination. If I want to imagine a townhome as fictional as this, it is indeed my prerogative.
The little townhome stood on a side street protected by one-way signs and no-turn signs right-off a main throughfare. Like all those places, it was non-descript. There was nothing that told that house or that street apart from any other.
There was an Ethiopian eatery within walking distance. Perhaps a laundromat. A twenty-four hour convinience store, a florist, a store selling hardware things and electrical components, a chinese grocery; a neighborhood. In the dark ethnic restaurant people sat around talking to each other as if it is a living room and service is just casual to the itinerant hungry person.
The house itself stood slightly raised from the ground. Perhaps the first floor is locked up or occupied by the landlady. On the second floor, there was a regular bedroom and a living room crowded with computer wires. The bathrom was small and the tub was covered on three sides by curtains. From the bathroom, one could see a small patch of green in the backyard. Beyond that, other houses.
On the roof, a secret opened up. A small table and two chairs. A private smoking den. A sliver of the sky. A three dimensional place to mourn, lament and laugh.
Houses come in different colors and shapes. They come with room to share and room to spare. This was a purpose. A calling.
If I needed a place to hide from my sorrows and find myself, perhaps it is here.
The fortune cookie said:' to you values in life are more important than wealth' -- True but sad. There is a whole life to live on this side of the fortune cookie literature.
The sliver in the sky just got smaller and died. I woke up.
Never a good idea to dream while one is driving.
There was a death in the family next door , so the house came on the rental market. Lucky. Perhaps.
May be that is not the story. But it is my imagination. If I want to imagine a townhome as fictional as this, it is indeed my prerogative.
The little townhome stood on a side street protected by one-way signs and no-turn signs right-off a main throughfare. Like all those places, it was non-descript. There was nothing that told that house or that street apart from any other.
There was an Ethiopian eatery within walking distance. Perhaps a laundromat. A twenty-four hour convinience store, a florist, a store selling hardware things and electrical components, a chinese grocery; a neighborhood. In the dark ethnic restaurant people sat around talking to each other as if it is a living room and service is just casual to the itinerant hungry person.
The house itself stood slightly raised from the ground. Perhaps the first floor is locked up or occupied by the landlady. On the second floor, there was a regular bedroom and a living room crowded with computer wires. The bathrom was small and the tub was covered on three sides by curtains. From the bathroom, one could see a small patch of green in the backyard. Beyond that, other houses.
On the roof, a secret opened up. A small table and two chairs. A private smoking den. A sliver of the sky. A three dimensional place to mourn, lament and laugh.
Houses come in different colors and shapes. They come with room to share and room to spare. This was a purpose. A calling.
If I needed a place to hide from my sorrows and find myself, perhaps it is here.
The fortune cookie said:' to you values in life are more important than wealth' -- True but sad. There is a whole life to live on this side of the fortune cookie literature.
The sliver in the sky just got smaller and died. I woke up.
Never a good idea to dream while one is driving.
Near Sudan Border, Lake Nasser, Egypt
One night in July, when the air was pure and the sky was bright like a million diamonds, I woke up without being able to sleep and came out of the cottage that was my home for that night. There was heavy military presence in this tiny hamlet and everything was watched. But within these walls I felt safe.
I was in Egypt, near the Sudanese border. Here what was Nile was now Lake Nasser. Here the landscape looks lunar, except for the emerald green waters. The Nubians are friendly. Earlier that day I had walked to the village square looking for something and in the scorching hear surveyed the complete absence of activity around me. The only traffic I ever saw was military vehicles.
I end up in unusual places.
I walked past the huts and onto the path that abuts Lake Nasser, the largest man-make water-body in the world. I was careful not to accidentally step on any vipers. Standing there alone was an eerie feeling. But I stood there smelling the desert night, not thinking or feeling. Not wondering.
Then I heard a powerful attack being executed in the lake below me. The lake is full of crocodiles and the extent of violence in the water could only have meant one thing.
Water gives life.
What it giveth, it taketh away.
I was in Egypt, near the Sudanese border. Here what was Nile was now Lake Nasser. Here the landscape looks lunar, except for the emerald green waters. The Nubians are friendly. Earlier that day I had walked to the village square looking for something and in the scorching hear surveyed the complete absence of activity around me. The only traffic I ever saw was military vehicles.
I end up in unusual places.
I walked past the huts and onto the path that abuts Lake Nasser, the largest man-make water-body in the world. I was careful not to accidentally step on any vipers. Standing there alone was an eerie feeling. But I stood there smelling the desert night, not thinking or feeling. Not wondering.
Then I heard a powerful attack being executed in the lake below me. The lake is full of crocodiles and the extent of violence in the water could only have meant one thing.
Water gives life.
What it giveth, it taketh away.
Near Fatima-Setti, Atlas Mountains
It is already september and the air is thick with anticipated winter. Life moves in thick, halted pauses here, no sudden thrusts or wayward movements. I am climbing to waterfall number 5 through barren arid paths and rocky outcrops, like a lizard. My guide, Kemal, who probably is twelve is much more agile. On our path, we pass a wailing woman attended by others after she tore open the sole of her left foot. But other than that, it has been peaceful.
I reach a panaromic point and look around. All around me is waves of undulating mountains. I can hear the waterfalls below me and from somewhere far, comes a faint wave of an Arabic song. down at the village, at the foot of the mountains, I imagine the Berbers are still moving about in their donkeys as I saw them earlier in the day.
Suddenly I remember I haven't written anything in a long time. Not just blogs, but anything. When i don't write, I don't know what to do with all my feelings. sorrow. Melancholy. Joy.
But here I remember that all I need to do is to open my eyes and listen. Words will come flying down from their coops they abandoned me to. And they come like that, I write.
Thank you Cascade Number 5.
I reach a panaromic point and look around. All around me is waves of undulating mountains. I can hear the waterfalls below me and from somewhere far, comes a faint wave of an Arabic song. down at the village, at the foot of the mountains, I imagine the Berbers are still moving about in their donkeys as I saw them earlier in the day.
Suddenly I remember I haven't written anything in a long time. Not just blogs, but anything. When i don't write, I don't know what to do with all my feelings. sorrow. Melancholy. Joy.
But here I remember that all I need to do is to open my eyes and listen. Words will come flying down from their coops they abandoned me to. And they come like that, I write.
Thank you Cascade Number 5.
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