madness-marie vieux-chauvet

“And I don’t want to write. At least, not as I have before. I feel as if I am coming out of my apathy and becoming self-aware. Cornered, hounded like an animal, I take stock of my powers in silence and in fear, and plunge to the very bottom of my being. To find what there? Ah! Lord have mercy! Spare me from clutching at nothing yet again. Look at my buddies. Poets like me. Their empty gizzards stuffed with crooked rhymes, just like me. Poetry! The endemic illness of young malcontents, desperately embracing beauty, hog-tied to the tempting rhymes of a loaned-out language, tossed between Creole and French like those rowboats over there on the sea I can hear but not see crashing from my shack.” (294)

love (of marie vieux-chauvet’s trilogy)

“Freedom is an inmost power. That is why society limits it. In the light of day our thoughts would make monsters and madmen of us. Even those with the most limited imagination conceal something horrifying. Our innumerable flaws are proof of our monstrously primitive origin. Rough drafts that we are. And we will remain so long as we lack the courage to hack a path through the tangled undergrowth of life and walk with eyes fixed on the truth. The hard conclusion to an ephemeral life on the road to perfection. Once can’t reach it without sacrifice and suffering. I would like to be sure that Beethoven died satisfied to have written his concertos. Without this certainty, what would be the point of the painful anxiety of a Cezanne searching for a color that escapes him? Or of the anguish of a Dostoyevsky grasping at God in the thoughts of swarming within the hellish complexity of the soul! All of them proof of another life, mysterious and intangible, clamoring for its share of immortality. Each of us must find within ourselves the possibility to meet such demands. It is a matter of will and action. Of choosing to be puppets or to be human beings. As for me, I sometimes feel I have gone off course, standing for years in front of a door that would not open for me and that I was afraid to force. Afraid perhaps out of sheer terror of facing the truth. When the time comes to follow my own path, I lost my nerve. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to seize the essential thread of my thought once and for all! Something I can’t define is rising from my innermost being in short-lived flashes. And here I am, my hands open and more empty than ever.” (69)

what becomes of the brokenhearted

“I had strange notions about life and God. One of the strangest had to do with the power of words. I was convinced that at the beginning of your life you were given a set number of words to utter and when you used them up you died.

I figured that the President, Miss Whitfield, and Mr. Nunn had died so young because they had used all their words. I knew Miss Whitfield talked a lot in Sunday school and also sometimes did the announcements and the welcome at church. The times I had seen the President on television he was always talking, and Mister Nunn loved to talk not only to adults but to children as well, and he sang solos almost every Monday at church. Words were powerful, I thought, and must be used wisely.” (22)

RIP mister harris, and thanks, strand books.

the first, the last…

but not the everything. it was the first branch of the nypl that i ever got to, and the last one that i’ve visited on this trip (i shoulda got a shot of the front, because it has the banners of the two exhibits that i went through, but oh well). the thing about this library is that it’s beauty-full and all, but it falls under the category of structural brilliance vs. community functionality, and in my books, the latter always wins. see detroit, where they manage to get both together, and don’t get me wrong, i’m not saying that this library doesn’t have anything to offer, but it does have a book store and a lot of empty space (which, i know, can’t really be filled with anything, and it has the best phone booths i’ve ever seen). maybe it makes sense that carrie bradshaw got married here after all-snap.

hip hop tempts this spinster

dammit! every time i come to this city! i’ve come to the conclusion that i will always be half reader, half nomadic. last year, i was living in montrill visiting toronto in january and feeling sad when leaving, so i moved to toronto by august. this year, i live in toronto and am visiting nyc in january, feeling misty on the way in (and, after half a day of adjustments, all the way during this stay) and i know that i’m going to live here at some point…(i must, otherwise it’ll be like charles barkley never winning a championship, and i’m not going to kiss any asses or donkeys over it). but i can’t front-the musics’ got me open and it always has. bigup to community radio, thanks for the nneka track off the top. be kind in the chatrooms, peoples. it’s just the innernets, it’s not real life.

witty and delicious

a trip that was five years in the making (a note about dining with vegans-if you’re the only one and you’re rolling in a crew 10-deep, why do you insist on making everyone conform to you? i mean, it’s cool, but don’t try to compare yourself to any “oppressed” group, yea?) anyways, seeing this spot made me want to open a chicken place called “salmonella” because i would 89% guarantee that the clientele that would come through would at least have a sense of humour. we made it just before closing (bigup to gabe’s set at le poisson rouge, which is where i was before, and the fly leather vintage gloves i picked up to go with my earmuffs, you know it’s cold when the canandian is impulse buying winter accessories…) and opted for the shrimp and fish basket, which was delicious (though the shrimp was way better than the fish and it’s the only place i’ve ever been to that doesn’t have halibut). we also lucked out and got some cupcakes that were intended for the staff from the tea shoppe next door-yea!!!

i don’t remember what station this is

because there’s 11,ooo of them in the city, and my brain was kind of frozen, we were running for the train, and our loins were being toasted by the seats. the important thing to remember here is the scale of the transit system, as well as the amazing tile work/art in the new york subway system, not to mention the fact that it is everyone’s first amendment right to perform in the subway (shouts to the crowd and to eternia for hipping them to me, though i was aware of their separate musics, it’s a power alliance for sure). i’ma get brave enough to do it one day…and i really love the bottom piece. thank you for the signs and prompts, world. but the most pressing ones have always come from nyc. i’ma listen…

the epitome of metrotextual

it doesn’t get any more metrotextual than this…mister smooth’s suggestion was this branch, which is the most frequented in nyc (which doesn’t make it the best). the edifice is quite impressive, but the neighborhood is amazing, including the underground eating stalls that instantly transplanted me back to asia, and a helluva fine cumin lamb sandwich…dood surprised me a bit because we just came from dinner, so i was stuffed to the gills, but it came in handy later. this adventure went to strand books (how do they measure the 18 miles?) where i got a biography by e.lynn harris that i didn’t even know existed, and some lovely postcards of the city for 60 pennies each. hot sake at the forbidden city (twice in two nights-ginger beer and jamieson’s at shrine the night before with lovely folks post-poetry-note to “welcome to atlanta”-you ain’t fly. ditto to dood rocking the fitted singing along to mariah’s “obsessed” and dancing with himself in the mirror-fail.) i hit the bottle…haha. but it was nice to have warm beverages as we braved the cold, but my heart was more than warmed at the knitting factory, and all the fantastic tunes that were spinning around and around, on actual vinyl. yes. they still do that.

125th and amsterdam-my ny office

it’s small but(t) mighty, like me. harlem was a bit overwhelming the first morning, especially because it was snowing (what is UP with this weather, nyc?!) but the library was my sanctuary, i was able to get my affairs together, plan the trip-so many library related events, bigup time out, thank you. it’s nice to see some regular characters, it means that people are using the service, it’s like a little community, literally and literally. they’re still showing that byron hurt doc, and that’s interesting, but i guess the topic is still pertinent, if he (hurt) could’ve delved a little deeper into it. it’s a meeting place of like minds, writers and poets, them. i met this dood from the south (mississippi specifically) who is preach’s doppleganger. gotta send a special shoutout to shanelle gabriel-homegirl is FIRE, the highlight of the bowery show for sure, but hey, since when did poets start taking that assholic page out of the emcee posturing book? i’m just sayin’. permasmile to the tune of “break you off” that is once again so aptly selected by my itunes….mmmmm.

the natives didn’t see the ships…

because they didn’t know to look for them. like glove/mittens and sorell boots, once you know to check for something, the universe starts cooperating. this library just jumped out as we pulled out of the buffalo bus station. although the ride was way too long (about 2 hours over schedule) it was not without the joy of good folks (who taught me “tulia, simba”, which means “easy, lion” in swahili), and border drama (they almost confiscated my nectarine and poor young homie from london got fingerprinted and photographed-the journey to getting him a hostel included an older german lady and ended up across from the 10th precinct-oh nyc, always an adventure you offer me). rum cake made by my neighbor, shaky innernets, and podcasts of the 92nd street y lectures (bill clinton, mos def, malcolm gladwell, and ishmael beah kept me company) and the cold kept me conscious. i was happy to snuggle into the corner of a futon in harlem for a few hours in the city that never sleeps.