I. Jan 2009 Milbridge to pruning/nica Feb. through to New York for Passover
II. Marlboro May 2009 down to Philly & Alabama/Georgia summer up to Maine and picking season
III. Picking season 2009 down to Georgia w/Julian – caroling tour and bus up to NYC Jan 2010
IV. Charleston visit end of Jan 2010 through pruning season to Portland Easter early April 2010
V. Weare preparing nicaward to Cambridge, NYC lullaby test run
VI. Manahatta end of lullaby prototype tour Aug 2010 w/Jules & Roudy on through apple harvest, lullabying w/J. & Robbie, & NY/New England yo-yo ending in NYC 2nd-to-last week of March 2011 Holiday Surprise
VII. NYC Feb 2011 for Keri & Joe's wedding/ March for Holiday Surprise on through Massachusetts time w/Jules & R. and June Maine rambles till Indian Island w/Seth & Taylor
VIII. June 2011 Mainey rambles before entering money labor (Henry, Hugh, apples) through good postappling back to Maine and Tivoli caroling preparations
IX. Tivoli & NYC late Nov 2011 caroling that Dec, Maine Christmas, Ch'field, back to NYC 2 weeks in January, back to Ch'field then pruning March 2012
Tuesday, 31 July 2012
Thursday, 19 July 2012
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Young Master I. "Paddy Fermor" Ludders at an interfarc station in Stamboul, long ago
Δευ, Μάιος 10, 2004 12:21 pm
High spirits and a feeling of being out of touch with many people lead me to attempt a Marek/Jason-style "Dear Boxholder" narrative communication. You should read it as if I'd been sending such things all along, but you weren't ever getting them on account of some technical problem. Nor should you be alarmed if such technical problems recur in future.
************************
The express bus from Alexandroupoli came to a final stop in the late afternoon drizzle of a huge dystopic bus-station complex outside of Istanbul and the charming community of its passengers immediately dissolved: the two Thracian Turks and the Iraqi Kurd and the Greek language that had afforded us our sweet temporary friendship – all vanished; to be replaced, quite unsatisfactorily, by a nightmare of tangled transportation networks and an incomprehensible mediating language. The two beautiful young Japanese women also vanished, but not till after one of them had turned herself into a rockstar by suddenly producing a guitar-case as she disembarked; the old expatriate Korean man who had accompanied the other – and whom I had imagined to be her father? teacher? lover? – I saw wandering away into the crowds without her, breaking my illusions: their relationship had apparently been as fleeting as mine with the Kurd.
This interesting old Korean man had lived in Istanbul for some years and had periodically turned in his seat throughout the course of the bus ride to give me advice, in his thin English, on my visit to The City; so I caught up to him in the confusion of the station to ask how I should get downtown and where would I find a cheap hotel. He turned his tired eyes and, recognizing me, began to speak, gesticulating vaguely this way and that: but I could pick out only a very few words – "pension," "bazaar," "ichiban" – for he spoke not in English but in Japanese, the language of his many hours' commerce with the young woman. Not wanting to embarrass him by pointing out his mistake, I listened for some thirty seconds, nodding politely; when he'd finished I said thank you and goodbye and we parted. I found my way to an ATM machine and withdrew 450 million Turkish Lira from my Bank of New Hampshire account and bought a map of Istanbul (1 million). I then approached a man and had an unexpectedly difficult time, without "language", formulating the question "Where on this map are we?" When he finally came to understand the puzzling charade, my interlocutor responded by indicating, quickly and gracefully, that we were in fact outside of the bounds of the map; so I bought a subway token (1 million), determined cartographically which track to take, and in subterranean blindness passed under the ancient crumbling span of battlemented Byzantine walls and into The City they compassed.
There followed two weeks of happy ambulatory investigation
High spirits and a feeling of being out of touch with many people lead me to attempt a Marek/Jason-style "Dear Boxholder" narrative communication. You should read it as if I'd been sending such things all along, but you weren't ever getting them on account of some technical problem. Nor should you be alarmed if such technical problems recur in future.
************************
The express bus from Alexandroupoli came to a final stop in the late afternoon drizzle of a huge dystopic bus-station complex outside of Istanbul and the charming community of its passengers immediately dissolved: the two Thracian Turks and the Iraqi Kurd and the Greek language that had afforded us our sweet temporary friendship – all vanished; to be replaced, quite unsatisfactorily, by a nightmare of tangled transportation networks and an incomprehensible mediating language. The two beautiful young Japanese women also vanished, but not till after one of them had turned herself into a rockstar by suddenly producing a guitar-case as she disembarked; the old expatriate Korean man who had accompanied the other – and whom I had imagined to be her father? teacher? lover? – I saw wandering away into the crowds without her, breaking my illusions: their relationship had apparently been as fleeting as mine with the Kurd.
This interesting old Korean man had lived in Istanbul for some years and had periodically turned in his seat throughout the course of the bus ride to give me advice, in his thin English, on my visit to The City; so I caught up to him in the confusion of the station to ask how I should get downtown and where would I find a cheap hotel. He turned his tired eyes and, recognizing me, began to speak, gesticulating vaguely this way and that: but I could pick out only a very few words – "pension," "bazaar," "ichiban" – for he spoke not in English but in Japanese, the language of his many hours' commerce with the young woman. Not wanting to embarrass him by pointing out his mistake, I listened for some thirty seconds, nodding politely; when he'd finished I said thank you and goodbye and we parted. I found my way to an ATM machine and withdrew 450 million Turkish Lira from my Bank of New Hampshire account and bought a map of Istanbul (1 million). I then approached a man and had an unexpectedly difficult time, without "language", formulating the question "Where on this map are we?" When he finally came to understand the puzzling charade, my interlocutor responded by indicating, quickly and gracefully, that we were in fact outside of the bounds of the map; so I bought a subway token (1 million), determined cartographically which track to take, and in subterranean blindness passed under the ancient crumbling span of battlemented Byzantine walls and into The City they compassed.
There followed two weeks of happy ambulatory investigation
cream of pulled pint, pulled
shot, a surface
effect. I gobble your
softnesses, oak tree; I
kiss all your branches dear beech dear
pecan! Where God becomes self-conscious, there
I am. Have I always loved
the wobbly; did the trains used to go
there; when did you move
thence; nineteen seventy-five. Before I was born
of my mother, though she'd given her first
that August. September follows
me. When certain cheeses age their flesh
darkens and they develop
delicious crystalline flecks, butterflies all so
peaceful in Bruce's yard, fireflies flickering
about us: books can only
moulder but maybe
a bit of sacred statuary rests with
us, breathing.
shot, a surface
effect. I gobble your
softnesses, oak tree; I
kiss all your branches dear beech dear
pecan! Where God becomes self-conscious, there
I am. Have I always loved
the wobbly; did the trains used to go
there; when did you move
thence; nineteen seventy-five. Before I was born
of my mother, though she'd given her first
that August. September follows
me. When certain cheeses age their flesh
darkens and they develop
delicious crystalline flecks, butterflies all so
peaceful in Bruce's yard, fireflies flickering
about us: books can only
moulder but maybe
a bit of sacred statuary rests with
us, breathing.
Saturday, 14 July 2012
thumb scad, the
blood creeps out and all the rest
is as it was not. Time is represented
by sunlight. Moving into the shade with
you, did you get all my letters? I asked for
sparkling water. Reading them with some delicious
coffee: sparged malts, running up and down
stairs. Phosphorescent bugs like
stars. Grime of dead man's house a
comfort worth keeping.
blood creeps out and all the rest
is as it was not. Time is represented
by sunlight. Moving into the shade with
you, did you get all my letters? I asked for
sparkling water. Reading them with some delicious
coffee: sparged malts, running up and down
stairs. Phosphorescent bugs like
stars. Grime of dead man's house a
comfort worth keeping.
Friday, 13 July 2012
Saturday, 7 July 2012
Thursday, 5 July 2012
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