“Ich habe heute vier Bildschirme! Die IT verwöhnt mich.” +++ Kater raten- demnächst bei “Wetten, dass…?!” +++ Ich fühle mich wie ein Smutje auf einem schwankenden Schiff, der zu viel Rum getrunken hat. +++ “Was klimpert denn da so in meiner Tasche. Oh, ein Glas!” +++ Danke an den Nachbarn, der mein Fahrrad in den Keller getragen hat. +++ Jetzt bin ich wieder um eine Erfahrung reicher. Muss aber nicht nochmal sein. +++ Ich kann mich noch an alles erinnern. +++ Wie peinlich. +++ Tallin ist der Tod. +++ Ich hab den Schuss nicht geschmeckt. +++ Vier sind drei zu viel. +++ Zum Glück hatte ich ein gutes Frühstück. Danke! +++ Ich hielt mich am Rad, das Rad hielt mich. +++ Entgegenkommenden Passanten was vorgegaukelt. +++ Immernoch leichter Schwindel, ansonsten putzmunter. +++ Nachher eine Currywurst.

Happy Thanksgiving to all you navel gazers out there, American and non-American alike.  I’ve been thinking about a vague promise I made sometime ago to post something on roads and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t really have anything terribly interesting to say on that subject at this point in time.  I have come up with a somewhat experimental and, I hope, satisfactory alternative.  Earlier this year I gave a conference paper on the characters Dean Moriarty and Raoul Duke as American versions of the divine idiot.  Both were characters who spent lots of time on the road and the product of real-life minds who themselves were rather well-travelled.  Over the next few days I’m going to post the text that I spoke from.  Questions, rants and objections in response to my thoughts are welcome.  Do keep in mind that this represents me just beginning to flesh out an idea that could potentially be much larger.  It could also be nonsense.  Enjoy.  (n.b. I’ve done my best to include my footnotes in this posting in a way that will enable readers to navigate from the text to the citation if they wish to do so.  My works cited and works consulted lists will make up part of the final posting)

Holy Goofs: Dean Moriarty and Raoul Duke, Two Holy American Idiots

Jack Kerouac’s depiction of Neal Cassady as Dean Moriarty and Hunter S. Thompson’s autobiographical alter ego, Raoul Duke have aroused interest and debate since they first greeted readers from the pages of On the Road (1957) and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1971). While part of their continuing popularity lies, at least among undergraduates and adolescents, in their rebellious indulgence of excessive appetites and extreme exercise of personal freedom, Moriarty and Duke are more than drug- and drink-fuelled iconoclasts driving at high speed across the American landscape. Instead, closer consideration of Duke and Moriarty on their own and as a pair reveals that they are in fact two American examples of the holy fool, divine idiot or, as Dean is branded in Kerouac’s book, “the HOLY GOOF.”¹

In an insightful 2003 article entitled “Holy Fools, Secular Saints, and Illiterate Saviours in American Literature and Popular Culture” Dana Heller argues “that the divine idiot in American cultural history is an overlooked site of contestation and meaning production in our myths of nation, a chiasmatic figure who occupies the in-between spaces where U.S. cultural authority is fought over, negotiated, and renegotiated.”² By offering an examination of the pair as holy fools whose actions and behaviour question core American values and myths my comments seek to redress a small portion of the oversight Heller identifies. Though both Dean and Duke have a strong basis in the biographical realities of the men on which they were modelled they remain the fictionalised creations of their authors. As a result, their alignment with defining American myths and assumption of the fool’s role begins to emerges as a potentially powerful a means of exploring and critiquing the United States through which they move.

That Dean Moriarty and Raoul Duke are consciously aligned with totemic American figures and myths is, perhaps, more rapidly apparent, than their status as holy fools of an American stripe. Recounting his first impressions of Dean, Sal Paradise the narrator of On the Road, reveals “My first impression of Dean was of a young Gene Autry – trim, thin-hipped, blue-eyed, with a real Oklahoma accent – a sideburned hero of the snowy west.”³ Though readers may rightly question how much of a hero this former “jailkid” may actually be, the comparison with Gene Autry and his description as a western hero firmly aligns Dean with that archetypal hero of the American west and rugged individual freedom, the cowboy.⁴ Not only does the fact that Dean has actually spent time working as a cowhand further cement his position at a crossroads between American myths and realities, but a brief look at this same description in the infamous scroll version of the novel which omits the phrase “a sideburned hero of the west” suggests that in addition to substituting the name Dean Moriarty for Neal Cassady Kerouac sought a greater emphasis of Dean’s mythical standing.⁵ While later events and Dean’s propensity to what might be considered stunning selfishness may reveal the character as an ambivalent hero at best, his alignment with mythical American figures remains uncontested during his peregrinations with Sal Paradise. In fact, it is only by recognising Dean’s status as a holy fool that the continuing valorisation of Dean can be reconciled with Sal’s candid admission that Dean “was a con-man. . . .”⁶

Like Dean, Hunter S. Thompson’s Raoul Duke quickly emerges as a figure aligned in some way with defining American myths. Not only is the subtitle of Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to Heart of the American Dream heavily suggestive of the possibility that in Duke readers encounter a figure standing at a point of intersection between American myths and realities but, like Dean, he is quickly connected to a particular figure or trope in the form of the rags-to-riches individual of the Alger mythos. As Duke tries to explain to readers and himself why, at the book’s outset, he is speeding toward Las Vegas with a car full of drugs he asks: “But what was the story? Nobody had bothered to say. So we would have to drum it up on our own. Free Enterprise. The American Dream. Horatio Alger gone mad on drugs in Las Vegas.”⁷ Where Moriarty’s status as an ambivalent American hero emerges alongside the insistence that he embodies the cowboy archetype, Duke’s association with the nation’s defining myths in the form of the American Dream and Horatio Alger are destabilised from the outset. That being said, though Duke does confound reader expectations of what it means to be a Horatio Alger in search of the American Dream achieving massive inebriation rather than impressive wealth and social achievement, at the narrative’s close Duke can still insist “I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger . . . A Man on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.”⁸ As with Dean Moriarty, in order to reconcile Duke’s status as what Heller describes as a “chiasmatic figure,” one standing between more conventional American myths and values with his extreme, even criminal behaviour it is necessary to consider his role as an American type of the holy fool.

While it is not possible in an argument of such brevity to adequately survey the historical, social and literary evolutions of fools, divine or otherwise, it is worth mentioning that the tradition of such figures is both widespread and of significant longevity. Though Dean and Duke are not divine madmen seeking to reconcile the temporal world with a spiritual Christian order there is good reason to view them as American outgrowths of a tradition that stretches at least as far back as Paul’s commentary on divine foolishness in 1 Corinthians 1:25 where it is written “Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men.” John Saward helps to sum up nicely the long story of divine foolishness that includes this verse with his assessment that “The holy fool is a commonly encountered figure in the folklore of many cultures and religions. In Jewish-Christian tradition perhaps the earliest example of a religious form of folly is the ‘symbolic action’ of the prophet, the strange, sometimes quite outrageous form of behaviour imposed upon him by the Lord to shock the people into perceiving the truth of their situation.”⁹ Moriarty and Duke may not be called upon to behave as they do by the Lord, but I would like to suggest that just as their more devout forebears they do have the capability to startle others into new channels of perception.

Significantly it is possible to view both of these characters as clownish versions of the fool rather than simple madmen; agents who pursue their desires and adhere to certain values with such intensity that, in the final estimation, their apparent recklessness and idiocy undermines the assumed good-sense of more conventional behaviours. Not only does “holy lightning” flash from Dean who is elsewhere described as “having the energy of a new kind of American Saint” but, at one point we are informed that in its most mature form Dean’s role of as a fool assumes the form of a “W.C. Fields saintliness.”¹⁰ Descriptions such as these emphasise the inseparability of Dean’s Beat saintliness from his role as a ragged clown. As a holy goof he may play a serious role, but it is not one of measured restraint or even careful argument being characterised instead by an intense spiritual energy and clownish kineticism. Nor does Dean achieve the status he does because he rejects the values of the nation and generation he plays jester to. Stephen Llano aptly describes what motivates Moriarty and what kind of figure he becomes with the words “Dean, through his desire to fully enact American values, tries to push them beyond their own logical extreme. Dean is trying to be too American and in doing so he becomes a clown and presents a powerful critique of capitalist society.”¹¹

1Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Penguin Modern Classics, intro. Ann Charters (London: Penguin Books, 2000) 176.

2 Dana Heller, “Holy Fools, Secular Saints, and Illiterate Saviours in American Literature and Popular Culture,” CLCWeb: Comparitive Literature and Culture, ed. Benton Jay Komin 5.3 (2003), 24 Nov. 2008 , <http://docs.lib.purdue.edu/clcweb/vol5/iss3> .

3 Kerouac, 2000, 4.

4 Kerouac, 2000, 3.

5 Jack Kerouac, On the Road:The Original Scroll, Penguin Modern Classics, ed. Howard Cunnell (London: Penguin Books, 2008) 110.

6Kerouac, 2000, 6.

7 Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, Flamingo Modern Classics (London: Flamingon, 1993) 12.

8 Thompson, 204.

9 John Saward, Perfect Fools: Folly for Christ’s Sake in Catholic and Orthodox Spirituality (Oxford: OUP, 1980) 1.

10 Kerouac, 2000, 6, 35, 109.

11 Stephen Llano, “The Clown as Social Critic: Kerouac’s Vision,” Clowns, Fools and Picaros: Popular Forms in Theatre, Fiction and Film, ed David Robb (Amsterdam-New York, 2007) 202.

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Basel. 1.8.2009

A Propensity

It’s been no time and all time.
But,
a frail ink tears out of my pen
to rain this page
with the sere memory of you
(Swan)
and knowing that our days passed by
as the quick game of pool we’ve played
over a beer and a shot of Jack;
I’ll see you on the dust-kicked road
to Greece and a hermitage that you
would share with me.
But,
Rather than lose the wars,
they settled on the spoils of boredom.
But,
Rather than lose faith,
they twisted your spine
into a hangman’s knot to die
(and die)
in the corner by your restless jacket.
But,
It’s been no time and all time.

I finished the post below in Ben Gurion Airport in Israel in the very early hours of the morning of November 19th, last Thursday. I hope my evident proclivity for procrastination will not too much delay future posts while on this trip.

———————————–

A couple months after moving to Israel, I realized that I am, have always been, and will always be, above all, an American. Since then, even as I have struggled to express myself in Hebrew; as I have felt my face burn when Israelis switch to mangled English after I stumble on one word; as I have tried at once to fit in and to stand out in a society I both love and loathe; I have become more and more a proud American. I’m not talking about political pride, Bush pride, hate France pride, bomb Iraq pride, tattooed red-white-and-blue eagle pride — and most certainly not “Proud to Be an American” pride. (I’m not terribly interested in politics, don’t like Bush without being able to rationally explain why, generally don’t like French people for no good reason, don’t know enough about Iraq to have an opinion, am considering a less cliché America-related tattoo — and as for the song: yes, I love sappy sentiment, and yes, I’m grateful for military actions that protected my country and to the soldiers who were involved in them, but that song sucks. Sorry, flag-bandanna’ed, shotgun totin’ stereotypes. When it comes to patriotic American songs, I prefer Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land,” commie lyrics and all, especially the version with the lesser-known “no trespassing” verse.)

I’m talking about the landscapes, roads, and towns; the winding mountain lanes, wooded streams, and quiet country houses; the bustling cities and the boarded-up backwaters; the people, from Abraham Lincoln to Charles Manson; everything.

So, I’m dying to finally be back home Thursday for a visit. It’s been more than 16 months since I left the U.S. on July 9, 2008. On account of my low (or rather, “nonexistent”) budget, I’ll probably be in Maryland and DC most of the time, and most of my “tourism” will be done within walking distance of a Metro station. (Ah, how I miss the Metro! — in spite of its horrific track record — pun intended — of late, with the crashing and the dying and the running people over.) That’s alright. I’m ashamed to say how many museums and monuments I never saw in the 22 years I lived just outside DC. As the time before the move dwindled away, I started to realize how I’d been taking it for granted. I used to go to the National Gallery a lot, but aside from that, I haven’t been to any of the museums in years.

I remember my last visit in DC, on the 3rd of July 2008, 6 days before I got on the plane. I walked to the Wheaton metro station, passing along the wooded bike path and familiar side streets, knowing I wouldn’t see them again for awhile. I came out onto University Boulevard. Probably I considered stopping in at the KFC-Taco Bell, but I kept going. I had another place in mind.

On the train, I shot a video clip with my little digital camera, capturing the graffiti as I glided between Silver Spring and Fort Totten. Then I sat back and waited a few minutes until the train slid back underground and pulled up to Union Station.

Over the previous few years, when I felt blue or bored, I would take little trips like this one into DC. Union Station was usually my first stop. I’d push through the crowd, wait in line to swipe my card at the turnstile, and start for the food court, always passing a beggar or two and sometimes giving out a dollar. I’d automatically take a look into the small photo and frame store where I’d once bought a few frames. I’d turn the corner and head to the mens room, which was invariably squalid and stinking in spite of the progressing renovation in the food court. Then I’d go to the Chevy Chase Bank ATM and take out a 20. The first time I practiced this routine, I had tried to pay for my food with my bank card, but it wasn’t accepted in the places I wanted to eat.

After ordering up a styrofoam platter of grease in one form or another, I’d find a table and dig in. Sometimes I’d try to read a book, but I always ended up sitting and people-watching until I’d finished eating. I’d try to listen in on conversations and figure out where the tourists were from, and I’d wish I could talk to them and ask them about life in Alabama or Oregon, and what they thought of DC so far. I’d stare at young couples and try to guess if they were locals, tourists, or passing through on an Amtrak train. After awhile they’d stare back at me, less with a look of mutual interest than of suspicion. I’d smile and watch children running between the tables and chairs, hollering and doing whatever pleased them. Occasionally I’d see a group of suits and wonder why they would choose the Union Station food court for their lunch hour. We’re not far from Capitol Hill — could they be lobbyists or aides or staffers or even congressmen? I remember one of them vividly. He was a neat-looking little man, 40s, balding, and (I imagined) manicured. He had purchased a hotdog larger than his forearm, and as he opened his mouth to take the first bite, his small face contorted into a kind of horrific mask, eyes bulging, jaw stretching unnaturally. After the initial disgust, I felt a sort of strange pleasure; a feeling that I had borne witness to a horrific act this prim and proper man had not wanted me to see.

Sometimes after eating I’d walk around upstairs for a bit, go into some shops, a bookstore, stroll past the passages leading to the train platforms. I’d read the schedules up on the screens and fantasize about getting on the next train to Chicago. I had the money — I could probably call in sick at work . . .

One way or another, I’d end up going out the front doors through the massive main hall, past the Christopher Columbus statue at the foot of which at least one beggar was always sleeping or panhandling, cross Massachusetts Avenue and wend my way through the little squares of park between the station and the Capitol, and then cut to the National Gallery.

I started late in the day on my last trip in July ‘08, and the museums were getting ready to close by the time I finished my lunch. I approached the Capitol and circled around it, taking a few pictures. After some Capitol cops yelled at me for getting too close to the building (I wasn’t near any kind of public entrance), I continued on my way.

I strolled down the Mall, past the museums. I looked over at the Smithsonian Castle as I passed. I watched the people descending and rising in and out of Smithsonian station. I walked all the way down the Mall and across the Potomac towards Arlington National Cemetery. I stopped for a few moments to contemplate the Washington Monument, and witnessed a perfectly American tableau laid out before me: a group of boys playing baseball on the lawn. I nearly wept. I sauntered through the grand new WWII Memorial, then wandered off the beaten path and discovered a small, sad-looking WWI Memorial. Lastly, I paid a visit to Abraham Lincoln, his unnaturally huge stone form looming over me, humbling me, I guess.

As I crossed the river the sun began to set, and the Cemetery closed. I rode the metro back home from Arlington National Cemetery station.

I started writing this post weeks ago, but laziness of mind and body kept it from getting done.  Now I’m sitting in Ben Gurion airport near Tel Aviv, waiting for my 5:30 AM flight to Amsterdam, where, after a four hour layover, I’ll head back home to Maryland.

Home. I call it that instinctively. “This is your home,” —- tells me, referring to our tiny room in downtown Jerusalem.  “I know, I know.”  But as the saying goes, home is where the heart is – where is my heart?

With the use of my mother’s car or, when that’s not possible, Montgomery County public transit – or better yet, my own two feet – I’m planning to visit some sites in Maryland itself. I’m not sure how far afield I’ll be able to go, but I’m hoping to retrace some of my old drives.  Also, I’ve discovered a wealth of historic sites in Montgomery County, thanks in part to the Montgomery County Historical Society, of whose existence I was unaware until I googled montgomery county historical society. (They have an excellent blog featuring pictures and descriptions of relics from their collections.)

My computer battery is going to die – I can’t find a place to plug in – and I’d like this to get posted before I’m back in Maryland. There is no end to the memories I could ramble on about like an old man talking about the good old days, but that’ll have to wait. I’m hoping I’ll have the will and the energy to write about my experiences on this trip, and maybe I’ll integrate some recollections of past excursions, like my trips to the C&O Canal, the last of which was in May ’08, at a point along the canal I’d never been to before, which I think I got to from River Road, Montgomery County’s longest road, if I’m not mistaken, or one of ‘em at least, which starts in DC at Wisconsin Avenue and continues through the suburbs before narrowing and winding out deep into the country, beyond the city, the suburbs, the mansions, and finally turns into a rutted dirt road on which, at points, two cars couldn’t pass, and ends at White’s Ferry, where one can either boomerang around and head towards Rockville, or cross the Potomac into Loudon County, VA . . . . .

Se face saptamana de cand am fost in vizite la parinti. Deja nu mai pot spune ca am fost acasa pentru ca totusi, acasa e la Cluj. Daca parintii si-ar schimba domiciliul si orasul, singurul lucrul pe care l-as mai avea de impartit cu orasul natal e doar marea. In rest…cei cativa prieteni ramasi acolo – si pot sa-i numar pe degetele de la o mana – ei bine, cu ei pot pastra legatura si altfel. Si evident ii pot vizita. N-am nevoie de oras pentru asta.

Orasul m-a dezamagit. De la primul pas facut in gara pana la momentul plecarii. Un oras trist, vulgar si violent. Cu totul altfel decat l-am lasat. Si imposibil de acceptat inapoi. Pana si marea mi se pare ingropata sub mormanul de manele, fitze si aere, vulgaritate si lipsa de bun simt. O simt cum abia respira printre zbieretele si mizeria lasata in urma de gloata. Ii simt dorinta de razvratire si daca as avea suficienta forta poate as ajuta-o sa spele rusinea si durerea pe care le-a strans in ultimii ani. Aproape ca n-a mai ramas nimic sfant in marea pe care am adorat-o si luat-o cu mine in suflet oriunde plecam.

Iar oamenii….grupuri de copii care tind sa imita niste modele de toata jena.

Cand i-am vazut de la distanta credeam ca sunt niste golani. Urlau si injurau si se impingeau si se luau de lumea de pe strada. Asa, fara motiv. Intr-o zona a orasului care se vrea linistita. Am sperat ca trec nebagata in seama dar tot m-am ales cu un “ce faci papusa? ce cur ai!” etc. Noroc ca venea autobuzul si si-au continuat discursul si galagia acolo. Si nu erau decat niste adolescenti care ar trebui sa se gandeasca la lucruri mai placute decat agresarea fizica si verbala a trecatorilor.

Iar fetele…un adevarat munte de prostie si vulgaritate si dotate cu o enorma lipsa de gust estetic. Pitzi prost imbracate, care “isi baga si isi scot” in gura mare fara sa tina cont ca poate totusi lumea le aude. Ah, da, si prietenele se alinta intre ele cu “Fa”. Mi s-a parut o gluma proasta, de genul “Ma scuzati, coborati ba la prima?” Si fetele astea, saracele, se mai si lupta “pa viata si pa moarte” pentru naiba stie ce model de telefon care e “viata ei”!

Sa ma intorc la asa ceva? Ar fi sinucidere curata!

Dear A,

I’ve been writing emails to plenty of people now and since I am currently on an email writing frenzy and that I cannot control myself anymore because of my apparent OCD… I’ve never actually asked my doctor if it was OCD but sometimes I go crazy on simple things like this ( and actually I like it because i always feel fulfilled once I’m done… 3 hours later ).

You kinda gave me an idea. I don’t know if I told you about this but I am seriously considering hitchhiking Canada. I would start from here in the province of Quebec, then I would go to Ontario, Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta and then I would come back. If I have more time on my hands and everything is right I also consider checking out Yukon. I started planning stuff. I began thinking about what I should bring and what I shouldn’t bring and what kind of craziness might happen. In between this I began to realize that I needed something to attract drivers in order to be picked up easier and faster so I don’t stand like a wounded dog under the rain for five hours. I almost immediately thought that I should bring my guitar ( and that means I have to re-learn how to play it ) but then I thought that it would be too big so I thought of the ukulele you kept mentioning and now I am considering buying a cheap ukulele!!! Wouldn’t that be the coolest thing!?!? I mean I would be known as the legendary ukulele wanderer!!! I would make the news like ” Have you seen the Uke Traveller?! ” and ” The Ukulele Wanderer strikes again! “. Ok, ok, I’m dreaming here… But I do think about bringing a ukulele with me.

So yeah I’ve started planning this thing. I subscribed to a hitchhiking forum where experienced people will probably be able to give me some advice. I plan on doing this in two years from now on june 2011. I will try not to spend money during this trip and I expect to spend most of the summer travelling this way. I still have to tell my family about it and I am pretty sure everybody’s going to freak out so I have to choose the right moment or unless they will believe I am in some sort of state of distress or something… Frankly I have no idea how I will present this idea, most especially to my mom, because I’ve been there forever for her and she has been there for me as well.

I see this as a personal journey rather than a travelling experience. I will write my daily experiences in a journal that I will bring with me. I will also bring my Canon camera that is neither too expensive neither too crappy so I will bring some great pictures ( I think ). I’ve started thinking about some “tricks” like putting two 200$ in two plastic bags and hide them in my two shoes for desperate measures. I also plan on bringing my cd player and some amazing cds like Sigur Ros!!! I will try not to go in hotels and rent rooms and I will try to camp as much as possible and for this I expect to deal with cops and thugs so I will bring my best smiles with me for the cops and my little handy knife for the thugs…

I think what’s triggered me to think about this seriously is Jack Kerouac’s book titled ” On the Road ” which is all about hitchhiking. The guy in the story is pretty messed up and I am different ( I think ) when compared to him, but I still need that freedom I can’t seem to find in here. Plus, this Jack Kerouac guy, well, the “hero” in the book, is him and it’s mostly an auto-biographical novel. I don’t know if I told you about this, but I have always had some sort of love for the 50s and when I found the Beat Generation writers like Kerouac I immediately associated myself to them and Jack Kerouac seems to have some sort of link with me. He was french canadian too! I don’t know what the hell is going on between him and I.

I’m pretty sure that what I am searching for won’t be found during this trip but I have been sick enough in the recent years to see people around me are living in a daily routine and I don’t want to live that. I’ve spent some time in hospital beds and when I would talk with other sick people the topics were really different. We would talk about simple things. Things you don’t think of when you aren’t sick. I remember I spoke to an old man while we were eating that horrible hospital food and we were wondering what we would eat and drink when we would get out. I remember I wanted a good bloody steak with mashed potatoes and some green broad beans. It was enough to make me feel happy and I wanted to get out of there just to eat that. Nowadays I’ve begun to fall back into routine and I almost forgot about that desire I had back in the hospital and I don’t want to forget about that and that’s why I want to leave this place with a feeling of uncertainty so I can enjoy everything I see, taste and touch. It’s like in my favorite book, “The Little Prince”, when he goes to the well in the middle of the desert and he drinks water with the aviator. The water would be ordinary to other people who drank water everyday, but to the aviator, it was the product of their desire to get water, the fact that they walked so long and the fact that they had to use the pulley in order to ultimately get it! That’s why it tasted so good to him and to the little prince.

The fact is that I am doing this knowing that I will probably find adversity. It’s not like I am going there with an improvised bag using a red cloth with white spots on it, all of it attached to a wooden stick like in the cartoons. I know I’ll probably be unable to sleep during some nights. I might get robbed or beaten or whatever. I’ll try to avoid this as much as possible, but I still have to hitchhike the way I want to or else it won’t be hitchhiking anymore. Still, I have to train my body for this because I’m pretty sure I’ll be dead tired most of the time so I have to be in the best shape possible.

That’s why I’m going to walk practically everyday from now on. I’ve already been walking pretty often but it was only for entertainment purpose or to go out with friends. I don’t have a car and when I have to buy stuff or whatever I just WALK to the store and bring back the goods home. I still don’t get the car thing and I don’t understand why so many people have cars. I don’t know if I missed something here. So, yeah, from now on I’ll walk a lot. Next summer I’m planning on walking from home right to the camp ( which means about 250 kilometers… and seriously I won’t do the math to explain how long that is in miles because you americans need to use the metric system ). I will bring the usual stuff I bring when I go there ( clothes and books and some cds and other things ). It should give me a preview of a hitchhiking experience without drivers picking me up ( which should be the hardest days ).

So, yeah, I’m going to write a book on this. I don’t expect it to be published by anyone but I’ll try to if I feel like the material is somewhat worth it. I’ve never studied literature ( so my curriculum vitae in that department would be pretty short ) but I think I’m pretty good ( in french, at least ) and I know a couple of authors in the area who might be able to help me.

I’ve recently met very old friends who were in classmates in primary school and high school. When I was really sick I lost sight of them and back then I thought that they were really ahead of me in studies and jobs. I mean, they are. Some of them are going to be doctors and pharmacists, others already have great jobs and live a steady life. But somehow I feel like I have something more inside my head that they don’t have. They don’t question society like I do and they don’t see the things I see. They don’t know how to write either ( I found that out on Facebook ). I think that all these years of illness I’ve spent reading and listening and watching others is finally paying off. I feel like I am stronger inside. I also am sad to see that these young minds who sometimes were breaking laws and questioning so many things in life ended up as ordinary human beings with very little imagination, ideas and hopes. Of course they still have these things but it’s hidden deep inside now and it will only bloom when it will be too late.

I can’t believe I wrote so much stuff! I don’t even know how much time I spent on this email! Ok, I have to stop myself now. I guess I had to tell someone about this and since I’m too chicken shit to tell my hitchhiking plans to the people who live next to me and I wanted to tell them to someone like you who can’t really judge me or anything. I guess this is the good side of internet? I don’t know, really. This place is both full and empty at the same time. It’s confusing.

Thanks for reading my “dreamer’s melodrama”,

X

As I mentioned in my post here, there were a few things I wanted to do for the coming week. 

1) Water – I definitely managed my 1.5 litres, but only just.  There was one day I didn’t write down my water (on Saturday 21/11) but I know I had enough (though with all the beer I had, I could have had more that day…)

2) I wanted to track every day and I did just that.  Every Single Day.  I tracked online up until the 19th, when we went to the UK and then I tracked in my WW notebook in Liverpool and Manchester.

3) Control – I set out to NOT throw everything to the wind just because I  was traveling and I would say I succeeded at that at about 70%.  I had quite a lot of lager on Sat night (and wine!), I did share a packet of crisps with my guy, and I had the Chocolate Yule Log cake from Starbucks as well.  I had a burger and fries (and onion rings) Saturday as well.

4) Fruit and Veg – Goal was to have my full servings every day.  On the days I was still home, this happened.  In the UK, not completely.  I was dying for a salad by the time we came home. On Friday in Liverpool I almost made it with veggies.  On Saturday in Manchester I didn’t come close with veggies at all, but hit it on the fruit.  Again Sunday, enough fruit, no where near enough veggies.  Back at home Monday and Tuesday and I was on track again.  In the UK we actually bought some Apples and Mandarins so that we would at least have that.

5) Working out – I did not manage anything at all last week, so that is a FAIL. To be fair, my foot’s still not completely healed.

I actually took photos so that I would remember everything I ate (which I didn’t do the whole time, but hey, I had good intentions!)

Friday

Did not have an actually fry-up;  got 3 little pancakes and one fried egg and the Man gave me a little slice o’bacon

I had a jacket potato at “lunch” (which was more like 4pm) with vegetarian chili and cheese.  It wasn’t great to be honest and I left a bit of it on my plate, instead stealing about 7 nachos from my guy.

I had a cosmo and a caipirinha before dinner and ordered beef fajitas with 3 tortillas (left one). Tasty but a bit oily.

We went out to the Phil for a drink (2 pints) after dinner and then back to our hotel, which was right around the corner.

Saturday

Friday’s breakfast left me a bit unsatisfied, so I ordered scrambled eggs, hash browns (those are the UK version) and some bacon on this day and some toast.

We did some shopping and then ended up at Starbucks where I had a Misto and a slice of Yule Log cake (yummmmmmmy)

We caught the train to Manchester a bit later, but beforehand I managed to get some fruit and water at M&S:

Once we got to Manchester, we found our hotel, checked in and then headed to the city centre.  It was raining HARD so we ducked into the King’s Arms for a pint to wait out the rain a bit.

We left about 45 min later and walked further until we finally found something to eat at Gourmet Burger Kitchen.  Wine, burgers, loads of garlic mayo, fries and onion rings.  And I don’t regret a single bite!

Then we went to the Gary Numan show at the Manchester Academy.  And Had more beers.  Afterwards we went back to the hotel. And had another beer and the packet of crisps.

Sunday

Had another breakfast similar to Saturday’s.  It was a travel day again and really out of whack as far as finding good things to eat.  At Liverpool airport, once we made it back, we thought we could sit down and eat something and I could get a salad.  But there was nothing.  We ended up having panini’s at Starbucks.

I’m glad I’m back home now as far as food is concerned, but now I’m sick, so again out of whack.  On top of that, I went to Weight Watchers last night and we are starting a new program called ProPoints so I need to figure a few things out.  Since my official first day with it is today AND I’m home sick, I can’t say it’s going really well at this moment.

I am however, 1.2 KG less than the last time I went to WW, bring a total WW loss to 14.3 KG.  Woot!

Goals for this week:

Again WATER, track EVERY DAY regardless of points, and between now and next Tuesday, get on my elliptical at least twice.

William and Millie are the latest to join the trip. Here they are out for their early morning walk.

Apparently Millie is not always a good girl on her walks but today she was very good indeed. We are so pleased with her. Maybe she will be dog of the trip.

William and Millie

Oscar, watching William and Millie watching him

Georgia Pine Over My Grandmother’s Grave, BlackBerry Shots, Augusta, Georgia, October 2009, all photos © 2009 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

visiting Estelle
gravestones outlast the living
markers for the dead

all that’s left behind
a letter, a horseshoe ring
lasting love and luck

face of a pine tree
warm thoughts of the Grandmothers
hover over me

It’s the time of year when I think often of family and loved ones, living and dead. One of the highlights of my October trip to Georgia was visiting my Grandmother Estelle’s grave for the first time. I did not know her well, had not seen her since I was 2 years old. I knew none of my blood father’s family. It was synchronicity when in 2007 my paternal aunts ended up in the insurance office of my maternal uncle and asked the question, “Are you related to….?”

It happened to be two weeks before Mom and I were scheduled to travel to Georgia. After 50 years apart, the question’s answer led them to me.

It turns out, my paternal grandparents are buried down the hill from my maternal grandparents in the same cemetery. I’ve been visiting the cemetery with my mother for years and never knew. These photographs are of the pine tree that grows high over their graves. My Aunt Annette told me that my grandfather loved pine trees. So do I. When I was a child, I would spend hours sweeping pine needles, the scaly bough of a branch curving to make just the right shape, a prairie-style home.

The thing about cemetery trees is that they are many times old growth trees, never to be cut. I like to think this pine is a guardian for my grandparents, its long roots extending deep underground, branches tall and proud (reminds me of another pine in New Mexico that I’m quite fond of, the Lawrence Tree).

There is more to the story — a letter, an obituary, a ring. Perhaps another post. This week I give thanks for all who live, and those who have come before.

Skin Of A Pine Tree, Pine Trunk In The Graveyard, My Grandmother’s Grave, Cemetery Pine, BlackBerry Shots, Augusta, Georgia, October 2009, all photos © 2009 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

Post Script: the day Mom and I met my aunt at the cemetery, we also visited the Gertrude Herbert Memorial Institute of Art in Augusta. That’s where my Canon G6 battery died; I had forgotten to charge the backup battery. These photos are all taken with the BlackBerry cell phone camera.

-posted on red Ravine, Tuesday, November 24th, 2009

-related to post: haiku 2 (one-a-day)

Burgundy

As Thanksgiving approaches, in keeping with the spirit of extended weekend festivities, the twograpenuts suggest a rather unorthodox weekend getaway. Taking the red eye to Paris you can find yourself heading out to the amazing vineyards of Burgundy in hours. With two fantastic gastronomical cities to base yourselves in Dijon and Lyons, you will find your palate most delightfully pleased amidst an atmosphere out of a fantasy romance novel.  Nestled betwixt these quaint cities are a bevy of little villages along the illustrious vin de rue.

It is here you will find vineyards that have been in one family for generations, even centuries. Some cellars have been in use since the time of King Louis XIV and the present occupants are usually rich in stories of its past and the particulars of the wines grown there. Predominately Pinot Noirs with a sprinkle of Gamay here or there and the whites the legendary Chardonnay, the quality and variety from one vineyard to another is quite extraordinary.  Two of our favorites were the Domaine Jean Fournier in Marsannay and Domaine Rion in Vosne Romanee, who had a wonderful Gamay along with the usual fabulous Pinot Noir.

The region of Burgundy combines the beauty and archeological brilliance of ancient and modern France with a cuisine and most especially the wine that rivals the best in the world.  An intrepid adventurer can find the trip both relaxing and eventful over a long weekend. The key to remember is to bring extra luggage, to be filled with the best of those sampled to become prize pieces of your expanding wine collection.

Photograph from Nokia phone (3.2 Megapixel camera, Carl Zeiss Lens). Early Summer 2009.

Driving back from Las Vegas

Dusty

We stopped at a roadside fast-food

Nowhere, California?


We played Monopoly

waited until the sun came down,

until the traffic subsided.

You were merciless.


M.A

November 23, 2009

I’ve long been vaugely interested in On the Road, as I am with most culturally significant books. But it wasn’t until my husband started reading — and recommending — Kerouac that I actually sought the book out.  I’m listening to the audiobook now, and I’m glad he encouraged me to get my hands on it.

I’m about a third of the way through it currently, and one thing I can say is that it’s certainly different than most things I read.  I am first and foremost a reader of fiction — no, I should say a reader of novels.  I’ve never really gotten into the short story as a literary form.  I like poetry well enough, but typically in small doses.  There are specific essayists and humor writers I like, but I don’t generally spend a lot of time in those genres. 

What draws me into reading is the overarching plot — the intricate story with developed characters and a compelling need to know what’s going to happen to those characters.  This is why I read novels (and, to some extent, memoirs); to get to know the characters, to understand their circumstances and take their journey with them — to find out what’s next.

But On the Road isn’t about what’s going to happen to the characters, or what comes next — it’s about what the characters are doing in the moment.  It’s about being where you are when you are, and not knowing for sure how long that will be or where it might lead you. 

That’s not to say there aren’t characters.  There are, and they’re incredibly distinctive at times.  But the narrator himself and the individuals around him seem largely aimless, which doesn’t make for much of a story or plot in and of itself.  The focus of the book is instead their interactions — with other people, with their surroundings — and on Kerouac’s vivid descriptions of both people and places.

All in all, it makes it an easy book to read at a relaxed pace.  When I’m listening to it, I’m perfectly content to be in the moment the book is describing, but at the same time, there’s no dire urgency to move forward.  I can come and go from it as I please without constantly thinking about what’s going to be happening next.  Like our narrator, I’ll find out when I get there.   

As I announced before, I’ll write in English now….

Well, the girls and I spent a really fun weekend in Mancheser, up in the north of England. Known as industrial city and hometown of some really famous rockbands, like Oasis, Manchester has more to offer than a grey sky and dark rusty streets. For instance they have the biggest shopping center I’ve ever seen. We were overstrained! I more prefer the cool tiny shops in the Northern Quarter, where our hostel was located.

But let me tell you the story more chronological. Leslie, Lisa and I went to Manchester from Saturday to Sunday. Actually we wanted to go the Arctic Monkeys concert, but it was sold out, unfortunately. Our bus (megabus again) started at 8 a.m. on Saturday. The journey took 4,5 h…it was horrible. My legs are too long for these coaches! We tried to sleep with more or less success. Arrived in the city center we realised that no one of us had an idea where our hostel should be. We didn’t organised anything…how stupid is that?! Normally we are all well organised. We had just about the name of the hostel. So I phoned my housemate David, and he looked up the adress of the hostel on the internet. Luckily the hostel was away just five minutes from the bus stop. On the way we saw a lot of little cafés and colourful shops…so nice! Our hostel was really good as well. I can surely recommand the Hilton Chambers Hostel in Manchester! The staff were friendly and everything was clean.

After we had moved in our room we looked for a place to eat lunch. On the way we were in some really charismatic, stylish shops that had cool stuff to offer. I bought a cardigan with heart-buttons. The café where we had lunch was also really stylish. The food wasn’t. I ordered the wrong dish, but is was ok. After lunch we went to the city center and the big shopping mall. There were too many people. It was exhausting. Web just spent one hour there, than we left. But I saw my favourite shop Urban Outfitters close to the shopping mall so we also had to go there for a look. Finished shopping we had tea time in a really cute teashop. Actually we wanted to eat cake, but it was too expensive. 3 pounds for one little piece- who should afford that?

After a power-nap and a shower in the hostel we went to the city center again and had dinner in a really sophisticated Danish restaurant. Unfortunatly we sat on the cat-table near the entrance so it was really windy and cold there. But the food was good! We felt very classy. With full stomach and high heels we headed to Canal street, also known as Anal Street, because it’s loved by gay people. We laughed a lot there. Really crazy and weird people, naked or fancy dressed walked down the street. Our next stop was 5th Avenue, an indie club recommaned by our housemates. The music was really good, the drinks cheap and we danced the whole night. It was amazing! We also met three frensh boys of Leslie there. She just knew one of them before, but that did not matter. At 3 a.m. the club closed and we went back to the hostel in a very hilariously mood. Lisa and I sang German christmas songs and some other German songs as far as we could remember the lyrics. Leslie was a bit embarrassed in front of the Frensh guys. That was a very good night! Needless to say, we slept very good but too little. At 11 a.m. we had to check out. The good thing was that we could let our luggage there. After breakfast we want to the city center again to do some sightseeing without knowing what sights Manchester has. We spotted a German christmas market that was really good. Lisa and Leslie ate chestnuts and I had a “German” Bratwurst. They also sell German Spekulatius (from Aldi for 2,50!!) and Nussknacker, Pyramiden and Räuchermännchen. Was really funny for me. We alsom were in a “chruch” which was no church but rather a shop and a salsa dancing club. Strange.

Than Leslie and Lisa wanted to have sushi for lunch in Chinatown. We headed to Chinatown, looked for a sushi restaurant and luckily we found one. Unforntuatly for me I could not only sit there with them and drink something. Like the waitress advised me I had to consume sth. for at least 6 pounds. Stupid bitch. So I also ordered a little sushi meal that included three sushi rolls and a soup. To be honest I was not really in the mood for sushi after my Bratwurst. But what the hell I tried two sushi rolls and a bit of the soup and that should be enough sushi for the next year! It was ok but not heaven if you know what I mean.

After the literally cold lunch we visit the Manchester Art Gallery that was close to Chinatown. Outside it was fucking cold and rainy so we spent the whole afternoon in the gallery. Actually it was really cool there. We were to tired to go somewhere else so we spent also one houre in the museum’s café and talked a lot of sh**, because we were so leached out.

The coach journey back to Cardiff was hell! First it was really really cold. We froze so much. Durning the stop in Birmingham I asked the bus driver if he could turn the heater on. He was stupid too, but it worked a bit. Than we had to wait over a half-hour for the other bus driver. Basterd. Lisa and I were so angry we couldn’t stop talking senseless stuff. Really funny

All in all we had a real fun- weekend in Manchester. Unfortunatly I met no man in MANchester. I was hoping to meet Alex Turner in a pub, but….fair enough we had fun without men. And by the way we learned the difference between “me too” and “me either”. hahahahaha

I’m Claudia from Zwickau, study in Ilmenau but live now in Cardiff but spend the weekend in Manchester with a German and a Frensh friend and we eat Japense food.