The yoga has begun and the babbled amalgamated voices are usurped by the voice recording through the speakers. Grey gravel shuffled by feet, unnumbered, walking encumbered. Feet on chairs resting in black shoes. A field of people inhale and exhale in unison, lie on their backs. The fountain: sprinklingly weak, unassuming. Trees, traffic, buildings. Satchel and a man walking, coffee-holding. Waving bald man. Backpacked companion takes a picture. Black dress, bare-back triangles showing.
Right hand to the left and hold.
Wow, that big green building with two runners in the window. Like a big aquarium. Aquarium green, housing so many ecosystems and recirculated air.
Everyone in the field on their hands and knees, looking up to the sky. On the exhale they look down. I look around. I look around. For what? for what is quick. For a glossed description. Ah! there is a Goethe here, by the carousel. And a Gertrude Stein sits among her rolls of stone girth, silent.
If you want to do yoga here, prepare to get your picture taken. If you are a building here, prepare to get your picture taken.
When they exhale, they raise their rumps to the sky, towards me and all who are behind them. They all look quite good from this distance. Good, fit and flexible, but this is only distance's deception. All right legs up! Some pigeons hold a pow-wow while tearing up stale bagel strips. Screech metal breaks, low rumbled bus moans, big truck mumbles, bark of the cop cars, dopplered honk. Rattling bag, skiffing step. The wall of buildings split in one place, through to the sky towards Port Authority, marked by the weak fountain.
Yet still we have not arrived at what is quick., what is essential, living, viscid. It is my own fog, my own haze, my own intentionality of method. But! there is a lazy security guard stroll. His lazy jaw chewing gum, sweat-wiping towel, blue-green, tucked in his blue shoulder-strap. The trees are always the quickest. They abide by the breeze, are rooted and flow naturally, while all around is construction.
Up hands! Fingers stretched. Others just lie on the grass. I would quite like a cigarette to put this all in perspective. Here we are! The carousel has been caroused! And there we have all the fun of life. Around, with no destination, up and down on a frozen animal, up and down these yoga breaths. With lights and sound the carousel turns, a tired metaphor before it even began.
Two lovers lie, the man's head on her belly her hand on his chest. Eyes closed resting against the grass. A girl in a blue dress photographs what she sees. A much clearer picture than these black and white odd shapes. Now she strokes his hairs. Light, wired curls. The woman in the black waves to the black building holding to her ear a black phone. a pink-shirted stretch. Do these humans on this page have necks? breath? yes, the inhale and exhale, the turning craned looks of walkers and passers by. The graying hair on the man who just sat down, wide, sloped nose and perma-scowl side-mouth lines. The girl now has a book as someone asks where they are eating. She is not as resting as her blue-jeaned lover with the wire-curly hair, though she still finds a hand to stroke his face, the goatee and the brow, specifically. Large leaves, green leaves, red leaves, vines in a big pot.
Slovenia is the only country that has 'love' in the name.
Blue skirt Alenka now has a name and is taking pictures again. Green white weathered tent top, carousel stopped spinning. And another, a man with a gray pony tail. Grey under auburn. The ding and we are done with another line. Big brown bag strung across the shoulder. These heavy words are not so quick, they fall heavy, unflowing. Today has been a sweaty day for words.
And now they roll up their mats, fix their wedgies, adjust their leotards. Burgundy colors on the umbrellas. A pale yellow folding from the long brunette hair. Both flowing and flapping in concordant motion. Little pink shoes trip and fall. All the fit women now yoga-walk themselves over to their new destination, spiritually cleansed and deflatulated. And all the while the constant churning noise of people. People, cars, and horns.
The sun is pale yellow, like the flapping brunette's blanket sinking in the split between buildings, soaking in haze and cloud. The old woman, neck-clinging hair, hoola-hoops black orange stripes and rotates slowly clockwise as it wobbles and falls around her knees. The little pink shoes play in a purple dress, being photographed playing with a tab from that food-trodden grey gravel. A dog and a toddler. My good god. How wholesome. The dog is brimming with affection. The toddler loves the dog. Alenka loves to take pictures. The dog wags nervously and looks to his owner. Everyone has fun at someone else's expense.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Urbanal : Morningside Park, NYC
Urban parks. What are the animals in an urban park? We have the graceful pigeon: the winged vermin. We have ducks in the green water, bread-gobbling. There is the occasional smaller bird I will call the diminutive sparrow. There is the large fly, ceaseless in its plotting, rubbing hands in evil contemplation. And there are humans walking dogs, picking up poop with plastic-bagged hands.
The trees are beautiful, splotched with greens, tall, leafy, handsome. Some wisps by the water, by the water falling green-foamy from the rocks up by the caution tape. And the soothing sound of rushing water aided by the soothing sounds of groaning traffic. A dump truck, a maintenance vehicle. Their flatulent gasps and groans. And to my left, more caution tape, yellow, black bold type, circumfrencing the playground, yellow and blue with all the floor stripped. No way to walk up the ramp or across the bridge with no floors anymore.
Mmm, hear that jack hammer in the background? And the dump truck is on the move again. Car alarms and buildings rising above the oh so green trees responding to the breeze and dappling shade down to us who wish to not sit in the heat.
The diminutive sparrows rustle in the dirt. They take dirt baths and fidget amongst themselves while the greater pigeons walk bobble-headed and pecking.
NO TRESPASSING. DANGER. These are the signs on the island in the middle of the green-grown lake.
The lamp posts are on and illuminating nothing but their own bulb's shape. Sirens and dump trucks. A bus honks. The sirens come closer, rattling their repeated warnings. The caution tape rattles in the wind, whipped and fluttering rattled ribbon of plastic. A coffee cup rolls back and forth on the ground as if a skiff on the calm high seas.
A small survey of the immediate vicinity around me yields: a Heineken bottle cap, a large bolt, a few cigarette butts, a shirt tag, various coiled pieces of string, a red expanded rubber band, more bottle caps, bits of plastic bags, and an assortment of different-colored foil scraps. Ah yes, and there is dirt, some leaves un-greening, and small rocks. One must learn to not look too closely, for to do so would be to miss the beauty of an urban space of green. An urban park is meant to be an amalgamation of these things. These things which seem so out of place, yet accepted by the pigeons, the trees, the grass, and diminutive sparrows, who harbor no resentment, who preen and let fall their feathers and leaves and abide by the sun.
And there is the field being sprayed by exuberant jets, by the sprinkler spouting catharsis. The baseball backstop and all the surrounding benches around the walkway giving walkers a place to plant themselves and view what? The plants perhaps? Their own regaining breath? It all fits quite nicely with the occasional surging cicada call.
And here I sit with all of it, half-content, half-annoyed but for that epic silent greenness provided by these indifferent trees, watching people without a blink come and go, being perched on by pigeons and diminutive sparrow creatures, seeing time unwind in such a slow process that the rise and fall of a building occurs like the dawn of each morning. And truly, these Harlem building fit in well. These trees fit in well. And I find I myself can fit in well, for a time, in a state, because I am here and waiting for it all to make sense beyond mere circumstance.
And if I look with the eyeless eyes of a tree, I can see the sidewalks crumbled with overgrown roots, the lamp posts swallowed up by vines, the buildings half-crumbled in dilapidation, grass grown over the bottle caps and butts, the benches stained with rain upon rain, and all that used to walk here gains an ancient mystery more beautiful that what walks now, but as the woman walking by the road has just said: "...and that's a nasty-ass waterfall, but it's all good."
The trees are beautiful, splotched with greens, tall, leafy, handsome. Some wisps by the water, by the water falling green-foamy from the rocks up by the caution tape. And the soothing sound of rushing water aided by the soothing sounds of groaning traffic. A dump truck, a maintenance vehicle. Their flatulent gasps and groans. And to my left, more caution tape, yellow, black bold type, circumfrencing the playground, yellow and blue with all the floor stripped. No way to walk up the ramp or across the bridge with no floors anymore.
Mmm, hear that jack hammer in the background? And the dump truck is on the move again. Car alarms and buildings rising above the oh so green trees responding to the breeze and dappling shade down to us who wish to not sit in the heat.
The diminutive sparrows rustle in the dirt. They take dirt baths and fidget amongst themselves while the greater pigeons walk bobble-headed and pecking.
NO TRESPASSING. DANGER. These are the signs on the island in the middle of the green-grown lake.
The lamp posts are on and illuminating nothing but their own bulb's shape. Sirens and dump trucks. A bus honks. The sirens come closer, rattling their repeated warnings. The caution tape rattles in the wind, whipped and fluttering rattled ribbon of plastic. A coffee cup rolls back and forth on the ground as if a skiff on the calm high seas.
A small survey of the immediate vicinity around me yields: a Heineken bottle cap, a large bolt, a few cigarette butts, a shirt tag, various coiled pieces of string, a red expanded rubber band, more bottle caps, bits of plastic bags, and an assortment of different-colored foil scraps. Ah yes, and there is dirt, some leaves un-greening, and small rocks. One must learn to not look too closely, for to do so would be to miss the beauty of an urban space of green. An urban park is meant to be an amalgamation of these things. These things which seem so out of place, yet accepted by the pigeons, the trees, the grass, and diminutive sparrows, who harbor no resentment, who preen and let fall their feathers and leaves and abide by the sun.
And there is the field being sprayed by exuberant jets, by the sprinkler spouting catharsis. The baseball backstop and all the surrounding benches around the walkway giving walkers a place to plant themselves and view what? The plants perhaps? Their own regaining breath? It all fits quite nicely with the occasional surging cicada call.
And here I sit with all of it, half-content, half-annoyed but for that epic silent greenness provided by these indifferent trees, watching people without a blink come and go, being perched on by pigeons and diminutive sparrow creatures, seeing time unwind in such a slow process that the rise and fall of a building occurs like the dawn of each morning. And truly, these Harlem building fit in well. These trees fit in well. And I find I myself can fit in well, for a time, in a state, because I am here and waiting for it all to make sense beyond mere circumstance.
And if I look with the eyeless eyes of a tree, I can see the sidewalks crumbled with overgrown roots, the lamp posts swallowed up by vines, the buildings half-crumbled in dilapidation, grass grown over the bottle caps and butts, the benches stained with rain upon rain, and all that used to walk here gains an ancient mystery more beautiful that what walks now, but as the woman walking by the road has just said: "...and that's a nasty-ass waterfall, but it's all good."
Thursday, August 13, 2009
An Uncommon Long Cable : Central Park, NYC
Quaint, we will begin quaint. By the trash can in the grass next to the roadside. Gravel crunching runners and bicycle wheels. Some grape juice and a few boxes of paper. A gate, some trees and a walkway.
"Where are these suckers?" Two bikers lost ahead. The buildings behind the sparse screen of trees, beyond the reservoir. Me, sitting patiently in a tie and a nice shirt: two dollars from the army of salvation. White dog. Glasses man. I love--heart--excuse me. I heart New York. Harry Potter conversation from a real life Ron Weasley. Kids kicking dust and interested in T-Rex. Electronic.
There is a bridge to the left built with large leafy swoops and colored the underside of a two-toned leaf. That grey-green subtle latticework of the underside of leaves. This man running, I type to his steps. So much green silence but for my own clacking. Distant city roars. Airplanes, a siren. Distant.
Large breasts find no rest on a jogger. Those rhythmic bosoms jouncing jollily with each progressive step. The bulky white man has dainty hands and a grass stain on his shirt.
The things that are quick. The parts of people that are quick.
The woman: pointy elbowed, bouncing blond pony tail. Walkers unquick but for their flannel. Woman in the sun, skin showing bony, skin-bathing, book-reading. Helicopters, helicopters, birds in the distance, buildings, helicopters. Back again so soon the quick, thin girl with the bobbing, bouncing pony tail. The walking man smells what's in his hand. Is it bark? Hashish? Feces? I long to know! and it is about time to light a cigarette...
Holy Moses and Karl Malone! here I am all alone with a cigarette and some burgundy, watching the clouds over me...
How to pee in Central Park: lie on your side as if you were sleeping. Unzip and unfurl. you must wait for the bursts and hope the dribble dries before you leave.
Once a cup is done it is time to move on. Dribble be damned! at least I have long shirt ends.
A bit more of humanity at the great lawn. Great shade under the great trees. Great breeze where children play on the grass. Where a fowl-mouthed, sour-mouthed man walks his golden retriever and a man sings incoherence while doing pull-ups next to the swing set. Just a half-a-cup's worth of time where the cops ride slow with sirens silent but red and blue flashing.
Again the look for the quick and it isn't always with humans. Bark formations of bent trees, slow in attaining, are quick with static aura; brown-green silent pulsating photosynthesis. Yes, these trees are quite quick. A girl jogs, her hair swishes. A man walks his bike. A man walks his dog. Everyone is going somewhere for a short while. Stroller. Red shirt striped white. Lollipop plucked out of salivated mouth. Cell phone. Cell phone. Cell phone. Hot pink woman unquick and sitting globy and leaning. Bad-form push-ups from the shirtless man parked bike to the right.
Stroller rides! That dad is quick! We'll get from here to there in a jiffy! Just jump on son and I'll pedal our little one across the whole damn park like lightning, scooter style.
Quick on the lawn the arch of Frisbee and the clap of mitts making catches. Floating orbs slow in motion for the minute of flight but sucked into leather-gloved oblivion, absolute for half a second.
The tall gawking bird-man is quick as a whip, his jerky step and headphones intent with stork legs bent (forward of course) but his eyes covered by sunglasses.
Slow, holding hands, both hunched, father-daughter saunter. Slow-coasting bald man grey-sweated shirt meandering two-wheeled. Kids and badminton. So nicely dressed, they must be English: Let's have tea in the gallery with father's mistress. Oh do! let's!
Time to go, I'm getting slow, let's hear what Herman Melville says: "There are your iron fists, hey? What a hold they have, too! I wonder, Flask, whether the world is anchored anywhere, if she is, she swings with an uncommon long cable."
"Where are these suckers?" Two bikers lost ahead. The buildings behind the sparse screen of trees, beyond the reservoir. Me, sitting patiently in a tie and a nice shirt: two dollars from the army of salvation. White dog. Glasses man. I love--heart--excuse me. I heart New York. Harry Potter conversation from a real life Ron Weasley. Kids kicking dust and interested in T-Rex. Electronic.
There is a bridge to the left built with large leafy swoops and colored the underside of a two-toned leaf. That grey-green subtle latticework of the underside of leaves. This man running, I type to his steps. So much green silence but for my own clacking. Distant city roars. Airplanes, a siren. Distant.
Large breasts find no rest on a jogger. Those rhythmic bosoms jouncing jollily with each progressive step. The bulky white man has dainty hands and a grass stain on his shirt.
The things that are quick. The parts of people that are quick.
The woman: pointy elbowed, bouncing blond pony tail. Walkers unquick but for their flannel. Woman in the sun, skin showing bony, skin-bathing, book-reading. Helicopters, helicopters, birds in the distance, buildings, helicopters. Back again so soon the quick, thin girl with the bobbing, bouncing pony tail. The walking man smells what's in his hand. Is it bark? Hashish? Feces? I long to know! and it is about time to light a cigarette...
Holy Moses and Karl Malone! here I am all alone with a cigarette and some burgundy, watching the clouds over me...
How to pee in Central Park: lie on your side as if you were sleeping. Unzip and unfurl. you must wait for the bursts and hope the dribble dries before you leave.
Once a cup is done it is time to move on. Dribble be damned! at least I have long shirt ends.
A bit more of humanity at the great lawn. Great shade under the great trees. Great breeze where children play on the grass. Where a fowl-mouthed, sour-mouthed man walks his golden retriever and a man sings incoherence while doing pull-ups next to the swing set. Just a half-a-cup's worth of time where the cops ride slow with sirens silent but red and blue flashing.
Again the look for the quick and it isn't always with humans. Bark formations of bent trees, slow in attaining, are quick with static aura; brown-green silent pulsating photosynthesis. Yes, these trees are quite quick. A girl jogs, her hair swishes. A man walks his bike. A man walks his dog. Everyone is going somewhere for a short while. Stroller. Red shirt striped white. Lollipop plucked out of salivated mouth. Cell phone. Cell phone. Cell phone. Hot pink woman unquick and sitting globy and leaning. Bad-form push-ups from the shirtless man parked bike to the right.
Stroller rides! That dad is quick! We'll get from here to there in a jiffy! Just jump on son and I'll pedal our little one across the whole damn park like lightning, scooter style.
Quick on the lawn the arch of Frisbee and the clap of mitts making catches. Floating orbs slow in motion for the minute of flight but sucked into leather-gloved oblivion, absolute for half a second.
The tall gawking bird-man is quick as a whip, his jerky step and headphones intent with stork legs bent (forward of course) but his eyes covered by sunglasses.
Slow, holding hands, both hunched, father-daughter saunter. Slow-coasting bald man grey-sweated shirt meandering two-wheeled. Kids and badminton. So nicely dressed, they must be English: Let's have tea in the gallery with father's mistress. Oh do! let's!
Time to go, I'm getting slow, let's hear what Herman Melville says: "There are your iron fists, hey? What a hold they have, too! I wonder, Flask, whether the world is anchored anywhere, if she is, she swings with an uncommon long cable."
Monday, March 23, 2009
Delhi to Darjeeling : A Train, India
Rail road tracks. Gravel.
A family sitting by a tree. Wrapped in cloths, colorful.
A trainful of black hair. Brown skin. Mustaches. Nice pants. A cane. A saunter. A lift and dip, carrying a bag on the shoulder. It is pink. A green and white fence. Picketed. A tractor on yellow grass.
"Chai, chai."
Two butterflies. Paper cups on the ground. An egg carton.
Slowly moving now.
Concrete. Trees. Dirt. Clods. Rocks. Shade surrounding cows. Tails shaking off flies. Blue wall. Bricks. Small houses. Tarp windows. Wheat. Grain. Tall fields of yellow grass. Metal boxes. Telephone wires connected. Signs. Posts. Trails through and around the fields. An old bicycle. A pow-wow. Grass huts. Leather seats. A laptop. A window. A motion picture viewer. A life in time lapse. Clothes hung on the wire. Mounds of dung, fuel for fire. A watering hole housing black cows. A spinning wheel. Colors of clothes: yellow, orange, green, blue. Those old bikes: Rusted and wheel-guarded. A train passes by creating a kinetoscope with the space between cars.
"Chai, chai."
Bony oxen tilling. The whip. Dry ground. The houses: blue, green, aqua, pink, shades of purple and yellow dilapidation. Advertisements on the side of living quarters. Stairs and another
station.
"Chai, chai."
Iron. Metal. Steel. This modern age: plastic. Where has all the wood gone? Where is the excitement of a hand holding a hand? Of two on a motor bike? Of that wrap of green plastic caught in tree branches? Of fat water buffalos? Of black water?
What do five children do along the roadside? We pass too fast to see. And if we stopped, there would be no telling how long it would take for them to get on with it.
And that man's jeans on the up and down of peddling. And that tank of gas on the back of the bike. And the tree cradles. Dry saplings' leaves.
Took a shit over the hole, squatting. The hole that leads to the unmoving tracks as I move above them. I shat on that two-dimensional strip of DNA. On that spinal column. On the nerve network of Indian transport. Where someone's sweat dripped with toil. Over which countless passengers have accepted and refused the the call of: "Chai, chai."
A man tied by a rope and handcuffed to a man with a rifle. Handshakes and briefcases. Glasses, baldness, exchange of currency. That paper of many colors. One-faced, however.
Baby crying. A cigarette-browed furrow. A large rumbling motor on a three-wheeled cart. White-tiled drinking fountain. Clothes splashed purple and yellow. Holi. One white front pocket protruding, stuffed with a camera, a pen, and glasses.
The black crow gawk-mouthed on the water pipe. The motorbike black-crowed on the roadside. The tree post buried in the cemetery. The houses hovelled in clusters. Walls, bricks touching skin to skin. Men waiting to cross colorful lines of clothes. Another stop. These empty spaces filled by a single child's protests.
"Chai, chai."
Shoe polisher looking over his shoulder. Rucksacks. Potato sacks. Red and blue checkered uniforms. Dopplered train horn and blue streaks. Another group of close-stacked houses. Red-brown brick. Yellow, white, sandy. Crumbled wall. New wall. Tall, conical smoke-stack. All the large white words incomprehensible on the walls old and new. Blue, pink, blue, blue. Blue is more than "blue." There are many blues. Bundles of threshing. Green water. Green broccoli trees. Stooping saris in a field of dirt. A goat and a man with a burden on his head.
STEEL AUTHORITY OF INDIA LIMITED: SAIL WAREHOUSE, KANPUR
A cow in the train station. Words I do not understand. No use to sit and wonder why. A yellow-shirted child falls. His mom in the pink sari picks him up. He has fat cheeks and a crying face. Smiles and laughter on the youths walking down the ramp. Fashionable jeans. Striped shirt, pink and black. Ritzy shirt, shiny-white. Shiny shoes, black. Nice clothes, worn and dirty. A man kicks a large can. It rolls along, red. The baby in white with the only inspired eyes. A man with a yellow cloth on his head. He sits in a fenced-in median which provides room for covered bikes and boxes. Bananas and apples. GOEL AND GOEL fruit/juice stall.
"Chai, chai."
Old woman squatting, waiting. Young woman squatting, waiting. Burlap sacks stacked and brimming. A cow on the tracks. VINYAK TRAVELS. PEPSICO. FREE HARDWARE AND NETWORKING. Monkey in the window sill. Low flying kite jerks. The boy and his laughing smile. Side-saddled sari woman on the motor bike. Tree trunks painted red and white. Splashing sunlight through the branches, through the window into the moving car. Jostled and jiggled gently. Low thud and rumble. Bundles of branches carried on top of heads. A broken candlestick held together by the wick. And an unbroken candlestick.
CHANDARI. Red barns. Blue and green fence. Another train and the flashes of light between the cars and on this paper. Lightning illuminations of the scrawling pen shadow. The reflection of my own knee displaced into the scenery. A floating phantom.
"Chai, chai."
A foundation in rubble. The red bricks overgrown by shrubs and grass. Cricket. Small child swings and misses. Bathing-wet water buffalos. White birds with long legs. A child pulling a large goat unsuccessfully. Goats, goats, goats, cow.
"Chai, chai."
A group of people in cars, trucks, bikes, shoes, waiting for the red and white striped arm to raise. Strobe lighting once more from a crossing train. Open space. Patches of grass in geometrics. Polygons of grass. Tall, short, green, brown, gold, grey. A pink-flowered bush bursting the sides of the tracks wide open with incomprehensible potentialities and then gone as the landscape escapes my sight.
"Chai, chai."
The only way to comprehend is by ingestion.
A family sitting by a tree. Wrapped in cloths, colorful.
A trainful of black hair. Brown skin. Mustaches. Nice pants. A cane. A saunter. A lift and dip, carrying a bag on the shoulder. It is pink. A green and white fence. Picketed. A tractor on yellow grass.
"Chai, chai."
Two butterflies. Paper cups on the ground. An egg carton.
Slowly moving now.
Concrete. Trees. Dirt. Clods. Rocks. Shade surrounding cows. Tails shaking off flies. Blue wall. Bricks. Small houses. Tarp windows. Wheat. Grain. Tall fields of yellow grass. Metal boxes. Telephone wires connected. Signs. Posts. Trails through and around the fields. An old bicycle. A pow-wow. Grass huts. Leather seats. A laptop. A window. A motion picture viewer. A life in time lapse. Clothes hung on the wire. Mounds of dung, fuel for fire. A watering hole housing black cows. A spinning wheel. Colors of clothes: yellow, orange, green, blue. Those old bikes: Rusted and wheel-guarded. A train passes by creating a kinetoscope with the space between cars.
"Chai, chai."
Bony oxen tilling. The whip. Dry ground. The houses: blue, green, aqua, pink, shades of purple and yellow dilapidation. Advertisements on the side of living quarters. Stairs and another
station.
"Chai, chai."
Iron. Metal. Steel. This modern age: plastic. Where has all the wood gone? Where is the excitement of a hand holding a hand? Of two on a motor bike? Of that wrap of green plastic caught in tree branches? Of fat water buffalos? Of black water?
What do five children do along the roadside? We pass too fast to see. And if we stopped, there would be no telling how long it would take for them to get on with it.
And that man's jeans on the up and down of peddling. And that tank of gas on the back of the bike. And the tree cradles. Dry saplings' leaves.
Took a shit over the hole, squatting. The hole that leads to the unmoving tracks as I move above them. I shat on that two-dimensional strip of DNA. On that spinal column. On the nerve network of Indian transport. Where someone's sweat dripped with toil. Over which countless passengers have accepted and refused the the call of: "Chai, chai."
A man tied by a rope and handcuffed to a man with a rifle. Handshakes and briefcases. Glasses, baldness, exchange of currency. That paper of many colors. One-faced, however.
Baby crying. A cigarette-browed furrow. A large rumbling motor on a three-wheeled cart. White-tiled drinking fountain. Clothes splashed purple and yellow. Holi. One white front pocket protruding, stuffed with a camera, a pen, and glasses.
The black crow gawk-mouthed on the water pipe. The motorbike black-crowed on the roadside. The tree post buried in the cemetery. The houses hovelled in clusters. Walls, bricks touching skin to skin. Men waiting to cross colorful lines of clothes. Another stop. These empty spaces filled by a single child's protests.
"Chai, chai."
Shoe polisher looking over his shoulder. Rucksacks. Potato sacks. Red and blue checkered uniforms. Dopplered train horn and blue streaks. Another group of close-stacked houses. Red-brown brick. Yellow, white, sandy. Crumbled wall. New wall. Tall, conical smoke-stack. All the large white words incomprehensible on the walls old and new. Blue, pink, blue, blue. Blue is more than "blue." There are many blues. Bundles of threshing. Green water. Green broccoli trees. Stooping saris in a field of dirt. A goat and a man with a burden on his head.
STEEL AUTHORITY OF INDIA LIMITED: SAIL WAREHOUSE, KANPUR
A cow in the train station. Words I do not understand. No use to sit and wonder why. A yellow-shirted child falls. His mom in the pink sari picks him up. He has fat cheeks and a crying face. Smiles and laughter on the youths walking down the ramp. Fashionable jeans. Striped shirt, pink and black. Ritzy shirt, shiny-white. Shiny shoes, black. Nice clothes, worn and dirty. A man kicks a large can. It rolls along, red. The baby in white with the only inspired eyes. A man with a yellow cloth on his head. He sits in a fenced-in median which provides room for covered bikes and boxes. Bananas and apples. GOEL AND GOEL fruit/juice stall.
"Chai, chai."
Old woman squatting, waiting. Young woman squatting, waiting. Burlap sacks stacked and brimming. A cow on the tracks. VINYAK TRAVELS. PEPSICO. FREE HARDWARE AND NETWORKING. Monkey in the window sill. Low flying kite jerks. The boy and his laughing smile. Side-saddled sari woman on the motor bike. Tree trunks painted red and white. Splashing sunlight through the branches, through the window into the moving car. Jostled and jiggled gently. Low thud and rumble. Bundles of branches carried on top of heads. A broken candlestick held together by the wick. And an unbroken candlestick.
CHANDARI. Red barns. Blue and green fence. Another train and the flashes of light between the cars and on this paper. Lightning illuminations of the scrawling pen shadow. The reflection of my own knee displaced into the scenery. A floating phantom.
"Chai, chai."
A foundation in rubble. The red bricks overgrown by shrubs and grass. Cricket. Small child swings and misses. Bathing-wet water buffalos. White birds with long legs. A child pulling a large goat unsuccessfully. Goats, goats, goats, cow.
"Chai, chai."
A group of people in cars, trucks, bikes, shoes, waiting for the red and white striped arm to raise. Strobe lighting once more from a crossing train. Open space. Patches of grass in geometrics. Polygons of grass. Tall, short, green, brown, gold, grey. A pink-flowered bush bursting the sides of the tracks wide open with incomprehensible potentialities and then gone as the landscape escapes my sight.
"Chai, chai."
The only way to comprehend is by ingestion.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Bamboo Hut Breakfast : Koh Phangan, Thailand
Nietzsche. Beyond Good and Evil lying on the table. Topped. Waterbottles: 2, clear, too smooshy plastic. English accents. Ludwig Von Beethoven. 6-sided coiled mosquito fuming on the upturned orange frisbee. Benjamin and Paul playing Backgammon, both dice throwers brown unused on the side. Jagged hardwood tables. Sit on the floor on the floor pads on the carpet on the floor. Rain again on the Bamboo Huts on the rock cliff over the bay. Ketchup on the table: Heinz. Ash trays, one ashed with joint end still sitting on the lip divot. Newspaper, read and folded on the table. Bangkok Post. "I would just call them Jewish," I say to Paul as he asks me what Jewish people are considered. Pink napkins on the right bamboo holder, the left one is empty, half taken by myself for mobile toilette paper. Lighter, clear pink-purple up on its end next to the jar of sugar. Salsa and soy sauce on the table in the rack of condiments. Tabasco Sauce and others. White binder, Benjamin's. English women eating Thai breakfast. Benjamin's work folder. He is working, getting high and playing Backgammon. Red, black, white, yellow-wearied plastic carpet. "I stayed up and had a party with myself." laughter from the English woman now joined by another English woman. Recently washed hair. Brown. Sand brown. Plastic rigged water bottle close-security on the table by the wilted pink-thin napkin.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
CZE V. POR : Austin, TX
And there is Pepe getting in the way. Red v white first international goal. Quick pace fleet feet. Cagey and cautious as they were against Switzerland. Digest stats cross fast keep it open. Bruckner white-haired debutant. Philipao 'Big Phil' Scolari the task master. They're all attackers except Petit. White with green numbers 20 Deco. Nuno Gomesh. Ferreirra playing fullback. Deco scores. What a start. Decoco. Bits of passes in the box. Touch touch heartbeat 4th goal for Deco. Unfortunate Czech megged, Petr flicked off his hands. 8th minute Geneva strike. Lazy let it go out. Deco: Portuguese goal scorer. Cech had it covered. Tough customer, Petit. Yanpollack check. Milan Barosh, whata touch, slips around Pepe meia lua. Goal. Corner header. Portugal had it coming. Crumbling tumbling defense. Unstoppable header Janko. Game against the Scots. Dramatic emphatic finish. Green lines shaded horizontal on the pitch. The will has shifted. White shirts to red shirts. The Czechs have it now. Goalie's placid face in the air the ball in the net, he has a slow descent. Thumbs up in the sun. Portugal Petit. Republic goalkeeper give it a lash. Hand in the back. Dancing Czech chanting red shirts. Plachile places a cross two times. Is two times denied. Pollack yellow card. Big tackle. Overexuberance cumbersome blumbersome. Ronaldo upright running. Motor-piston legs. Deco eyes up eyebrows snaking his way towards the box shot over the cross bar. Ronaldo shot snaps snaped up by Petr. Quick shot. Head collision with elbow, yell and fall down. Poked in the eye, poked in the face. I don't understand Simao. Looked like a purpose hand stepped on. Goalie misjudged steady left foot finds the opposite team. Yellow card Bosingwa. Nervy stuff out there isn't it? Chelsea for Scolari contract Carvalho considers future. Ai eha flush in the face gotta be bloody. Boggled his brain. Entertaining passages of play who was that the heck Barosh crosses bad. 15 months without a goal Barosh. Delay big screen big Phil hands like Woody Allen. Blue shirt ref baby blue points like officially like. Switch the direction of the play, like the ribbon. Surrounded by Scots myth the leprechauns for centuries. Ronaldo shot Cech defends they know each other well. Cannonmastercardkiamotorscalesberggenevaadidascocacolaimlovinitjvceverio Ronaldo in no great rush to return to his feet three guys down hand into his face. Defenders get the job dones then fall to the floor with a cut over his eye. Like a boxer. Ronaldo goal. Must eat now. Spaghetti stir-fry veggies.
Monday, June 9, 2008
NED V. ITA : Austin, TX
Well the Dutch must be cursing their luck the Argentina and the Ivorycoast with Denmark didn't really work out that way. Making it difficult. Van Nistelrooy. Collected that on his way round. Fair to say, Andy, most of his best penalty work not too often 80 yard balls. Keep the movement adept to jeep the movement. Big falling out with Marco linked out of decisive on the bench against Portugal. No strangers yeah to controversies. That's Italy on the move Marc Van Bommel ditched. Van Nistelrooy touched gamely to stay up. Just manages to put his hand in the way super piece of play. Buffon did very well to avoid any sort of contact. Forced him wide aaahhhoooo aaaaayyyoooo Van der Vaart period of possesion the dutch Brockhurst games coming alive two taxis for the Dutch. Shot over the bar. Buffon kicks out of hands. Draws against Denmark and Sweeden. They never talk about the game. Always analysis. Interesting, but not entertaining. Del Piero on the bench. Cross the defence, Holland, passing coast to coast, back to keeper Van der Saar. Fennuci, back to Pirlo, Zambrotta, smooth middle passing and back, Pirlo, crossed in. What you expect from Andrea Pirlo. Remains a main. Ambrosini quick feet, tripped up. Dead ball situation, over Luca Toni big chin. Tried to steal too many yards, the ref brought it back. The Dutch dominating possession of the ball so far. Schneider delivers up another. Look who's preying on that. Ruud. Good touch by Materazzi. Batttle in the middle shift and shift and lost. Throw in blues Azzurri. Fouls fouls everywhere blasted Italy. Buffon - ggggooall. Ruud Van Nistelrooy. The Dutch! Orange shirst in one of the worst decisions you will ever see. Not being on the pitch you can't count him. Luca Toni yellow card. Crowd in a huff. Jeers and boo's abound. 1-0 the score remains after a controversial call. Looked like clearly offside position. Touch to Gattuso. The claps and the ooohs. Luca Toni down no decision in the referee great closing Van der Vaart again a cool little on the arm good decision. Such an aura of pessimism surrounding the Dutch. Pirlo rolling balls beneath his foot, Beatles mop-top hair shambles along. Slide tackles slip into advertisements. Boularoul to snuff out danger to bring up huge threat to the same place mab flicked on off the line by Brockhurst left goooaal. Perfect. Dutch. 2-0. Counter attack of the ages. Brockhurst, chanced to Kuyt, to Schneider to gaol net. Adrian Heel Andy Grey commentators 32 minutes gone by, body blows to the Italians. Volley from Di Natale. Van der Saar. Bigbird. Blocks. 7-3 shots 2-0. Gianluca Kuyt-tripper. This time the flag does go up. Nayerves. English accents. Gianluigi Buffon 2 goals in 7 games in Germany. Boularouz at the back. Ice cream. Dare I say almost total football. In BASEL. Buffon defend. Beauty ball-passing. Old Italians. Gattuso not so inventive ball-winners Ambrosini. Last 35 minutes brilliant orange. Good goalkeeping that. Halftime.
Pretzels. Buffon surrounded by oncoming orange suns. Blasts the ball into the sky. This is a don't lose group. Why is that not a foul? Explain to me. First goal allowance guilt. Feet flying Ambrosini against. Gattuso. Lack of goals. Winding out. The cheer coming Del Piero on the bench. Donadoni turns who to first ten best out, tentative little protective to jeep on the game. Cross the refs consistent just let the game go. Kuyt taking time you know how much has been made Arjen Robben, fifty minutes in Kuyt has been any better from a by position wingless wonder one tackle too many. Break the choreography cam. Network seeds four interfifa. Dutch and ditch and struggles. Materazzi tumbled over good decision Materazzi free kick Kuyt. Corner. Ruud, thigh pain, grimaces on his face the shirt pulling. And the Wrestling, the referees say it wasn't that. Blueazzurri in the back passing up to lanks Luca Toni. Zambrotta flashed it across the face of goal. Half-moon touches on the end at speeds, tight angle tough shot to beat Van der Saar. Elbow to the face of Schneider jumping headers elbows to faces. Rosso on for Materazzi. Marco. Left back. The logical case. Much like 9 minutes to make a change could have been had. At halftime. Talismanic figure for Italy. Ten minutes gone in the second half. On the righthand side. Whistles and jeers from the crowd. Pirlo in the platform Massimo De Jong. Didn't see the Dutch pinned back now firmly on the backfoot. Age of 37 foutry-sixth captain night. Holland passing passing passing put pressure on, the Italians. Evasive againstation. End result: a yellow card caper. Kuyt's clearance Camoranesi hasn't factored. Encouragement the last five minutes. Cap tonight cap tonight cap tonight. Hourmark Luca Toni wouldn't. Literally Celtic Tuesday night NBA final plugs. Gatusso grinning sheepish goatee. Dirk Kuyt crossed deep Zambrotta Camoranesi. Del Piero standing up for Azzurri entry. Idle look good show from Pirlo. Allesandro Del Piero the little artist in Italy. St. Pirlo. Fair challenge passing Gatusso offside Piero. Lost Cannavaro front line defender. Helm of the Dutch to manage Ajax. Del Piero for Italy slips when he shoots. Bend it back in wide Del Piero off the post ten seasons 51 goals scored in top flight. Flicks and flaps. Much easier Marco Van Basten. Camoranesi counter-offensive two nil goals. Grosso again back in the thick dramatic game winner, Dutch just want to get to take keep out for as long as possible. Van der Vaart spinning Ambrosini. Commended great skill. Dead-ball situation for Schneider. Day four group D. Defending champions Greece Sweeden. Was that the moment? Great first touch Del Piero Ruud runs out, for Van Persie. Yes. Arsenal representative Van Persie. Another injury-wracked campaign too far too few games. 16-9 fouls committed Netherlands. He fizzed that in. Make a mark felt a mark flailing long balls on striker Cassano on the bench. Bad pass blues. Clockwork orange two-goal cushion. Thwumpthump. Easy clearance. Dropped back deep. Look at Van Persie he's on here comes Cassano for Camoranesi. Third and final substitution from Sampdoria. Toni onside Luca Toni shot overrushed it. Just makes Dutch through. Boularouze pretty good job you have to say Johnny Hightinger. Engalah. Saved. Fabio Grosso beaten away by Van der Saar. Coldblooded clearance the Dutch don't know how to defend. Still not in their DNA isit? No. Referee one of the worst officials for the best games. Pirlo free kick woodwork he saved that Dirk Kuyt Gio 3 goal. Three strikes. Out for Italy. Counterattack masters, the Dutch. Beautiful. 5 foot 6 Gio. Van der Bigbird best goalie. Kuyt out. Bigbird saves Pirlo starts counter scores goal. Total football. Back to front. Got there early Grosso dig out. Going for goal fishes across the goalframe. Probably wishes he hadn't freekick Pirlo. Italians don't suffer this this is an old side. Dutch didn't just shut up shop. Non-Italians. Clapping brilliant orange chorus. Player lying behind the goal still considered active. Still at a lost lying down defender still on the pitch off the pitch injured. Van Persie tricks through shoots. Girl hands. Inflict further damage but not quite 90th minute Materazzi's health Dutch firmly sole position group C. 3 minutes stoppage start major tournaments fizzle then Spain great point important to grow into them. Introduce yourselves. Delivering the cross dealt with such contention suspect backfour. Whistle Dutch to outscore due to defense. Toni on the turn time stoppage deep in the corner. End whistle whistles especially not orange-clad fans quite remarkable win 3-nil. Italy lose. Group of death orange halo.
Pretzels. Buffon surrounded by oncoming orange suns. Blasts the ball into the sky. This is a don't lose group. Why is that not a foul? Explain to me. First goal allowance guilt. Feet flying Ambrosini against. Gattuso. Lack of goals. Winding out. The cheer coming Del Piero on the bench. Donadoni turns who to first ten best out, tentative little protective to jeep on the game. Cross the refs consistent just let the game go. Kuyt taking time you know how much has been made Arjen Robben, fifty minutes in Kuyt has been any better from a by position wingless wonder one tackle too many. Break the choreography cam. Network seeds four interfifa. Dutch and ditch and struggles. Materazzi tumbled over good decision Materazzi free kick Kuyt. Corner. Ruud, thigh pain, grimaces on his face the shirt pulling. And the Wrestling, the referees say it wasn't that. Blueazzurri in the back passing up to lanks Luca Toni. Zambrotta flashed it across the face of goal. Half-moon touches on the end at speeds, tight angle tough shot to beat Van der Saar. Elbow to the face of Schneider jumping headers elbows to faces. Rosso on for Materazzi. Marco. Left back. The logical case. Much like 9 minutes to make a change could have been had. At halftime. Talismanic figure for Italy. Ten minutes gone in the second half. On the righthand side. Whistles and jeers from the crowd. Pirlo in the platform Massimo De Jong. Didn't see the Dutch pinned back now firmly on the backfoot. Age of 37 foutry-sixth captain night. Holland passing passing passing put pressure on, the Italians. Evasive againstation. End result: a yellow card caper. Kuyt's clearance Camoranesi hasn't factored. Encouragement the last five minutes. Cap tonight cap tonight cap tonight. Hourmark Luca Toni wouldn't. Literally Celtic Tuesday night NBA final plugs. Gatusso grinning sheepish goatee. Dirk Kuyt crossed deep Zambrotta Camoranesi. Del Piero standing up for Azzurri entry. Idle look good show from Pirlo. Allesandro Del Piero the little artist in Italy. St. Pirlo. Fair challenge passing Gatusso offside Piero. Lost Cannavaro front line defender. Helm of the Dutch to manage Ajax. Del Piero for Italy slips when he shoots. Bend it back in wide Del Piero off the post ten seasons 51 goals scored in top flight. Flicks and flaps. Much easier Marco Van Basten. Camoranesi counter-offensive two nil goals. Grosso again back in the thick dramatic game winner, Dutch just want to get to take keep out for as long as possible. Van der Vaart spinning Ambrosini. Commended great skill. Dead-ball situation for Schneider. Day four group D. Defending champions Greece Sweeden. Was that the moment? Great first touch Del Piero Ruud runs out, for Van Persie. Yes. Arsenal representative Van Persie. Another injury-wracked campaign too far too few games. 16-9 fouls committed Netherlands. He fizzed that in. Make a mark felt a mark flailing long balls on striker Cassano on the bench. Bad pass blues. Clockwork orange two-goal cushion. Thwumpthump. Easy clearance. Dropped back deep. Look at Van Persie he's on here comes Cassano for Camoranesi. Third and final substitution from Sampdoria. Toni onside Luca Toni shot overrushed it. Just makes Dutch through. Boularouze pretty good job you have to say Johnny Hightinger. Engalah. Saved. Fabio Grosso beaten away by Van der Saar. Coldblooded clearance the Dutch don't know how to defend. Still not in their DNA isit? No. Referee one of the worst officials for the best games. Pirlo free kick woodwork he saved that Dirk Kuyt Gio 3 goal. Three strikes. Out for Italy. Counterattack masters, the Dutch. Beautiful. 5 foot 6 Gio. Van der Bigbird best goalie. Kuyt out. Bigbird saves Pirlo starts counter scores goal. Total football. Back to front. Got there early Grosso dig out. Going for goal fishes across the goalframe. Probably wishes he hadn't freekick Pirlo. Italians don't suffer this this is an old side. Dutch didn't just shut up shop. Non-Italians. Clapping brilliant orange chorus. Player lying behind the goal still considered active. Still at a lost lying down defender still on the pitch off the pitch injured. Van Persie tricks through shoots. Girl hands. Inflict further damage but not quite 90th minute Materazzi's health Dutch firmly sole position group C. 3 minutes stoppage start major tournaments fizzle then Spain great point important to grow into them. Introduce yourselves. Delivering the cross dealt with such contention suspect backfour. Whistle Dutch to outscore due to defense. Toni on the turn time stoppage deep in the corner. End whistle whistles especially not orange-clad fans quite remarkable win 3-nil. Italy lose. Group of death orange halo.
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