I hope you’re in the middle of that trip! I’ve been tripping in my armchair, and am happy to be around to say that in the face of everyone! LOng live couch potatoes!
I hope all is well. I do hope you either have or will come through on this trip. I wish you all the luck in the world, and if possible help from the Greek godesses disguised as birds, and the blessed virgin mary, in the form of authoratative whisperings at 3 AM.
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It’s been some time since I posted. Busy is not an excuse. Its a cop out.
So back in December or January, Tom and I exchanged posts about traveling. Well Tom, you got me thinking and a trip is planned.
I mentioned in an April post offering Marin an opportunity to travel after reapplying for vet school in October. Well, after thinking it over Marin decided to start her journey plans with an invitation to her father, “Let’s go to South America.” With a new “flexible” job (and an income) I decided that this was an opportunity of a lifetime (of course, Peg will tell you I have had enough opportunities for 5 peoples’ lifetimes!).
So Marin and I sat down and talked about some goals she needed to meet. And I came up with a pretty cool idea that I will talk about more in a future post. Spoke with Peg about her thoughts, “Sounds like a great opportunity,” (I think she had had a couple glasses of wine and was in the middle of a nice dinner when I dropped it on her). So if everything works out over the next couple of months Marin and I are heading to South America in January 2012.
Our plan, buy a diesel 4 wheel drive truck.
1983 Diesel FJ60
Attach a couple of dirt bikes for adventuring (pictures of this in the future). Ship the truck from Savannah, GA to Cartagena, Colombia and drive to Machu Pichu in Peru and hopefully to the Salt Flats in Bolivia before shipping the truck, and ourselves, home. I figure I can get away for about 6 weeks max.
The truck will require some maintenance. Here is a picture of Marin helping me put the four wheel drive front axles and hubs back together after putting in all new seals and bearings. Along with Chemistry this summer, Marin is learning auto mechanics from her dad.
Marin Learning Auto Mechanics
Once the mechanical parts are put into ship shape we will start building the truck out with camping gear. Oh and I forgot to mention that Marin used the excuse of being safe on our trip to bring this guy home the emergency animal clinic where she is working as a gift to her parents (its our’s, not Marin’s).
Angus at the Peachtree Road Race July 4, 2011
Angus is about 8 weeks old now. Not sure what he is other than a rescue mutt but I did have a DNA test done just so I can answer all the questions I get regarding what he is. Marin and I plan to take Angus with us on our South American journey. For now, Angus is attending work with me and also helping us with the truck buildout.
Note: Angus Asleep at the Shop
So we have a plan. More on it in future posts. Both Matin and I are posting on other sites so if you want to follow the progress more closely you can start with Marin’s blog www.thesmallenvelope.com . Mine will be started soon.
Tom, you put the bee in the bonnet. Thanks!
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“At first the music is shocking in its bitterness, in its refusal of comfort or kindness. Then it settles …
The story opens with the singer walking dead streets and ends with hiim walking the streets of an almost deserted city: “Must be a holiday,” he mutters to himself, as if he couldn’t care less if it or not. Images of homelessness and pointless wandering drive song after song. Sometimes that motif suggest a man who doesn’t want a home (“I know plenty of people,” he tells you in a way that says he knows you won’t believe him, “put me up for a day or two”), sometimes it calls up the tramp armies of the Great Depression …
When Time Out of Mind plays another country comes into view. This is a land as still as the plains, its flatness broken only by a violence of tone or the violence of syncopation, of hard trugths or a band’s rhythms rushing up on each other like people running out of a burning house.
The country that emerges is very old, and yet fresh and in sharp focus, apparently capable of endless renewal. At the same time the place is very new, and all but worn out. “I got new eyes,” Dylan sings cooly, in one of the deadliest lines of his writing life. “Everything looks far away.” Verbal, melodic, and rhythmic signatures from old American music, from ballads, blues, and gospel, fit into the songs of Time Out of Mind as naturally, seemingly as inevitably as breaths — say in the way a betrayed Dock Boggs, standing on the railroad platform of his “Danville Girl” in 1927, passes the song’s cheap cigar to the betrayed singer now “Standing in the Doorway,” trying to live his life “on the square.” That the reappearence of the forgotten past in an empty present is the talisman of Time Out of Mind is deated by the artwork imprinted directly onto the disc: Columbia’s “Viva-tonal Electrical Process” label from the late 1920s, a label gthat fran one series for “Race” or Negro recordings, another for “Old Time” or country. Dylan’s record spins on that labal in the way certain of its choruses and verses seem to write themselves, tossed off with a throwaway gruffness that says Dylan trusts that after hearing half of a line the listener will automatically complete it even before he, Dylan, has sung it: “That’s all right, mama, you do what you gotta do,” as he drawls in “Million Miles.” But the label also spins in reverse, until nothing on it can be read. For all the occasions where the music draws on some collective, illiterate American memory, as many incidents in the music seem to vcome out of nowhere, the nowhere that is both the present and the future of a country where the sgtory Dylan is tellinbg takes place: “Maybe in the next life,” Dylan sings elsewhere in “Million Miles,” “I’ll be able to hear myself think.” From song to song, with resignation and a shy twisting humor, with the flair of a Georgia fiddle band or the dead eyes of a gravedigger, the singer poses the same question, sometimes almost grinning, as when he asks “if everything is as hollow as it seems?”"
This is the music my Helen danced to the day before yesterday. The prose is Greil Marcus’s (in “Double Trouble” published in 2000) and the references are mine, from first to last. What I couldn’t add to the conviction that this was indeed a great advance in the effort not to lose essential American memory and rhythm was the movement of Helen’s ass, on and off the hood of a Japanese best-selling automobile, just before the crash of its stock-market value, while waiting for the earthquake and the tsunami. (It seems to me, and it would be great to hear from you on this one, that the situation in Japan and in the States is much more similar than dissimular. We’ve had our share of storms. And most of us are working from out of the highlands, willing and ready to accept compromises with respect to what the highlands promised, and promise still.)
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The title was easy, now comes the hard part.
My wife Helen has been through hard times lately. She has been insulted, threatened, and betrayed by people she once thought were on her page concerning life in a residence. As I write today, she’s afraid for her life.
This was the context in which we took off for a few days to the good ole Marcel Proust watering hole, off the English Channel, with friends who have a view of it, along with 350 cows, two beautiful children, and four rooms to rent for pilgrims like us. Helen had trouble sleeping, and I wasn’t much help in getting her over this hill. The only thing I thought I might do was to prepare a bill of pleasures for the trip out. So I chose our usual fare, Vivaldi, Bach, Monteverdi, and, almost as an afterthought, “Time out of Mind” by Dylan. (1997) Helen remarked on our way out that she liked the musicians, that it helped swallow the fact that Dylan always sings pretty much the same song. I thought that was a stupid remark, but at least she was talking, and listening, so I played it again: “I’m walkin … and love sick”
She spent a lot of time with a collegue up there, someone who was glad to see her. I stayed back at the casa, moping and reading the Divine Comedy and listening to Bach as Nadal rolled on to yet another probable victory at the French open.
On our way back, we stopped off at a tree-lined rest area, and I left the CD player on. Helen got out of the car, and started dancing. All by herself. She started to dance like she probably once could, but hadn’t for quite some time. People started to gawk, and the Moslim population split down the middle between interested bearded males and women with objections to hide their obvious interest in this show of Western freedom.
By now she was jumping on and off the hood of the Toyota, and saying once again that this music was lucky to have such good musicians. She kept up dancing, after requesting that I pump up the volume.
She finally got back into the car, and quoted me: “at times, a woman dances only for Dionysus.”
In the next post, I quote a few things about this great album, but for the moment I prefer to bask in this taste of womanhood well beyond any sort of possession except that of the God of wine and renewal.
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Is there any link between DSK and the tradition libertinage? A high-ranking former socialist lawyer said as much in her defense of DSK. He is a “libertin.” (Translators beware!)
There’s no way the man can marshall this stellar tradition in his favor, despite what Tom Collins may have imagined in this direction. The prince of Conti was an authentic libertine, according to the Memoires of Saint-Simon. (My most recent mother-in-law reads the Bible, Pascal, and Saint-Simon, according each of them equal merit). “Galant with all women, in love with one or two, and well treated by many.” This doesn’t seem to apply to DSK, whom we can now imagine throwing himself on the unsuspecting chambermaid who stands to make a pretty penny out of this strange and sad encounter.
The wonder is the man’s wife! How many American wives can you imagine standing by their men in such circumstances? (In fact quite a few wives of jailbirds have shown such stength)
What happened to this presidential hopeful? What can have possibly got into him? In France as well as in America, we lean to theories of irresistible drives. Public enemies, unable to control their instincts.
I have another take, more sinister, but more apropos. The man was bored. Bored to death. I imagine this boredom growing day by day greater and more suffocating, as he goes from meeting to meeting, with sums of money defying the ordinary imagination, supposedly to help the Greeks, the Spaniards, the Portugese, and the Irish but in fact designed to punish them and keep them in tow to a ruthless God of calculation. Boredom in this case is a luxury. And a scandal.
The man was looking for something new, a new kind of risk, a new opportunity for adventure, and for triumph over the preordained dances of the International Monetary Fund and the wise advice of a Jewish mother. The chambermaid made mincemeat of this character, perhaps like Lebron will take care of Newinski. Threw him up against a cabinet, to his utter enjoyment. The man now has what he was looking for: a little peace and a little expanse of freedom. However expensive it may prove to be, he’ll be, at last, out of the limelight, and out of the daily rigmarole of lying and having to give pep talks to people who have no message to give to their countrymen outside of bad news.
We still don’t know what a “libertin” is. The dictionary informs us that it is a man or woman of dissolute morals. A great and now forgotten French dictionary informs us that at the beginning a libertin was a bird of prey who strayed from the indicated path of its flight, never to return. What a great definition! I am anything but a libertine. But I do marvel and enjoy the sheer chance of seeing the term between “liberty” and “library” in the dictionary!
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I suppose that everyone by now has heard of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, DSK. He has resigned from the IMF, and has ruined his chances of becoming the next President of the French Republic. Etc, etc. You know all about it, I suppose.
I have an original take on what happened that fated early afternoon at the Sofitel hotel in New York. Of course I will rush home (here) to tell you about it.
I actually believe the guy when he says he is innocent of all charges against him. And I’m also sure that the chambermaid is not lying. So what are we to make of all this?
I reserve the right of talking about being 62 and thinking, rightly or wrongly, that my libido is eternal. Something occured that morning, and I have read nothing that even comes close to what I imagine probably happened.
DSK came out of the shower naked and happened upon the chambermaid. Their glances intersected, and something altogether unexpected happened: they both started to laugh. It’s all slightly ridiculous, and yet we are all sitting on centuries of stories and paintings of old men and young women whose glances intersect and then some. Immediately, this devout Muslim woman lowered her eyes, and but they both continued to laugh. There was something like communion at that moment, and of course it was ruined by conversation, but also extended by it.
DSK: “You didn’t expect to see the one eyed monster this morning, now did you!”
Chambermaid: “This is embarassing, but at least you’re circumcised!”
DSK: “Would you please dry my back for me? Or anything else just so I can have the bliss of holding you in my arms?”
Chambermaid: “You’d better stop this nonsense now, or I’ll have to report you to my chief.”
DSK: “Have you ever been pursued in one of these rooms? I feel like I could run in the New York marathon. I’m going to catch you and twirl you like a baton!”
Despite the mounting tension, these two people are still in contact with that first moment of laughter. There will be pursuit, and struggle, and fear finally too. There could have been another way out, I suppose, but this way is as old as the hills. We’ll see what happens as the trial drags out, bringing back memories of OJ and Kobe and all the other march hares doing things they ought to be ashamed of but are not. For the moment it’s looks bad for DSK. I look for him to be acquitted, though not from within the innocent garden of my imagination. Acquited or convicted, it’s likely to be ugly and stupid. Just for a moment, I wanted a ray of light to shine on this original couple. COSI FAN TUTTI. In Italy and in Italian, these are laughing matters. It’s comedy, not tragedy. I don’t know which protagonist stands to lose more in this comedy of errors, but I would love imagining not being too far off in my projection, based on my own coordinates as a man from Africa.
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John-Paul II is on track to sainthood. I wonder how many of you, “over there” laugh at such an event. I wonder pretty much the same thing concerning the royal wedding.
Here’s a quote from “Women” by Sollers (1983 in French, 1990 in English. The exact temporal span of the good years I spent with Sylvie and the boys we had under the fforgiving and amused glance of God) in the excellent Barbara Bray translation. Had it not been for this Bordelais writer, I would have lost my faith in the exciting backwash of French thought.
“I take a morning train … Reach the Vatican at the appointed time … Go in … It’s like suddenly stepping out of the middle of Rome into Tibet … Or rather into nowhere … A negative space … Antimatter setting …. I’m met immediately by a plump and jovial Polish priest … We hurry through offices, galleries, corridors, libraries … There’s a combination of bustle and quiet, as in a battle … All the people look as if they’re at war … And so they are … A building site in the middle of a museum … On the eve of ruin or renaissance … We go straight on, around corners, up, down, up again, down again … He takes me into the little dark room and tells me to wait … A wave of the hand and he’s gone …
I wait for a long time … Nearly an hour … The room’s so dark I can scarcely see the antique furniture … The pictures …. The curtians and shutters are closed … I must be somewhere over St. Peter’s square, to the east …
The door on the other side of the room opens … A white shape … It’s Wojtyla … He beckons me in … Takes me by the hand … Leads me to a chair facing his desk … Sits down behind it … Looks at me …
…. “Well,” he says in French, I liked your articles … They were very relevant after my visit to London … You know the difficulties … The prejudices … The misunderstandings about Marion dogma … I haven’t much time, but I noticed you’re also interested in literature and theology …”
I’m dying to mention the assassination attempt … The young Turk who shot at him … Who’s behind it? What? The Russians? How does he feel? … But no …
“Does Your Holiness still write poetry?”
“Good gracious no. Where would I find the time? Anyhow, those poems were only youthful exercises … But here’es the latest translation, into Hebrew …”
He gets up quite spriyly and comes around to hand me a little volume printed in Hebrew characters …
“A language with a great future,” I say.
“You think so too? I’ve asked our Commission to be more active.”
“The Bible in Hebrew!” I say.
“You should like St. Jerome! Hebraicum veritatem … Yes yes, … There’s still a lot to be done’ …
“It’s getting late,” he says … “Let’s say the Lord’s Prayer together … That says everything …”
He stands up. So do I.
Our Father who art in Heaven Hollowed be thy Name. Thy kindgom come. Thy will be done On earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those that trespassed against us. And lead us not into temptation, But deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, For ever and ever. Amen
Then something happens … It’s as if the Pope’s voice were suddenly coming down from a height … He’s suddenly become both higher and deeper before my very eyes … Deep as an abyss, yet at the same time light and transparent … All right … Every word he said felt momentous … It’s an odd sort of prayer, when you come to think of it … The silence now is terrific … He stands there … Unmoving … I bend down on one knee … And feel his hand flutter over my head … Latin, this time:
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Siritus Sancti.”
It’s over. He takes me by the hand and leads me over to a little door in the wall … Opens it … “That way … Au revoir … Farewell …”
A little wave … He shuts the door. The private staircase leads straight down into a courtyard .. A hundred years and I’m on Bernini’s esplanade … In broad daylight … Silver fountains .. Blue breeze …”
I missed out on the beatification celebration, because I was reading Sports Illustrated on the upcoming matches in the NBA playoffs. Paul Pierce blew it yesterday. Watch out for Yoakim Noah. He’s got a short temper too! It’s easy to get distracted. To forget the promises of one’s baptism, which in the end have little to do with moral coherence and steadfastness, but more with simply, and gloriously, the way things are in the divine plan. You have to be able to get down and play mean, then get up in the morning and feel like an altar boy again. Nothing hypocritical here, or contradictory. Like Casanova. A lover man, and a true Catholic. All of this has already started to filter down into American society. The good news is that Hugh Hefner will soon be dead. Like Osama, who finally got his. There will be other distractions, but the good news will continue to trickle down.
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Well, at least I am. And that means the server is. There is going to be a period where the sites I host will be offline for a few days starting this Saturday. I’ll work to get them back online as soon as possible, but don’t be surprised if you can’t reach the site.
Tony
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If you say promiscuous to anyone in any country, everybody will immediately think you’re talking about loose morals. That’s never been much of a problem. But today in France, in Italy, in Japan, and in the USA, promiscuity is looming larger and larger on the horizon. Promiscuity is the miscellaneous mixture of people or things, and it’s the source of the many racial problems that won’t go away any time soon. I have no ideas to share by way of solutions. France and Italy, the countries closest to my heart now, are in for a rough decade of promiscuity. Borders will go back up, after having been torn down. I’m sure the situation is the same over your way.
When I say or hear the word promiscuous, I think of Tony and of Shakespeare, believe it or not. Both in the same stroke. The first post I read by Tony was a description of a boat outing, during which he had time to wait out on the boat for dawn, and to appreciate the stars above. His prose on this was better than mine — closer to Shakespeare’s. Here it is, from the Merchant of Venice, at the beginning of act 5.
“How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven is think inlaid with patines of bright gold: there’s not the smallest orb which thou beholdst but in his motion like an angel sings, still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; such harmony is in immortal souls; but, whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.”
You have to get off by yourself somewhere to re-establish the link to Shakespeare. It’s not a question of schooling, but one of experience. The stars give you all the time and space you need to profit from their light and to begin hearing their melody. It’s no time for interruption, but it may be an opportunity to be shared — with loved ones. “Draw her home with music.”
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To catch you up, one weak after I returned home from Westville I received a call from Florence that my neighbor Gerry died at home. He was 57 years old – I misstated on the previous post – I said he was 58. From completely healthy to dead in less than four weeks – makes one think.
Marin was not accepted into Georgia’s vet school. (Evidently, bad things come in four.) She will graduate from Clemson this May. Plans to retake a couple of courses she did not get A’s in at our local Community College and will reapply for vet school in October. I plan to take a Spanish class or two with her over the summer and fall semester.
I have officially joined the start-up company I have been contracting with. I have a full-time job, again.
In December 2011, Marin will be finished with her second application for vet school. She will learn in March of 2012 on whether she is accepted or not. If not she will pursue another career. If she does, she starts August 2012.
So from January 1 – August 1, 2012 Marin has the opportunity to do whatever she wants. She’s been a good kid, gotten excellent grades, worked and played a sport. So her mom and I told her she could travel or do whatever she likes for those seven months. She already has an idea. One that Tom Collins would approve of.
We’ll let on to what that is, in a later post.
Dave
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