December 31, 2009

New Years

I've got a golf game tomorrow. Well, today at eleven with Marc. I haven't seen him in awhile. I still dont really know what I plan on doing for the festivities tomorrow.

I'm still trying to figure out what's going to happen.

December 26, 2009

Beat the Calendar

Yes folks, remember how awhile ago I mentioned that I was nearing 400 posts? And at some time in the past year, that's when I had hit three hundred. That was about a year and four months ago. It's kinda died down, but i'm making up for that really bad last year.

So my goal. This will be the 398th post. 400 By New Years. It shouldn't be hard you say? Well, i'll have to clear and finish all the drafts left in my entries box.

Flights of Freedom

I stood only dressed in a pair of warm ups, and a tshirt. The dark, and the cold had no meaning to me as I stood, breathing in the crisp cold air. My eyes shut for a moment, and my ears focused on the sounds of the world. The ringing in my ears from years of exposure to loud noises, the low whir and hum of the cars rushing home from Christmas celebrations and the whistle of the BART trains, speeding on their last trains for the night. Today is boxing day.

For a second, I hear, the sounds of a flock of Canadian Geese. The systematic honking, the berating of their wings and beaks. A smile pursed over my lips and I recalled when I was younger, wanting to be reincarnated as a duck. The thought teased me as I watched the silhouetted V fly above me. Darking out the stars as it passed, then the star reappearing as it passed. I thought, of all the things, the places those geese have been. Canada, the wild mountains of Montana, the rainforests of Washington, all the way to the southern climates of Southern California. I longed to fly with them, and to be free from the monotony of life on land.

I wanted to be mingling with Canadians, dancing over the Rockies, lounging on the fields of Los Angeles. My head jerked back and my eyes opened again. Slowly, my family's garden came into view, the tomato plants caressing the cages, the trees, barren and bereft of leaves and the flat tones of the flagstones beneath my feet. I was not a duck, but a man. Standing warm in out of the cold, and inspired.

I am, a wandering bird.

December 25, 2009

Morris, the Midget Moose

Merry Christmas to All

And to all, A good night.

May your yule log burn bright,

and your inlaws run with fright.

From the turkey that's undercooked,

and hotels that are overbooked.

Merry Christmas from Alameda, Burlingame, San Francisco, Victoria B.C. & My little desk in my room.

December 19, 2009

Ticket Stub

I was pawing through my things, and harmlessly pulled out my magic drawing slate. Yeah, a 20 year old with a magic slate. Big deal. But moving it around, a ticket stub fell out. Castro theater, April 18, 2009. It doesn't say the date, I just remember that date.

It was the day I threw myself upon my senses, making sure to associate every memory I can hang onto with some sense. Sight, sound, smell, taste & feel. That's a great feeling, one I dont want to leave. It's too beautiful to let go.

December 13, 2009

Moped Diaries: Day 8 part one

I struggled to fall asleep that night at the YMCA. Here's a synopsis of what happened that night:

10pm: German hiking group returns from wherever drunken and singing some nationalist song
11pm: Germans proceed to start dancing in hiking boots
12pm: The vomit chorus proceeds in the hallway
12:01am: Sounds of mirth and hilarity as the others start laughing at the unfortuntate fellow.
12:30am: Finally fall asleep
1:29am: Awoken by loud arguing between a Quebecois & German traveller
1:40am: Still trying to fall asleep to nationalist argument
2am: Finally fall asleep, again.
6am: Woken by sound of the Korean guy's alarm clock next door.
6:02am: Swear to take a hit on Korean guy's loved ones
6:15am: fall back asleep
10:12am: Wake up on own accord. Notices one of the Germans in the room is totally naked
10:15am: Wait for German to leave because of an erection
10:40am: Plans to take contract hits on Korean guy & German man's loved ones
11am: Ashton wakes up. Walks around with stiffy.

We redressed in our motorcycle clothes. With our bags in the main dining room, we sat for a quiet morning breakfast of sausages, carrots, mashed potatoes and couscous. We looked at each other in the hall, it seemed to just go on forever. Our faces showed signs of growth again, each of us sporting a bit of tussle under and above the lips. My fork scratched lightly against the porcelain plate. The brown ring around the edge spoke to me. I tried to imagine a time when the color brown was a popular color, let alone fashionable. The last time I could recall was either in the seventies or in the early nineties when the whole nature thing was popular again, pushing out that artificial era called the eighties.
Ashton was pushing the food around as well, except he was using a spoon. I watched lazily as he shaped his potatoes into a small mound and dropped a pile of peas into it. Then, he pressed the back of his spoon into them. The mound of potatoes looked like a beach ball covered in pimples or something. He snapped and looked up at me looking at him. Caught by surprise, my fork fell to a clatter on the plate.
Our bikes were reloaded with the canvas saddle bags, jerry cans and bags. Ashton took off first and then I followed him. The city of Vancouver was sleek and beautiful around us. The sun gleamed off the sky scrapers and we looped around several times through the downtown part of the city. Steam issued from the grates, the road was crisp and the white scarf trailing from ashton's helmet made the world feel carefree and senseless. I leaned over the gas tank, I could feel it rumbling below my chest as the engine chugged away. After several laps around the town, we drove south through Richmond, then finally arrived at Tsawassen.

The lanes at Tsawassen stretch for a mile out. Long columns of cars sit idle waiting for the next ferry and their contents mill about either going to the small kiosk for coffee or stood around chatting with one another. Ashton and I pulled behind a small minivan, the family inside was standing outside of it talking. The ticketer walked up to us and handed us two tickets as we exchanged with him twenty dollars.
The Spirit of British Columbia blew its horn, a loud shockwave resounded over the parked cars. Everyone piled into their vehicles. Ashton and I packed away our little hackey sack and remounted the bikes. The ship drew close, the doors opened and cars began to come out of the open doors. And once they were out, the cars slowly began to pull into the ships. Other ships followed after and slowly, all the lanes emptied out. We pulled into the ship and doors closed.

December 02, 2009

Living the Life of Lindsay

This entry is dedicated to a very good friend of mine, she is a really amazing, wonderful and beautiful person and late one night on an IM client, she inspired me to write this little short story for you all to enjoy.

Do you know that feeling? The one where you wake up, the sun is streaming through the windows and the first thing you do is smile, squint your eyes a little and then raise your arms over your head to stretch? That's what my life is like every morning now. I graduated from Berkeley just a couple months ago and I found this job working in Paris as a researcher for some big professor at the Ecole de Beaux Arts. So I spend my mornings combing through the libraries looking at folios filled with drawings of buildings and paintings. I really couldn't get an even more cultured look into French life than this. After spending my mornings sifting, I stop by the school, present my findings for an hour or so then I have the rest of the day off. Normally, if I was still back home I would go straight back to all the libraries. But after the first few weeks of doing so, I'd forgotten about the world outside of the library and that I was in, of all places, Paris!
So that's what it's like to wake up in my life. Following my usual ritual of morning research, I made the presentation and was out at two. I returned to the little flat in the suburb of Belleville to drop my things off. Around me, people in the building were artists, writers, the poor and the thinkers. The first day, I made friends with most everyone in the building and the building certainly is a bit safer knowing who's who. On the ground floor, there is a small little grocers and every night, I would buy all my meal ingredients there. The man who runs it is a nice old chinese man who lives by himself in the back.
Up at the flat, I picked up the receiver of the telephone on my desk and called a taxi company. I felt like exploring some of the other suburbs of Paris today. Or maybe one by one. Within a few minutes, a small Citroen taxi was shaking underneath my window with the horn bleating, begging for my presence. I hopped in and the driver stared at me. "Montmarte, merci si vous plait." The cab sped through the narrow streets, passing street cafes and parks, by artists painting on canvases, musicians playing in circles. The narrow alleyways of Belleville were behind us soon and we entered Menilmontant, the steep part of town, and soon, the wide avenues of Montmarte became our raceway. The driver stopped in front of the Moulin Rouge and I paid him and he sped off looking for the next venerable fare.
Feeling a little hungry, I found a cafe and ordered a light salad. I placed my little side bag on the chair beside me and pulled out a copy of Fitzgerald. I started to read as the coffee was placed on the table with a jug of ice water and a warm glass, still steaming from a hot bath. As I continued, the world I sat in seemed to swirl in with the Paris in Fitzgerald's books. I was lost in a smile, and I didn't really notice the boy at the table across staring at me. It must have taken awhile for me to notice him because when I finally did look at him, his coffee cup fell from his hand onto his saucer. Snapping out of it, he realized his lap was full of cold coffee and rushed to grab the table linens to start blotting his lap. I laughed, as he did, he looked up at me again. His hair was greased back, his jaw firm and prominent and covered in stubble. His green eyes were hidden behind a pair of rimless glasses. Well dressed with the exception of the coffee stain, he stood, all six feet two of him and sat in the chair opposite mine. Somewhat shocked, I tried to compose myself and look further into the text. He sat there, then leaned forward, putting his chin on his hands.
The salad arrived, I put the book away and looked at him. I raised a finger, at him. He looked confused, he looked around, his locks of hair bouncing back. He then pointed at himself with a look of bewilderment. I shook the coco-nut. He didn't get I wanted him to go back to his seat. Finally, in French, «Please, go back to your seat, you're not going to find anything here.» Dejected, he sat down back at his table, now stained with coffee. I finished the salad, and left. But not without noticing him following me.
I stopped at every famous landmark, the Moulin de la Galette, The famous Moulin Rouge as well as Le Chat Noir. By now, the evening dusk was starting to envelope the city. I hailed a cab, and as I entered, he entered as well. He immediately ushered the cab driver to the VIIIe arrondissement. As we sped down the thoroughfares, I wondered if this man was going to kill me, or worse, take advantage of me. I tapped the driver to let him know I was going somewhere different. He realized the mistake and let me off. I merely waved the hand as he stared in surprise through the back window. I hailed another cab and this time, it went back to Belleville.
Living my life, I wouldn't know how to describe it for you. The boys are nice, but there are some days, I have to beat them away with a stick. Even if they're a handsome Parisian boy. As I got out, I saw another cab pull behind mine, and somehow, it was him. The cabs drove off, and as I tried to get the key in the lock, he swooned up to me. «You know, i've been following you all day. I think you are a gorgeous girl, please. I would like to get to know you.» I merely stared at him, and doing the typical American thing, I said no and walked through the door. I opened my windows to the street and he still stood there. I looked at him. «Go Away!»«At least tell me your name.» I finally caved in. "Lindsay." I saw him mouth the word in the streetlight. His heart seemed to just flutter.
I went to bed that night flustered.
Remember how I described mornings to you? Waking up with a smile, with the sun streaming through the shutters, and the birds chirping and pidgeons cooing on the gutters? Well, imagine that, but finding the room had been opened while I was asleep and then suddenly filled with flowers of ever kind. I frumpled my face and only could start to imagine what Ashley would do if she found out I was turning down a European man.