J'aimerais bien
J'aimerais bien ne pas tomber amoureux de toi,
Toi qui m'intrigue et qui me hante
même dans mes pensées les plus refoulées.
Je voudrais éviter tous ces sentiments
ordinaires qui font la béquille, le sel
de nos vies trop ordinaires (quotidinnes).
Otons le filet de sécurité,
cette emblème d'un jeu trop peu osé
qui berce les relations habituelles.
Tends-moi la main,
Fais-moi confiance;
N'hésitons pas devant l'impossible.
Figeons nos pas basculants
au bord du précipice qui souffle
la sensation foudroyante du vertige.
Etreignons nos corps
balançant un instant
entre la vie et la mort.
Ne saute pas dans le gouffre noir
né de l'oubli
et nourri de l'amer ennui.
Laisse plutôt voltiger nos esprits
dans l'éther trop léger
pour la matière terrestre.
Là, dans les astres,
nos émotions pures peuvent
s'éclater dans le paroxysme amoureux,
Espèce de douce folie
qui étouffe la voix
dans une marée de tendresse.
Emparons-nous de l'un et l'autre
sans question et sans pudeur.
Mets à côté les masques qui nous cachent.
Mais ne retire pas le voile du mystère
qui nous aveugle de la réalité
trop désespérante sous nos pieds.
J'aimerais bien
ne pas lâcher ce rêve trompeur,
narcotique, plein d'attraction.
J'aimerais bien garder cette aspiration,
fécond grain d'inspiration
qui éveille ma pauvre imagination.
J'aimerais bien ne pas tomber amoureux de toi,
Toi qui me mets mal à l'aise
qui me noies sans gilet de sauvetage,
Et de qui devant les yeux perspicaces
toute parole semble ridicule,
toute comédie inutile.
Rien n'est assez profond
pour sonder tes yeux,
tourbillons à surface blasée.
Ta beauté infranchissable
se moque de la banalité
et fait une platitude de la logique.
J'aimerais bien ne pas tomber amoureux toi
pour au moins un instant, et garder un peu
l'empreinte de ce songe sur mes lèvres.
Wednesday, June 6, 2001
J'aimerais bien
Monday, November 27, 2000
Next Year In Palestine
Dear Friends and Family,Jerusalem is a magical city. I’m not sure whether there is a God, but after visiting Jerusalem I’m pretty sure that if there is one, he or she is hanging out there. It’s a magical city. Thanks to the preponderance of Jerusalem rock, the city has an architectural and aesthetic unity as well as a sort of golden glow.
We knew we didn't have much time to spend in the city, so we decided it would be best not to push it and just do one or two traditional things.
We thought about waging holy war on each other, but changed our minds when we heard that there was a good exhibit going on at the museum. It was the collection of an ancient Hebrew glass blower called Chihuly. It cost a few shekels more than a catapult and battering ram, but was definitely worth it. The exhibit was great: the kind of thing you just couldn't see back home.It was getting dark after the exhibit, so we decided to grab a beer and call it a night. On our way back to the hotel we had a little problem and needed to run our own personal relief mission. Luckily, we found this old Wailing Wall where we could relieve ourselves.
Due to the recent violence (a few days before we arrived a bomb went of a couple blocks from the school and right outside the main market, by the time we went to the market there was almost no trace of the explosion) there haven't been a lot of tourists running around Israel and the coast was pretty much clear in the old city.
As you can imagine, it is difficult to capture the essence and wonder of being in the holiest of Holy cities. So why try when below we have a first-hand perspective on the situation. It is from a law student at UW, who received a grant to do a year-long study in Israel. She's a mother of two and has been in Ramallah for about three months now on her grant/study.
At about the same time that we were in Jerusalem, my parents were in Ireland kissing the Blarney stone. With this in mind, I thought I would end our Jerusalem account with the following little limerick:
There once was a man named Kevin
Who knew the Deadly Sins, all seven
He's not a good Jew
But he's better 'n you
For he made Aliyah and can go to Heaven
Shalom,
Kevin
####
Well....what can I say about this place?!! I have a love hate relationship with it. I don't even know
where to begin.
First of all...I feel like I am hostage to the Israeli media. Every day when I watch the news I know I am being brain washed. I get angry at the way they talk about Arabs of both the territories and inside Israel.
One thing that is very apparent is how they demonize Palestinians. They hardly ever talk about them as a people....they keep referring to Arafat this and Arafat that-ad nauseum. In doing so they focus the hatred on this supposed demon. I feel angry because there is no empathy towards the "other". I know that I am not Arafat...my family and friends are not Arafat....and the Palestinian people are not Arafat.
My auntie and her husband who live in Ramallah are doing fine. This is the worst situation they have seen since 1967....not even then did they experience such an intense Israeli shelling and closure. They have everything they need in terms of food and other needs and they just take the shelling noise in stride. They don't complain because they don't want people to worry about them. Their two daughters who live in Jerusalem try and visit them as much as they can. They have to time the visits around closures and events. They don't visit anywhere near as often or as long as they would like to in fear of being caught inside Ramallah or in the demonstrations and rock throwing that take place every day...usually after school is out.
My friend Maha, a social worker, and her husband Zuhair, a lecturer at Bir Zeit, also live in Ramallah. Maha was not able to go to work in East Jerusalem for two weeks during the height of the events. Their eight year old daughter asks them every morning..."is there a war today"? Her dad took her to see the confrontations from a distance and explained to her what was going on...this was an attempt to get her to be less fearful of the news and the shelling sounds. Still she is very scared. Two nights ago they were awakened at midnight by Israeli shelling in nearby
Betunia. This shelling continued until 3:00 a.m. Zuhair told me that he stayed up looking outside his balcony. He kept listening for shots from the Palestinian side but heard none...yet the Israeli shelling continued. He believes that the shelling is an attempt to unnerve the people and is paving the way for Israeli recapture of some of the regions which had been returned to the Palestinians in the Oslo agreement. This recapture would allow the Israeli's more control especially close to some of their settlements. The settlements that are not
supposed to be there in the first place under international law. The settlements that continued to
grow despite Oslo.
Inside Israel...things have calmed down considerably. However, there is tension. Jews are avoiding Arab populated areas and Arabs are avoiding areas where extremist Jews live. Businesses such as restaurants in Jaffa and Arab stores in Wadi Nisnas in Haifa are
suffering a noticeable drop. Political activities have been banned at all Israeli Universities for the
first four weeks of classes....we are now in the second week. However, I did hear that there will be a demonstration on campus next Wednesday....I plan to keep a distance.
What is really striking to me is that no matter how much politically to the left Israeli Jews are....They just don't get it that their Zionism came at a high price to the Palestinians and why the Palestinians fought Zionism in the first place. They don't understand how the Palestinians are Palestinian first and Arabs second...how Arabs are not all the same and how they have different interests. They still don't get why the Palestinians are mad and why Oslo gave
them nothing. They are convinced that Barak offered Arafat some kind of unbelievable treasure at Camp David...which Arafat so ungratefully turned down. And then...if they go that far...they always get stuck......so where can we go? We are not wanted anywhere...besides..this is now our home. Well...it was home to another people at one time. All I hear from them is this fear fear fear fear of annihilation as a people. I know and understand where it is coming from but how are they going to break this cycle of fear with its accompanying aggression....whose responsibility is it to do the healing?
One final story:
Two weeks ago I attended orientation in the Overseas Department at the University of Haifa. One of the directors assured the students...mostly young Americans coming to live in Israel for a year of "the Jewish experience"...that she is there to take care of their every need. If they needed to not have an Arab roommate or apartment mate in the dorms (there are two to a room and six to an apartment)...they just need to let her know and she will accommodate. I was so shocked I did not speak. I just felt a very sharp pain as if I was emotionally stabbed in my core. I felt very sad that she was giving the students a way out of what could be a very healing opportunity they may never get anywhere else. I remembered how the beginning of the process that brought me to the point of being able to be here amidst Jews was that I had the opportunity to work with an Israeli Jew on a paper when I was taking a summer course at GeorgetownUniversity in 1986. I remember how I felt when I first met my fellow student and how I felt at the end of the course...having gotten to know him as a human being and not just as the enemy. Not that we agreed in the end...but what a difference. Yet, here..this director was offering the students a way out of growth and understanding.
Well...i thought to myself....most of these students are American...they have studied the civil rights movement...they know the struggle of blacks against racism in the U.S....they are enlightened beings...surely no one will take her up. Unfortunately...the second stab in the core I felt that evening came after orientation was over and when I heard one student tell the director that he and his roommate do not wish to be in an apartment with Arabs.
On this sad note.....I will end. Call me an eternal optimist but I still have hope despite the sadness.
Thursday, November 16, 2000
Eastern Bloc and Roll
The country of Eastern Europe was formed as a result of the French-Indian War. A group of 'les indiens' moved from Monte Carlo after losing their money and needing a new place to settle.Our journey began in Kiev which is a lot like Disneyland, except all the buildings are gray cinderblock, people wear a lot more black leather, listen to Bryan Adams and don't smile as much.
Upon landing we were greeted by a large woman with mustache answering to the name of Boris. She handed us our immigration cards and we realized that capitalism had definitely begun to breach the iron curtain. Advertisements for casinos, Aquanet, and Rubik's cubes covered the form. We had never seen anything like it.
People here are tough: men can regularly be seen chewing nails and shaving with rusty razors, and women wear mini-skirts in two feet of snow.
Actually, Kiev is a pretty cool place, with a busy and friendly downtown. And, yes, the Beatles were correct.
Next stop Zagreb, Croatia. A beautiful town with the highest café/bar per capita ratio this side of the Dagobah system. With so many cafes, restaurants, theaters and boutiques, Zagreb reminded us of Western Europe-without the scads of tourists.
Croatia has fought hard for its independence and wants to maintain their unique cultural identity. Nevertheless, there was something familiar about this fast food restaurant we found, and we were pleasantly surprised with the 'Big Mark'.In the 15th century, Orthodox Byzantines, Catholic Romans, Jews of the Diaspora and Muslims coexisted relatively peacefully in the Balkan peninsula which at that time was part of the Turkish Empire. In the late 19th and early 20th century the ethnic and religious mix began to fall out of balance. In 1991, Slovenia, Macedonia, Croatia and Bosnia-Hercegovina all declared independence from Yugoslavia. This lead to a bloody and confusing three-way war (not even counting the ethnic cleansings of Albanians in Kosovo) which basically centered around our next stop, Sarajevo, now the capital of Bosnia-Hercegovina.
After landing, we drove through what used to be called "snipers' alley". Thankfully, the violence has stopped now and Sarajevo is working hard to rebuild itself. Although life has returned to normal and shops have quickly reopened, it still kind of looks like someone made Swiss cheese out of Sarajevo and forgot to pass out the crackers. Bullet holes and shell dam
age can be seen everywhere, and a huge cemetery dominates the hillside as you enter the city. The National Stadium's practice field was even converted into a cemetery to accommodate the overload of bodies from the war.Still recovering from tragedy, Sarajevo strikes us as a tough place to be. So tough, in fact, that they had to fly in Robert De Niro to drive one of their city buses.
Vienna, our final stop in Eastern(ish) Europe, reminded us of Paris, only cleaner, with less attitude and with more schnitzel. Lots of museums, classical music and old important looking buildings. Very stylish. Walking around for the day, we discovered that Vienna has one classy establishment that even Paris doesn't have (yet): Hooters!
The city happened to be holding tryouts for the Boys Choir and we were lucky to get a call back to the second round. We refused to perform any further, however, when we found out that if we were picked to join the choir we would have to become eunuchs.Sunday, October 29, 2000
Jesse for President
Ducci, I was at a local indian restaraunt in Chennai (madras) and everyone was eating with their fingers so I did too. People were laughing at me because
2. I was making a mess all over myself.
I said to the guy across from me that I liked eating with my hands and he replied to me in an indian accent. 'God gave you five fingers and that's better than a fork'
cheers and take care,
Jesse
==
From: "Jeff Howell"
To: "Kevin Lapin"
Subject: painting the passports brown
Date: Mon, 6 Nov 2000 14:36:35 -0800
I'm sitting over here in this United States of America place, watching the news...the politicians... the 'candidates and I'm thinking...man these guys suck! What we need is a genuine grassroots campaign. Jesse long for President. Of course we wouldn't change a thing about him, there'd be no spin doctors, no handlers, hell, we wouldn't really even keep him informed on the issues. We'd just throw him up there behind the podium and let him work his magic. This country needs a feller who knows himself. A fella not afraid to go a few days without washing. A fella who once wore jackets that looked like they were made from carpet patterns. A guy with a closet, not full of skeletons...but useless Kung Fu pads. A fella with a dog named Duke and Samuel Clemens for a father. A scrabble lover. A traveler. The type of man who'll give up sugar for a while. And a guy who's not afraid to throw back a few shots of wheat grass. Because when it comes down to it, there are very few people have what it takes to run a country...few who have the ability to motivate the peoples! See, when it comes to getting folks off their asses and into motion some know the way, but most, how should I put this... do not have way. Jesse has way.
All the way.
Just one man's opinion.
Jeff
Monday, October 23, 2000
Pakistan
Pakistan, where we have spent the last ten days, gets its name from an 'Urdu' word meaning 'land of no lingerie stores'. It is a vibrant and colorful country and one of the crazier places you'll ever go--unless, of course you go, like, you know, to the funny farm.
Right away on our plane ride into Islamabad, our first stop, we knew Pakistan would be different when we saw three different passengers on the plane travelling with hawks. It seems that the country really appreciates birds as aviaries abound.There are also these sort of mini-van buses that would make Gaudi blush everywhere you go. These colorful buses are privately owned and decorated, and run regular routes. The proud owners will spend as much as $3,000 to have one of their buses hand-decorated, and this is a lot of money when you consider the people taking the bus are generally working over 12 hours a day for less than a dollar.
The Pakistani aesthetic tends to a sort of circus baroque where more is definitely more. You can see this in the garish colors, ornate mosques decorated with gold and silver, bright clothes and in the saccharine histrionics of the thousands of music videos and movies produced every year in 'Bollywood'. It's very happy and energetic, like the Pakistanis themselves.
Pakistani ebullience literally pours out into the streets, as going somewhere in Pakistan consists of getting on, or hanging on, one of the crowded buses; loading up your camel and cart; hailing a three-wheeled motorized (or not) rickshaw; riding a bicycle with huge bales of cargo strapped to it; or cramming your whole family onto a small motorcycle (I'm not kidding, we regularly saw a man driving with a woman sitting side-saddle and two young kids on a motor bike that was probably no more than 100cc). The only rule of the road seemed to be that of Inshallah, or god willing. What's amazing is that despite this mayhem of dust and traffic and zig-zagging, pedestrians and vendors coming to your window offering papadam or coconut and the staccato symphony of short honks, which everyone uses to let other drivers know that they are overtaking, or that, yes, they are running that red light and cutting across three lanes of traffic containing five lanes worth of vehicles to make a left turn, that through all of this, everyone seems to be fairly calm and enjoying themselves. There's no road rage!
The people, and there are at least 15 million of them crammed into Karachi, are incredibly friendly and helpful, unless, I suppose, you're from India. One taxi driver explained to us as that he didn't like the people from India because he thought that they put on nice faces but had empty hearts. While this may show the driver's prejudice (a prejudice which may be understandable given the two countries' ongoing strained relationship) it also shows the Pakistani value on 'having heart'.
The countryside is beautiful, but there is no work. There are also a fair amount of armed terrorists wandering around in the north. Artisans still practice their craft of weaving, carving, needle pointing etc. exactly as it has been done for hundreds of years. They may work for a week on decorating one cloth band that sells in the market for the equivalent of a dollar.
So, many Pakistani men are faced with the decision of staying in their home village where there is no work and little to no facilities (school, clean water, Internet etc.), or move to the crowded, polluted city and work for almost nothing (by even their standards). Luckily, there are no bars in predominantly Muslim Pakistan and 'Keno' hasn't been invented yet, so most of the money they earn makes it home to their families, which on average consists of seven or eight children a wife and parents or grand-parents. No pressure, right? The other choice is to join a work gang in Saudi Arabia or Dubai or another of the wealthy oil countries in the Gulf. This generally entails getting and then giving up your passport (the employers keep the passports “for your protection”) and working for several years at a time without returning home.
As a result of this cheap and abundant labor force, all the hotels and nice restaurants are ridiculously overstaffed. It was almost a nuisance to arrive at the hotel and have three people trying to open doors and help us with our luggage (tip, tip, tip), then we would get to our room and every five minutes there would be a knock at our door with someone offering to get us water or do laundry or clean our room, again! Despite or because of this extra-help, I'm not sure which, you still never quite get what you want. And that, of course, is what makes Pakistan so crazy and so much fun.
I think it would be difficult to live in Pakistan for several reasons. First, although I loved the energy and craziness, you would want at least a few things to work like you expected, for instance a flight leaving when it says, rather than earlier, later or just not at all. Second, it is still a primarily Muslim culture which means that men and women don't talk much (or hold hands) until they are married, which even then is generally arranged for them. Third, it ain't easy to find what Jesse calls a 'brew-ha'. Fourth, and most significantly, it would be hard to live around so much poverty. I would feel uncomfortable having a cook, a driver and a gardener, but would also feel guilty not hiring them with so many people in need of work. Alas, life is a paradox and I lost one of my dox in the washing machine!
Speaking of washing machines, you won't find many here. What you see in the photos below is the enormous laundry land in Karachi. We were told that this sprawling maze of concrete troughs, basins, children and piles of clothes services the whole city. Like a Fed-Ex fleet on foot, women work their routes picking up dirty laundry from people’s houses and delivering them, dunked, beaten, twisted and cleaned laundry several days later.
Wednesday, October 18, 2000
Bye Bye Dubai
Dear Friends and Family,Our five days in Dubai were a welcome break after our month stretch in Saudi Arabia. Dubai is an oasis and gem in the middle of the Arabian peninsula. It is a beautiful and bustling city in the United Arab of Emirates. It is also one of the few places in the Arab world where you can get a beer (legally).
As far as cosmopolitan centers goes, Dubai is a great place to visit. If you are going to build massive steel and glass altars to commerce, then this is how they should be done. The offices and sky-scrapers of Dubai are brilliant and give the city a boost of energy and light. One of the most famous hotels, called the Burj-Al-Arab is here. It’s the only five-star hotel or something like that and each room comes with it’s own valet.
We have reason to believe that there are some interesting museums and tourist type things to do in Dubai as well, although we wouldn't know because we quickly decided to spend our few days of vacation in a different emirate, Fujirah, at the Sandy Beach Resort.From the picture of the beach, you can get an idea of how little we did for two days straight. The snorkeling was great. They say that the Gulf War put a dent in the flora and fauna, but it looked pretty good to us. The sand was warm and the sound of the sea relaxing.
One of our creative projects 'en cours' is to put together a un-phonetic alphabet with things like ‘p as in pneumonia’ and ‘k as in knife’. Our other project is a book of weird and surreal signs from around the world. Here are a couple interesting ones to give you an idea. If you see any more let us know.Bye-bye Dubai, Hello Pakistan...
Friday, October 6, 2000
Heading to Dammam (Dishtar Aramco Rock Version)
Heading to Dammam
(Dishtar Aramco Rock Version)
Head out on the highway
Driving to Dammam today.
Driving through the desert
You gotta pray five times a day
No way, no way,
No way, no way.
If you're a woman in Saudi
Then you've gotta wear a veil.
When you're driving through the desert
The weather's never cloudy, oh well.
All the men, so sheik,
Ya' know they pray five times a day
Better get down on your knees for Allah
Or you know you're goin' to hell.
Head out on the highway
Heading to Dammam.
Driving through the desert,
The cradle of Islam.
Dammam (4x).
Camels to the left,
Camels to the right,
Sleeping with bedouins
Gives me such a fright.
No alcohol, no bourbon
Hide, hide, hide it
Under your turban.
Bet you didn't know that the Kingdom's kind of urban.
(triple rhyme)
In the desert dry of water
Mint tea in my eye (ouch).
Is this Arab guy offering me a camel or his daughter.
chorus
Mostly sand, not much soil,
Katsudon lots of oil.
All the princes, oh so many
Ruling country
Petrolled hands clenched so tight.
The Koran says if you're riding a camel you ain't Shi'ite.
(go Sunnis)
That's the way it goes in Saudi of Arabia (ah, ah).
I say, maybe, oh maybe
I'll get back some day (eh, eh).
There's just ain't much social life
And it's hard to have fun and play (hey, hey)
When all the parties you go to are BYOW (Bring Your Own Wife),
Ya' know it's true-oooh.
chorus (2x)
Hope you enjoyed and keep it Pretty Simple,
Kevin & Jesse
PS email us if you are interested in the tab for the sung version.
Tuesday, September 12, 2000
The Saudi Shuffle
Friends and Family,I hope this will be the first of a series of emails documenting Jesse and my super-photolicious-Fall-trip.
Today was day 3 of 90 and our first shooting day. All I can say so far is, “well, we made it”. I’m reminded of the guy who jumped off the Empire State building and as he was falling past each floor was heard to say, “So far, so good.” It’s not the fall that counts, though, it’s the landing. Anyway, I guess it takes a funny sort of optimism to undertake this kind of adventure.
Although our journey began a number years ago, I’ll skip right to our actual departure. In the photo below, you can see Jesse and I standing outside the Harden House Saturday afternoon with all of our gear. As you can see there is about 295 pounds of lights and photo equipment and about 5 pounds of clothing, all of which has to last us 3 months.
At the British Airways counter, the ticket agent told Jesse that his carry-on was too heavy and would have to be checked for safety reasons. Jesse explained that we were already paying a couple hundred dollars in excess baggage fees (which was nothing compared to the $1,000 that Air Africa tried to charge him on his last trip). Jesse didn’t want to check any more bags than necessary, so he offered to make his computer bag lighter by removing a couple of CDs. Are you kidding me?Before dropping us off, Jesse’s parents told me to look out for Jesse while we travelled. At the airport, my Dad pulled Jesse aside to tell him that he was personally responsible for my safety. Jesse and responsible are two words that are not normally found in the same sentence. In fact, the idea that our parents were relying on us to keep each other out of trouble struck me as some sort of zero-sum chiasmus.
Luckily we were saved from looking up any more big words in the dictionary by our now best friends Von and Amy, who surprised us at the airport with a bag of Red Mill burgers (thanks again Von and Amy, you rock!). The combination of Red Mill bacon burger and Xanax made for a very relaxed flight to London.
After a short eight-hour layover in Heathrow (where we had ample time to worry about the baggage return system), we boarded our flight to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. As our plane taxied for take-off I was having some second thoughts and reservations about what kind of trip this would turn out to be, travelling throughout the Middle East and Africa for three months as Jesse’s assistant. Just then the little girl in the next seat wearing traditional Saudi robes turned to me and vomited all over my lap. Ce n’est pas la chute qui compte, n’est-ce pas, c’est l’aterrisage…
From the moment you land in Riyadh, you get a feeling of how different (and how hot) it is here. I think Jesse described it best when he said, “It’s weird, it’s like being in a foreign country.” There you have it. You can see from the two pictures below some of the foreign foods and places we have already found:
By the way, you have to be careful about taking pictures in Saudi Arabia, as you can get into a lot of trouble. I learned this the hard way taking the picture of the Washington apples above.
There’s an old saying in Saudi Arabia which goes, “All roads lead to Dammam.” Although this isn’t quite true, it is true that Jesse and I seem to end up on one of the ones that do lead there every time we get into our rental car. We were told by one of the administrator’s of the school that we are taking pictures for that you can’t get lost in Riyadh as long as you use the tower below, which is the only tall building around, as a landmark. It's the one near chop-chop square which is named for the corporal punishments that are still publicly carried out there.
Maybe it was the jet-lag, but the tower kept moving around on us as we tried to make our way to visit the U.S. Embassy in the Diplomatic Quarter. In the end we made it, although were not sure how. The DQ turned out to be pretty cool. I would have taken some pictures to show you, but the armed guards looked even more threatening than the manager at Safeway--especially the armed guards who look like their fifteen.
Despite the armed guards and ‘compounds’ everywhere, Saudi Arabia turns out to be a pretty safe and friendly place. I suppose the public beheadings and stonings, the strict prohibition, and the religious fundamentalism have something to do with it.
Thursday, September 2, 1999
Leave the Canoe on the Other Side (Mike's bestman speech)
(On the Occasion of Michael and Karri's Wedding)Ladies and gentelman, honoured guests, thank you.
Before I begin, I would like to take a moment to recognize some of the people who have made this wonderful event possible. First, I would like to thank all the friends and family who have come in from out of town to share with Michael and Karri on this happy day. I would especially like to recognize our two grandes dammes, could both grandmothers stand up. Thank you Rabbi for your words of wisdom and the beautiful ceremony. Let us all be grateful to the maids of honor and bridegrooms who have supported Karri as she learned to put up with Michael. And finally the parents of the bride and groom, could you stand up? We really owe it all to you as you were the ones who conceived this event. Finally, I would like to be the first to raise a glass and toast the bride and groom. To counselor and counselor Michael and Karri Lapin.
Now, let's get down to business. I've known Michael for about as long as I can remember. Really, I can honestly say that he’s been almost like a brother to me.
Those of you who know my brother and me, know that we have never agreed on anything. In fact, we have never even agreed to disagree. I'd even venture to say that we have argued and disagreed and bickered on just about every subject from politics to whether some people can be hypnotized or not. When I was in England working recently I had my mail sent to Mike so that he could forward it to me. One day he called me up and told me that my absentee ballot had come in and that he had taken the liberty of voting for me. My first thought was "Oh lord what have I done. I should have never signed that power of attorney statement."
Now to his credit, Mike voted exactly as he thought I would have wanted to. As it turned out, our votes canceled each other out almost entirely. So Michael and I never agree on much. I think I am giving him a very valuable service, though, one that could be vital to his marriage even. You see, I figure if I bicker with him once a week or so, he won't feel the need to bicker with Karri. And that's a good thing, right?
I have known Karri for over a year now and have nothing but the best to report. The only thing I would change about her is if she would let me put the music on a little louder in the car when she sits in the back. No, perhaps the greatest compliment that I can pay to her is that she is about the only thing that Michael and I have ever agreed on. Karri, I think you have made Michael a happier and better person for your presence in his life and I welcome you into the family.
In a small way I feel responsible for Michael and Karri getting married today, though I take no credit for doing what any best man would do. Mike, I hope you won't be too upset if I tell everyone this. You see, last night about midnight I was woken from sleep by a phone call. When I finally roused myself to answer it was Mike on the other line and I knew that something must be up because it was three or four hours past his bedtime. He was crying and sounded pretty unsteady. He proceeded, through the tears, to tell me that he wasn't sure about the wedding and didn't know if going through with it was such a good idea. I've got to say I was pretty surprised at first because he had never indicated that he had any doubts and seemed so happy except for the stress of organizing and paying for the event. I told him confidently that it was just second thoughts and that it was normal. Everyone gets cold feet, right? He went on, however, and talked about community property and line-item deductions, and some other stuff too but it was too muffled by the sobs.
Now luckily I was prepared and read him the following…
[quotes from emails they had written about why and how they loved each other]
To tell you the truth, I'm not really sure what most of it meant, but it seemed to work. So here they are today, the lucky bride and groom and perhaps in a not so small or truthful way, all thanks to me.
If I may, in closing, give you one piece of serious advice. Mike, you remember when we were young, Mom and Dad used to move around a lot. I figure for a while there we moved houses about one every year, and one thing that taught me, besides don't keep waiting for that basketball hoop, smoked glass shower door and pool table (I had to get that in somewhere), the one thing that it taught me is: leave the canoe when you get to the other side.
It was actually a native healer who told me this story about a man, everyman, who has set out on a great journey. You see him walking with his nose just inches from the path, bent over double from the weight of his load. On his back is a rocking chair, a bicycle, a canoe a large burlap bag filled to the brim and who knows what else. He is struggling so much with his load that he is not able to enjoy the natural life and beauty through which he is walking. If you ask him why he is carrying all these things, he will tell you that when he left his home he didn’t know if there would be a comfy chair to sit on where he was going so he decided to bring his with him, he also filled a burlap bag full of clothes and books and pictures and other personal belongings that he wanted to remember. Later on, he says, he used the bike to follow a long stretch of pavement and when he got to the forest’s edge decided to carry it with him because he didn’t know if he might need it again. Still later he had come to a river and used the canoe to paddle across, and so he is carrying that too in case he has to cross another one along the way. At this point, the native healer told me that when you live in the sacred way, that is when you walk the path, the path with heart, you realize that you can leave the canoe behind you on the other side of the stream. You don’t have to carry it with you. If life brings you to another crossing, you will find another boat to cross it, or you will build one.
Just hearing this story lifted a great weight off of my shoulders as I realized that I had been carrying around the weight of every yoga class, pilates, hula-hoop, unicycle, juggling, chairman mao, meditation, soccer and every other practice that I had every started and even loved and benefited from for a time in my life with me as a weight. Maybe I should be doing more, or more often? Why did I stop doing that? No, it served it's purpose to help us across a particular time in our life, but we don't have to cling on to it. So that’s my advice to you, Michael and Karri, leave the canoe when you get to the other side. That's walking the path.
May the Road Rise Up To Meet You, and May the Wind Be Always At Your Back.
L’chaim!
Saturday, June 6, 1998
Michelle
Michelle
Michelle, my shell
my conch
I hear the sea
slipping through your whispery lips,
waves of softening sound
undulating over the crests
and the troughs of your skin.
Your alluring humidity
utterly delicious
right down to your foamy
crushing mound.
You lay
under the moon
drawing you to me
waves of emotion wash over me
mounting and receding
swelling and sinking;
drinking from
your lips,
amaretto
sweet.
We frollick
and thrash
and pound
and polish
until there is nothing left
but a saltbed tideline of our love.
Michelle, my shell
my conch
I hear your calls
ringing from your unadorned
and alabaster ears
coddled and cockled,
labial folds of skin
spiralling into night.
I find my echo
in those pearls
I find my own loneliness
and strength
and determination
curling into the walls
of your inner most
Michelle ears.
Michelle, ma belle
let us be old
and young
and forever.
Let us be free
and savor life;
committing to each moment
and to each other,
each hello
each goodbye
each bitter-sweet parting
and forever rejoining.
Michelle, my shell
my conch
How I can float by you,
in your suits and booties
dark and sweet, like the coffee you drink.
You were a gentle and bright eyed
tyrant to see
How dare I
the soft world you held,
tending patiently
inside your baby wiped shell.
I want to hold and coddle you
and know you perfectly;
know your secret grottos
of desire
and passion
of love
and life.
Michelle let me hold thee free.
I want to peel away
your shells Michelle.
My shell,
my me.
And your shell Michelle
silently to see,
to see what we can see.
Come let us see
see what shells we can shed
and set a sullen drift
undressed in the bed,
Michelle O sully vain
just you and me.
A great drifting sea
Michelle, my shell
just you and me.
Where are you taking me
Michelle, my shell?
We’ll just wait and see.
We’ll see what's to see
beyond the shell of your shell, Michelle
just you and me.
Michelle my me
Just you shall see
Just you Michelle
Just you and me.
Monday, February 23, 1998
Grandmother
Grandmother
Grandmother, you gave so well, much better than you received
Keeping the happiness that behind you leave
To your sad parting we give this final plea,
May you rest in peace this night
Good sister, mother, friend and wife
In your fierce strength we all believed
You gave so well, much better than you received
Frail life, when last I saw you lay, without gown of lustful light
Too late for tears or sorrow, or talk of would or might or morrow
Though we stay on and wake to fight, you go where we must follow
May you rest in peace this night
Your spirit’s flight
Leaves us in the wake of the bereaved
For you have gone to your final retreat
Where nevermore your eyes shall burn so bright
From when you gave so well, much better than you received
Your life was not a sonnet, though no less beautiful or brief
You never cut words to form or fashion, not even in the least
You held your pains in check of silence
Refusing all but grief
You always did what you knew was right
May you rest in peace this night
But hark Grandmother I will remember thee
Your clock, your candles, pale pictures and Paris scene
Indeed I've held your hands in mine
Like great and fallen trees of knotted branch and bark
Frail legacy of touch whispering of a time I shall not grieve
When you gave so well, much better than you received
Grandmother, you gave so well, much better than you received
Now bless our tears, our feast of life, from that far off distant height
And let us all pray together Grandma
That you rest in peace this night
Monday, December 29, 1997
Au Coeur de Paris
Au Coeur de Paris
Ma fenêtre donne sur une petite cour
Au coeur de Paris
A deux pas tourne le Moulin Rouge
Qui mélange et confond à juste titre
Touristes, voyeurs et pervers.
Comme la vitrine d'un grand magasin
Au coeur de Paris
Le monde s'étale devant ma fenêtre
Toutes les langues et tous les goûts à prix unique.
Toute l'humanité passera tâtonnant devant ma fenêtre
Le coeur grand ouvert sur Paris.
C'est un défilé d'amour et de dégoût
Le désir et la déception à chaque tournant de rue.
Ma fenêtre donne un regard
Au coeur de Paris
Et je n'y vois ai-je peur
Que mon propre reflet.
Saturday, April 12, 1997
When You've Lost That Something
When You've Lost That Something
(Bob Dylan Friends)
When you've lost that something
That ace in the hole
That snap-crackle pop in your breakfast bowl
That well worn lucky charm rattlin' round in your pocket
That extra jolt of juice that a rainy day won't stiffle
And that you thought you could pull from an ordinary socket
Or from the King James version bible
And when you've searched and sought
In every crease and closet
For that something that you had but later lent or lost it
Or maybe you never owned 'cause it wasn't to be bought
When that yellow brick road you were runnin
Is losing it technicolor glow
Like the patent of a tan after a long summer sunnin
And you've chased the end of the rainbow
To find it ain't got no pot
Or maybe the glitter you were chasin just ain't what you thought
When you've cooked up your last deal
Cause you lost that secret ingredient
The thing that makes Coke real
And that Pepsi wants to steal
That final powdery pinch
That culinary expedient
That special sauce and feel
That G-Love's music's got
That little extra something that turned your life from bland to hot
When you can't find that extra pound
To go overtime one last round
When your everyready isn't
And your meter's running low
And your stuck in pedestrian traffic
And the fast lane's moving slow
When your loafers have lost their penny
And your bounce has left you static
When your get-up and go is gone
And you know you're lost and done
If you don't find it fast
And do it all over again
for a quarter
And inflation's got you down
And you can't find it at the bottom of a beer
that you bought for the price of four
And you don't overhear it in that pub
Or in some pep-rally cheer
You can't sweat out in a club
Or read it in a book up on a shelf
No, you just can't find that thing
No matter where you look
When life has turned Picasso
And the Grand Master's lost it too
And all you see is stalemate
Cause you and the red-headed Swede are thru
And when that moveable feast that you're livin
Is come to an end and done
And the day is no longer driven
By joy and laughter and fun
Then I say the only place you can turn
Is to two guys named Jeff and J
And maybe I've got it all wrong
But it seems that this is true
That friends are the best and only way
To keep from turnin blue
Sunday, March 23, 1997
Frida
Frida
I find myself best in you Frida
And so I pledge my allegiance
to your patriotic beauty:
to your harvest hair falling
to your fair features white
And to your shy in the sky eyes
holding back but the weakest shade.
Frida, my beautiful baltic affirmation,
you fly the colors of my desire.
It began as a piece of cake
Too present perfect, like your icy accent
(I never thought I would have you too).
You were à la mode after dinner
A sweetness that lingered till morning
A pie I was willing to have in my face.
Smoking into my pores;
At work I sweat with your memory
Absently dropping cups and glasses
Losing myself in your bouquet.
We have a few laughs
Then you play Humpty Dumpty on my heart
In a country without queen.
I lay and wait for a young Saint Nick
Fat on Swedish meatballs
To go back north,
So I can put the pieces back together.
Now I sit doubled over in love
Committing romantic Hari Kari;
Like a peddler of cheap clichés
Trying to sell you my pain.
And all I can do is reach for you
Through these bars of broken verse
Trying vainly to span the distance
to overcome the balance of injustice
and Saint Nick’s perfect part.
Doing time in a café outside your flat
I hope to catch a glimpse of you on the way to the metro;
My whisky blind eyes read hope
Like sunlight waiting behind clouds.
In the morning I awake shivering in wait
For this frigid front to blow over.
I'm not sure who is more puzzled,
You or I
Whose heart breaks again every day
Yet still joins you every night.
I’ll believe for the both of us.
It's not the same old music,
It's Ave Maria.
And whatever the song
I'm ready to sing.
Wednesday, December 18, 1996
Tu es toujours là
Tu es toujours là
J'ai tant rêvé de toi
Que je ne veux plus me coucher.
Je n'en veux plus de ces réveils déçus,
Etreints par ton esprit fuyant et impénétrable.
Les jours s'en vont
Seuls dans le temps;
Tantôt à une lenteur grisâtre
Qui présagent la longue nuit à venir
Tantôt allègrement vite,
Mais jamais sans que je ne songe à toi.
Comme l'ombre d'un albatros,
Indolent compagnon de voyage
Ton souvenir me suit partout.
Je sens ta présence sous mes pas.
Je vois ton image dans les regards des passants.
Tu es toujours là,
Je te devine près de moi.
Mais je suis las de te chercher.
Je m'enfuis sûr de te retrouver
Dans la solitude intime de ma chambre
Et dans la poésie que tu hantes.
Friday, October 4, 1996
Three Card Monte
Three Card Monte
(a rookie error)
Of course you see
the pitches are tempting,
but you've been scouting,
Waiting, watching,
Eyeing the field.
Strong and sure
You step up to bat.
This is the Bigs,
Hardball the game.
Bets are on,
The action,
fast,
And the odds,
Never even.
There's your enemy,
The pitcher on high,
Home on his mound
With his supporting team.
You, wood in hand,
stand alone.
No hope of relief.
He watches the signs,
Takes you in.
Motions,
Then Stretches,
And languidly steps in.
The wind up, like Tai-Chi movement,
Native dance in crescendo,
A leopard in motion,
stills the air, mesmerizes.
The crowd leans with you.
Come on now boy,
Be ready. Stand firm.
We're counting on you.
Beware the curve ball.
Now don't get caught watching,
He'll slide one by?
Yes, be ready, stand tall,
For many a mighty Casey with ego in hand
Has stood where you are now,
Daring to play ball,
And with equal dismay
Has paid the price,
Learned to rue the day
Fell prey to the heist.
Monday, October 23, 1995
Kokovin
Kokovin
I sing the song of my Kokovin,
with kisses of mollasses and wine.
She wants to steal my lips,
my tongue. They're mine,
c'est à moi she says,
et pour l'instant she's right.
Perhaps I'll tell her later
she has only a temporary pass,
un droit passager to my mouth.
I need it to enjoy her syrup matted skin.
Her lips are poetry to my ears,
a french Koko-rico
in the morning of my doze.
There's a licorice innocence
to her candy games.
She takes me playfully,
tickling down ears and neck
Kouji-Kouji-cou
A spidery host slipping down its thread
to couch and blanket its new guest.
Her sugar coated chants
trap me in cotton candy webs,
chocolate feelers finger my future
and I awake too late
to regret her music
touched in Paris,
where love is not always confectionary in nature.
Thursday, August 17, 1995
Postmodern Poetry
Postmodern Poetry
I like to always have
a pack of gum on me;
I buy it in bulk.
You get the idea:
you offer a piece of gum,
its simple generosity.
I also like poetry.
It's like hanging out,
Playing with two dimensional Legos,
School without the teachers
Playing in the recesses of your mind.
Clipping nails isn't very poetic
But society dictates that we trim,
And clip,
And pluck away the uneeded.
Writers needn't worry, they say.
They're a sanitary bunch.
Certainly more than philosophers,
Who dirty their ideas in writing.
Post-modern writing doesn't need nails.
There's nothing to hold on to.
Perhaps we've got to get a grip.
Take a bottle of whisky for instance.
They make nice traveling companions
Always ready for a mixer.
Addiction is a trip
With all your cultural baggage lost at the airport.
Students and hippies travel light though,
Because they know how to find culture
And whisky
At a convenience store.
Is American culture an oxymoron
or a matter of convenience?
Linguistic entropy tends to disprove
Figurative imagery, poetic communication
Pliably and expressively alive.
I’m taking a few lexical liberties here.
The French find this nauseating.
It always ends the same
Repetition creates truism
Repetition creates truism.
La boucle est bouclée.
(The French love this.
Then again they invented post-modernism.)
After they teach you to play deconstruct
Is it any wonder we want to fuck nature
When we describe it as virgin?
This isn't pastiche or histoire
Simply vulgar and simulacre self-plagiarism.
If today's poem were to fall,
fall in a raped wood,
Would anyone give a shit?
Saturday, August 12, 1995
Ma Marion
Ma Marion
Enfin ma Marion.
Est-ce une hésitation
de langue, un balbutiement momentané?
Ou bien une initiative,
une tentative de te posséder tendrement ?
Ma Marion, qui n'embrasse pas
à la française. Doux résultat
de la Mar en elle.
Tranquil comme la Méditerranée
sous l'agréable Spanish soleil.
Ma Marion et ses eaux bleues profondes
agitent ma barque plus qu'aucun soufflé ou tempête ne le pourraient.
Je me laisse emporter.
Je m'y noie à volonté.
Ma Marion où ce jeu de mots peut-il aller ?
-J'ai peur que ce ne soit plus
moi qui mène le jeu.-
Ma Marion belle badineuse
me grille without batting an eye
et non sans un plaisir sadiste.
Ma propre marquise est-elle?
Toi qui d'habitude est si infranchissable
au rire, n'est-ce pas, ma Marion ?
Marion, will we still be laughing
long after we marry ?
N'est-elle pas reflexive cette question ?
Ma Marion, avouée maline
et cependant très innocente,
elle n'est en aucune mesure dépendante,
même sous l'ombre de Lolita
qu'elle m'a donné significativement
et pour vous confondre...
Je ne sais plus à qui je m'adresse
Je me perds de nouveau
chaque fois avec le même plaisir
en essayant de garder sur la langue
à la fois le son et le goût
de ma Marion
dans ton nom résonant,
assonant légèrement,
et tout comprenant
pour moi, ma,
oui, Ma, Marion.
Friday, May 12, 1995
Reading the waters of my life
Reading the waters of my own life, it would be very easy to get lost in the interweaving path of the river and its multitude of tributaries. Seen from afar, one might be tempted to get lost in the tragedies that befall the river. I have therefore decided to recount to you the events of just one small bend in the course of my river. And hoping that you have chosen to read these stories at a time of day when life allows itself to be taken as a joke, I’ve decided to write about a time when even the tragedies were life affirming.
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