Nada and Hakim — photo by Gary

Nada and Gary, photo by Hakim

Prepare to be delighted. Here is the story of a very special part of our Paris adventures, narrated by our new friend Hakim Allouche, an engineer and writer/critic (he’s possessed of a rare balance of brain hemispheres. A very funny machine translation in English follows the French version.

Le couple américain accueilli à Paris

Cette semaine-là, je recevais un couple américain à l‚hôtel à la réception. A leur arrivée, je leur remettais la clé de leur chambre. Les mains de la femme étaient remarquablement tatouées avec du henni. Elle avait des cheveux roux bien bouclés. Une chaîne en or sur laquelle une écriture en arabe illuminait fortement son cou. Son compagnon avec ses cheveux gris a l‚air d‚une personne calme et sereine. Le moins qu‚on puisse dire est qu‚ils vont vraiment bien ensemble. Je sentais leur âme harmonieusement fusionnée.
Tard dans la nuit, la femme redescend pour me demander de l‚eau fraîche et un médicament pour son mari qui a de la fièvre. Elle était joyeuse de trouver le remède disponible.
Je lui ai exprimé mon appréciation pour son henné très singulier.
– Le tatouage est très joli.
– Merci, je me suis fait tatouée au Maroc. Mon mari et moi, avons passé nos vacances dans ce magnifique pays.
– Moi, je suis d‚Algérie. Votre henné me fait penser aux femmes de chez moi aimant se faire tatouer à l‚approche des jours de fêtes et mariages.
– Je suis américaine. Je vis à New York.
– Je suis heureux de vous accueillir vous et votre mari. Je me permets de vous dire que vous dégagez, tous les deux ensemble, une forme de sensibilité que seuls les poètes sauront décrire.
– Quelle coïncidence ! Nous sommes tous les deux poètes.
– Quelle belle surprise ! J‚ai remarqué autour de votre cou une transcription proche de mot Dieu en arabe, est-ce que c‚est juste ?
– En fait c‚est mon prénom écrit en arabe. Je m‚appelle NADA qui a un sens en arabe. Savez-vous ce que c‚est ?
Après réflexion, je lui expliquais ce que je comprenais
– Votre prénom signifie l‚arrosée du matin.
– Oui ! C‚est absolument le bon sens.
– J‚avoue que votre prénom est admirable mais aussi humide et frais.
Elle éclata d‚un rire teinté de son accent américain
– Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Merci c‚est bien gentil de votre part.

Bien que l‚échange avec Nada la poète fut sympathique, j‚ai été soudainement pressé de la libérer. Effectivement, je pensais à son mari souffrant sous l‚emprise de la fièvre en haut dans sa chambre.
Le lendemain, j‚ai revu le couple. Nada m‚avait présenté son mari Gary. Ce dernier avait l‚air d‚aller nettement mieux. Après notre échange captivant, je leur demandais s‚ils pouvaient me montrer l‚une de leur publication. Dans la soirée même, la femme me montrait son recueil de poésie intitulé : « Folly ». C‚est édité entièrement en anglais. Elle me l‚offrait en guise de reconnaissance et de sympathie. J‚étais très flatté d‚accepter son livre. Elle me montrait sur la couverture, clairement coloré, son portrait en danseuse de cirque entourée par d‚autres personnages : clown, deux chiens qui dansent sur leurs deux pattes arrières, des musiciens avec des instruments ∑
J‚étais en joie. C‚est à ce moment-là que je réfléchis à leur offrir quelque chose pour leur montrer ma gratitude. Je me suis dis : « je devrais trouver quelques chose qui marquerait, par un beau souvenir, leur séjour à Paris ». J‚ai eu l‚idée de les inviter à ce bistrot typiquement parisien nommé Station. D‚une part, j‚apprécie ce lieu pour l‚excellent accueil et les délicieux plats cuisinés. D‚autre part, j‚aime bien partir, de temps à autre, en dehors des horaires de pointe pour prendre mon café tranquillement en savourant l‚originalité, le charme et le style d‚un troquet inspiré de la station de métro. On retrouve dans ce bistrot quelques accessoires anciens caractérisant le métro affectueusement exposés pour donner au final, un lieu de rencontre, de partage et de convivialité.

Dès mon réveil ce mercredi, je suis parti au travail. J‚avais un rendez-vous pour déjeuner avec un couple américain. Je les invitais pour leur montrer le fameux bistrot. J‚ai prévenu Khaled, mon ami de longue date, quinze ans déjà écoulés, depuis l‚université à Alger, de faire patienter le couple Nada et Gary pour m‚attendre car j‚étais dans le Métro. Quelle joie de le retrouver, selon notre planning, pour le remplacer en fin de journée. Nous passions des heures à raconter les aventures à la faculté. Le moins qu‚on puisse dire est qu‚il est vraiment, pour moi, un excellent ami. Dans le domaine professionnel, il est le maître des lieux.
A mon arrivée, je voyais toute l‚équipe de la journée à l‚accueil. Quelle grande surprise ! Le directeur de l‚hôtel, très sympathique, mon ami le réceptionniste et les femmes de chambre et la gouvernante ont été aux anges de me voir pendant la journée. Nous avons une relation identique à celle d‚une famille bienveillante et bien unie.
Le directeur d‚hôtel appréciait le fait que je vienne même la journée durant mon jour de récupération. Il disait avec ses yeux émerveillés à la gouvernante : « T‚as vu, il est venu exprès pour faire une excursion avec couple de la chambre trente trois »
La gouvernante était admirative du sens de service. J‚expliquais au directeur de l‚hôtel que, pour moi, c‚était une immense joie d‚accompagner ce couple pour leur faire découvrir un petit coin original. Il me regardait avec son sourire lumineux et attachant : « Quelle bonheur de voir quelqu‚un faire son métier avec passion et non pas en quête permanente d‚argent»
J‚approuvais son point de vue sage et lucide : « Effectivement, le tout est dans la beauté de la passion »

Tandis que je discutais avec le directeur de l‚hôtel, mon ami Khaled me passait une lettre, adressée à moi, de la part d‚une cliente, Véronique. Cette dernière, je ne l‚ai pas l‚occasion de lui dire au revoir quand elle partait, ce matin. Elle est venue en séjour de formation à Paris qui venait d‚achever.

Véronique me disait : « Mon séjour parisien se termine et ce n‚est pas pour me déplaire. Je vais retrouver l‚univers dans lequel je suis plus à l‚aise : ma famille, ma vielle maison en pierre et mon parc de mille mètre. J‚aime l‚authentique, le solide (cela permet peut être d‚avoir des fragilités autres∑)
En tout cas, Merci pour votre accueil et je vous souhaite beaucoup de courage pour la suite, en espérant que vos rêves deviennent réalité. C‚est très bien d‚arriver à dégager quelque chose de positif (Rencontre) de votre travail qui en lui ne correspond peut être pas à vos envies.
Bon courage, cordialement
Véronique. »

A l‚extérieur, la pluie arrosait délicatement les passants courant pour éviter le grand orage. Avec empressement, la gouvernante est descendue pour me proposer le parapluie. A sa grande déception ce dernier retrouvé dans la cave, la poignée était cassée. Avec un sens inné de bricoleuse, elle me disait : « N‚est ce pas l‚occasion de le réparer ; un petit bout de colle par-là et il redeviendra presque neuf »
J‚ai pris finalement un autre parapluie qui se trouvait à l‚accueil qu‚on mettait à la disposition des clients. Nada et Gary sont arrivées une dizaine de minutes après. Nada, s‚excusait de leur retard.

Nous sommes sortis de l‚hôtel, la pluie commençait à tomber avec plus d‚ardeur. Nous avions marché quelques mètres, pour rentrer, tout de suite, dans la bouche de métro. Je leur indiquais alors notre direction en prenant la ligne neuf en direction de Nation. A notre sortie, la rue de Trône pour aller à notre bistrot, la station, où j‚avais réservé trois places la veille.

Nous sommes finalement arrivés, mon amie Lila était-là, Nadia la serveuse et Rabia l‚assistant du chef cuisinière. Ils étaient bien contents de nous recevoir. Au menu bien varié, nous avions choisi Nada et moi des bricks au pomme de terre et au thon. Quant, à Gary, il choisi une salade à la mozzarella. C‚était vraiment délicieux. Nada et moi avions fait goûté la moitié de brick chacun à Gary, il a beaucoup apprécié de goûter nos plats. J‚ai toute suite pensé à ma mère et ma s˛ur qui aiment bien préparer ce genre de plats durant le mois de Ramadhan. Moi, j‚ai accompagné mon plat avec un vin blanc que la serveuse m‚a si bien conseillé. Nada, m‚expliquait qu‚elle ne prend jamais de vin car il l‚attriste et devient tout de suite fatiguée. Gary aussi ne voulait pas car la nuit dernière, il s‚est carrément soule en buvant avec une amie à eux qu‚ils n‚ont pas vus depuis longtemps. Ce plat, je ne l‚ai pas pris depuis six années. En famille, c‚était pendant la période de recueillement durant le mois sacré chez tout musulman. Cette fois-ci, ce plat, je le déguste avec une boisson interdite qui est considérée un pêché. C‚est un véritable contraste. Aujourd‚hui, Avec l‚âge, je me dis que le vrai péché est singulièrement de ne pas vivre pleinement sa passion.
J‚ai vu Nada et Gary entrain de contempler les belles ˛uvres exposées sur le mur de la fameuse faïence rectangulaire de couleur blanche. Le couple en découvrant la même faïence, il ont saisi le lien au petit exercice mémoire que je leur ai demandé de faire. En effet, avant notre sortie à l‚extérieur du métro j‚ai attiré leur attention sur celle-ci couvrant les mûrs des stations de métro.
– Gardez en mémoire cette faïence.
Nada m‚expliquait en faisant une comparaison au métro de sa ville de résidence
– Celle de métro de New York est très belle.
– Vous comprendrez la raison en arrivant au bistrot.

Dans leurs yeux, on lisait la grande satisfaction enfantée de l‚harmonie des liens et les interdépendances entre les deux lieux.
Je leur ai montré une poutre en bois très ancienne sur le côté de la cuisine. En restant à table le couple m‚a offert deux éditions de bande dessinée que Gary a publié. La première était singulière, il l‚avait crée quand ils étaient en nuit de noce au Japon. Ce sont des caricatures au dessus desquels on pouvait lire des expressions anglaises où il y avait des erreurs d‚orthographe, de grammaire,∑etc. Ils recueillaient toutes les expressions fausses exprimées en anglais pour en faire une bande dessinée. La deuxième édition représentait chaque coin, commerces, personnages, Rue,∑etc. de leur quartier où ils habitaient à la ville de New York en les illustrant avec des commentaires.
Nous avions pris tout notre temps à déguster le dessert fait maison. Notre échange au sujet de leur création artistique était passionnant.
Enfin, j‚accompagnais Nada et Gary à pied en passant par la station Bel air en leur montrant la particularité du quartier. Ils ont aimé la fontaine de la place Daumesnil où Gary a voulu me prendre en photo avec Nada. Ensuite, je leur ai proposé d‚en faire une autre pour eux. Avec les jets d‚eau qui sortaient des bouches des lions, le spectacle était émouvant. Je les ai laissé à la station Daumesnil pour continuer leur programme de l‚après midi. Ils étaient heureux de mon invitation. Ma rencontre avait une touche artistique où la poésie et la BD nourrissaient mon âme avec délice et ébahissement.

Hakim ALLOUCHE

********************************************************

machine translation:

The American couple accomodated in Paris

This week, I received an American couple with the hotel with the reception. To their arrival, I gave the key of their room to them. The hands of the woman were remarkably tattooed with neighed. She had russet-red hair good buckled. A gold chain on which a writing in Arab language strongly illuminated its neck. His/her companion with his gray hair has the air of a calm and serene person. The least which one can say that they go really well together. I smelled their heart harmoniously amalgamated. Late the night, the woman goes down again to ask me for fresh water and a drug for her husband who has fever. She was merry to find the remedy available. I expressed to him my appreciation for his neighed very singular. – tattooing is very pretty.
– Thank you, I was done tattooed in Morocco. My husband and me, planes our holidays in this splendid country.
– Me, I am of Algeria. Your neighed makes me think of the women at home liking to be done tattooed with the approach of the marriage and feastdays.
– I am American. I live in the town of New York.
– I am happy to accomodate you you and your husband. I allow myself to say to you that you release, both unit, a form of sensitivity that only the poets will be able to describe.
– What a coincidence! We are all the two poets.
– What a beautiful surprise! Is I noticed around your neck a transcription close to word God in Arab language, it right?
– does it of It is my first name written in Arabic. I am called NADA which has an Arabic direction. Do you know what it is?
After meticulous reflexion, I explained my comprehension to him. – Your first name means the water drops which one finds with the dawn by ground and on the plants. – Yes! It is absolutely the good direction.
– I acknowledge that your first name is admirable but also wet and well expenses. It east was burst by its tinted laughter of its American accent
– ha! Ha! Ha! Thank you it is quite nice of your share.
Although the exchange with Nada the poet was sympathetic nerve, I was suddenly in a hurry quickly to release it. Indeed, I thought of her suffering husband under the influence of the fever in top in his room.
The following day, I re-examined the couple. Nada had introduced her Gary husband to me. This last seemed to definitely better be. After our captivating exchange, I asked to them whether they could show me one of their publication. In the evening even, the woman showed me her collection of poetry entitled: “Folly”. It is published entirely in English. She offered it to me as a recognition and of sympathy. I was very flattered to accept his book. She showed me on the cover of her book, clearly coloured, her portrait as a dancer of circus surrounded by other characters: clown, two dogs which dance with two back legs, of the musicians with instruments…
I was in joy. It is at this time that I reflected to offer some things to them to show them my gratitude. I am say: “I should find some thing which would mark, by a beautiful memory, their stay in Paris”. I had the idea to invite them to this typically Parisian bar called Station. On the one hand, I appreciate this place for the excellent reception and delicious cooked dishes. Other share, I like to leave, of time to others, apart from the schedules of point to take my coffee quietly by enjoying the originality, the charm and the style of a purlin support inspired of the subway station. One finds in this bar some accessories old characterizing the subway are affectionately exposed to give to the final one: a place of meeting, division and user-friendliness.

As of my alarm clock for this day of Wednesday, I left to work. I had an appointment to lunch with an American couple. I invited them to show them the famous bar. I prevented Khaled, my friend of long date, fifteen years already passed, from the university in Algiers, to make have patience the couple Nada and Gary to await me because I was in the Subway. Which joy of finding it, according to our planning, to replace it at the end of the day. We passed the hours to tell the adventures with faculty. The least which one can say that it is really, for me, an excellent friend. In the professional field, he is the Master of the places.
With my arrival, I saw all the team of the day to the reception. What a great surprise! The director of the hotel, very sympathetic nerve, my friend the receptionist and the chambermaids and controlling it were with the angels to see me during the day. We have a relation identical to that of a benevolent and quite plain family. The director of hotel appreciated the fact that I come even the day during my day from recovery. He said with his eyes filled with wonder to controlling: “saw You, it came particularly to make an excursion with the couple of the room thirty three” controlling It was admiring direction of service. I explained to the director of the hotel that, for me, it was an immense joy of accompanying this couple to make them discover a small original corner. It looked me with its smile luminous and attaching: “Which happiness to see somebody making his trade with passion and not in permanent money search” I approved his wise and lucid point of view: “Indeed, the whole is in the beauty of passion” While I discussed with the director the hotel, my friend Khaled passed to a letter, addressed to me, on behalf of a customer, Veronique to me. The latter, I do not have it the occasion of him to say goodbye when it left, this morning. She came in stay from formation to Paris which had just completed.

Veronique said to me: “My Parisian stay finishes and it is not to displease to me. I will find the universe in which I am more at ease: my family, my hurdy-gurdy stone-built house and my park of thousand meter. I like authenticate it, the solid (that allows can be to have different brittlenesses…) In any case, Thank you for your reception and I wish you much courage for the continuation, by hoping that your dreams become reality. It is very well to manage to release something of positive (Meeting) of your work which in him does not correspond can be not with your desires. Good courage, cordially Veronique ” At outside, the rain sprinkled the passers by delicately running to avoid the great storm. With perspicacity, controlling it is gone down to propose the umbrella to me. With its great disappointment this last found in the cellar, the wrist was broken. With an innate direction of bricoleuse, she said to me: “the occasion is not this step to repair it; a small end of adhesive by-there and it will become again almost nine “
I finally took another umbrella which was with the reception that one placed at the disposal of the customers. Nada and Gary arrived at ten minutes of delay. Nada, was excused of their delay.

We left the hotel, the rain started to fall with more heat. We had walked a few meters, to return, immediately, in the mouth of subway. I indicated our direction then to them by taking the line nine in direction of Nation. At our exit, the street of Throne to go to our bar, the station, where I had reserved three places one day front. We finally arrived, my Lila friend was -there, Nadia the waitress and Rabia the assistant of the cooker chief. They were quite glad to receive us. With the small varied good, we had chosen Nada and me station-wagons with potato and the tone. As, in Gary, it selected a salad with the mozzarella. They was really delicious. Nada and me had made tasted half of station-wagon each one in Gary, it appreciated much to taste our dishes. I have any continuation thought of my mother and my sister who like to prepare this kind of dishes during the month of Ramadhan. For me, I accompanied my dish with a white wine that the waitress advised me so well. Nada, explained me why it never takes wine because it saddens it and becomes immediately tired. Gary also did not want because last night, it is straightforwardly soule while drinking with a friend with them which they did not see for a long time. This dish, I have not taken it for six years. In family, it was for the period of meditation during the month crowned at any Moslem. This time, this dish, I taste it with a prohibited drink which is considered one fished. It is a true contrast. Today, With the age, I think that the true sin is singularly not to fully live its passion. I saw Nada and Gary spirit to contemplate the beautiful works exposed on the wall of the famous rectangular earthenware of white color. The couple by discovering same earthenware, it seized the bond with the small exercise report that I asked them to make. Indeed, before our exit outside the subway I drew their attention to this one covering ripe subway stations.

– Keep in memory this earthenware.
Nada explained to me by making a comparison with the subway of its town of residence
– That of subway of New York is very beautiful.
– You will include/understand the reason while arriving at the bar.

In their eyes, one read the great given birth to satisfaction of the harmony of the bonds and the interdependences between the two places. I showed them a beam drink some very old on the side of the kitchen. While remaining with table the couple offered two editions of comic strip to me that Gary published. The first was singular, it had creates it when they were in wedding night in Japan. They are caricatures with the top of which one could read English expressions where there were misspellings, of grammaire… etc. They collected all the false expressions expressed in English to make a comic strip of it. The second edition represented each corner, trade, characters, Rue… etc. of their district where they lived at the town of New York by illustrating them with comments. We had taken all our time to taste the dessert makes house. Our exchange about their artistic creation was enthralling. Lastly, I accompanied Nada and Gary with foot while passing by the station by beautiful air in their showing the characteristic of the district. They liked the fountain of Daumesnil place where Gary wanted to take to me in photograph with Nada. Then, I proposed to them to do another for them of them. With the arched water jets which left the mouths of the lions, the spectacle was moving. I left them at the Daumesnil station to continue their program of after midday. They were happy of my invitation. My meeting had an artistic key where poetry and the data base nourished my heart with delight and amazement.

Writing (I confess) is a kind of non-consumptive shopping activity. Hence the thing about nouns – lists of them with their bodacious adjectives. Ai. This is perhaps something we would prefer not to admit. How (really) is the process of pursuing thought in writing different (substantially) from the process of pursuing consumer goods?

Do I need to expand on this?

"A Triumphant Display of Detachment Toward the Inevitability of Damage

Here’s Gabe Gudding in “The Dangerfield Conundrum : A Roundtable on Humor in Poetry” led by Rachel Loden and K. Silem Mohammad — now in Jacket 33:

I mean, a clown is someone who purposefully and theatrically makes a show of debasing herself by showcasing that innate damage: a clown takes on and “owns” her own flaws and wounds — and flaunts them so triumphantly that we, the audience feel on the one hand, superior to the clown and on the other we vicariously appreciate the courage of that clown for being so triumphant and skillful in the face of said flaws (big nose, funny moustache, whathaveyou — yet funny, awkwardly brave, and finally buoyant). In the case of a verbal clown [humorous poet], that “flaw,” that damage, comes in the form of buoyant nonsense, anarchic satire, tawdry rhyming, or incessant non-sequitur:

82

In other words, maybe humor is a triumphant display of detachment toward the inevitability of damage.

Nada and Gary’s adventures in Marrakech, continued…

After the museum, we made our way to a little market square at the edge of the souks that lead to Jemaa-el- Fna. I’m not sure of the actual name of the square, but because it was the location of the touristy Café des Epices, Fred had referred to it as Place des Epices. Inside, we met a woman who had been living in Morocco for a few months. With her was a tiny kitten she had adopted and named Princess. Princess ran about the second floor of the café with a long white cloth tied to her collar; it was as if a Hallowe’en ghost had got loose there (albeit a ghost with a very cute squeaky voice). The woman was a painter cum carpet trader who lived, of all places, in Brooklyn. Here’s me looking very hot (as in temperature) in the Café des Epices, after having eaten most of a bland tuna sandwich:

And here’s the market scene I was looking at from the window:

We stopped in at one of the spice shops, where I bought argan oil (from a rare tree that grows only in a specific part of Morocco – it’s supposed to have healing properties), two different spice mixes, “berber whiskey” (a tea mix), and a little square of amber perfume. The seller threw in a ceramic pumice object for good measure. Here’s a photo of the shop, which sold pigments as well as spices:

I LOVED haggling, and I got rather good at negotiating in French, despite all those troublesome “quatre-vingts.” Buying something was an arduous, theatrical process, laden with struggle and gesture and undertone and manipulation; I likened it to a game of seduction. The sellers lure you in, you look carefully, perhaps inquire about a price, and then the fun starts – it can take fifteen minutes to agree on the price of, for example, a small carved wooden cat. Towards the end the pace of the negotiation quickens, until, breathless, you agree together on a (more or less) fair price – and both parties are filled with relief. What can one buy in Marrakech? Oh… so much! I only bought a very small percentage of what I would have liked to; unfortunately, Gary was not so enamored as I was of the bargaining drama. In fact, it drove him nuts to wait around while I was shopping, and I couldn’t really go out alone (more on this anon), so I ended up with rather lighter bags than I’d expected. But here are some examples of the goods one might buy if one had the time, the money, and the patient-enough travel partner:

etcetera, etcetera

(OK, I have to go to sleep now… the images for this next part will have to come later…)
We then went to Les Jardins Majorelles, in the new city, and looked at lots of pretty cactuses, vases, and tourists:

(We decided they were from San Francisco in Marrakech to research tribal dance)

We had a luxurious dinner (see chandelier below, imagine opera playing in the background) at our riad of chicken tagine with Kermit the kitten, whom I for some reason decided should be called Chester. He was rather difficult to photograph.

More to come! Really!

Does anyone feel like coming to see this with me?

Sunday, July 15, 4pm

Celebrate Brooklyn & Workmen’s Circle present

Frank London’s Yiddish Carnival

For this concert of old- and new-school Jewish music, the luminary Frank London-who has played with everyone from John Zorn to They Might Be Giants and LL Cool J-will be joined by New York City’s hottest and most diverse group of Yiddish musicians for a radical festival in the park. Performers include the Grammy award winning klezmer band, The Klezmatics; television and theater star Fyvush Finkel; a rare performance by legendary Yiddish rocker Wolf Krakowski; Cuban Jewish percussionist Roberto Rodriguez; Rolling Stone’s #1 non-English group of 2006, Frank London’s Klezmer Brass Allstars featuring Brazilian percussionists Maracatú New York; Yiddish divas Joanne Borts and Adrienne Cooper; and the Festival Latin Jewish Carnival Orchestra & Social Justice Sing.

Hot Town

The sea lion said to the faun,
“You want to stay away
from 42nd around Times Square.
All that ironic archival footage —
cheap booze — maudlin case studies of
ordinary Americans — amounts to
a mutant hybrid of clogs
and jellies, smacked up
with a giant ugly stick.”

“I’m not the most political
guy in this Absolut world,”
replied the faun, “I like facials,
waxing, manis and pedis,
mineral make-up, lash and
brow tinting, and vegan skin
products. I like the burly
bouncers checking IDs out
front, the recent suburban
excapees – and I’m interested
in Clinton or Obama right now.”

So the alleycats sing hallelujah
and become multiheaded animals
that seem funnier when you’re stoned.
Dark Empire. Meltdown.
Ethereality. Test your mental mettle:
Try a sour cherry, a sunflower
shoot, a sugar snap pea, or
a couple leaves of baby
arugula. Use some nautical
jargon – joist, fo’c’scle,
avast, poop deck – without
the all the motion sickness
and scurvy that tend to
accompany actual nautical
travel. You are filled with
the glorious aroma of
capitalism’s clutter: doll’s
heads, antique chemical bottles,
taxidermy, vintage dresses,
and human spines waving
among the thick seaweed
of the Bermuda triangle.

To say there’s a lot going
on in New York would be
an understatement. There’s
fuel consumption, deforestation,
free chips and salsa all night
long, mixing and scratching,
dark tentacles, acid-tongued
barflies, spaghetti, eraser
shavings, toothpaste, evil-
kid clichés — and a Victorian
ghost story pastiche of pot, porn,
punk rock, pro-wrestling, talking apes,
and (what else) pubic hair – done
up as a whitebox performance space
with lights, sound system, and
somnambulism.

Burlesque is hosted by Miss
Delirium: “I have long been
the whore of the nobility,
now I want to be the rabble’s
whore. Twig the Wonderkid
and the Astronettes spin
fist-pumping rock’n’roll, and
in a large skillet, I tablespoon
butter melts into a tablespoon
of olive oil at low heat. The wise
owl brews magical beer; turkey
sandwiches fail to put an end
to human suffering. Astroland’s
impending shutdown is the
perfect time to take trapeze
classes or have otherworldly
experiences with curving,
winding monstrosities like
the girl who used to doodle
unicorns and recently got
into vampires. She flips
and cooks for an additional
couple of minutes, continually
basting, unsettling you more
than dead pets or cold eyes.

There are many reasons
to leave the city in the
summertime: the heat, the stink,
the onslaught of tourists, the doll
filled with heroin, the bullet-headed
gangsters, the animated penguins,
the demonic hair extensions and kamikaze pilots,
the white roses, the avenging consciences,
etcetera.

Indeed, the market is a place for
curious eaters to educate their palates,
and the more you sample, the better
able you are to concoct a meal.
Wouldn’t you rather put up
with the TV you have and send
ten kids to school for 12 years?
Season liberally with salt and
pepper to taste imploring
language, compelling the audience
to accept its strange surroundings
and situations, bang and neck trims,
maxed-out credit cards and shuffle
and squelch of the sea.

The costumes are exaggeratedly
modern. An everyman, wandering
in the dunes of a seemingly
mythical land searching for
insect samples to collect
is soon himself trapped at the
bottom of a sand pit, captive
to an oddly quiescent woman.
The N Train slices through
the sea-air dusk. The coral lights
of the Wonder Wheel shimmer –
maybe for the last time.
Omitting the casualties, however,
doesn’t erase the endless
banality of poorly-paced
action and definitely-not-
clever one-liners. You have
so many different roads meeting
there, going in and out, underneath
the bridge, and people trying
to turn, cutting you off. They
don’t have bendy sex. A late
twist or is it? You have
to think about it in relationship
to the whole pelvis. Think
of the whole pelvis in space.
They are usually strong but,
like, tight. Late period zen
neo-noirs, familiar temporal
dissonance – it’s likeable but
somewhat doofy – inspiring
in a whole mess of ways,
a metaphor for the world’s
carnivorousness.

There’s this crazy vocoder-sounding
effect, a fuzzy amped bass, and
a posse of boys salivating over
the watermelon while a circle
of girls booty-dance, periodically
shrieking, “take off your dress!”
at each other. Wild tigers I have
known speak about state power
and the individual to an elfin-eared
downtown ingénue at the Laff Lounge
with a soy patty in tow. Where does
the rectus abdominus insert? We still
soak our pinto beans for a fresh,
rigorous and creative experience.
Masturbation does not “desensitize”
the penis. Little piles of ash,
one after the other, in the middle
of the empty street. Give edge to
beauty – bump into a tulip.
Some songs deal in slower tempos;
others explore glitzy hotels
in the littoral zone.

As I write this, it’s about
95 degrees outside, and the
humidity has climbed to
somewhere right around 200%.
The perfectly steamed stink of
a great black dune of
garbage bags — you’re not the
only dude in the world furiously
beating off. Assembled half-truths
still constitute an irrefutable
larger one: the animation
is breathtaking and the
quirky characters – head-slapping,
small but posh — are adorable.

The smoking ban basically
changed my life. Now
everything’s more reflective
than most horrors — semi-
membraneous with tidal synth
build-ups and viscous vocals.

All mood lighting and
shiny, the slanted spiral surplus is
everywhere – standing still or
ambulating – glittery with glam
and real natural wonders that
lift their petticoats and
expose their backsides
to the hecklers —
ending (still thirsty)
in forced guffaws, creating
a massive collision of …
oh nevermind.

Glad to have missed this (from Accuweather.com):

Searing North Africa Heat
6/20/2007 3:00 PM

Temperatures soared again Wednesday as the heat waxed to a blazing pitch over Algeria, Tunisia and Libya. Readings topped 115 degrees in all three countries. In Libya, the capital city, Tripoli, was a hot spot with 117 degrees, or nearly 25 degrees above normal for the end of spring.

Sorry not to have picked up the travel story again — so jet-lagged still… but STAY TUNED.

Marrakech

I feel weird – jet-lagged, trying to make myself stay up until normal bedtime. This sultry afternoon I went to get first a cup of tea at the Bengali bakery – to keep me up – and then a pedicure – Jenny, expert salon employee pumiced away at the callus that had developed on my right big toe tromping through the souks and the marchés, through madrasas and palaces, museums and metros. The world, this trip reminded me, is bursting with various and chaotic splendor.

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We took a red-eye that stopped over for four hours at Heathrow, where we ate some odd food (Gary’s sausages, he swears, were “bangers”) and wallowed briefly in the accents, which we could not help imitating. Long lines at Heathrow and curt signs posted saying not to bother the airline staff or you would be sent home. One bag only permitted. Liquids in Ziploc bags. It’s always been a hassle to travel, now more so than ever. Frayed tempers. My hair a giant dried-up frizz, sharpness in nose – I wanted to cry. That feeling of yanking oneself over an ocean. But I did feel that it was an omen to see this:

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We arrived in Marrakech on time, at just after 7 in the evening and just in time for a sunset. Tiles in the airport – air hot and dry. Met by an extremely tall Moroccan man who drove us to the riad. My French had to kick in instantly. Driving up to the city, he explained that we were nearing Koutoubia, the great mosque that sits just across from the Place Jemaa el Fna.

The rosy color of the walls. Veils. Whizzing motorbikes: vweeeeeeee, vweeeeeeee. Heavy smell of diesel. Then inside the medina – whoa, crazy driving – into labyrinthine streets. Much street activity – shoppers, storekeepers, donkey carts, teenagers out in the cooler evening air — and we were dropped off at a little place we later learned was the Place Moukeff – car too big to go all the way to Riad Safa, where we had booked a room. So our luggage went on a kind of wheelbarrow into a tiny twisty little street where Gary tripped on a rock in a dark stretch of alley. Kids running there, screaming, trying to grab our ankles. A doorway: our riad.

We were greeted by Jean Michel and Frederic, the kind proprietors of the riad. Jean Michel, sportive and brisk, explained this little hand-drawn map of the medina to us. Fred reminded me of Ray Bolger, lanky and with a wide grin.

Riad Safa was so beautiful – with its open courtyard’s magnanimous orange tree, its perfect décor down to the tassels on the curtains, the tastefully placed antique travel ephemera, the woven cushions, or this lamp outside our room:

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Dinner of sandwiches on the terrace, prepared by one of the two cooks at Riad Safa – I didn’t catch the names of these two angels, but their sweetness was so palpable I could only think, whenever I saw them, “orange blossoms!” — then showers, and then to bed under nearly unnecessary mosquito netting (I saw only one mosquito in Marrakech the whole time we were there) (but it did look nice and reminded me of home) that first night for two very weary travelers.

————

(written mostly Monday morning)

How to describe that feeling, going to a place for the first time, that it is ever so much more like its representations than you had expected? Stepping out of the riad into the hot light and the rosy, dusty pathway – a woman passes in full djellaba and veiled face – like a pastel kuroko – can this world still exist? Did the Medina evolve out of sheep paths? Or what else explains its twistiness? The walls – both the outer wall and the walls that set off the houses – the fondouks – from the street – are like fortifications, it’s true – but the colors are so sensuously soft and the details so exquisite – iron knockers on doors the shape of hands, curled iron grillework, arched passageways in nested layers – that it feels more like a collection of secret places than a place of defense.

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Gary proved – unexpectedly – to be a brilliant navigator, clutching the little map Jean Michel had given us and finding the first fountain, then the second, that were the landmarks on the way out of the little piece of the maze where Riad Safa nestles. We were tentative on that first day – our first stop was the Medersa Ben Youseff, which is no longer active as a madrasa, but was filled with huge tour groups exposing both impractically and insensitively a great deal of skin. The amazing madrasa:

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I kept entirely covered while I was there – though not always my head – and must say that I found the uncovered skin and body-conscious outfits I saw on tourists and “loose” Moroccan women much less attractive than the variety of djellabas – in sherbet hues, embroidered in arabesques – I loved especially the pink ones – so elegant and groovy on whizzing motorbikes. Moroccan women are breathtakingly beautiful – perfect oval faces and hair twisted up and clipped at the back, when not covered by a djellaba hood or pretty headscarf:

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I didn’t make it to a hammam and that makes me very sad, as that is supposed to be the best way to get to know Moroccan women; I didn’t even buy any of the famous savon noir they use for gommage polissante. Sad! But I was only there for four days, and they were hectic, and hot, and full days – and I must admit to being culture-shocked. Strange! I’ve been to Hat Yai and Penang, SuZhou and Prague, Virginia and Merida, Hastings and Ubud – but Morocco was different. Not just because it was a Muslim country (for so, after all, is Malaysia, and so is, for that matter, much of my neighborhood!), but because it is (arguably) Arab.

Did I mention that outside the Medersa was an herboriste outside of which hung enormous loofahs and some REAL leopard pelts? I don’t have a picture to prove it, but there they were. I surely was in Africa. The Medersa was a study in intricacies. If you are, as I am, a tile fetishist, you MUST go there.

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The lobby of the Marrakech museum held the hugest and most impressive brass chandelier one could possibly imagine. Recesses that once served as fountains held audio speakers that played luscious and hypnotic oud music which I would happily have bought had it not cost even more than it would here in New York.

Exhibits of Berber jewelry and embroidery sent me into utter ecstasy.

Even the bathroom was gorgeous:

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I transformed myself for a moment into a pasha, a brazen orientalizing fool. OK, for more than a moment. What can I say?

To be continued!