An aphorism on friendship

Written by the Louvre.

 

In this world, you will meet people who will try to shape you to how they want you to be and they will see what they want to see.

—You shouldn’t care for them.

Those who see you for who you really are could either be your best friends or your worst enemies, and sometimes both at the same time!

—Trust them like snakes.

Advertisements

100 years ago

While some sardonic pianist plays on in the corner, uninvited, I did not see the star.

Did you clench the throbbing atom,

The clod of dirt that once was our world?

Classical times enter from a hundred years ago, like an inflamed goose-step.

‘But they weren’t doing the goose-step them.’

‘Were they not?’

 

Cars drive past and you realise that cities have walls too.

Brutal sounds of slick mechanics,

And now biology, body, blood.

Some have given their body to free us all;

We have given our own — but for what?

‘It isn’t the time for foresight.’

 

Is it not?

 

Some aphorisms on a winter night

  • Man is the most creative of liars.
  • Be weary of people who say their formative years are behind them.
  • Being nice is something stupid people do to hedge their bets.
  • Authority without experience is fraud.
  • We are what we say we are not.
  • Achieve unconscious competence or don’t bother.
  • Si j’avais l’occasion, je ne te ferais jamais aucun mal.

Surf and sound

Je vois les nacres nuant sur la nuit et,

Le nectar nébuleux d’un temps rêvé,

Qui nourrit le néant au fond de mes pensées.

La mer maudite mélange

Les longs mugissements de mon âme

Avec les martèlements maléfiques.

Le frappement de la marée

Encage mon esprit,

Envoûte mon cœur,

Enlace mes souvenirs teintés.

A Hot Summer Night

The summer heat was weighing in on the apartment, as the sun beat down all day and warmed the interior. Anthony came running up the stairs, hardly breaking a sweat, taking the steps two at a time. He didn’t stop to look at the numbers as he wound his way to the fifth floor.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, banging his fist against the cold wood of the door. He rang the bell, tried the lock and searched for his phone in his pocket. Not one neighbour came to see what the fuss was about. He sent a quickly drafted message: ‘parle-moi en, je t’en prie’. No response. “Please,” he took to the door, “I didn’t mean to do it. It didn’t mean anything.”

Inside the apartment, Janet was carefully opening a bottle of wine. She could feel Anthony’s voice in the apartment, she could see his message on her phone, she knew they had to talk. She drank some wine, sat down and thought about men and their innocent cruelty.

‘Si je dois partir, je comprends. Je suis désolé, mais au moins parlons-en,’ he sent another text. He heard the phone ring inside, a silence and then footsteps calmly coming towards the door. Anthony stood back, ran a hand through his hair and readied himself. The latch came off and a small streak of light spilled onto the landing floor. She didn’t care to open the door fully; he could let himself in.

***

He left the apartment, his head feeling fuzzy, confused—relieved. He almost stumbled on the last few steps, but managed to grab onto the handrail. He walked down to the bar just around the corner, where he and Janet had smiled so often over the past year and a half. He sank a beer, and then another one. Then remembered he had some friends going out that night.

Forty-five minutes later he’s necking shots at a bar just by Pigalle. The wallet is out—fuck it, he says, it’s a Friday night. You know the feeling he’s going through. The moment you just want to forget that you are actually alive in a body; you want to become that cloud in trousers again, not just another sack of meat caught in the trap that Father Time left out in woods.

Was that man looking at him a bit funny? He’ll have to see to that, as he drained his glass before setting himself to confront a rival. ‘Tu regardes quoi, mec?’ ’T’es bourré, mec’. ‘J’suis pas bourré, mec.’ ‘Nique ta mère,’ came the blow. In an instant, Anthony launched a fist in his interlocutor’s direction, who ducked it and swung one in his ribs, standing back to see what his opponent would do next. Anthony was not satisfied. Trusting in the backing from his friends – who had already left for the next bar – he threw himself at the stranger. They wrestled around the tables for a moment, before the bouncer came over and separated them, threatening to call the police.

382 de La Rochefoucaud

Anthony wakes up early on a Saturday morning,
Hears the calling of the birds.
But senses the fall waiting for him
at the other end of his coffee cup.

Getting to work and taking the metro.
Faking enthusiasm for the route ahead
He leans over crowded seats,
Breaking his promise not to make eye contact.

His pace is hesitating
As he sits himself down.

Walking into a bar to date a woman.
He’s had to come far,
And perhaps this is fate.
Forget about the songs of love and hate,
And celebrate the union of
this very Universality.

 

 

 

Metro Lines #1

The metro leaves the terminus at midnight, crossing another as it begins its wild journey into the night.

The bright lights, ceramic blue and white, snatch against the tunes darkness of the wild night.

All around are little homes and warm dreams of orange flow and frankincense and heavy wine. Here my soul pervades the carriage and the rubber seals relax a little their guard.

But, snap, bang.

The stopping of the train. And a few moments of peace.

The flashing lights to determine the stop and away we go with the swinging rhythm of a freshly rolling metro train.

Spotlights on concrete walls, like traitors being shot in the night. Here we go again, one says to the next.

Rattle, rattle, rattle, slow down, break.

Announce the end and take a box. This is the last note.

The ads look into the sour space, questioning our presence.

Modern day gods of a millennial generation. You have to keep going until the end, my friend.

Look at the homeless, eating the scraps of yesterday’s chicken dinner, asking for pennies they know they won’t get.

Or at least some of them won’t. Others are crafty, a big pocket of heavy coin, begging poverting, making a way to live. Like we all are.

Stop. I consider the alarm sounds; the machine turns once more. I look ahead at the overhead lights, illuminating title heads that migght one day have been decapitated.

We live in a violent era. And I say welcome.

Montparnasse Bienvenuë.

Line 4, 28th February 1935

October meets its end

Friday 26th October, 2018

Beginnings

I first met Cinna at Le Voltigeur, which means a type of soldier that is very mobile. There is a tree in the middle of a makeshift square and four or five watering holes surround it. Paths lead up from Père Lachaise; Place des Fêtes is just up a cobbled street and stairs where I once met Aphrodite; and the writing office used to be down off one of the roads. Of course, at that time, I knew nothing of this. And even now this area stands out only vaguely in my mind, because I have not lived here.

At this moment, I’m meeting someone else and the bar is closed; the awning is covered with moss and the beat up reality of the place appears an evidence. I remember being astounded that someone could dare drink two coffees in one sitting – I had been in a job where we regularly drank up to ten. An understanding over coffee and spider charts; and what things we have accomplished since!

Marva Collins

Marva’s Way has the same beginning as On The Road and so far a portion of it has been dedicated to growing up in black communities in Alabama and Chicago in the 50’s and 60’s. While Cassady was enjoying his privilege by obliterating his mind, this woman was trying to get on in society.

The shocking results that the American education system was in decline from the second half of the 20th century are discussed and solutions are sought. I wonder if there is a link between the two – the counter culture of reckless selfishness soaked into the mainstream in the 60’s; and it’s pernicious effects would not be truly felt ’til the 1980s.

And I wonder what the state of the nation’s education is nowadays.

The Party’s Over

Never insult Paris in the presence of a burly Parisian.

Saturday 27th October, 2018

Strolling

Walking from Passy to Châtelet via the Tuileries follows the Seine. Adèle made a music video there; in the 1920’s people seemed to have an equestrian statue fetish; Asian photographers are selling clothes and/or bridal services; Europeans are photoshopping girls. I stop in the Gardens to write a few lines, a grey cloud over the Louvre and the heavy presence of Culture hovering like lead.

 

The Yorkshire Cat

The room of the intimate pub was crowded with both locals and tourists enjoying a pint of beer on a Friday night. The exterior of the stone walls of the small town and the lack of lamplight in the streets contrasted with the gaudy red and blue of the pub’s interior and the bright lipstick of some of the older patrons.

“I’ve never really been a cat person. I was much more into dogs; they’ve got more soul and loyalty than a cat. I’ve never been into cats.

“But about a year ago, this cat started coming up to our flat, looking scared and hungry. It would scratch at the door, wait for us to open it and then sit there, almost looking sorry that it had disturbed us. We started giving it some food and milk and whatever it is that you are supposed to give to cats and it carried on coming round to see us.”

Some living spaces are different to others; in big cities, there are huge tower blocks which nowadays risk going up in smoke. Others are like small hotels, with carpeted landings and room numbers. In the country, where much bigger houses were built, it is often possible to divide this house up into three or four small flats. With their natural stone walls, they can be rather elegant, though one’s business is usually much more exposed.

“There was this guy living below us and we believe he had a few issues. You know, heroine and all this lot. Actually, on occasions I would sign for packages that came from the Dark Web and I’m pretty sure they were for crystals or rocks. Once, he came out of his room as I was collecting the post, snatched a package from my hand and ripped out a bottle of cough medicine and necked it right in front of me, before thanking me for getting the post and excusing himself back to his apartment.

“The cat kept on coming up to the apartment and me and my partner were feeding it more and more regularly. So, one day, I decided to speak to the guy about it and see what was what. I mean, the cat was clearly unhappy where it was, it was thinning and its pelt was mangy at times. I went downstairs, knocked on the door and went in. He was in the middle of sharpening one of his knives, but stopped as I entered the room. ‘Hey man, how you doing? Want a cup of tea?’ I didn’t and went right to the point.

“‘I didn’t even want a cat in the first place; I can barely look after myself, let alone another of God’s creatures. My dad used to keep a load of cats on his farm, but then he died about two years ago suddenly – heart attack while riding his quad bike. After the funeral, a few of us went to the farm to sort things out and there was bunch of cats that used to kill the mice in the barns to stop them getting at the chickens and scaring the cattle. There were five of them and five of us had come to look at the place. Someone said, ‘we should all keep one’. I said it was a stupid idea and the others looked at me and asked what should we do with it otherwise? I said, we’ll drown it in the well in the courtyard.

“‘They wanted to keep the cats, so picked them up and left. I stayed with this one and proceeded to the well. But then it looked up at me with them big eyes and stared at me, obviously frightened and suspicious of where we were going. Part of me wondered whether this was my dad’s favourite. Against my better wishes, I buckled and kept the cat. But as I said before, I’m not capable of looking after myself, let alone another of God’s creatures.’

“Well, me and my partner had been talking about it and we said that a cat could be good for us. So, there and then I offered to take it from him, not condescendingly, but as a way of helping him and the animal out. He accepted graciously and said he could contribute a bit to food.  I said it was alright and took the animal in. This was about six months ago.”

Tables in busy pubs can be prize possessions and the bar area was now spilling over into the drawing room. The talk of the week was buzzing, more and more pints were being poured and the walls seemed to shiver gently with pride at containing so many conversations at once.

“A few months after taking in the cat, and it’s doing fine. One day, though, we get a knock on the door – it’s him and he’s holding two 12-inch hunting knives. Christ, I think, but the guy says ‘I’m going away today for sometime and I wanted to give you a present’. I remembered that he had quite the collection of knives, so I calmed down a little and let him in. There we were, me and my girlfriend, having a cup of tea with a man who’s given me a hunting knife and is carefully inspecting his own. We tried our best at polite conversation, but it was all a bit much, if you know what I mean.

“‘I’m being taken away today to a place where they’ll stop my addictions. I don’t think it will work, but I suppose if you’ve got the opportunity, you may as well give it a try.’ And with that, he stood up and walked out the door, not without stopping to say goodbye to the cat he almost drowned and saved.

“Honestly, that guy was such a gentleman and so switched on. Bloody drugs, but I suppose if you’re like him and gone through what he’s gone through, shooting up, smoking rocks and drinking syrup are the only things you’ve got left. Such a gentleman; the next guy to live in that apartment was a pedophile from Northern Ireland. But…”

And with that, the two young men drained their pints, getting up from the table as they did so, and walked out into the Yorkshire night, leaving their table for some avid bystanders who were enjoying a nice Friday night out.

Monkey House

In the oldest park in Paris, Le Jardin des Plantes, visitors can buy a ticket and see the exotic animals in the zoo. It is not up to this writer to cast a judgement on the act of keeping creatures in cages for the sensorial delectation of humans; in this piece’s reality, it is what happens.

The hot sun beat down on the soil in the park and the flowers seemed to droop in desperation. The visitors sought shade where they could, though some more daring folk went to smell the flowers or inspect the scientific labels. Some had seen on their phones that there was a chance of rain later in the day, which was hoped for by some in the park.

The animals were mostly moping about the dry earth, looking for shade where possible. There was a supply of water, but the heat had made them drowsy. Except for the monkeys, who were unusually alert. They were communicating much more with each other, shouting and scrambling about their adventure park.

The visitors that were gathering around the monkey house were staring intently at the sight, remarking on the singularity of their behaviour, but also perturbed by the slightly menacing air that the scene had. The monkeys were bearing more of their teeth when they opened their mouths, and mother monkeys seemed to be keeping an eye on their children more severely. This seemed like a leadership contest and a victor might be pronounced before the watershed.

An American family came out of the reptile house and stopped by the monkeys to see what was what. In one spot of the large enclosure, a pair of monkeys, perhaps younger than the others, had snuck off to a different area and were acting amorously together. The father and mother giggled at each other, looked at their children, squeezed each others’ hand and left the zoo, not seeing that another male monkey had come and beaten off the other for the female.

They sat together on a bench, taking out their sandwiches, remarking on how hot it was. They checked the map to see where they had to go next. After a few moments, it became clear that a group of ravens were interested in their food. Two had come directly up to them, while three more lay waiting behind the bench, making the father turn his head. They were surrounded.

“Just give them some bread and let’s get out of here,” he said abruptly. It was clearly not just the bread they were interested in, and when the family got up to leave, one of the slicker birds flew in to take the map, snapping at the father’s fingers as it did so. “Goddam bird!” He said with a curse. “Come on, honey, it will be fine; look, we can ask that couple on the bench,” said his more rational wife, taking the initiative in her own suggestion, though not without some frustration; she did not like the idea of getting involved with ravens, already flown off to their lofty shade.

The monkey house was simmering in the afternoon heat, with seeming arrangements being made and teams formed. There was the occasional screech, but they were mostly keeping the peace. One of the tourists outside managed to snap a picture of two monkeys confronting each other. He added it to his story immediately.

“Excuse me,” seemingly not noticing the intense conversation that was going on on the bench, “but you can tell us where Notre Dame is?” The couple paused, looked at each other and the man with a strained but understanding temper pointed them in the right way. “Thanks very much, sir, and have a great day” said the father, shaking his hand. If Frank was in any other mood, he would have appreciated the moment. As it happens, he found himself in a delicate situation.

“You know, I think I love you more than I love her,” resuming his early thread. “I don’t know if I would care if she found out.”

“Well, that’s exactly what she’s going to do. I told you; she’s got someone after us. And I think he’s in this park.”

“That’s nonsense, Sandra would not go to those lengths, I can assure you. If she suspected a thing, she would be straight on it, no holding back.”

“She’s been watching me, I’m sure of it. On my way back from work the other day, a car followed me for a good three quarters of an hour. I’m scared.”

“No need to be scared; Sandra’s a perfectly rational and compassionate woman. She knows we’ve been unhappy for years now. I don’t know how we’ve coped.”

“Yeah, but hearing that you’re abandoning her and the children for a woman fifteen years younger might just push her over the edge.”

“Do you have to remind me of this?”

“You told me you loved me.”

“I do.”

“So do I.”

It is at this moment that Frank catches in the corner of his eye a man with a camera behind the trees on the other side of the park. He curses, considers running after the man, but decides to wait it out in the shade. He needed to drink something, but he felt stuck on the bench, glued to Imogen. This is it, he thinks, it ends here; the game I’ve been playing and the lies I have told. Here it all finds an ending.

In the monkey cage, two powerful males have risen to the top, casting to their own sides supporters, depending on where the interest lay. Or this is how it seemed to the tourists who were riveted by the exceptional energy that this group of monkeys was exhibiting. Anymore and it might end up trending.

Frank wondered where his wife had found the money for a detective and, more importantly, when he or she had started following him. But as he said, he couldn’t find the energy to care for his wife anymore and sat on the bench, he slumped his greying head on the shoulder of a woman who had been carrying him for ten years. She wished him luck on business trips and heard all the stories of the children; she was the supportive partner he thought he had never had.

Imogen looked up to the sky and saw that it had gotten darker, heavy with urban precipitation, one large stomach ready to burst open. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get out before the rain breaks.” The get up from the bench, turn right towards the exit by the large greenhouse and that is when they see two figures, one more familiar than the other. It was Sandra and her brother.

“How could they have possibly known?” Frank said to under his breath, but loud enough for Imogen to hear. “I told you; she had someone on us,” she retorted. Well, this is it, Frank thought to himself, I must tell her in front of her brother. He’s not going to like this at all, the angry little brute.

Sandra had been tipped off by her sleuth of the whereabouts of her husband and lover. She had known about it for some months now, slowly digesting an extramarital affair that lasted almost two decades. Now, she was to meet her rival, and confront them both. She lived it as a tragically proud moment in her life, comforted by the presence of her brother who had agreed not to intervene unless necessary.

“Sandra…” Frank said, seizing the moment to speak. But she brushed him off and went directly to Imogen. “So you’re the woman who thinks she can scab off my household?” She asked cooly, but with a definite menace, not malice, in her voice. Imogen felt the stare of a betrayed woman look her up and down, she could see the studied, bitter resentment on the face of the woman she envied deep down, and was on the brink of capitulating.

Back at the monkey house, the tourists were having a field day. The two male monkeys who had been squaring up to each other were pushing each other in the enclosure. The troops around them were howling, waiting on tenterhooks for the moment, and it was strange to see that such a racket had not attracted the attention of the guards. But they didn’t care; teeth was going for flesh, and punches were being made.

“Look, Frank,” Sandra turned on him, “I don’t want to make a scene out of this. Come on, let’s go and get out of the rain and discuss this elsewhere.”

“I’m not coming with you,” snapped Frank in a tone that was not his own. “I’m staying here, with Imogen, the woman I have loved for the last 20 years.” Sandra buckled at the knees and was about to fall, when her brother came and supported her. Imogen seemed to snicker at this woman, just then so proud, cut down by Frank’s words. The brother noticed and with violence said “wipe that grin off your face, you whore.” “Don’t you speak to my fiancee like that.” “But you’re already married to me,” came a mumble. “Or else what, cheater?”

With that, Frank launched himself at his brother-in-law, who in defence had to let Sandra fall to the ground. Imogen could be heard shouting in the background, as the two men wrestled on the wetting dust around the tracks, their grunts becoming more proclaimed, the two women shocked by the scene in front of them. All of a sudden, there was a gunshot. The clouds broke, an immense downpour of rain. Frank became weak, falling to the floor, clutching his heart. The brother stood back and watched life wrinkle out of a man. The women were escorted away in metal coats, as heavy drops ricocheted off the metal. The police blues flashed their usual melody. The zookeeper puts away his rifle and watched the monkeys return to the old status quo.