Category: travel

I want your world to seem unfamiliar to you

I arrived in the middle of the night in the middle of the city of roses. I withered quietly, petals folding inward. Both S. and S. came to sit on the couch when they got home, and let my feet curl against them in my sleepiness.

I awoke too early to the sound of granola being covertly chewed in the kitchen.

Similarly, the waterfalls I encountered later were just as thunderous.

At Mount Tabor, I marveled at the slats of sunlight through towering trees.

Though I meant to spend most of the day alone, I stumbled into more time with company than I meant to.

I spent part of the evening in V’s backyard after studying the contents of book shelves inside. I had selected a volume of poetry (mentally noting that I am always pleasantly shocked at the presence of poetry in someone’s home) and also took some works of Elie Wiesel just in case.

I stayed in the hammock until it got too cold, listening to the sound of pears dropping from the branches to the ground. I studied the bruises on their sides, indicating the melancholy resulting from the fruits’ rude awakening that they were no longer a part of the tree. Perhaps the tree felt that the fruit was a complete work, ripe now — ready to be released into the world. Some of the fruits did not feel ready for inconvenient freedom.

The wind chimes agreed hollowly in the distance.

I used my dying phone to start writing about the day…

“Why do you always feel so inevitable to me?”

The image above: can you tell if it was taken while leaving or returning?

Stepped back into my (rather, this) world.
Started to caramelize some onions for dinner.
Tried to make a new website.
Sifted through the lovely handwritten things I received in the mail.

Handwritten on the back of a postcard addressed to me in red ink:

“In modes of speech other than poetry, meaning must be considered public, ideally transmissible; that which is not transmissible is not part of the meaning.

In the case of poetry it is the exact opposite — which is not to say that poems do not contain a transmissible meaning; if there is one, it’s there as a surplus.”

Jacques Roubaud (to surplus!)

(Fascinating note about Roubaud — he was both a professor of poetry AND mathematics. Well, I’ll be damned.)

Chatting with a friend while trying to catch up with and ponder it all:

“…it’s just the hunger that comes out of uncertainty.”

“That is some Neruda-sounding shit. The hunger of uncertainty. I like it. Different than the hunger of stagnancy.”

And later, the same person and conversation:

“Just take the risk. I will be your safety net. You can sleep at the foot of my bed and eat ramen every day, I promise. I am so generous, right?”

Notes from the flight:

On engagement photos for a couple that does food photography: “Due to a homophonic mix-up, Beth’s recipe calling for flour was replaced by flowers. Now everything’s coming up roses.” Also led to this discovery of Alexis Russell rings, which are among the things that I shouldn’t covet.
“Prove me right. Break my heart.”
“Why do you always feel so inevitable to me?”
“Don’t tell me you’re back here because freedom was inconvenient for you.”

“head full of doubt, road full of promise.”

final meal.

the peculiar light and darkness of endings. a glass standing empty but waiting with anticipation to be filled. “accept the mystery,” a bruised peach, agua sin gas, and “head full of doubt, road full of promise.”

not pictured: hanging legs of cured ham, a wall of wine, and copious amounts of soft chewy bread.