Lately I’ve been worrying about my future, just as any teenager would at this point in his or her life.
I’ve made plans only to crumble them up and toss them into the monotonous pile of what would have been: a pile which lies in the shadowed, humid corner of my mind; a pile which grows rooted in fear, unease, and expectancy.
I only love to walk when I don’t have a destination. Otherwise we don’t realize the simplicities which surround us. Otherwise destination is our dictator: he controls each turn we take and the pace at which we walk. Otherwise, we’re not free.
I was on a train saying this is where I’m going, this is what I’ll do.
But he said to me, “If you don’t like to walk with a destination, you won’t like to live with one either.”
That pile now burns in sunshine of a vast, wild meadow of my mind.
thank you.
les vacances de carnaval.
From the 5th to the 11th of March, I knew nothing but hours passed on trains and my camera’s game of focus.
Aachen, Germany: le 5 mars.
we pass a crippled train: his thoughts,
in blue jeans and a black baseball cap,
are searching these barren tracks,
in vain.
an Unwinding grey morning
of whites and weak colors watch
his absent gaze
as we dive into the sky,
we rise over an empty horizon
to only hide behind it again
and we Never,
stop to help.
We meet a man in a rabbit fur hat. His teeth, yellowed by the dull contrast of a grey beard, lend us a history book through English words a little rougher than normal.
The day was grey as we searched for colors eventually found in apartments and
those bloodshot eyes.
blue eyes.
an excellent musician.
you have une jolie tête
a pretty head, he said.
Chateau de la Hulpe, Le lac de Genval: le 6 mars
I lived in a memory
les tomates et basilic
of a misplaced picnic table in Turtle Creek
red plaid gardens watered in night,
wild in raspberries
and chocolate’s zucchini
round stolen colors roll in my palm
yellow-ish orange, orange-ish red
(those colors fallen leaves only imitate
in envy of my tastebuds)
the taste of tomato caprese.
Liège: le 7 mars
train toilets have become my throne
indefinite
as we move and stop
only words in a stutter
of what should be done
or is it obligation?
how to dry your hands
and wash them: sanitation for its sake
security, fear
for longer years only moving and stopping
my words
our words in a
in a stutter
11h41: 2 hours and 13 minutes
Pittsburgh and back
Carnaval à Binche: le 8 mars
Oranges of gold
Gold oranges
Litter the street
And fill their bag
Teeth smile and sputter saliva of youth
And its civilization,
«Madame, Madame : Gardez le sac. »
« Votre montre, s’il vous plait.»
Coca cans kicked in cobblestone streets-
This is where we sleep.
And where we feast upon our
Oranges of gold,
Gold oranges
Lost: le 9 mars
Lille, France : le 10 mars
Maastricht, the Netherlands : le 11 mars
Le 12 mars I bought daffodils to see her smile.
c'est la vie.
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| I haven't forgotten what I love and have left behind, |
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| though it's hard to feel deeply nostalgic when I wake up to the laughter of sparrows and starlings |
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| and then soon venture outside to fetch eggs for breakfast from the chicken coop in the backyard |
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| accompanied by my best friend Bounty, |
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| and, as I walk back in the house, hear the song I'm whistling repeated in a chipper tone, |
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| and it's especially difficult to feel nostalgic when I know that no matter what I can always buy a waffle from the hippy van down the street. |
