A Trip ToThe Louvre Pigs and Princesses

 Installation of Wim Delvoye au Louvre 

 The work of Wim Delvoye

 Majolica to you too

Stag gun powder horn

Watch out she is armed

French High School Diary Part I, Cabbages

Or why I am now going to school in England.

French High School Diaries Part I

  

Back Story

I was moved to Paris from the blissful mountains of northern New Mexico at the tender age of two.   I don't remember much of this, and now It seems to me that I've always been in France.

My father speaks  French, and has always had a thing for the French and France. My mom is linguistically challenged, and is not a great fan of the French. C'est la vie. Vive la différence!

I have had no choice, I have had to adapt. I live inside an English speaking family in a French speaking country. I have always gone to French schools, where it's been trial by fire. It has taken nerves of steel to maintain a positive attitude, and a sense of humor.

So in France I became a "Petite choux", a little cabbage (child). With the hair style called, choucroute, named after an Alsatian cabbage dish.  From children to hairdos, the French are always comparing things to cabbages.

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She, departed

How am I to presume that loves radiant shadow fall,

To the dark interior of life's call,

New feelings are laid in your way, they cry

New stars now to seek,

That I should not look at my life as something bleak.

But instead, free, fly, but then plummet in remembrance,

the wave of passion, had carried me to far,

as was the excuse of the betrayal,

as is my understanding of the weeping willow,

Why do you weep so?

Did she leave you to, tell you that you were to far from the shore,

From the beach of familiarity and regularity,

Is that why you slouch, you feel, as if the forever green of your leaves

Should loose there radiance and fall.

If you hear me now, do not feel for me,

If you did it would but hurt, not see, nor feel

Nor know if the world was still turning, for

You as you are, shall be as you are, shall be as to me, a memory of love,

And what, perhaps, it shouldn't be.

River Of Fire

 

River of Fire

What river of fire is that at the hill top,

No hill, for her heart, a mountain, indeed,

Perfect in that, a radiant crop,

That is, but itself, and will at that lead.

Where are you from, a star, an ocean, a deep green forest,

You, as you are, shall be as you are, shall be as to me,

A great triumph, a proud and honorable crest,

But, as if an angels call, you respond to me, that I no longer ask, what is she.

Man Of The Night

  Man Of The Night

 The man of the night, yes, we all know him, living in the shadow that life provides, his light heart hidden by his cloak, his eyes tenderly veiled by his hat, gazing into his peripheral darkness, and then, the undeniable, and yet unaccountable truth of his life. It is to this extent that his pain commences, on a unstoppable plummet towards madness, or other forms of safety, it is also from this that we barely know him, molding his mask to smile, his eyes, dead. Do we love him for it, the constant worry and awkward conversation, in which, interwoven with a wall of secrecy, is his love, blocked, unseen, till the warm grieving hands of death melt it away, that only love should remain. Love, in a place, a memory, a letter, love that would heal his wounds as well as yours, or mine, that forever he shall remain, man of the light.

Turning a corner, I walked down the hall toward the door, already open, letting in a dazzling white light from a street lamp. At first I was blinded, seeing nothing but a man's shadowy outline, smoothly shifting from side to side like a metronome, confused, I ran forward and out of the door, the light was dimming now, and I could just make out an old wrinkly face gazing passively at me. With the light still imprinted against my retina, I stumbled, trying to regain my balance and sense of direction. Holding myself steady against the wall, half kneeling, I looked up. There he was, on time for once, holding a crocodile briefcase, always the pretentious attention seeker, wearing his usual beige coat, that resembled more a cloak then anything else, and his wide rimed hat. “Hey pops” said said I, he grunted in reply, and perhaps tilted his head an inch in acknowledgment. I couldn't see his eyes, then again, I never really had, he had always hidden them from me, “a gateway to who someone really is” some say. I suppose that this is what angered me so much about him, his boasting, his patronizing, it infuriated me, I didn't know him.

With a forceful jerk of his head, he indicated that we should start walking. Always in control, through some kind of unnoticed manipulation, another betrayal. As we walked down the street, I was perplexed to see that, through the corner of my eye, it seemed as if he were gliding beside me, no tremulous juddering of footsteps, and yet, when I looked at his feet, everything seemed quite normal, in fact his usual smugness, and sense of superiority, emanated from each step, not only normal, but expected. As we past street after street, my legs started to ache, but his step never faltered for a instant, he didn't so much as flinch when a car siren went of right next to us, or when a bird swooped down and briefly landed on his hat, before being violently, even heartlessly, waved away. “we sure shared some good time. Ay Pop!?” he mumbled something in reply, I frowned, looking down at the ground, my fists clenched, holding back tears of rage. “Pop!?” no answer “Why were you in Germany when you told nan you were on a business meeting in New York, before you guys moved to Paris?”, he stopped dead in his footsteps, an almost perfect statue. He replied with one, piercing word, that he uttered with such force and severity, that it made me wish I hadn't said anything, “How?”. I looked at him blandly, but I was shocked, and fearful, of what he might say, what he might do, I didn't know him. “I, I... saw, pictures” I said hesitantly “Hmm” he answer in a voice that rumbled, like two boulders being repetitively smashed against each other. He continued walking, without waiting for me, I rushed forward to catch up with him, “I am sorry!” I said “but they were, kind of, just laying there, on your desk” I looked at him innocently “but then I put them away, no one would see” He clenched his fists and walked even faster,and then it hit me, like a huge wave, of impenetrable, unstoppable, realization. I stopped “You were trying to tell her” I called after him “weren't you? Nan?” I said in a softer voice, he stopped as well, and turned, so that is face was looking straight at me, but his body as parallel, his arms by his side, as if ready to fight.

What had I done? I couldn't bear it, it wasn't true, he just looked at me “I...” my voice trailed of “I... didn't... didn't... know...I... love you” I din't know why I said it, or how it happened to come out of my ever restraining mouth, but Suddenly, unexpectedly, his body relaxed, and he faced me, beaconing me forward with his big clumsy arms, I had never seen him like this before. I ran forward, young, a child, “Pop?” I said, my voice breaking, smiling, my arms held out in front of me. I reached him, and as I through my arms around his waist, I felt his warm stomach, so comforting, relaxing, I closed my eyes, smiling. He put his hand on my shoulders and pushed me, ever so slightly away, and bestowed a kiss o my forehead, had anyone said it to him before, had the world said it, had I, three simple words that made music in him, such harmonious music, as the one that the heart yearns to create, to live, love, to set upon someone, the gifts of his music, to make them sore, feeling the world, feeling his heart pound, marking the drum, marking him, setting him free.

We walked some more, coming to a little park, we sat on a bench, surrounded, by lamps, and their pure white light, rings seemed to float around each one, as his a celestial call, or beckoning was taking place. The lights seemed to be getting stronger, all of a sudden he turned and for the first time, taking of his hat said “I miss you, you that, right?” The light was even more powerful, almost blinding, and as I turned to look at him, perplexed, he had gone, but how, I could still feel his presence, his new joyful self. Then I remembered, he was gone, and had been for five, unresolved years, and that I remember him should be his only time back on earth, and should others too, should be the same, three simple words, were his resolution, the key to his cage, “I love you”. He was now, man of the light.

The Falling of a Leaf

 

The Falling of a Leaf

C.E.Davis

Bleak, solemn, dead. That is what this once beautiful planet so rich with color and life has become. Not even the flutter of a bird's wings can be heard, no, the world is devoid of such a sound. Such a music it was, why mute it? Why, why, why!!! Such stupid questions we ask when the answers are so obvious, but like a devious parent we ask those questions. You are idiotic father/mother, face the facts, you do not exist, or do not care. So, we were created in your image, mother, that nature has blessed, but see where we are now. If you are good, we are not, and it is absolute and final that we were indeed created in your image, oh lord of lords, king of kings, then you are not defined for it must be us in our inferior status that must be wrong. Therefore, let us assume that you are greater then us, so insignificant, and we are wrong, it is justified to say that you are not defined, undefinable, for we have no right to define. If you are so kind you would have talked, guided and helped, but this is not so, look what has come of your indolence. Therefore we define you not, and only hold you in us as that part of our being that is undefined, untouched, presumably given to us by you, but no, you exist only for us, you exist, for we created you father, to take care of your children, to blame for our faults. But that creation was weak and has led us to death.

“What do you know about death!?” yelled Adam, “Hey, I asked you a question!”he said. “What do you know about death!?” he said in barely a whisper his jaws aquiver with rage. The old face was worn and tired, the locked secrets of a whole race were in his heart and seemed to bear upon him an aura of eternal suffering. Adam laughed in a forced fashion, he bowed his face, and, as he looked up, his pale blue eyes reflected the grey sun, for the dark clouds were a constant filter, Adam was used to this dead light by now. A tear trickled down the old man's cheek following the contours of the wrinkled face, a tear, so innocent and delicate in the destitute void which was the desert around him. An image suddenly flew through his mind as thin and sharp as a knife cutting into his very soul, a tree, a women, blood, it was all too overwhelming, the man keeled over in pain and tears gushed out of his eyes as blood would a deep wound. “What do you know about death !!!” he yelled again, pounding his head “you... you...death...you shit” Adam was now on all fours “You stole everything... you thief...what do you know about death, death?” he laughed “You do not even know yourself” and then he was quiet, sobbing.

Memories, memories, so treacherous, so dangerous to those who's quick brains permit it. “Why am i left in this empty world, to feel, to suffer, to die by the hand of an old friend” said Adam calmly once his tears were but wet lines on his reddened face, an other, if more recent memory of pain and suffering. Adam had encountered death before, and had developed a thick and torturous bond with the fellow, so much as to call him an old friend. Adam was alone, “Alone you say” said Adam with a chuckle “Not as long as i have my sand, and land” he said picking up and childishly throwing in the air while madly laughing, dirt and rubble from the desert floor and the crumbled fragments of buildings, which had stood so bravely and boldly, as had Adam, and were now but fragments, fragments of and old, worn, and almost inchoate memory.

With difficulty, Adam stood up, his weak bones cracking as was the sand and rubble under his feet. As he bent over to pick up his walking stick, which was in fact a thick branch, he forced his old and fragile shell to the remains of a park, no longer green, but yellow, a dreadful reminder of sunny days, happy days, “Better days” said Adam lowering his head and then the rest of his weightless cargo, to lay on his stomach, his nose pressed upon the dead grass, breathing in an inexistent smell, a smell of grass that he had once known what seemed to be long, long ago. With the little strength that he had, he prostrated himself into a cross-legged position, his hands, resting one on top of the other in the center of his crossed legs, as in mediation, but his eyes were wide open, starring in front of him. His face, slowly, very slowly, became white and lifeless. A leaf suddenly fell into his range of vision drawn down, as was he, by that great master, gravity. “Hello old friend” said Adam, starring at the leaf, and, as he fell into his eternal slumber, he heard, close to him, the laughter of a child, and saw a small hand stretch out and grab the leaf, as if to say “you are safe now”.

A True Story

A True Story

Rolling as I was, in a tube of perpetual movement, arrogance and heat

Half standing half sitting, near the one who had nurtured me since birth,

Closer to creation, closer to love, closer to my mother,

the only god I know, that created me, no miracle, if only of life, that lays in question since that day.

A sudden and uncaring halt, a tensing of muscles,

A cry from in front “Allez vous a la Rue Claire monsieur?!”

The shriek of a crow, wearing it's funeral suit.

Turning, clearly did I see her,

Frail,

Alone,

Sharp and Alert,

In control, in her mind, of her mind, of this moment.

Her howling answered, annoyed look after annoyed look followed her to the front of the carriage,

no one saw my discreet helpings, a punching of tickets, a security pole that she might not slip off,

The seat, my mother gave her.

Who are you, was my first question, but only my mind heard it, as it heard my heart beating, as it, Perhaps, heard hers.

Her pink dress, reminiscent of childish dreams, the flowers woven in, reminiscent,

Of when she could,

See Them.

Words escaped her, words of the past, that, in my close proximity to her, stabilizing, sheltering,

heard with all its force, all its truth.

As such we talked, the bus passing all the landscapes that were so familiar, so reassuring,

as to be subdued by jealous society.

As she pointed and smiled, “Finally a student!”, I gazed at her whiskers, her white unwashed hair,

her dry lips, her countenance forming the purest and most natural waves of all,

Of age.

Then, I gazed into her eyes, where I saw who she was,

She had loved, she had feared, and as she told me stories of war, I said,

“What a story you tell me” and uncontrolled, replied “No no, a true story”,

At this, her life was full ,and had been but a fraction told, happy as she was,

Pleased as was I.

Looks Had Gone From The Misery Of Life, To Seeings Its Wonder.

We are here said I, your stop,

And as I held her hand, I saw a small girl, as if in a dream,

Skipping wearing a pink dress with flowers,

And heard her heart yearn to be.

As we walked down the clear road of time, she refused to stop,

And as I was to leave, she pulled me down, close to her and said,

“Half of me is dead, I was somewhere before, but now, I was supposed to die”

And she left, with the promise of a picture of Kennedy in Berlin, and of life.