cafe selavy

The Sad Ballad

2008-07-05T09:25:00.007-04:00

I've heard from Sasha. My paltry attempts to mythologize cannot withstand life's temporal mutations. There is only time, the constant, uneven flow, the shallows and pools, the lazy floating and the roar of rapids. Here is a photo of Sasha and Kate taken by a friend, Egor. It speaks of what is, what is yet to come. The recognition, the denial, the unhappy acceptance, the stoic gaze, the gently grasping hand. Katerina's sad, soft eyes dead center, Sasha's figure forced to the margin. There is the blurred gray of the background, the distant, fading light. One lingering moment, captured, rich with meaning and emotion, bracketed, framed, gone.

From Sasha:

"I give for her freedom because I love her...
She need a freedom... She must to think...
Ballad of Kate and Sasha never end...
I know she loves me, but she need a time..."

It is what we all need--Love, Freedom, Time.

We look for the warm yellow light of morning, the deep blue that surrounds us at dusk. But the gray light falls, those tinny, hollow days of nothingness. Still, we hold on and on and on, waiting heroically for skies to clear, for the sweet sound of songbirds, the call of the hoot owl, the nightingale's cry. What book, what drink, what art can replace love?

I'll wait for the reprise, the good news, the healing, the scar. What love without scars?

Independence Day

2008-07-04T09:32:00.004-04:00

The month began badly. On July 1st, I got a haircut. The woman who cuts my hair usually does a wonderful job, but at least once a year, usually in the summer, she cuts it short, bobs it horribly, and I am miserable. I know it is a vanity, but I am miserable now—no, more ashamed than miserable. How can a haircut shrink your shoulders and expand your gut and deepen the pores in your face? Yes, I am wretched.

I just finished the short story collection, Knockemstiff, by Donald Ray Pollock. If you are a reader and have not read this, then run—don’t walk—to your nearest bookstore. I have not read as good a collection since Rick Bass’s The Watch back when he could still write. I met Rick Bass at the Key West Writer’s Conference at the same time I met Thomas McGuane, Jim Harrison, et.al. I am not enamored with fame, but I do like talent, so when I was getting a poster of the conference signed by the authors for the college that had sent me, I thought I might say something nice to Bass. Everyone likes a compliment, I told myself, so when I got to him I ventured to tell him how much I had enjoyed the book. Bass is approximately the same age as I and of the same build, a medium sized man who had made himself bigger through effort. He did not respond to my compliment. He simply stared at me. I could feel some deep resistance there.

I saw him again a few years later at a college where I was teaching as an adjunct. He was reading from his works, but mostly he proselytized about saving a stretch of Montanna, the Yak Valley, where he had moved. After the reading, I sat at a table next to his wife and him. I was invited over but declined. I swear I could see some atavistic memory at work in his face. He was a smaller man by then, but so was I.

I am pulling for Pollock even though he has told some of the stories I had hoped to write some day with much less ability. He has done it so goddamned well it is terrible. I am going to start over and read the collection again.

Here is a passage I read last night sitting alone in the usual sushi place at an outdoor table as all the beautiful people paraded by:

“We were stopped at a red light right outside of Portsmouth when a silver Lexus pulled up beside us. Glancing over, I was startled by the bold, sparkling eyes of the most stunning woman I’d ever seen. She was checking us out, laughing into her cell phone. Every inch of her radiated money and happiness and fine genes. Though there had once been a time when I would have yelled over and asked her to fuck, now all I felt was shame that she’d had to look at me at all. My hair wa s uncombed and greasy, my teeth coated with yellow scum, my tatoos meaningless and outdated. I turned my head and waited for the light to change.”

I think I’ll go back to the woman who cut my hair as soon as this holiday is over. Maybe she can fix it.

Old Heros

2008-07-03T10:08:00.006-04:00

My father was in the navy in WWII. He was drafted. The thing he talked about most from that experience was becoming the Pacific Fleet boxing champion. He claims to have beaten Walt Hafer, the only man to beat Joe Louis as an amateur. I've never had the courage to research it, but it seems highly unlikely. Hafer did fight Louis as a pro in what amounted to an exhibition fight, but he certainly didn't beat him. Still, I have not bothered to research Louis's amateur bouts. I don't know if Hafer was in the navy, either.

It was a different world, then. It wasn't as easy to verify or debunk. I think there were a lot more heros.

I found this photo of Hafer on the internet. I'm pretty sure my dad could have taken him.

Transforming Experience

2008-07-02T08:47:00.007-04:00

I love this photograph. It is from my friend's family album. Old photographs are transforming. We are never as good as the people in old photographs, it seems, not nearly as funny or serious. In comparison, we lack depth like pieces of sheet tin.

Here is a picture of my father's family, his brother and sister-in-law, his nephew and his nephew's future wife. Why do I never take off my shirt and lift girls onto my shoulders? I just don't know how to have fun, I guess. Or maybe it is just a lack of living, too many hours with television, then computers. The cold xenon light. Shallow, like sheets of cut tin.

Almost a Writer

2008-07-01T10:21:00.003-04:00

"Where you been?" I asked him standing near the beer cooler in Whole Foods.

"I went out of town the last couple weekends. Other than that, I haven't been doing anything. I don't go out at all. I'm starting to go stir crazy, though."

"Too much alone time can do that," I said. "I did that for about a year once. It changes you."

"Yea. I got up yesterday and went to the refrigerator to get some milk for my coffee and I saw two chilled bottles of wine and thought about having a glass. If I start that, I'm sunk. But I stay up writing every night, drinking wine and just writing."

"You writing a novel?"

"No, not yet. I write these long emails, though, that are pretty good. Some of them are real good. But I'll put all this effort into writing them and get back a few lines that don't even address what I wrote about. That's if I'm lucky. Sometimes, I don't get anything back at all. It really pisses me off."

"Well, people don't write much any more. First they gave up on letters, then they gave up on email. Now most people don't write much that is longer than a text message."

"Well, it's wrong," he growled. "The world is going to shit!"

"Sure, sure it is, but you can't get too caught up in how other people are going to respond to what you do. You just do it for yourself." I said it, but I could tell he wasn't hearing it. I picked up my bottle of ale and told him I had to go.

"Good luck, man," I said. He was obviously distraught.

When I was in Manhattan, the people I was with never talked on the phone. That was cool. But they always had their iPhone or Blackberry on vibrate and every few minutes, they would get a text. They'd thumb out a reply and say, "Hey, there's a crowd at Crumleys. You want to head down there?" This went on all night.

It's all OK, but I'm going back to writing letters. As silly as this sounds, it seems an art to me now, the handcrafting of letters on paper, ink, textures, etc. I like the new world well enough, but I'm too romantic to let go of the old. Maybe I'll have a glass of wine this morning.

There Is No "There" There

2008-06-30T08:33:00.005-04:00

The best part of my trip was stopping for gas south of Macon, Ga. to fill up at one of those mega-stations off the interstate. It was hopping with working people, big, bone-hard. A woman was cleaning the pumps, and every time she bent over, the fellows would give a little hoot or whistle. I said hello and asked her how long it would take me to get to Atlanta.

"Depends on how fast you're gonna drive."

"I'm pretty much going to ball the jack," I said. She just stared at me quizzically. "I'm going to go pretty fast," I said. I don't know if it was because she was young or if it was a cultural thing. "About an hour, hour and a half," I offered.

"That'd be about it," she said. "If I wasn't working, I'd go with you."

"You think I'll have fun," I said.

"Lordy, lordy, lordy, I sure 'nuff know I would."

Atlanta isn't an easy town for visitors. There is no center. You must drive from place to place. It is spread all over the county. I stayed mid-town because I was told it was pretty alive. I was just across from the Fox Theater. I left my hotel room to wander about. You have to wander far to see a little. The first woman I met was wearing beautiful green boots and a blousey dress.

"You mind if I take a photograph of your boots?" She was nice enough about it. People were friendly, but I didn't see much.

My favorite place was the chicken and waffle bar on Peachtree Road. Everything is called Peachtree--Drive, Circle, Place, Avenue, Boulevard, Street, etc. I don't know why they'd do that.

Procrastination

2008-06-27T08:02:00.002-04:00

It's all wrong. I'll be in the car all day driving to Atlanta. I waited too long to book a reasonable flight. I also waited too long to get a rental car. A rental car is necessary for a long drive when you drive a junker. There were no cars in town. Who could believe such a thing. I drove from Hertz to Avis to Budget to Enterprise. No cars. Why? Why? The Pepsi 400 has come to town. Finally I found one car, a big one, at $45/day. Reserved a room at a nice hotel in midtown. Too much money. Woke up sick. It is raining, will rain all weekend, so they say.

But I must go. I am late. I will write.

Johnny Rocket

2008-06-26T10:20:00.004-04:00

A man with a camera. I don't know if it happens to everyone or if it is me, but taking photos, no matter how innocuous, seems to cause me trouble. I walk around with a little Leica D-Lux in my bag. I forget about it most of the time, but last night, the sun was setting and the sky was blazing and the shadows were wonderful. I remembered the camera and pulled it out and took a photo of the sky, then of a building with shadows. I was walking by a Johnny Rocket's diner, and the rich light outside and the garish light inside made me think of a painting by Hopper, so I pulled out my tiny digital and took a photograph from the sidewalk. I took a couple. They are all of no consequence (the one's I post here as Exhibits A and B should convince you of that). Suddenly, this fellow in an apron and a hat and an aggressive look on his face comes out the door and says, "Can I help you?"

"What do you want to help me with?" I said, confused.

"Well, I just wanted to know if you needed anything."

"Like what?"

"I was wondering why you were taking pictures of my store."

His store? I'm sure he lived in a rental apartment with three other fellows who played online games all night. I wanted to tell him I was a double-aught spy like Jethro in "The Beverly Hillbillies." Instead, I tried to avoid complications and said, "I just liked the light."

Maybe he had never heard a statement like that before, so he said, "Well, we have rules against taking photographs of the restaurant."

"Where am I," I asked him. I was beginning to be pissed in spite of myself. Maybe the question or maybe the tone of my voice and my obvious fatigue with being nice made him nervous. He couldn't think of an answer.

"I think I'm standing in a public space with my tiny little camera taking pictures. Am I allowed to do that?" Now in truth, I wasn't certain I was in a public space, but people take photos with little digitals everywhere without trouble.

"Well, corporate said we can't let people take pictures."

Where in the hell do they learn to talk this way.

Once, I was taking photos at a Christmas Day parade when a woman came up to me and asked me what I was doing and who I represented. Again, there were cameras everywhere.

I must be misshaped somehow like some odd dog you see off in the distance.

A man with a camera.

I have made some new photos I am happy with and I will post them here soon. I'm off to a workshop in Atlanta this weekend to learn some encaustic techniques. New tools. I'll try to post something this weekend.

NAUFRAGÉS VOLONTAIRES

2008-06-25T11:06:00.006-04:00

link

I want to post this movie here, but I can find no way to link it so that it plays on my site. You will have to click the photo and you will be whisked away as on a magic carpet to a place where the film resides. The fellow who made this music video is a heck of a nice guy. We wrote back and forth for awhile. I was trying to get a DVD copy of the film, but it is on old fashioned beta and he was having a hard time with the technical aspects of doing all that, if I remember properly. But let's see if this works.

I am making photos that I like right now and will post some in a little while. It is exhausting.

Sitting and Thinking

2008-06-23T09:25:00.003-04:00

I was eating a sandwich and writing at my friend's cafe when I felt something hovering over my shoulder. It was a guy I know. He looked like he wanted to sit down, but I wanted to dissuade that.

"I saw your friend. He doesn't look like he's doing that well. He told me that the only pleasures he has now are whiskey and masturbation."

"Well, those aren't bad. I thought he was back with his girl."

"Not really. She stops by and wants to talk, but they aren't really together. I told him he needed a philosophy. I gave him Siddartha to read. He needs to learn how to be alone."

"I don't know," I said, "he might be a little old to read that. It is something you should read in college like The Hobbit or the works of Ayn Rand or "The Prophet." I don't think that stuff has much of an effect when you get older."

I could see that pissed him off.

You can't tell. Maybe the book will move him. But I think he is probably better off just sitting and thinking.

Liliroze

2008-06-22T08:57:00.007-04:00

The day tumbles forward. I lurch and bump my way through.

Rather than grouse and gripe, I offer up some visual poetry. These are photos by a woman in Paris, Nathalie Roze. Liliroze. Her work reminds me a bit of Sarah Moon's, her use of color and the slightly out of focus view.

After I saw her website, I wrote to her to tell her how much I enjoyed her photographs, and she very graciously wrote right back. I am dying to ask her how she gets such saturated colors, but I will not.

She makes one wish that Polaroiod was going to stick around. I really like this work and want her to be very busy and to produce much, much more. Go look around.

Midsummer

2008-06-21T08:24:00.004-04:00

Summer Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere. The longest day. I have been unable to sleep. Midsummer, it is called, as in Shakespeare’s play. Perhaps old Puck, the pagan trickster, has been about. Why else should I wake each night, my head filled with images. Fairies and Sprites and Hobgoblins. There is a tricky chthonic frivolity associated with Midsummer, the time betwixt planting and harvesting. June’s full moon, I just read, is also called the Honey Moon. I prefer that.

I am being called out tonight. What mischief there lie? I shall take Puck’s apology to the audience in the play’s last scene as my own.

If we shadows have offended,_Think but this, and all is mended,_That you have but slumber'd here_While these visions did appear._And this weak and idle theme,_No more yielding but a dream,_Gentles, do not reprehend:_if you pardon, we will mend:_And, as I am an honest Puck,_If we have unearned luck_Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,_We will make amends ere long;_Else the Puck a liar call;_So, good night unto you all._Give me your hands, if we be friends,_And Robin shall restore amends.
(Act v. Scene i.)

A Face in the Crowd

2008-06-19T20:05:00.003-04:00

I'm getting fewer emails. Visits to my blog are down. Surely it is something about me, but I can't figure out what. Maybe that is too egocentric, however.

Tonight I was eating sushi alone after work. I had finished my meal and had ordered another flask of sake so that I could keep writing the essay I was working on about the nature of the exotic. I was sitting outside in the fine, southern, dusky heat watching the slim crowds slip past as I wrote. One of my neighbors happened by and stopped to chat. This led to that and he told me about his visit to his gym that morning. He had signed up for a tai chi class, but it was cancelled due to lack of interest, I guess, and so he found himself in one of those new boot camp groups. He was miserable, he said. He couldn't move.

Then he told me something more interesting. He has been at the same gym for five years, he said. "As in any gym, people come and people go, but there are a few who have been around forever. You don't know their names, but you bob your head and say hello whenever you pass them. Today I did that, but I realized I was seeing myself in the mirror. It was a shock. I didn't recognize myself at first. I stood there for a good three or four minutes, staring. I've kept myself in shape, I thought. I am fifty-six, though. My face looked older than my body, but I thought, 'I've done a good job.'" Still, I realized that I don't look the way I see myself in my head. I mean, I don't look the way I did when I was thirty-five."

"Yea," I said, "don't get too worked up over it. You can become mentally ill trying to look young your whole life."

Our conversation continued on for a little while, but I felt is was really too depressing for him, and in a minute he excused himself and was gone.

I tried to turn my attention back to my writing, but it was over. I was done.

The worst thing about aging is becoming invisible. I remember vividly the first time I disappeared. I was middle-aged, but I could still hold the attention of a woman for a time. This one night, I was doing fine until a young, handsome man walked into the room. Suddenly, her eyes drifted and I was gone. I could have said anything at that point and she would have smiled and nodded her head as if I had offered to get her another drink.

It is worse at fifty-six, I wanted to tell him, but he was already gone.

Goat Fair

2008-06-19T08:14:00.002-04:00

No moon last night. Clouds. Rain. What strange spell has hold of me? The awkward march of time. Dream this.

Strawberry Moon

2008-06-18T10:04:00.003-04:00

Friday 13th just past. Tonight's full moon. Saturday is the longest day of the year, the first day of summer. I am dreaming in images that I haven't made. Can't sleep. The waitresses have put on weight, skin gone bad. Looking for a sanctuary.

Full Strawberry Moon. There must be something in that.

Sirens Call

2008-06-16T07:55:00.004-04:00

The air conditioner went out on the old Volvo. A $1,000 repair that seems to be more than the car is worth. I had forgotten what it is like to drive on a hot, southern day with the windows down, the sound of the wind and the highway and the warm air bathing your eyes, drying them. The violent head shaking to stay awake, a light dusting of salt in your hair, on your skin. Hard squinting, singing for a minute until that gets ludicrous. The hypnotic view, the hypnotic hum, the call of the southern highway sirens--sleep, sleep.

Beach Watcher

2008-06-14T09:13:00.005-04:00

Famous South Beach between 4th and 7th where the beautiful people go. I walk beaches and see photos everywhere, but a man with a camera on a beach is akin to a man with a hand grenade.

I never shoot with a telephoto. These were all taken with a 24mm lens. I don't like shooting from far away. A 24mm on a beach full of strangers is crazy.

I liked these images, though. There is a familiar anonymity that most people associate with beach going. I will try to screw up my courage a little better and begin approaching people, telling them that I want to photograph them, that I am doing a series, etc.

That is what I keep telling myself I will do.

Summer Sometimes

2008-06-13T07:59:00.003-04:00

Summer days are here again. I went to Miami last weekend on a whim. It is a wonderland of images, but you have to work to get them. South Beach is a carnival of posers and gawkers and people who watch E!, but it is still something to see. I took my camera, but I don't think I got anything of note. I don't even have a decent story to tell about it.

That bothers me immensely, more than it should.

I Viaggi di Tiziano Terzani

2008-06-12T09:18:00.009-04:00

James Whitlow Delano sent me an email yesterday announcing his new book, I Viaggi di Tiziano Terzani. I violate one of the ten commandments over his work. I want to take these pictures. I want to go where he goes.

However, I will have to content myself with the book. In a follow up email, he said that the book is only available through an Italian publisher right now, but he is trying for a deal with a publisher in the U.S. You can either wait or buy Italian. I can't wait.

Fear and Hope

2008-06-11T07:35:00.012-04:00

Thursday never came. On Wednesday, he received another note.

Hello. . . nice talking with you. . . different than I imagined, better. . . sweet, I think (though your humor. . .)

But I am not going to be able to keep our lunch date. . . moving to CALIFORNIA. . . should not have come back after college. . . easy, but I do not fit in this southern hamlet. . . . am going west to new opportunities.

If it were possible at all, I would find some way to meet you, but. . .will keep an eye on you through your website (so you’d better behave). . .you can always come see me if you are in Cali.

And so for now I leave with much hope, a little anxiety, a lot of excitement, and some regret.

Until we next meet. . . .

The letter smelled of berries and rain.

His friend was right. Her father was an architect. Their circles had occasionally overlapped. He did not know the man well. He was a few years younger, had been married to the same woman for many years, had three daughters, etc.

After a moment, he let the letter drop to the desktop, shook his head and gave a rueful laugh.

The cat had been bumping his leg seeking his attention for awhile, but by the time he reached for her, she had drifted across the room toward the door.

“The things we worry about,” he thought, “are usually pretty silly. The same might be said of our hopes. They are just two sides of a very small coin.”

Having thought that pleased him for the moment. He reached out his hand to turn the knob, but before he could get the door fully opened, like a quick puff of smoke, she was gone.

Advice

2008-06-10T08:50:00.007-04:00

“Shit, are you nuts,” he screamed. “You should’t put that on the Internet! What if her father’s reading it?”

“Whose father?”

“And listen, I’m getting tired of the way you write about me, too. I don’t say half of those things.”

“Then what makes you think it is you?”

“Because I say the other half.”

His consternation was real, but I wasn’t in the mood to listen to him carp. His going on about what I should and shouldn’t do had pissed me off.

“Well, if it is you, then, you are a fiction and if you aren’t careful, I’ll just quit writing you and you won’t even exist.” I could tell he didn’t want me to quit writing about him.

“Are you going out with that girl?” He wanted to ignore what I had just said.

“What girl?”

“The girl from the café?”

“No.”

“Well that’s good,” he said, relieved.

I noticed his zipper wasn’t pulled all the way up.

“You’re old enough to be her. . .”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snapped. “Zip your fly.”

People love to give advice, especially when it is not sought. It makes them feel better, I guess. It is their good deed for the day, a way of improving the world without tremendous effort.

The hours intervened. I was waiting for Thursday afternoon.

An Invitation

2008-06-09T08:33:00.003-04:00

"I like the things you write," she said. Statements like that always make me uncomfortable.

"Sometimes there is almost a poetry to it."

I was starting to REALLY like this girl. She was young, an emotional type.

I looked for a server. I thought I might have a glass of wine.

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

"Who was that girl I saw you with the other day," he asked.

"When?"

"At the cafe. The little hippie girl."

"Oh. . . well, I don't know. Just some girl who hangs out there."

"How old is she?"

"I don't know. Young."

Something about the way he asked these things was beginning to piss me off.

"I think I know her father. He is an architect."

"Yea, that sounds right."

I just wanted him to leave it alone. I wanted to smack the lasciviousness right off his face.

A few days later, I got an envelope in the mail. It smelled of lemongrass and lilacs and lavender. The address was drawn in colored pencils. Inside was a note. Rather, it was more like those fabulous broadsides by William Blake with figures and decorative images lining the margins. There was the usual greetings, something sweet, and an invitation that ended with, "Meet me for lunch."

Missing

2008-06-08T10:38:00.005-04:00

I've been worrying about Sasha and Kate. I have heard nothing from them though I write and check his website. I fret over trifles, I hope. It is spring--perhaps they are picnicking and taking pictures. I wait for updates. But he lives in a rough part of town, as they say. If you hear from them, tell them to call.

Here's a photo by Sasha of Kate. I want to buy this one, too.

Returning

2008-06-06T08:16:00.007-04:00

Monday. Memorial Day, your last day in the city. You dread travel days, the specter that they hold, returning to old troubles, normalcy, routine, work. You think of the pleasures of last night, the excitement, then brunch. The Upper East Side is bigger, quieter, richer than below. Everything is closed.

You turn a corner toward the park. The city is wonderful with surprises. A group is gathered, placards waving. Shouting through a bullhorn. You cannot understand what is being said.

“Take my stuff to the end of the block,” you say pulling out your camera. “I just want to take some pictures.”

“You’ll get beaten.” The hopeful laugh.

The day slides by too quickly. Happy people at their leisure. You are not one. You feel the difference. You watch the days recede into memory.

La Guardia.

Some People Want Happy

2008-06-05T08:40:00.010-04:00

“Jesus Christ, you must have had an awful time in New York.”

“Why?”

“I read your blog. Coney Island and the bum and the police and all that.”

“Nope. I had a really swell time. But swell times don’t make very good stories.”

It is hard to write about being happy. It is good to be happy. I want to be happy. But nobody learns anything from it. So the danger is the temptation to write about misery. Read “Hunger” by Knut Hamsun if you want to feel misery. He won a Nobel Prize for it. But not many people do it that well. Writers like Hemingway and Faulkner and Steinbeck transformed trouble. T.C. Boyle wallows in it and it is funny good fun.

“I’m just telling stories,” I say. “I’ll give you something happy tomorrow.”

So. . . here goes.

Blue skies. Song birds. A slant of yellow sunshine explodes through the shutters. Shadow and light. I think of that Sunday in Central Park with no work on Monday.