Global Local Something Like This Pt.1

The globe you see was made by imprisoned Sinhalese Marxists sometime before December 1993, when it came into my hands as a gift from a therapist in the Sri Lankan capital Colombo. This therapist worked with PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) sufferers, including combat and torture survivors. Among his patients were leftist Sinhalese nationalists seized during anti-government uprisings.

Once in prison, these Marxist-Leninists were encouraged by occupational therapists to make globes out of papier-mâché, an excellent paper and glue precursor to plastic, lightweight but sturdy. (Nevertheless, as a precaution I carried it in my hand luggage on the return flight home)

There is something supremely optimistic about mustering up the energy and curiousity from inside a jail on a war-shattered island to produce a replica of our planet. At the same time, this particular group was indeed part of a movement which ascribed to world revolution. Small-scale globe production could be seen as a valuable pastime behind bars. As you can see, Leningrad has not yet been renamed as St. Petersburg on this object, suggesting either that it was made before the name switch in 1991 or that a Trotskyite craftsperson chose to ignore this minor detail.

Many accurate placenames are correct, others are correct but misspelled, and still others attest to bold flights of the imagination: Algeria is fine, while Balgeria, Hungeria and Yogoslo are evidence of the will to try. Interrupted education shines through (in fact perhaps they hadn't yet heard about Leningrad being dropped from the list), with Switzarland alluding to imperial pasts, albeit not of the alpine variety. Unite Kingdom Britain, an irreverent amalgamation of often inaccurately interchanged names relating to the former colonial power, could be the opening verse of a church hymn. It’s not, of course, but then again, Protestant missionaries have run many a school on this isle, so they can't be ruled out.

No Coincidence

Had I remembered to take the book I was reading when I left the house, none of this would have happened. Recalling the events of that ride is as hectic as the journey through the over-built landscape of the Netherlands at locomotive speed is peaceful, or so one might expect.

The train sped through fields lower than the barges on the parallel waterway with its perfect border of trees. I held my small digital camera by the window and switched from photos to video, to record the conversation in the seats behind me, but the microphone is evidently not as good as the lens. (You'll only hear a cough, not the early evening chatter about mathematical theories.) Many people in Holland are concerned about the intrusion of industry throughout the countryside, as illustrated by the buildings seen from the train, but the family behind me laughed with delight, and recited the countdown out loud in three languages.

Halloween seems like only Yesterday

A Love Poem for Celebrating Halloween in China

We could just as well have been there,
celebrating Halloween in China.
It is large-scale. Entire highways of witches united in the tonal ‘boo’.
All the single-child families dress the babe
for the encounter with the spirits.
They are horribly proud of their offspring.
Toothless elders screech with delight.

Clusters in masquerade let people do
that clever Chinese thing of fulfilling yourself

without standing alone,
of not having to be
separate in the way we non-Chinese
are stuck with ourselves, because
we’re in our own disguise that we made,
which makes a double you.
There’s too much to recall in costume.

We always honour death itself, with ceremonies
and shrines, great tombs or the ash-paved path.
Why not equal awe for the great beyond?
No more posters on walls, fat photo albums
passed from lap to lap,
but images in motion on the streets,
cult characters set free
in the vague network of timeless feasts.

Dragon boat races set the tone: ancestral vessels
flushed downstream by brawn.
Then somebody’s beauty interrupts, stronger
and bigger than the race.
It could make you wander around the edge of the crowd
pretending to buy a mooncake or two
to get a better view.
The boat flashes by. You’re certain the eyes caught yours.
Take the coloured banners as a good sign.
Waving on the horizon, they greet you.

But here we go again, meeting on clouds.
They can be anywhere, hiding half a moon above,
hanging low, above altars, taking on incense and
ghost money fumes, absorbing flakes
rising from Phoenix-brand cigarettes.
The charcoal fires would look great inside
hollowed-out pumpkins. That’s how we lure people to our doors,

by the way, on Halloween.

Candles behind smiles, that inner glow.

The mysterious exterior
that Oriental evenness of feature.
It’s like a mask already -
I’m sure it would work:
An entire continent afoot with paper bags
held open for treats.
After unleashing tricks:
Hungry ghosts no longer in hiding,
chocolate-crunching hordes,
a potential 100-million impostors
in one province alone.

Maybe we should just search,
together, plainclothed,
for the unspoken thrill,
for the tiny gifts,
or the big reward, love when the truth is out,
without martial posturing,
without that ritual fear of nights
with the unknown.

I'd like to bring this up now because tomorrow is Halloween

I do appreciate good use of the Subject Line in e-mails, but this one caught me off guard.
I was taken aback, even though I had indeed been corresponding with the General Manager of the cemetery where a number of family members are buried. Most significantly: my parents are there. When these four words popped into view on my computer screen, awareness of previous communications failed to sustain me.
The cemetery had generated anxiety in the past. My father was buried there over thirty-five years ago; my mother's ashes interred in the mid-1990's. My mother's ashes, I should say, were partially buried there, as other family members had, to my dismay, requested small portions of ash for transfer (at their discretion) to other sites. Anyway, the anxiety to which I refer had been triggered by difficulties in acquiring a new headstone for the plot which had originally been occupied by Dad alone. When Mom died, and it was decided to have her join Dad underground, it seemed appropriate to order a new headstone which they would also share, rather than add a second marker for her which could either match or clash with the marker already there for him. A design with text was eventually agreed upon and the order placed. No one involved in ordering the new marker lived nearby, so the cemetery Management promised to send a photo when the marker was ready.
A picture was indeed eventually sent by the mason, depicting the new marker in place on the plot, surrounded by the older stones of Grandparents and Great-Aunts and -Uncles who had departed this earth long before our times. The problem was: the stone set in place bore other names entirely, not ours at all, so that our parents were identified as "Mr. and Mrs. Byrd" or some such thing.
I welcomed the hilarity, imagining laughter from them both in the great beyond. The mason, however, was an elderly Italian man who took great pride in his work, and he was hugely ashamed of his error in placement. We reassured him and asked him to please not worry about the mistake. In no time, the correct marker was in place. From time to time, I pass by to share a few moments on that hill. At some point I left my e-mail address with the Manager's office, in case 'anything came up.' I had once inquired about the term 'perpetual care' which applies to family plots like this, confirming my suspicion that this implied little more than lawn-mowing and general up-keep of the grounds. I wondered about stone cleaning and maintenance, and was told that most people preferred the ‘old look’ and that virtually no marker scrubbing was carried out. After that, a long silence ensued.
So when a 'Question from the Cemetery' appeared, my eyebrows remained on high for several long moments. The question was not at all what I expected: in anticipation of my next visit to the cemetery, the General Manager was hoping I might be willing to bring special stockings for a ‘lady friend.’ To be honest, I really did not want to build up this type of relationship with his office. I imagined an infinite number of Subject Lines in the future, injecting, without warning, the shock of a 'Question from The Cemetery' on my screen.
I sent a reply: "Your request ... is indeed unique. If this is an item which is easily identified (size, color, material, quality, strength, price limit) then I am willing to look if I find myself in appropriate stores before travelling..., but without details to simplify the search, I'm afraid it cannot be done. I am not a 'shopper' and do not spend time comparing goods."

The Manager eventually replied, thanking me for my response and informing me that he anticipated visiting Amsterdam (with his ‘lady friend’) and would take care of the matter himself. I shuddered, alarmed at the prospect of seeing 'Visit from The Cemetery' in e-mails to come, but so far no such bulletins have materialized.

Eventually I visited the family plot again, intending to pass by the Manager's office to clarify the issue of perpetual care, but as I started down the green burial slopes on that afternoon in May, I saw his car moving slowly down the flat driveway to the exit gate. The gleam of afternoon sunlight on the car’s black surface was extraordinary.

This Presents So Many Possibilities

The Rugby World Cup 2007 is over now, and South Africa won. I was reminded that it was on when I walked by a French fast food establishment and saw that one of France's star rugby players had agreed to the placement of his signature on top of their seasonal cheeseburger variants. The man who signed the cheeseburgers is France's fly half Frederic Michalak.

I bought the cheeseburger so that I could create photographs for this series on ambient text. After taking the picture I took a bite of the burger only, being careful to avoid the rest. The beef product was not really any better or worse than other fast food combinations on the market, but the apparent poor quality of the bread and cheese was a disappointment.

The most heartening aspect of this innovative take-out idea is that it could trigger countless printed matter campaigns in the sector. There's no need to repeat the platitudes passed around in fortune cookies (although - shortly after learning about the Michalak burger - when I received an encouraging text about imminent uplifting encounters, I wondered whether I was being too harsh in my judgement), and texts resembling cookie copies would not be fun to eat.

I suggest: sports trivia, haiku, short fiction, library addresses. "No reading at the table" might become a rule relegated to the past.

Ramadan Began with Angels

I wanted to stay close to the Bakery window, where otherworldly cascades, ornamental sugary creations seemed to grow towards the glass. The sweet twists were white, golden, copper and orange in color. For a moment it was like being inside the miniature magical world of a sugar eggs with peep holes, a present I had received on Easter Sundays as a small child. I felt so close to that inedible, sweet display. Through the window I could see that mountains more filled the glass case and topped the long, narrow counter, glittering from the street towards the back of the store.
The man behind the counter was curious about my interest, as was a lone male customer inside. I turned away from the window to avoid their gaze and saw their sidewalk advertisement: a sawhorse stand provided by a well-known multinational. The sponsor background featured a young white woman with clear skin and rippling hair, angel wings in view behind her naked shoulders, two pre-packaged ice cream cones held in white- and black-colored gloves crossed carefully in front of her chest. The cones had also been produced to contrast: the cone appearing to be vanilla-flavored bore a light-colored wrapper; dark paper surrounded the presumably chocolate version held, of course, by a darkened hand. One wing was white, the other covered by a sinister shadow, as was half of her enchantingly pretty face. Still visible behind a large yellow sheet inserted by the shop-owners - a question printed on the poster by the multinational: Angel or Devil?
A thick plastic covering on both sides of the stand allowed the retailers to add their own hand-written news, which, in this case, in red marker, informed me that the Bakery was actually a take-out restaurant: Special Menu for Ramadan. By now the shop employee was frowning through the window at me while I studied the heaven and hell cone-eater image. Everyone was rushing along this busy Parisian shopping street. Observant Muslims from all continents might be walking past the sign, I thought, but nobody actually needed to stop in order to read it. The man inside wanted to know why I had. I stepped up and in off the street. The shop employee and I had to peer around the sugary towers on the counter to see each other and converse, while a tall, skinny local boy listened intently. He looked like a hip-hopper, with his baggy pants and cap.
I told the man that the sign was interesting, and asked if I could take a picture of it. He was suspicious and twisted on the balls of his feet, as if he wanted to consult, but could find no consultants within range. The boy asked me where I was from. The mention of Amsterdam brought a contented (conspiratorial?) smile to his face and he called out to the troubled shop employee: “Laisse la faire!” “Let her do it!”

Line 7, should be my lucky number

As I entered the Metro I bumped limbs with a young woman who held 1 arm bent at the elbow and raised like a spear to apply lipstick - just as I was pulling down a seat next to her in the central section of the car, where 8 people in total can sit down in combinations of 2, at the crossroads of the long main aisle and the short alley running between doors on both sides of the car. This open space offers standing room and several chrome poles to hold onto when it's crowded. At mid-morning there are empty seats. About 6 in the central block were occupied.
The young woman smiled at me to indicate that it was alright, she took no offenc(s)e at being jarred, and she was confident that I was not only not offended by having met her elbow while sitting down but that I understood that her efforts to finish applying make-up in this setting had a particular significance which would not be revealed. I returned her look with a reassuring but controlled grin and saw that she was probably in her 20’s, scruffily dressed in various layers of black. In the moment after the collision when she looked away from her compact mirror and at me, I couldn’t help noticing that her eyes glistened too much for this time of the day. She returned her gaze to the mirror and continued with the lipstick operation.
I secured a position of balance and comfort on my seat and looked straight ahead at the man across from us. He wore a suit which I will not easily forget: the fabric of both jacket and pants was green & yellow hound’s tooth. He was already looking across the aisle at the 2 of us in a kindly way. There was something about the random pair we formed, suddenly together, that caught his attention, as though he found meaning in our shared seating arrangements and contrasting height, hair, eye and skin color, style of dress. His stare was persistent but without malice.
Then the bottom of a large square-toed leather shoe came into view as the man sitting nearest to him across the main aisle swung his left foot up onto his right knee and commenced with a rapid shaking movement. The socks extending up the ankle from the shoe were lemon-colored, short with 1 dark rim at the ankle periphery. His suit was light-colored, his white skin tanned, his hair cut to military precision.
The hound's tooth suit smoothly rose and exited at the next station, gently vacating his fold-up seat by slowing the upwards motion with 1 hand as he stood up, all of which prompted lemon socks to spring from his seat to the newly vacated spot in 1 noisy sideways jump, after which he flung his right foot over his left knee and found a resting point for that foot on the chrome pole which had no other takers at this relatively quiet hour of the day.
The young woman and I got off at the same stop. She walked ahead of me to the exit, the spike heels of her pointy-toe boots clattering on the platform. Her eyes, shining a bit less, perhaps more glazed over than before, met mine again for a second before we boarded an escalator for the ascent to the street. I settled in 1 tread below her, staring directly into the red numbers on her back: 55. At street level she was received and embraced by a tall young man. The cobblestones interfered with a boot heel as they drifted off together, and she stumbled. I think she regained her balance with assistance from her companion, but it was hard to tell.