The Sound of Language

I like how language turns into music when you don't understand it. That's how I found out my French was deteriorating, in fact. One day, I sat on the steps of Union Square in San Francisco listening to a French couple nearby chatting intimately in the language of windchimes and bells rather than defined words. 

...all the more melodious and rhythmic for their meaninglessness.

Coming to a Train Station Near You!

OH MY GOD, this clip makes me so happy! HAPPEEEEEE!!!!

Jersey Woods

Our campground in Jersey was a huge open field of neatly trimmed grass, surrounded by a circle of forest, and more campgrounds on the other side of the gravel path. We were a five minutes' drive from civilization. In the middle were four picnic tables plus a fire pit with stacked wooden planks for seating around the fire. The eight of us pitched our four tents as soon as we arrived, and proceeded to live out a most amazing weekend of uninhibited relaxation and ridiculous games, during which running around barefoot and neglecting hygienic duties became the norm. It's not something I could do for an extended period of time, but for 2 or 3 days, it's the most liberating experience ever. 

For two days, we drank, grilled manly meats and vegetable shishkebabs, played euchre and catchphrase, drew balls on passed-out victims like grade-schoolers, drank some more, played frisbee, had a dance-off to the choicest 90's techno and reggaetone music,...and so on. I adore Sarah's classmates from her BMB program because they're all so fun and interesting. I could go on and on about their distinct personalities, but I'll spare you. There is one, though, who was particularly fun to have on this trip. 

Matt is one of those people who will, when he's bored, think of the most random games, or else re-invent old ones. As soon as he arrived in the boys' car, he got out and started throwing his axe at a tree. It didn't take him long to figure out how to nail it consistently to the bark. Later, Sarah and I decided to give it a whirl, and I ended up nailing it six times. I won't say how many times I actually tried. Suffice it to say, 'twas enough for me to get six hits. And after doing a bunch of push-ups the night before the axe-throwing game, my right arm is seriously sore from the activity. 

On day two, we ventured into the woods to explore the sandy trails and gather firewood on the way back. We crossed a few shaky bridges and saw many different varieties of trees like holly and ones with serpent-like branches wrapping and curling around the main trunk. We came upon a lovely brown river (see, it wasn't blue!) that I wouldn't dare swim in, but still liked the look of it. On the way to the river, Yosh stopped me in the middle of my awesome rendition of “The Ants Go Marching One-By-One” (I was on five-sies. The last one stopped to eat-a-baked-potato-with-sour-cream-and-CHIVES)- 

“Shhh!” he hushed us. We all turned into stone (or pillars of salt, if you like), staring in the direction he was pointing in. It took me ages to see what he was seeing- a gorgeous, tan-colored deer with full-grown antlers staring at us from afar. I waved to it. It stared back with unblinking eyes. Then it bent its crowned head back down to continue eating, then quickly snapped its head back up as if it were only testing us. Eventually, it bounded off into the trees. We moved on and continued our expedition through mini-mounds crawling with daddy-long-legs, past blueberry bushes, and things of that nature. 

When we got back with the firewood, Matt and Yosh started tossing a frisbee around. Then Sarah joined them. I watched, envious of her frisbee-throwing skills (we are clearly not identical!). As the frisbee was spinning toward Sarah, Matt ran and intercepted it, and the game turned into Monkey-in-the-Middle. No more than a minute into this new game, he grabbed a 12-foot-long piece of firewood and started using that to block the frisbee. This game was called “The Stick”, the most ridiculous, most hilarious game to play and watch. I tried spinning with it randomly because I figured it was so long, it was bound to hit the frisbee along its path. Eventually, I got too dizzy and abandoned the stick entirely and proceeded to just tackle people for the frisbee, which was more manageable than using the ridiculously long and unwieldy Stick. 

A new drink was invented, called the Heartburn shot: Hershey's chocolate syrup + sriracha sauce, squirted directly in the mouth, chased down with a shot of vodka. It was a violent unification of contradictory flavors that somehow came out tasting good. The whole was for sure more than the sum of its parts.

Later, long after the sun went down, we teepee-ed a bunch of really long firewood and built a bonfire whose flames reached higher than 5-foot-11 (the height of the tallest person in our group). It was so impressive a fire that the eight of us simply sat or stood around it, magically silenced, watching in reverence as its light orange flames flickered and roared soundlessly, being pulled this way and that by the rather strong winds that blew that night. We watched the flames licking the logs, the logs burning and smoldering, glowing like blacksmiths' iron as the flames surrounded them and seeped through them mercilessly, flames flaring up through the cracks in the old, dead bark. We watched as a strike with the axe sent a million sparks flying like a swarm of brilliant, horny fireflies raining skyward, and disappearing suddenly into the dense, inescapable dark. The teepee-ed logs, too hastily arranged, soon collapsed sideways, lighting a stray shoe on fire. 

It had been cloudy all the second day, and so we were expecting that the moon wouldn't be able to light up the sky for us like it had the first night. How wrong we were. That night, the four of us lay on the blanket, watching smoky clouds moving swiftly and continuously past our lone satellite, and clearing up here and there to reveal a smattering of stars- more than I've seen in a while. Whenever I see clouds moving past the moon, my brain always interprets it falsely as the moon moving against a still sky, so I always have to take a minute to adjust the perception. Adjust and stare. Not a bad view for Jersey, the supposed Armpit of the United States. Crickets and who knows what other creatures buzzed all around us. The night is never quite silent. I learned this fact the night I slept on a bench on the banks of the Cher River in France, back in 2005. Such a cacophony of noise I had never heard before, including creepy dolphin cries, Sincerely! 

The fields in Jersey are much quieter, though. Someone remarked that the celestial movements looked like CGI. My eyes followed the treetops that formed the periphery of the expansive circle of sky above us. The border of treetops curved around and down toward my feet and then I couldn't follow it anymore. I raised my head to see where it led, and saw instead, the silhouette of a giant walnut tree, its inky branches hung with walnut bulbs and leaves, and curving and angling upward into the navy sky, unable to reach the moonlight. 

Lyrical Moment in 21 Grams

I heard the beginning of this in the movie, 21 grams, and had to look up the rest. Here it is: 

The Earth Turned to Bring Us Closer

   by Eugenio Montejo

   translated by Peter Boyle

The earth turned to bring us closer,

it spun on itself and within us,

and finally joined us together in this dream

as written in the Symposium.

Nights passed by, snowfalls and solstices;

time passed in minutes and millennia.

An ox cart that was on its way to Nineveh

arrived in Nebraska.

A rooster was singing some distance from the world,

in one of the thousand pre-lives of our fathers.

The earth was spinning with its music

carrying us on board;

it didn't stop turning a single moment

as if so much love, so much that's miraculous

was only an adagio written long ago

in the Symposium's score.

Camping in Jersey tomorrow! Tents, peanut butter & jelly, beer, and no showers for 2 days- oh, and there may, or may not, be an accordion involved. Life can only get so much better! This too was written in the Symposium's score.

Bethany Beach

Delaware's not so bad. I've been sponging off of Sarah's friends since I haven't been back in Philly long enough to form my own bonds. Thanks to that, I got to go to a beach in Delaware and experience this:

Angled bridge

Lit like a spotlight onstage

by fluourescent white lights swarming with flies.

On either side, wild grasses grew

from white sands.

Lit unnaturally

by white fluourescent lamps

I tread the angled bridge in flat silver shoes,

stopped.

& lost my breath, my eyes grew wide.

Never have I seen 

such blackness staring me down.

It stretched across the dimensions

ready to swallow me whole

into its deep, dark, infinite abyss

Empty space, 

neglected by the Creator of things

I tread the length of the angled bridge

approaching the abyss.

Kicked off the silver shoes

and walked straight into the abyss.

I was not afraid. I knew the nothingness

was only an illusion. 

Things were there, should light be cast on them.

Just now, the light was fast asleep.

As all should be, 

but not were we.

Bare feet

Soft sands beneath the toes, 

Grains between the toes

We paused at the edge of the dry sands

& the beginning of the wet sands

From here, the abyss

was no longer empty.

We heard the woosh and crash of 

the surf against the shore

It thrilled me! Electrified me!

Leaving the others behind, my bare feet took off running down the wet sands

Hands flurried to strip off the remaining flowing garments

Tumbled playfully in the sands along the way

and dove into the abyss

Cold, black Atlantic! 

Pale bodies floating in a sea of tar

Above us another sea of tar

speckled with stars, 

no moon 

only Venus and Mars

I try to surf with the tide incoming

Massive, mammoth monster rising

But black force pounds my face and engulfs all my senses drowning

My sight is struck with stars

Thunder crashes around my ears

I lose all sense of when or where

As ruthless waves toss me hither and there

My clothes are ripped askew

All I can do is gasp and sputter

and crawl on my knees,

dragging my self, beaten and stripped, to the kinder shore.

Woah, rush! Again and again, over and under,

I battle with the tides over and over

What a rush, What a rush, the need to suffer...and fight and conquer

Back to shore I drag my self 

through the heavy molasses I drag my self

Bare feet back on solid sand 

and light and slender air

I become a spectator as others battle

their own tempestuous waves

On this planet, I see

no colors but black and white

Black sea, white crests

Black sky, white sands

Pale luminous torsos glow

like stars fallen into the jet-black flow

Crests race in from sea to shore like 

white stallions in battle form

Two front lines charge toward the shore 

Diagonal lines close in and roar

Clash and explode.

Another races from side to side

I watch, hypnotized.

I think we are standing at the edge 

of a strange planet

One jump will take us into deep space

off this strange planet

But I know this place, this lonely planet

And feel no desire to abandon it

Why would I want to leave?

Why would I want anything better?

We are here, and we don't know it

We are home, and we don't know it

Know it, know it, seek it, love it!

And then abandon it.

Mind vs. Eye

I went running for an hour yesterday! We ran along the Schuylkill River all the way to Boathouse Row and back to our house, and I'll be damned if it wasn't the most beautiful day ever, with so many other runners along the same route, which is inspiring...and perspiring.

When we reached the still waters of the beginning of Boathouse Row, where the canoes floated idly against the dock and the trees reflected their mossy green in the shaded water, two things happened. One, I was struck by the beauty and tranquility of the scene, so like an impressionist painting. This is as beautiful as it gets in gritty Philadelphia.

And two, it occurred to me suddenly that water is not supposed to be clean. In imagination, I always picture natural bodies of water to be blue and clear, but in real life, I am always unpleasantly surprised by how green or brown and unclear they are. The Schuylkill in Philly is always bashed for its mysteriously murky, hazardous-looking water, supposedly full of dead bodies; and the waters of Greenlake in Seattle reflect its name due to the excessive growth of algae and milfoil underneath its calm surface; and the Nile and Tigris, both acclaimed rivers in ancient times, but when you actually see them, you can't help but cringe at the thought of stepping foot into their murky depths. But maybe that's how natural bodies of water should be and the fault is really with my idealization of rivers and lakes.

We probably do this more than we realize- kind of like how we draw stars with 5 triangle points, but in reality, stars look nothing like that. Or how we often draw sheep as these fluffy, cloud-like things, but in reality, sheep hair is long, straight, and mangy and not white. Sigh...I always suffer such disappointment whenever I run across a real sheep! They are not at all like the cute and fluffy sheep you see in cartoons. Mental and physical representations probably rarely ever match up with the real object it represents. But that's ok because representations don't necessarily have to be accurate, right?