“The sound of silence
Is all [of] the instruction
You [will ever] get”
~ Jack Kerouac [et moi]
Something happens between birth and death that forces us to slow down. I don’t know when I began, but I like to think I’ve been doing the work of digging myself out from beneath the rubble of my own past. This entails creating a space that feels safe enough to read through the journals of my youth—to unlock those still painful memories—or to sort through photographs that play tenderly on my frayed heartstrings.
A new (for me) creative practice I have enjoyed doing for the purposes of this platform—this assemblage of my mixed-up memories—has been to pair photographs with journal entries (including drafts of poems) jotted down within the same time frame. Entries oftentimes only a few lines long… Yet combined with images captured that day (or even week), I’m delighted to discover what I was unable to write down.
It might simply be human nature to want to plow (or plod, for those of us who are on the slower side) forward into the future… That is, until we lose something which begs we retrace our steps. Or until age catches up with us—forcing us to catch our breath more and more often. Taught that time is linear, life is a race, and death is the finish line we’re all desperate to outrun—it’s little wonder we end up stalling!
Or worse, going around in circles… I imagine hell is repeating the same mistakes and never learning from them. A few years ago, the world stood still just long enough for me to catch my breath—to remember who I wanted to be: Someone who took ample time not simply to stop and smell flowers, but lingered long enough to write a haiku (or two)… Who talked for hours with trees… Who listened well—listened closely.
I spent the global lock-down going up and down a handful of streets in that Parisian suburb which I called home at the time—slowly walking my dog because it was one of the few authorized activities (outside of going to work) I could do. I already knew I was saying goodbye… Not just to a city I loved, but also to a self that no longer served me: An identity grown stiff from wear and tear now stifling my future growth.
It wasn’t easy for me to peel back the layers—nor was it easy for those close enough to me to bear witness to the wreckage. I sought solace in silence and steady movement… I wrote haiku as I walked as a form of meditation. Taking stock once more of the smallest wonders all around me—how they enhanced what was made with tools or by hand—at last, I trusted this beauty would follow me anywhere I went.
~ Parisian Blues ~
{ { in 25 haiku & 1 tanka } }
~
Paris is a state
of mind—as much as it is
the sun on your face.
~
In Spring—I worry
the cherry blossoms will fall
before you return…
~
« Nos amis les chiens
ne sont pas admis » read the
sign outside the park.
~
Nine white round pots and
eight black square ones guard
the side door to the hotel.
~
English ivy crawls
under a black wrought iron
fence with spear-like tips.
~
Potted cacti peek
through windows at posters of
the Golden Gate Bridge.
~
A mustard colored
splatter of moss stains the base
of solemn oak trees.
~
There aren’t many
leaves left on the ground… Winter
has digested them.
~
« Doucement » I find
myself whispering when I
step over the stones.
~
Catching my breath on
a bench—the wind rustles the
bamboo behind me.
~
A young woman in
glasses stops to read the words
engraved on a plaque.
~
rue Joseph Bernard
named for a « sculpteur »
who died (1931).
~
The bark on these trees
looks blue compared to the ne-
on of the bamboo.
~
Hearts made of paper
hang above the flower shop—
moss tickles my feet.
~
A magnolia
tree helps the noisy din of
traffic seem dampened.
~
At night—fake candles
draw me toward a window
of fragrant flowers.
~
A stone face with a
surprised expression still hangs
over the blue door.
~
Teenagers curse in
Arabic while loading crates
of bread onto vans.
~
« Vous étés des cons un
chat est fugueur » scribbled on
the lost cat flier.
~
« J’avais pas eu le
temps de le réfléchir— » said
the man cycling past.
~
A dirty blanket—
with leopard spots printed on
it—waits in the rain.
~
Pink feathers float down
murky gutter water then
disappear from sight.
~
A grey-haired woman
plays songs from Amelie on
her accordion.
~
« Je voir la lune ! » says
the child—pointing at the sky.
« Bien joué » says the mom.
~
In Spring—anger chills
my bones, despite these flowers
stuffed in my pockets.
~
A cigarette butt
bounces off the back of a
speeding motorbike
inches away from my face
before landing in the street.
~