silverdale, washington

this afternoon, dad and i went to the firing range in silverdale. i shot a shotgun. the ammo: slugs, not shot - one solid piece of metal. a handheld cannon, like nothing i've ever fired. you brace the butt up against your shoulder, firmly so that when the gun is discharged, the butt of the gun doesn't kick into your flesh with such force. the recoil pops the barrel upwards, ten inches or so from the point where i was aiming.

yep.

also found a house in ballard. more to follow.

Celluloid Bainbridge : Installation #1

On Sunday afternoon, some seven minutes and a handful of seconds after the screening of my short documentary "One with the Work", I stooped and spoke into the microphone behind a podium to an audience of roughly forty.

"It is important to acknowledge the collaborative nature of filmmaking..." These words from a recent email from Californian friend gus stuck in my head as I addressed the piece. I acknowledged Don Sellers, the cameraman who shot the field footage, Katie Jennings who co-produced, and most importantly, Mr. Dave Ullin for his willingness to participate in the making of the documentary.

A collaborative effort. Reconstructing the pithy old saying about the lone tree falling in the forest, old time friend Pat Scott asks me the question "If a Van Gogh sits in the attic and no one sees it, is it art?" Pat has spent more time pondering this aphorism than I and readily came up with the response. "No!"

Pat's understanding of art is an understanding of the transmission and reception of an idea. The artist creates, the audience through the simple act of participation with the creation, allows creation to live. The audience completes the art. Therefore, audience is just as much a part of the filmmaking process as the cameraman, the producer, editor, or subject.

"I'm happy you all came out to support independent filmmaking," I said, the MC of the festival gently raising the microphone, straightening my stature. And I mean it. Without audience, these pieces, in this case, Dave's vision, sits in the attic and collects dust.

Living art.

Earlier that afternoon, I was startled by a gentle tap from on my shoulder from behind followed by the gritty growl of my name.

I turned and wrapped my arms around the huge man. Dave's shoulders were wet from walking through the drizzle to the Lynwood Cinema. I inhaled the same sweet, damp smell that clung to his skin, to his green wool sweater, the same sweater he wore during the interview a year before.

Translations

Indianola, WA

This morning I was composing a letter to one of my good/true spanish friends, Gala. We met in Granada, toured down to Chefchouen, Morocco with her friends, my friends Marcos and Judit. I spent ten or eleven days with them in the three-story house they were renting for 150o Dirham a month. They used to laugh good-naturedly at my Spanish, even went so far as to make a list of the many words I would fabricate during conversations as I attempted to take advantage of the common Latin roots of our respective languages.

"Contendedor" was one such attempt. The fabrication bubbled up in a particularly light-hearted game of Parcheesi, a game that has curiously swept across Spain and Morocco, embedding itself in the culture with the same lasting strength that we in America might compare to football or pizza. As a chessplayer, I long misunderstood the true importance of the game; "It's so painfully simplistic," I thought, "It's all subject to chance." After a few games, I realized that it wasn't about the game, it was about the interaction the game provided.



The fact that the game is so entirely out of one's control allows a person to relax; it's no big deal. If you loose, no hard feelings - bad luck with the dice. Nobody ever walked away from one of our parcheesi games angry. I couldn't say that for many of the chess games I've played.

I rolled the dice. "Yo quiero ser contendedor," I said, actually trying for "I want to be a contender". Marcos and Judit and Gala looked at each other. There was a brief silence there in the small shaded square outside of the cafe where we sat with our green teas in hand. a brief silence, then laughter. And after using an the online translator Babel Fish to translate this morning's email from my Spanish back to English, I can see why:



Intended:

"I never had the chance to show you guys any of my piano music. Here's a song."

My Translated Spanish to English Result:

"Tapeworm the opportunity to never embosom the musica to them mia of the piano aqui this."



Fluent? Not quite? Conversational?
Though once I believed so, also questionable.

***

I miss you guys.

life.

we walk down the beach together, back towards the dock. it's overcast, drizzling, but comfotably warm with what the folks down at KOMO 4 call the "pineapple express."

"he's my friend. if i saw him in the store, i'd say hello. 'you sure do bike in all kinds of weather' i'd say.

when i pass him, i wave and he waves back. sometimes it's after i've passed already, i look into my rearview mirror and he turns around and gives a good wave. i think he's friendly by the kind of wave he gives. you know, not just a half-raised arm, but he lifts it and shakes his hand, even.

i wouldn't even recognize him if i saw him without his mask on. i may have seen him before when he's not all bundled up. i wouldn't even know it. and i don't think i'd want to - to recognize him. it's somehow better this way.

it's more powerful that way. it's not just one person. he's a representation of all people. of all waving people. of something good about people. and i've always looked for that; the good in people."

earlier, dad and i drew equations in the rippled tide flats; we were calculating the speed in miles per hour of 10 knots. dad used to wake me up in the morning back when i was home-schooled. math at 7 am. he'd swing open the door, "time to get up, son. put your feet on the floor," he commanded, knowing that if i stayed lying in bed that i would fall back to sleep. some mornings, he'd bring in fresh bread just out of the machine. i big slice of metling butter. i remember the whole house smelled of bread.

those days it was easier to get up.

tonight, in a flurry typical to last-minute post-production, i am formating and burning the final "one with the work" documentary for the screening tomorrow. i've added a thank you to dave ullin and also placed the islandwood media productions logo at the end of the piece.

that's the update.

Letter to Dawn

indianola, wa

i live at home, in indianola, the town where i grew up, where i drank mickey stubbies on the beech, hunted for crab with sharpened sticks with my cousin, and split the skin of my head jumping into the metal ring of a miniature basketball hoop while showing off for a girl. i sleep in a bed i have slept in for 15 years, the same bed where i lost my virginity, the same bed where my father awakened me with news of the attacks on the twin towers, the same bed that i passed out in after late nights of drinking.

since i returned, i've begin gutting my room. in addition to the many boxes and assorted shit that i've collected, the room has become a storage space for the rest of the family: folders and clothing and posters and a cork board and shoes and a fan. i pulled out a paper mache mask and a photograph from a box full of all the little things my first lover gave to me. i framed the photograph, a blouse blowing in an open window, and hung it alongside the mask.

i hung them to remember that i had been in love and lost love before.

i see people that i know here in my hometown. they say hello. i found myself sitting with tom today. he's an alcoholic; i think that's why his teeth are the way they are. he is an alcoholic, but i think he's come to terms with that. he told me that he's drowned three times during basic training with the seals when he still believed in the military as an institution. he talked, i listened. "what i did learn from from my time with the seals was how to face my fears."

he didn't ask me what my plans were; it was nice to talk with him.
other friends: steven is still working on the tugboats; he's got his hours cut down, no longer working 6 straight 12 hour days. tristan has a baby now and is working as a technician for some behemoth digital printer. his dad got him the job. tito is in mexico city; he and his girlfriend are taking a couple of weeks to look at the artwork. they hope to push as far south as oaxaca. gabe and lydia seem happy. gabe is putting together his portfolio for grad school; he wants to be an architect.

sarah is graduating soon - she came down to redmond and visited nana and i, she rocked me as i cried and then we went out for salad. i hear brad is now a special ed teacher "mr. roden". coling rides his bike to work at the seattle p.i., writes about climbing and art preservation among other things, and loves his job. ryan is a computer programmer, but i think he's just gathering steam to take over the planet. roemer is working at the ferries, excited to start working the kingston/edmonds run again. roemer has been helping me out a lot latey. sara is studying, research with a favorite faculty come spring. we talked on the phone for the first time in seven months - talked like friends.

i'm looking for work - corresponding regularly with a guy in missoula montana about a aerial photography job. they shoot ten-inch wide film with a camera mounted through the belly of the twin engine plane, and though the explanation was rather vague, i think they are putting together aerial grids. i've also applied for a job with an expedition company as a shooter/editor, as a production assistant with a couple local freelancers, and front desk administration at a theater in portland.

in my spare time, i read about the eye, take beach walks, and meditate with my dad.
i'm trying not to eat refined sugar.

life.

One with the Work: A Documentary by Noah Dassel

One with the Work

"One with the Work" is a video documentary I began in 2006 during my internship with the School in the Woods, Islandwood. The subject of the documentary is one Dave Ullin (depicted in the image below), a captivating Bainbridge Islander who demonstrates the falling of a Hemlock using old fashioned tools. Dave describes his rich history with what he calls "purposeful work" and details each step in the tree-cutting process.



"One with the Work" will screen this Sunday at Lynwood Theater's Celluloid Bainbridge Festival at 6:15pm. For more information about the festival, check out the detailed schedule. To view the documentary, click below>>>>

One with the Work

Many thanks to Katie Jennings and Islandwood for their support, to Don Sellers for the tree-cutting footage, and to Dave Ullin for his willingness to share his wisdom.

...

Dad and I

A gentle tap on the door, just the tips of two fingers against the wood.
"Good morning son."
I groan to something resembling awake, twist my face from the pillow to look at my alarm clock, 15 minutes before seven. I've been getting up early, well, early for one in charge of their own time, but rarely earlier than seven.
"Do you want to take a walk?"
I pause in bed, slurping inhale.


Two hours walking through the snow.
Four inches - deep for a small town near the water.

Since Mom is spending all of her free time in Redmond caring for Nana, Dad and I are living here in Indianola alone, eating together, meditating together, talking, walking together. Roommates

Sometimes one of us comes a little unglued, usually over politics. Ego - we b0th know the force well. But we've been doing well. In the evenings, he studies his Spanish, occasionally popping downstairs to the computer room, my office, where I spend many hours a day typing emails and looking for work. "El pan es un alimento. Es una comida. Now what is 'alimento' ".

It's nice to help.

holy shit, i'm not in school anymore

holy shit, i'm not in school anymore.

1. job search.
2. pounding out the job applications left/right/up/down.
3. phone calls and drop-ins and emailing.
4. yeah, looking for work.

• i'm beginning to realize that this little world isn't quite so gentle and giving as i thought.
• but, horns down, full blasting rockets, slashing through the thicket.

production assistant, editing assistant, shooter and editor, soon to be radio reporter/producer -

one after the other like pistol shots and a steaming hot chamber.

cheers trigger

flaming ::: you son of a bitch

a friend sent me this link.
i found it interesting.
i hope you do, too.

flaming

and no, i won't take it back...

happy valentine's day

. L o v e . P a t t e r n s .

nana

indianola, washington
us.america

& fields of gold

this past two days i spent in the company of my nana.
she's called nana, we call her nana.
"why not grandma?" some ask.
"grandma, she felt, sounded much too old,"
i say.

and she now lives in a retirement community
called emerald heights.
it costs a lot of money
and the people who work there are kind and thoughtful,
the staff in numbers bountiful.

it's not a typical retirement home,
the familiar, but un-placeable smell of old folks
is vacuumed up every evening.
there are dances and young men
come with their cellos to share their talent.
the food is good,
chicken and steak,
a salad bar and soups,
a selection of deserts.

nana lives in the assisted living unit.
she spends her days in bed
looking out the window
at the tops of the evergreens
tall and mighty and cold across the street.

and lately i have been trying to see her as much as possible.
she now has pneumonia.
she coughs,
the evil phlegm stuck
between the bottom of her chin
and her lungs.
just stuck.

fucking stuck.

"that's the way a lot of older folks go,"
my dad tells me.

and this time,
during my visit,
i rubbed her head
and held her hand,
and she looked through her oxygen mask,
and said,
"don't worry, honey.
there's nothing you can do."

this is the first time
i have ever heard her speak
of her own mortality.
and i began to cry.

and it's beautiful
to cry for someone else.
to cry and care for someone
other than myself.

i wanted it to be over;
the cough, the frail body, the half-open eyes.
so slow.

mom teaches gently,
says sometimes she feel the same,
"but then i remember that it's not about me,"
and then
"this is about nana."

and i realize she is right;
nana will go when she is ready to go.

bounced checks

slather a sliver of sweet butter
over this stiff corpse
and tell me
you don't love me

i, i, i.

you gasp, but it wastes.

and now, while she snorts cereal and broken glass
through silver straw reciting god's gift to humor

x= mazes - y+ (90)
:::lewdly:::

i, always i, though the face at times contorts
pleads "don't, stop, i want out "
insert smiling face . .

hardly drove the car through the living room wall,
the radio swollen like the face of a taxidermist
huffing shrew hair . .








you want more?
try taking what you give.

freewrite

indianola, washington

it's been awhile since i last posted >>> weeks. much has passed between the time that the plane set down gently in seatac and this present moment, sitting here typing in indianola. working in the city, in aurora, an internship for a show scheduled for pbs called biz kids, like bill nye the science guy but relating to finance. fun atmosphere, good people, interesting work (recently logging clips from interviews with innovative young entrepreneurs), but hellish commute. lately i've been frankensteining my travel to the city from indianola where i am temporarily squatting with my mom and dad.

and now i'm thinking a lot about what to do next. a swirl of ideas, mostly snubbed before they can take off. just yesterday i changed the long term plans for the rest of my life thrice: from nutritionist to documentary filmmaker/teacher to nurse practitioner. fuck. i feel like something is out of order. i spoke with my long-time buddy richard roemer this afternoon about concerns/possibilities for the future. his advice in a bullet casing:

"nothings perfect. just commit to something you like and see where it take you."

i think i can see the rationale behind this kind of thinking. for the longest time, my entire life, really, i've been looking for something perfect, something to pursue that has no flaws - music? nope, i convinced myself, the impact is too ephemeral. media making? naw, too corrupt, again not certain it's making positive change. nursing? too proud to work as a nurse, a male in a female dominated field. doctor? well, starting too late. teaching? too simple, too easy, the burnout potential extremely high.

one after the other, i snub these possibilities and others before they can breathe even a moments life, before researching, investigating, pursuing even in the most cursory form. i cut them out one by one without consideration because they are less than perfect.

but what i am realizing is that everything has flaws. maybe this idea of perfection is just a joke, a concoction, a fantasy that i have convinced myself exists. i want the golden bullet, the panacea to all of my worries to be capsulated neatly into this one, gleaming career path. i fear boredom, exhaustion, ethical impurities, commitment.

and by accepting this fear of commitment, i have systematically and subtly removed all possibilities. and here i am, right at the beginning.

i thought i could easily and happily explore for the rest of my life. but it's no longer true; i want expertise, i want to develop. i want to throw my energy into something completely, i want to become it, to eat it and think it and live it; but i have told myself that i don't know what it is.

but maybe roemer is right:

just choose something you like. nothing is perfect.

it has been an interesting ride

and yes, getting used to, adapting to another keyboard. and this one
feels somehow the strangest of all. an american keyboard, all of the
letters exactly where i left them on the third of july, a day before
independence day in 2006, nearly seven months ago this week when i
departed friends, family, country, known for london, spain, france,
and eventually morocco. yes, the fingers adapting once again to the
idiosyncrasies of this layout as i sit here on this bed in this house
in this neighborhood in london, the night before the day when i pack
my beaten, dusty backpack for the last time and head to heathrow for
the many hour trip back to seattle washington, the city where i was
born.

yes the adventure, this adventure is coming to a close. after some
thought, after a letter from my mother concerning the fast failing
health of my grandmother, who's charity without which the last lef of
this trip would not be possible, my grandmother who i realized in the
desert i would never see again in this earthly context, who i want to
see, my nana and the combination of a tired squeezed account and a
real urge to go "back." i won't readily or easily write the word
"home," that foreign four letter collection of letters, the
significance and meaning of which traveling forced me to question time
and time and time and time. but back, back to something old, but with
something new; a new mindset.

does that make old new? we shall see, we shall.

and here with two dear friends: sasson and kissley from the writing
center, the newly married couple transplanted to london, living with
sasson's grandmother near the golder's green underground subway stop.
and these two friend take me in for two nights, and we and grandma
talking about global politics and Judaism and the world war II and
she recounts over pork chops and stirfry the vision of watching a
stray german missile fly up the valley, watching it come and pass and
then disappear out of sight, looking for a place to spray the dirt and
stone and bone with its destructive guts. "i used to do my homework
under this table," she says, patting the sturdy, oak top.

and tonight after the natural science and science museum combo,
kissley and i with umbrellas tucked under armpit, met sasson after his
day of "honest" interviewing at the office, we met for a kebab, then
two, the lamb juicy and plentiful. the familiar chatter of arabic
somehow more familiar than the sound of english.

"waha." okay.

then to the sooshi or hookah lounge, a stiff cup of coffee to prop the
drooping lids for myself, telling sasson and kissley the proper
moroccan "when" as he added 3 seconds of streaming white sugar to his
mint tea. the coffee takes affect and we pull out the camera,
filtering the flash with a yellow bus ticket connecting markus and
jackie and i between rassini and marrakesh.

and marakkesh where the three of us good good good friends finally
broke that connection. an early morning goodbye after a sleepless
night and i knew from his tears that markus and i really did effect
one another. a true, golden, heartfelt connection that i feel mighty
fortunate to share. a good friend. "travel well, dammit" and i knew he
meant it. and i meant the kiss on the cheek; a brother of mine.
family.

dammit, you travel well, too markus. life flowed esay through those
evening you and jackie and i spent playing cards and eating and
arguing and loving one another's company. i will always treasure these
memories like an old woman treasures the photos of her long-lost love:
nostalgia for a time completed, but the possibility that perhaps
someday, some life, somehow you and we will be again brought together.
and you, markus, you have taught me to follow my own progression. you
have taught me, markus, that traveling isn't as my aunts frequently
remind me "good to do now because you won't get another chance." you
have taught me the importance of focusing and developing (like you and
your guitar and your card tricks) that which inspires from within. you
have taught me, markus. and even if you and i never make that trip
trip by bicycle down through mexico and into the central heart
countries and finally to south america, even if this doesn't happen,
you will always be with me in spirit and in ideology.

i take you with me, my friend. my friend. into my heart, big welcome.

you and the others. i have learned from every one of you: jackie from
colorado, quiet calm; reginald trotter, buzzing earpiece steve reich
symphony, southern hospitality, first sexual experience; natalia,
chicken dinner and love-making - "you can take me again if you want,
too" lovely girl; bato your fierce anger and frightening ikido/blade
power, our late nights watching films and eating sock cheese; yussef,
grapes and afternoons spent smoking cigs under the fig tree, your
laugh like a sunburst; joseph beeson, gigi, sandra, some of the
healthiest food i have eaten this entire trip and i look forward to
returning your kindness when you arrive in all of your collected
frenchness to portland; anja, paris, france and we drink coffee from a
machine in mcdonalds? i wish i could now collect that metro-kiss; anna
catalan stone worker; merika the exploring the rich mines of self with
sexual dynamite; laura, my friend, where are you now?; angel, brief,
but everlasting, a street corner hug i hope will never release; june,
fatty herple, first sunset; marcos, solid like an ox's angel,
headstand yoga king, teacher and true friend; gala, thank you for
sharing your bed, raspy smoker voice spouting five languages, culinary
guru; judit and joe, know that you will be happy; jd, save this planet
and let's record.

and the list, this list goes farther. you all, you people, i take you
all with me; i take you all. thank you for your lessons, your
kindness, your honesty, bravery, strength, and love.


it has been an interesting ride

ain°t never been to merzouga?

.:::. photos from south .:::.


markus playing dry high noon berber rummy with the arabs.

°one dirham, one point?° nope, but marcos would have pulled in

a hefty sum. markus, interesting character, stoic card player.

been to vegas, played online with the same dedication that he

shows to his guitar practice, his django reinhardt songs and the

creation of his °not songs, licks.° exceptional guy, this markus:

one of my teachers on this trip. learned that life is a lot more

complicated and interesting as i originally believed. i feel lucky

to have shared his company for the moroccan leg of this journey.

inside of the van, the ride back to risani from the thick desert

sands. our driver stopped the old orange van to pick up

many of the local villagers living in the nearby splattering

of homes. all berber. early morning, not much chatter.

the back of the heads of two men. still in the van.

j o k i n

interesting article concerning moroccan free speech and humor. in general, i have found the people of morocco to take things pretty seriously: people laugh, yes, they enjoy one another, kiss and hold hands, but there is a sensation of heaviness. conversations have a point. men converse about politics, about futbol, about money in the cafes, but there is little laughter, and the smiles exchanged feel slightly pinched, the humor brittle.

the attached article is perhaps a glimpse into the reason why.

before the current king of morocco, the °fairly genial° king mohammed VI, generations previous lived under the rule of Hassan II in an era coined °the years of lead.° as quoted by the article, °thousands of people disappeared in those days.° and i think one can still feel the ripples of that epoch.

as an relatively sheltered american, i found it initially strange that there are still kingdoms and kings; it seemed so medieval, what i imagined to be a political system that expired along with the crossbow or the black death. but it morocco is very much an autocracy, royal bloodlines determining the political governing future of the country. the king apparently makes occasional visits to towns, accompanied by tinted van loads of special guardsman. gala told me that in chefcaouen, the two open clothes shelters by the river where women hand-wash clothing were a gift from his majesty.

and free speech? another subject i think i took for granted. what does it mean to be in a land where all the expression of all thought is allowed?

sometimes i feel the same sense of oppression as an american, not in the political sense, but in terms of what our family, our friends, our employers, our culture deems acceptable. how many times have i written °something other° than what i was thinking because of an underlying and assumed cultural pressure? but this is something quite different, less connected, less obvious. here in morocco, the lines are more clearly defined.

which is more destructive?

spectacular stomach

marrakesh, morocco

this evening, markus, jackie, and i dove mouth-first into the night life here in the crowded al fna, the same football field plaza the lonely planet enthusiastically deems ::: one of the greatest spectacles you will ever see! ::: after breezing casually from from the snake charmers wooing limp cobras with fast flute tunes to a fortune teller speaking in charged arabic to his palmed brown egg and finally settling briefly to watch a boxing match between two adolescents.

no blood, no fun.

*jackie and marcus*

so, we turned to the culinary spectacle in the adjacent, smoke from the dozens of small meat-charring fires shrouding temporary booths serving colorful meats and seafoods and breads and vegetables, men in dirty white shin-length coats aggressively funneling shuffling tourists to the plastic tables. in a little less than two, i had the following juicing harmoniously in my stomach:

french fries, battered squid, tomatoes and tomatoe puree, olives spiced and slick, soup with noodles and beans, rice, bread, sardines, cookies and cinnamon snails, lamb bits in boiled in dark broth, a cup of yogurt, a sticky peanut bar, prange juice, coffee, 7up and coke, and finally to wash it all down, a luke-warm sip and a half of moroccan mint tea.

oh, and i forgot to mention the brain. markus and i saddled up to the row of goat heads, cooked flesh taught and brown, pulling the lips away from the still grinning upper jaw and row of teeth. °the next time someone asks us what the strangest thing you have ever eaten is, you are not going to say snails° i goaded markus. the chef looked at us with disinterest, deftly ladling out a half lobe onto a small plate then dicing it up with the edge of a spoon. white, the veins a spartan network of webbing. we tucked in, bread in hand; creamy like a whipped cheese, adhering slightly to the roof of the mouth, the flavor something close to animal food. we are champions, ate it all, i vowing never to order another plate of brain again. °it wasn°t bad° markus says, wiping the grease from his lips with the butcher paper.

dedicated to all the heartbreakers out there

what follows is a razored down online chat between my brother and i. he asks some pretty good questions and the result is a pretty fair overview of the last few days here in morocco. please forgive any errors in spelling or punctuation.

me: james dassel?
james: holy crap
me: holy smokes
james: how are things?
me: fucking marvelous. you?
james: Things are well. I just finished my PLSC class
me: plsc...
james: Political Science class,
me: that is what i thought. good?
james: The professor is woman who is quite eccentric
me: how so?
james: she kind of squeaks when she gets excited
me: nice sounds cool

james: are you with friends?

me: yes; a german and an american. two good friends. we just spent the evening playing cards on the rooftop watching the sun go down.
james: cool, I am happy you have company. how are you? where are you?
me: really well staying here in rashini. i think that's how you spell the name. starting to get the flavor for this traveling in morocco lifestyle. lots of changes, though
james: how so, with the changes that is ?
me: this city is probably one of my favorites so far; its not some tourist stop

james: is it medieval?

me: people live and work here. no, not in the strictest sense of the term.

me: but it does have some pretty medieval style about it. for instance, this guy with a big container full of live chickens pulling them out one by one wiping the blade clean on their feathers then slitting their throats right there on the street corner or the people working with metal and wood. it is very much alive.

james: Just on the street? That is new to you probably. Is tradition and religion deeply embedded in the culture?

me: yes, very much so. today at 2:30 people were laying out their prayer mats praying right there in front of their shops and the mosques here old and beautiful many they have these loudspeakers connected to the towers and five times a day, they +broadcast+ the daily prayers it+s quite remarkable to hear the city erupt in sound moaning like a group of people mourning for the dead, but powerful. it really makes me realize how much western culture lacks such ritual.

james: they moan during prayer?

me: no, they are not moaning, but sometimes it sounds like it. they are actually reciting a series of phrases. Allah ak bar: allah is greater. together it sounds like moaning or weeping but like i said, beautiful.

james: I agree that we do lack some ritual. What do you do when they are praying. Have you found that you feel very much like an outsider in there culture? Is it awkward at all?

me: yes, like an outsider the skin gives it away it is hard not to become jaded every time someone approaches you, you know it has to do with money a child asking for a dirham, a clerk persuading you to come into his shop.

james: do they think that you are very wealthy?

me:yes, and we are wealthy. the very fact that we are traveling in this country signifies wealth even though we don+t consider it wealthy by western terms.

james: do you feel vulnerable? Do you stick out like a sore thumb?:

me: yes, we stick out especially here but i don+t particularly feel vulnerable.

james: is it uncomfortable?

me: you just play it cool, try not to make any promises you cannot keep. its funny, my friends and i have been talking about it lately; to make somewhat of a gross stereotype, moroccans don't steal. from for instance, we left our bags in the front of some cafe this afternoon after we ate breakfast the owner watched over it all while we used the internet, took a walk to the bus station. no, there is little outright theft here. the moral standards concerning theft are much much higher than that of the united states or western culture.

james: hmm.

me: but if they can, moroccans will consensually trade you blind. a roll of film for 10 euros for instance or last night; checking out of the last place we stayed °a tent in the desert° when i went to pay the bill of a thousand dirham, the cashier told me it was 1000 for each person what?6:47 PM no way he quickly reduced it to 2000 for the three of us, still straight faced pfff... upon my continued obstinance, he finally admitted that he was °joking° and took the thousand but i dont think it was a joke. i think he would have taken the money had i given it to him i think the people realize that we have money and we are often oblivious to the true price of things, the often quoted °moroccan price°. nothing has any prices attached to it in stores, for instance you live and learn here.

james: that is total crap. So you have to be guarded with your cash.

me: but us tourists we haven+t been living here long enough to know... so we learn

james: it is probabley good life training. Just dont get your toes burned

me: trying not to.

james: Money is replaceable

me: sometimes its hard not to get burned financially but i am learning i am learning to be more open, i think more tactile more involved.

james: do you feel perfectly safe, like the saftey you felt in spain?

me: no not always. it is just that everything here is so entirely foreign, but i think its safe another example the moroccans will really let rip when they argue, it sounds like someone is on the verge of death. we took this bus ride from fez to merzouga; long ride, ten hours total by the end, we were pretty wiped out so the money handler on this bus, a friend, comes up to us and says °watch out for the irregular guides° at the next stop irregular meaning °fake°. well, we didn°t head the advice so well and the next thing we knew, there were these two really hungry scary looking guys offering us a dirt cheap ride to merzouga.

james: doesnt sound like thte wisest idea.

me: fortunately, i asked the bus driver for some advice, he advized to stay on the bus and these two are still all over us even after i told them that we were disinterested then suddenly, this full out screaming match starts between them and our friend the money handler. a huge crowd of people gather saround just following us, in our face, not taking no for an answer and it just starts to escalate and my friends and i escape back onto the bus and we=re watching through the window and i seroiusly thought someone was going to get smashed. but it was just barking, fortunately no biting and i have seen these heated echanges before. i think its a part of the custom

james: that is a frightening story noah. I am happy nothiing happened.

me: i even saw a brief scuffle in fez, but no punches were thrown

james: family's prayers are going to good work. me: i tihnk the violence here ispredominantely verbal yes, i thank you much.

james: do you think that people are often on the verge of violence there?

me: that could have been a bad situation what i have noticed is that there is a tension people are not laughing in the streets, for instance they speak seriously often* especially when money is involved which is all of the time with us tourists. but like i said; i think the violence is mainly verbal.

james: there are not many tourists you said?

me: very few . we have stopped in a town that really has no tourist appeal

james: I sure hope so. What sort of safety net do you have?

me: money wise, you mean? the cash is running low, well below the thousand dollar mark really making it stretch, though. the room where we are stayinfg is 3 euro a night and it is great.

james: dont starve yourself noah. I believe your family owes you a christmas present of some sort.

me: thanks bud, dad threw a hundred bucks in my account much thanks that is another week here at least.

james: how exactly have you reasoned to return? If you are returning? With so little cash?

me: but i am thinking about coming back to the states.

james: always good to hear. so is the itch to come home gorwing? me: yeah, an itch? i would like to see nana that is one of the main factors. i had a dream last night. she was crying and we held each other and we kissed and she said she would never forget my voice that she would always remember me. i think it was a warning or a goodbye i woke up crying.

james: noah dont beat yourself because you are not here. You must enjoy the time you are having in europe or north africa or wherever, and you must be there completely. When you feel a need to return, you must come back here completely.

me: thanks for the room, buddy.

james: Nana was a traveler and she understands that, and she loves you all the same

me: thanks. i have to fly, man i love you very much

james: I love you noah. it was great talking to you me: we will talk soon in person james: sounds very good.

me: love you, bud

james: smooth traveling.

me: until then.

politics

i woke up this morning, sore from another night on the lumpy sofa in the room i am sharing with my friends marcos and jackie. from the window of the hotel room, i watched a group of kids in their early teens push one another across the street; the largest bullying smaller ones, they in turn finding someone smaller yet, the smallest eventually kicking a door.

¨they°ve started another war today¨ the young man said as my friends and i drank our coffee at a cafe near the bus station. without asking, i knew who ¨they¨ was. on monday, the united states conducted air strikes on southern somalia in an effort to kill suspected al qaida operatives. ¨and they are planning to put more troops into iraq; new strategy. that is all the people here have been talking about¨ the young man continued, sitting down at our table, a warped reflection of our faces in his aviator glasses. i asked him what he thought the general sentiment towards the united states was in morocco. ¨we hate america. they keep attacking muslim countries. why? for oil or for bases.¨ and when i asked him if he thought it was safe for americans to be traveling in morocco; ¨yes, of course. americans are welcome here. they live here, on the coast, they have moroccan wives.¨

in my limited experience, what i have found of moroccan men is that they are particularly well informed about global politics. they will talk for hours open ear provided. in chefchaouen, my friend gala spoke in arabic with a man in one of the many small shops on the shadowy streets of the medina. this a day after sadaam had been hung. gala summarised as we walked away. the man stressed the idea that removing sadaam from power did greater damage than good. ¨at least when sadaam was in power, there was a working infrastructure. now iriaq is completely fragmented.¨

from what i have gleaned, many muslims view the american attacks in afganistan, iraq, and now somalia as attacks not against islamist fanatics as attacks against the muslim culture. ¨sadaam was hung on one of the most important muslim holidays.¨ the man from the cafe bus station continued, ¨this is an important day for us.¨

interesting to get the other side of the story.

merzouga - rough draft

merzouga, morocco

southern morocco, way down south in berber country. after a lightening visit in fez, marcos from berlin, jackie from colorado and i made the ten hour bus trip from fez to the sand dunes and desert of merzouga. the bus trip was wholly uneventful other than the geographical shift between green mountains and pasturelands to the arid earth and dust flats of the south. also an eruption between the buses money handler and two men trying to sell us a ride to merzouga for 20 dirhams a piece. a huge explosive argument, flailing gestures and yelling.

more shortly.

friends and feasts

i wished my dear spanish friends goodbye yesterday afternoon. hugs, handshakes, and deep cheek kissing in the chefchaouen bus station parking lot up until the closing hiss of the buses door. we made ellusive plans to meet again upon my potential return to chefchaouen from southren morocco, but somehow the waving goodbye from the back window at the fast diminishing figures of marcos and gala felt final. amazing moments passed with these kind folks: sunny rooftop breakfasts of fresh fruit salad, coffee, and toasted bread slick with tomato and oil; hiking hard into the rif mountains, battling snarling dogs, shin splitting shubs, and the nasty combination of low-tread shoes with loose-rock decents, clomping full speed down the hill from the mesquita to the cemetary bellow, yelling and whooping as the trianglar cement outlines of the open graves grew closer. and perhaps most memorably a visit to the neighbors house on the muslim holiday Eid where families slaughter goat in a sacrafice to allah. i watched as our friend Hassin slit the neck of a goat: the young man holding the goat down sprang back as blood squirted from the open wound in the neck, the goat briefly righting itself, attempting to perform the familar motion of breathing with no results, the tringular gaping wound now streaming red. in time, the goat collapsed, kicked in place. from my vantage, i could see into the wound, a pooling cavern of blood, the flesh colored esophogues contracting, rising slightly. not a pretty death. when the animal was dead, the head was severed from the body altogether. one of the older women handed me the head, all of us chuckling and smiling. taking the goat by the horns, i looked into the eye, still clear with life. the jam slack, hung hanging and loose. this was only one four of the goat deaths that i had seen that day; the other three from the roof of my friends home. what most impacted me about the process is how life and pulse and breathe can transform so quickly into parts; from a bleating goat into a ten pound head, a jaw and teeth and an eye. really fragile, this thing life. hassin, cleaning the blade of his knife in a small bucket of water, then sliced into one of the goat thighs and, like inflating a balloon, breathed air into the incision, inflating the skin and thereby separating it from the meat. next, the carcass was strung up with rope by the heels to a corroding steel bus fender secured above. ¨i have been busy today¨ Hassin told me i broken spanish, ¨eight goats altogether. mostly for other families.¨ as he deftly separated the carcass from the body, i could understand why he was in such demand. the skin removed, Hassin then sliced lengthwise down the belly, a grayish slippery mass of innards spilling out in a gleaming wave into the wash tub below, still steaming. after the carcass was thoroughly cleaned °including a particularly interesting method where Hassin filled his cheeks with waters then blew-spat through the anus dislodging a series of popping, bouncing turds onto the cement floor° we were invited in to eat. gala, marcos, judit, and i sat around the table sipping moroccan tea with Hassin, his wife, and their four children. we slurped up oil and well cooked and crispy innards with chunks of bread, listening, singing, and dancing to traditional moroccan music. afterwards, a little after-dinner keef of which many of the older men in chefchaouen partake. true moroccan hospitality.

and now i am in fez.
more soon.

The Hammam

Chefchaouen, Morocco

The hammam is a public bath house, the space where many locals here in Chefchaouen regularly bathe and to socialize. The hammam is a series of three rooms, the first cool, the second a little warmer, the third the warmest. I went for the first time last week to thaw out the chill hanging in the marrow since Ibiza. When I arrived, I negotiated the price of thirty Dirham, stripped down to the skivies, grabbed a bucket along with a smaller cup for rinsing, and headed in through the plastic sealed double door to the coolest of three rooms.
Goose speckled skin, I strode to the back, slipping and nearly falling onto the tile floor before finally finding a seat near the fountain that pipes out scalding water heated by the wood furnaces adjacent the building. Within ten minutes, I was sweating and started to scrub away the dead skin and dirt accumulated from perhaps two months with something akin to a sandpaper sock. In thin, worm like rolls, the skin peeled off my back and shoulders and arms, the texture and color akin to clay. And I washed with my right hand as the left is reserved for personal hygiene. All wearing boxers, some briefs, not one of the forty some patrons nude.

the strangest christmas ever

Chefchaouen, Morocco

parenthesis and apostophes? please pardon the punctuation, i am still discovering the subtleties of the keyboard°

allah be praised, i have made it to morocco. i arrived in chefchaouen late christmas eve with my three new found spanish friends, judit, gala, and marcos. we arose in granada after with little sleep and proceeded to make our way south by foot, train, boat and taxi in what became quite easily the strangest christmas i have know.

by far the most impressive part of the journey was the taxi ride. you thought they were bad in new york? totally exhausted from traveling, i sat stiff and transfixed on the road as it broke through the night into the taxis headlights, the driver spending a disproportionate amount of time hanging halfway into the lane of oncoming traffic. at one point we found ourselves speeding up a blind curving hill, the headlights of an oncoming truck sparking the cab full of light. ¨welcome to morocco¨ gala said with a hearty laugh after the traffic had passed.

and complete, mind=crippling culture shock upon arriving tetuon, the streets plugged with people, walking through a market, suppressing the urge to grab marcos by the sleeve so as not to become lost. soup and bread in a local kitchen and a moroccan comes up and in a friendly manner, lays his hands on my back, my thigh; personal space means something entirely different here. and as a foreigner, a red headed backpacked laden american, i have already found that we are seen as an opportunity; ¨money with legs¨ marcos said with smirk. constantly being proposed hash or a place to stay, asked for a dirham. of course not by all, but by many.

much much more to tell, but all for now.

merry christmas

merry christmas from morocco: more to follow shortly.

- granada, installation two -

- granada, spain -

feeding the cats squishy slices of blood red fat-speckled chorizo in the palace courtyard this afternoon; small, unfortunate creatures scrambling for the scraps, the ribcage riding underneath the skin like a birdcage in a balloon. sunshine, but the cold wins here in granada. we struggled with paul's camera, a nikon, a recent used purchase to replace the other that was stollen in istanbul from friend-turned-thief -samu abudabi same-. the mirror inside the camera was sticking in the upright position, the shutter not opening at all. ¨everything is always a little harder than it should be,¨ says paul, repetitively depressing the shutter release button. but he´s surprisingly cool about it, calm even. but it´s a lousy place to loose one´s capacity to capture images.

the alhambra. at first i thought the walls covered in decorative calligraphy and geometrical perfection were engravings chiseled into the stone. ¨nope. alabaster,¨ dr. sandy, the lawyer, college professor, universal traveler, and bunk mate at the rambutan hostel informs paul and i as we meander through the streets looking for socks to keep the coldness from our bare toes. alabaster poured or lathered into molds, dried then placed together seamlessly. and each piece, even under the close inspection of the seventy-five millimeter lens, every small quadrant is perfectly whole and simultaneously flowing. an entire wall connected by one fluid, snaking line.

an expression of mastery.

the kind dr. sandy left this morning, a handful of hours after justin walked harumi to the bus-stop to catch a eight o´clock to morocco; a sleepless night for all and all fine people, all traveling people. all people in a state of transience, fleshy proof that the nature of the universe is movement. we exchange emails on torn slips of paper, the occasional phone number. possibly vague plans are forged for future visits.

gaining lots of practice, but it´s still hard to say goodbye. i, and possibly we, by habit form expectations pf relationships. a social capitalist, expecting gains from the emotional ¨investments¨we make. it takes energy and time and focus to form the trust to be close to someone, to reveal and to share freely with another. and then they evaporate, leaving only their scent behind.

falcon blanco video & granada : part one

- granada spain -

i´ve left falcon blanco. shocking, yes. it´s been only a few days since i traveled with my israeli friend danny by boat and bus and foot to the rambutan, a cozy hostel on the side of the hill overlooking the alhambra; only a few days, two sleep-saturated nights away from ibiza, but falcon blanco has already begun to haze over like a dream from the night before last.

a beautiful send off; a dozen or so friends to standing around laura´s car to say last goodbyes to danny and i. individual hugs, a group hug, some tears, many smiles, much laughter; a community living together, sharing ideas and meals and laughter and emotions.
team falcon blanco.

the video is finished. i sliced it up into six clips and uploaded it all to the public video-sharing internet service youtube. still in progress, the working title is falcon blanco. take a look, tell me what you think.

f a l c o n b l a n c o

--

and now granada, an ancient city originally established by jews infroms the texan in an impromptu five minute history lesson as we walked towards the downtown market. this city is amazing, my fast favorite of europe. it´s double-dipped in history: the last european moorished stronghold, under arabic rule from the eigth to the fifteenth century, granada was conquered by christian king ferdinand and queen elizabeth in 1492.



surrounded again by good people.

blog lite

- falcon blanco, spain -

been a little light on the blog entries lately. assuredly, it is not for lack of happenings: burn-out break-up with a long-time pal from san fransisco, plans to blast off to granada this thursday, and currently squeezing from the last of my energy reserves to pull this documentary together. it's almost done and i will make it available for you all on you-tube. more on everything later. right now, consolidating energies to complete the video.

late-night editing

film and friends

- falcon blanco, ibiza -

in the throes, deep in the throes, in the throes of editing. this film, hour stacked upon hour, is slowly developing from a folder packed with forty gigabytes of assorted avi files into a thoughtful presentation of sound and image. yes. after much forehead to computer-screen bloodsport, particles of product are forming. the piece, still in draft form, revolves around a series of two interviews with ramon and covers a wide expanse: collection tendencies, recycling, expectation and disappointment, and falcon blanco history.

--

tonight my friends and i escaped falcon blanco, blew out the rat-webs and walked just out of the nearest town of san lorenzo to the restaurant es pins. good company, good food. we talked about our addictions over coffee, fried chicken and pork chops, fries, complimentary olives, bread, and a creamy garlic spread. and like small, uneducated children, we scribbled our portraits onto the paper tablecloth then carefully tore out each image.

these are my friends, two of the eleven here at falcon blanco, people i have grown to trust and to love. and together we learn. in order of appearance:joe, noah, and matt, who really looks nothing like the "pig-monkey" depicted in the drawing.

(((pics taken by joe's steady hand)))

update

-- ibiza, spain --

i just awoke from a six hour nap; puffy eyed and new to the world. and for the first time in awhile, i felt scared of the dark. i knew where i was, but nothing felt familiar.

detached

last night i decided to postpone sleep last night, and instead to push through and digitally capture my vhs footage. it's done and i'm happy, one huge gulp in drinking this small lake of a documentary. my work for ramon is generally done. i may have to polish the website with my friend o-tix and prep some non-demo editing software, but i'm through the heat of it.

i've been anxious of late, feeling like this process could blow apart at any minute, a pinching anxiety that this whole process could blow apart into a thousand little fragments in any moment. ramon and i agreed when i first arrived that i would be here to work on two sets of videos: his and mine. but now i feel like i have to be secretive about my own video, that because its not laser-tailored to the likes and wants and vision of ramon, that it will be discouraged. though rationally i know that it's merely a nightmare, i can't escape the fear that someone will walk in and pull the plug on this little project of mine, tell me to leave, tell me "no".

paranoia.

it's bee a hard week and a half: my grandmother became ill, ended up in the hospital. i spent a few days vacillating on whether or not i should should return to the states to visit her. she improved, spent thanksgiving with our family, and i decided to continue traveling. but it took some thinking, some walking.
.
guilt.

i'm taking another walk.

- something brief -

falcon blanco, ibiza

beiyin's health trilogy is now shot, edited, and published (with the exception of a few disagreeable links) and i am now chiseling my energy, surging forward with my own documentary.

more soon.

the photo album: a developing thread

- falcon blanco, ibiza -

a small collection of photos taken by assorted photographers here at f.b.

photography

- would like to search for a free album that doesn't clutter the page with ads -

> > > > suggestions?

anna the catalan

triglycerides : new friends

ibiza, spain

but i am gaining weight just like a any normal twenty-something year old who scarfs half-loaves of dumpster bread daily. no exercise and poor eating habits never effected me in the past: blast through a charlston chews and whole milk, banana, & peanut butter smoothies, leaving metabolism pick up after my thoughtless eating.

judging by the slowly mounting midriff jelly, that epoch is coming to a close.

the b a t t l e & not yet

::::::::: my little studio ibiza, spain : : :

and the battle surges on.

blood-tipped lance work and speckled red shields like a spit shine. the clattering of armor. these muscles flexed, the cold nerve pinch where meat meets metal. and the ground is slick and gravity is singing heavy and inch by inch, i slip slightly and slowly but surely; imperceptible movements in 1one's and 2twos, but when summoned, make months. eternities.

the falcon blanco documentary: more growing experience than video. every day a new adversary. not a complaint, but a marvel, something at times unbelievable that forces out ulcer laugh. and here comes the sequence:


non.existent and broken equipement stacked in boxes

hardly.hardy.hardware wires too, bunches of wires like pawing through cold, cooked spaghetti
software problems and software absences entire

Ohne zusätzliches Rendering oder spezielle Hardware können and unterstützt alle gängigen Formate für die Aufnahme und Bearbeitung

" h.a.c.k. " the two week internet gag
adobe's a stubbornly silent timeline and stevesmart's help forum isn't so smart

& maybe i'm just stupid. maybe it's me, technically cursed, the king midas of falcon blanco where everything i touch looses it's electrical ground. i've been pointing outwardly, maybe i need to twist my finger. and maybe i need to smile and try it as process. things are good now, possible, an "end". this whole experience has slapped me hard, let me know that my attitude is largely based on efficiency and productivity. i'm happiest when i'm creating, product-ing, moving, whether it be literally or metaphorically, charging forward.

i'm here to create: it's how i self-validate. and it's exhausting.

and i imagine at some point, thirties, forties, fifties, i'll burn out, what's left a small hiccup of igniting gas. i'll burn out and i'll screech to a stop like metal skidding over concrete.

. : . but not yet . : .

the other day, i pulled off the car onto a dirt driveway and watched a hotair balloon ascend and then stop. it stopped and then it simply hung there breathlessly in the air. i was startled to see something so large hanging so still: a red.yellow.green moon. a moment and then moments passed and i realized that i had stopped, my brain had stopped. i looked not to analyze or to capture or to understand, but simply because.

i was and it was only because. a simple perfection.

and then i took a series of pictures. not yet; you'll still forget me when i die.

the blue falcon

the island of ibiza, spain

the blue falcon: the same savaged salvage i rescued from the side of the road last week, once homeless and tattered, leaning lifelessly against a dumpster. splintered plastic body, electrically inept with the exception of the red running light that pulses to life with a twist of the throttle, a precarious marriage. and no key, no kill-switch. instead, an arm-length wooden dowel to pop the single spark plug from it's base and stop the motor.

pop kills the motor.

"son eternal," miguel says, referring to the longevity of the honda, miguel as aghast i that someone would junk such a masterpiece of modern locomotion. we speculated : making room cleaning their garage. perhaps stolen and abandoned.

the blue falcon, a named coined in a late-night brainstorm, ana's suggestion. belching oil-blue smoke, the engine cranked to life. the sound, a gutteral tongue-roll; small contained explosions if slowed to ten percent their original speed would produce the muffled gurgling of an old man, the life story of the machine.

and i steered, my good friend merika straddling behind, her hands lightly cupping my shoulders as we bounced down the dirt driveway to the main road. to the main road, the lifeline to everything un . falcon blanco. our intention was to drive one kilometer to san lorenzo for a coffee, but we continued. the freedom, the promise.

such a simple freedom, the freedom to move, the freedom to exchange one physical space for another. and a freedom that before i came to ibiza, i largely took for granted. days go by where my movements and the movements of those here are limited to pathways worn raw by pinball plodding predictability :

be droom to kit chen
kitche n to bathr oom
bat hroom to be droom
to kitc he n
to office
to be droo m

but we didn't stop in san lorenzo for coffee. to the beach, the clear green ocean, the piles of shredded seaweed, rocks climbing for the water like an extended coral. and merika drove part of the way home, her first time behind the handle bars.

the blue falcon: her maiden voyage, her last voyage. we returned to falcon blanco to find ramon throwing lettuce from an embankment to the ducks below. his eyes reached mine: a lopsided smile, a softly inflating brow: a look i've learned broadcasts concerned disapproval. "i wouldnt' recommend driving without papers," a diplomatic "no" followed by sensible rational. "the motor could be stolen, it has no papers. if you got in a wreck, lawsuits. fines."

fines, perhaps. but fine?

the internet (a blossoming theme)

ibiza, spain

and now, some two weeks after the initial cyber-fall, we have internet; the blinking lights lined up like a toothy smile. frantically downloading software, scratching for lost time and ready to lay into editing.

shotgun update

santa gertrudis, ibiza

my stomach is bubbling with acids. i´m sapped and i´m anxious.

i´m writing from the wing of a church in santa gertrudis; a government service providing free internet service. still no luck with the internet at falcon blanco, though i gave it a mighty fair shot this afternoon. the stuff of nightmares, fifteen calls in all today; one company, two departments, each department refering me to the other, each department impotent ¨hasta que...¨

and the film? joe, the newest reqruit to the falcon blanco squad, an american from phoenix, is graciously allowing me to bum his sony laptop for video editing. i´m currently learning the video editing software premiere 6.0 in german with an english user manual at the ready. technically a struggle, a challenge, but fun. and i have time.

the structure of the film is slowly morphing; the longer i´m here, the more it changes. i´ve learned that it is a film about ramon, he is the subject and falcon blanco is an extension of his personality.

more later.

the scooter

this morning, while driving to santa gertrudis to use the internet, i chanced upon a broken, battled motor scooter at the side of the road.

the scooter was propped up against a dumpster in an area that frequently burps-up interesting junk: a television, a hand painted little mermaid puppet stage, chairs, splintered dowels and shattered porcelain toilets. only a week before, ramon and i had plucked a pair of grease-caked skillets from an unordinarily plentiful collection of throw-aways. but upon this passing, only the scooter, and, a van, seemingly belonging to the portly middle-aged man who stood examinaing the machine. at first, i passed. i slowed, considered stopping, but then nudged my toe downward onto the excelerator pedal and breezed by.

¨it probably doesn´t work anyway,¨i told myself, ¨and if it does, that guy is going to be all over it.¨

i put the thought to bed.

in less than two kilometers, i found the car circling one of the rotundas trimming the town of santa gertrudis, and strangely, heading back in the direction from which i had come. almost impetuous, almost beyond control, i started back.

* * *

since i arrived here in europe, i have nurtured the dream of touring on a scooter: not a quick way to travel, or safe, but simple, fuel-efficient freedom, perfect for the dry, cracked back roads of spain. and a machine under 150 cc´s doesn´t require a motorcycle liscence. insurance and papers are another matter.

i had first been enticed by the bi-cycular mode of transport in barcelona. my parents and younger brother had just left for the states. i was excited to be alone, but lonely. and here i began asking myself the question that eventually frequents the mind of many a traveler i have encountered : ¨what the fuck am i doing here?¨ a fine question, one that arises from a lack of responsibility and an excess of possibility. an ultimately selfish question.

and a question that was answered later that week as i clutched christa's shoulders from behind, squeezing my thighs around her waist as we circled round-about near the port of barcelona on her vespa. fast, too fast. and an enormous round-about, five, possibly six lanes rippling out from the center, traffic collecting and compounding from all directions. the sun, the danger, the possibility, and then the quintuple-domed outline of the Museu Nacional d'Arte de Catalunya.

and for a moment, i stopped asking and started allowing. something close to euphoria.

fine, euphoria.

* * *

and as i drove back towards the abandoned scooter, i glimpsed the possibilities: further streamline my luggage, buy a pair of leather working gloves, and hit the road; ¨ciao pakistan¨ as some say here in spain.

and now i have a pseudo-functional scooter leaning up against a stack of pallets at home.

technical difficulties

falcon blanco, ibiza

ramon and i have been tearing the place apart this week trying to get the internet back online: yanking, connecting, twisting, popping ethernet cables ports, unplugging, replugging, replacing modems, tampering with internet settings, diving deep into network settings, window after window of preferences i never knew existed. today someone from the telephone company came out, poked around for an hour, wrote a bill, left.

and still falcon blanco is down.

and my half hour is up.

the shriveled muse

i'll be honest with you; i'm struggling. there's been a recent pile-up of intense email exchanges with friends. i'm spent - an outpouring of mental energies leaves me tonight tired and sub-inspired.

but a blog is a agreement between writer and reader: ideally, if i write, you read. it's an exchange. two or three days without a post and your attention, as does mine, starts to fade. and it's been three days. and this ideal keeps me going, keeps me writing to know that these words, this word is being read, perhaps considered, even acted upon. it motivates me to know this communicative medium is completing it's intended cycle.

tonight i pass the baton to the filmmaker Virgil Widrich and his twelve minute film COPYSHOP. the technical concept behind the film is pretty fresh : shot digitally, each digital frame was then photocopied and then shot stop motion onto black and white 35 mm film.

reduced to normalcy > > >

- falcon blanco, ibiza -

and now, a new challenge in writing : trying to find the exceptions in a space that has now become familiar.

i have been here for a month now, at falcon blanco. this weeks exodus of four wwoofers leaves a vacuous campus calm. june disappeared to the far south, the "irish contingent" transplanted to the bountifully bare 'n busty beaches of alacante, and nana left for barcelona taking her colorful handmade twirling batons. no longer the daily shifts of fresh perspective.

we are now eight, the veterans. we "understand" falcon blanco and, like social scientists, have formulated and tested and proven our perceptions. the animal kitchen, the recycled pastries, the ozone sauna and the pallets, these are now all everyday, common faces. subjects in the past i exploited in writing with easy success. now forced to look for the subtleties.

normal - what an ugly concept.

it's this concept that keeps me from committing to a career or a relationship or from calling a place "home". it reeks of stagnancy. it means death to me, it means giving up entirely. "normal" signifies an end of exploration. and i fear it; i fear it because it suggests an end to distraction.

it suggests calm.

tonight in the dome i spent twenty minutes squirming in place during group meditation. the others sat like tuning forks, rigid and upright and reverberating stillness. and my own brain, dozens of thoughts a minute, many incomplete, directionless : a theme park full of lost children and a dysfunctional family dinner conversation - a clubbed-foot relay race.

static.

we'll always have falcon blanco: another honest attempt

- falcon blanco, ibiza -

this place is slowly disintegrating, slowly crumpling and folding into itself. one by one, people are starting to trickle out. is it the result of three hours dumping pallets of expired milk into the pallet-walled compost pit? or perhaps the rampant stress hanging stagnant in the air like bad gas? the food? the random hours? the general chaos and disorder? or maybe one big steaming pie of all the above.

it's breaking apart and you can feel it. people are low on energy, don't pick up after themselves in the kitchen. work is half-hearted. scattered and confused: a collective depression. falcon blanco is a living organism: we all feed off of one another, are totally and completely influenced by the highs and lows of our companions. one person has a bad day and well all feel the rippling effects. we move and don't move as one.

and i'm feeling the weight today more than most. this morning, i lost my good buddy june. off to london, a brief layover in "some middle eastern country", and finally to cape town, south africa, the foreign land that she refers to as home with a watery eyed-grin. i drove june to the airport this morning in the old red vw here at falcon blanco; coffee, porridge, and an out the door foot-scramble, one hour "early" for an international flight: pretty typical twenty.something patterns, thinking a pinkies distance ahead. "god, i would hate to be my mom," june mused.

june. june.bug, or affectionately "fatty.herple", the sticky nickname, a projected tag reflecting the nutritional plummet of her eating habits here at the white falcon. a projection - that is, if she stayed.

but she didn't.

she left. i'm not choking on my tongue with sobs, but i've lost an understanding companion in this saliva-stutter of an experience. we've been knocking about together for nearly six weeks. june is as much of my ibizan experience as the clotted fields of tilled earth or the thick sea.salt of the mediterranean.

* * *

june and i never slept together although i think it may have crossed both of our minds at one time. things get lonely on the farm, away from the distractions of the city, away from friends, and family, and familiarity. instead, a female friend, a bi-gender union powered by something other than the carnal pulsing engine of sexual tension; powered by the same curiosity that levitated us to begin our travels. a mutual understanding.

early in our friendship, the topic of relationships arose one late one evening at can jondal over a tea infusion and toasted bread. sarah had just sent me a longish email after breaking up with me some two weeks before, justifiably angry that i cheated on her with a woman in barcelona.

"Come on, be a man. You should have broken up with me. Grow up, buster."

i read the letter once, twice, and then over and over again, letting each word sting. i suddenly realized i was a cheater and that not everyone back in washington was eager for my return. i was the cause for another's pain. my warped, travel-distracted brain hadn't considered it cheating until i received her note : i was cowardly non-committal to make the effort to stay together or to face the pain to break apart. in fact, it was one of the propellants that landed me here in front of this very computer nine thousand miles away from everything i know. love hurts, but not nearly as much as breaking a dependency.

sarah's letter was like a punch to the neck, a lingering dull pain preventing full breaths. i took a chance at honesty with a stranger, split wide open and june was there to sift through the fragments. she listened and gave simple, rational advice and offering her own experience. funnily enough, we shared a few.

it was here in the kitchen that i realized that our stubbornness, our coupled vulnerabilities and inabilities to effectively manage a relationship would in time would lead to a messy end if we were to become romantically involved. i think i realized that we would make much better friends than lovers. june may have come to the same conclusion; she may not. indeed, it is possible that the scenario never crossed her mind and it is entirely of my own concoction.

unfortunately, i never mustered the courage to ask.

* * *

june, your saw.tooth cynicism and belly laugh will be missed. thank you for your insights, your freshness, and your friendship. i wish you all the best fooling those fickle custom officials; if not, there's always snakeman.

luck,

nbd