Paris at Nightfall Fugue

I took a walk out to see Paris one more time instead of hunkering inside on the mac, didn’t know what for, nowhere really to go; and every step got more beautiful. It was eerie. At first, in Passage Ramey, the filth and detritus of the alley, suspicious guys leaning on a car, then the regular street, then open pizzarias and restos where people gathered, then Ramey came into Clignancourt and there were brasseries, bars, on every corner, sidewalk tables full of voices, of bodies, faces and hands and - people; people talking freely.

I leaned on a pole and looked for a while; then I took a street uphill, and found myself at an intersection I’d photo’d before, or tried to, with the toy-colored round tables in one cafe and three other bistros on the other corners alive again with Sunday night folk - and every step was more imbued with the magic of dusk and of this living city - and I went up from there on Rue Paul Albert and found myself in front of a tableau I despair at describing, an old half-timbered ivy-covered dwelling, opening inwards to angles and shapes, with lights glowing from darkened windows, a deep ruby, slivers of amber, a point of indigo, and there was still daylight enough for the eye to pick up the richness of color on the buildings on both sides and behind; I stood for a long time, and my loneliness imperceptibly faded in the face of this wonder, I knew this city is unmatched in my life; no such scenes as those crowded sidewalk tables were possible anywhere in America on a Sunday night, or any night, and this town has hundreds - hundreds - of such corners with their living cafes - most full inside and out, some strangely ignored - and of places like 17 Rue Paul Albert - then I walked up the street and saw that through the grill - the mosaic of grills - beneath my feet came light, there was a lighted room beneath me - just a grotty utility space but in the dusk and the ambience of the lights around, it was another note of deep effulgence. And took out my notebook and returned to the glowing house to get that street number, not to forget.

And went on up, around the corner, and the basilica was just above - a Ghormangast of a complex - people now, blond girls, up ahead, all around, in flocks, guides speaking in some nordic tongue, and around the corner suddenly colored lights were floating down in the dark blue sky and laser points were sliding off the high facades of the medieval stonework, and there was music ahead, and crowds shifting and interweaving in the half-light, and the skyline of Paris over the edge - tour groups and hawkers of these chem-light parachutes, and a man in a corner with an amplified acoustic guitar - I followed the crowd to see if there was a vantage from which the Eiffel could be seen - on the sidewalk novelty models of her jeweled in multicolored lights - and yes, past a blocking structure, there she was, all luminous and alight. I wound among the crowds to see for a while, then hooked back to look at one of the floating lights that had landed among the kids and launchers, to see it laying on the flagstones almost surprised that it didn't vanish into mist - then gave some change to the guitarist, then retraced toward the darkness, and between two domes I saw Venus like a jetliner headlight against the deepening blue. And I went down past girls in antic photo poses, down past a street with inviting lights back to Rue Paul to re-see 17; for a moment I thought I’d never find it again, still; there it was. Then turned back to check out that street I’d passed, and noticed that beneath me, Paul and its feed-onto street were cobblestones set in expanding arcs, curves on curves on curves, not famous, not a world heritage attraction, just a street open to traffic, but another crescendo of awesome hallucinatory enchantment on this walk - and I took that street past three inside restaurants of warmth and elegance with their people leaning on glowing soft white tablecloths - I had an urge to go in but was already satisfied - I’d notice coming down the stairs from the basilica, it had grown on me as I passed the ancient walls, that the loneliness had transformed on this walk, had turned inside out, and was self sufficiency at last. And at the end of that street, at the corner, I could see down a short block to the cluster of colorful sidewalk bistros I’d passed before, and was glad and satisfied to see them and hear them again. 

And then back by Ramey and Clignancourt, and then along by still-open boulangeries and closed specialty bookstores, and I forgot what street I was on; and venus still between the buildings; and saw an open patisserie with squares of pizza-like panini - I brought one home with a baguette last sunday when all other bakeries were closed but I’d seen a girl coming with a long loaf under her arm in it’s napkin and backtracked her steps to this place - and ahead, the circle, that meant my street, I was a block from home.

The nightfall had built in an unworldly beauty to the summit of the evening star and gently receded until I was here on this dark couch with the screen too bright in front of me and the people in their hundred-and-forty-year-old windows across Rue Marcadet. 

And I thought on the top of the hill, and coming back, and coming in, how would I write this? I couldn’t describe it for the web, even for my best friends it would seem wrong. This one would be for myself. Yes. This one is mine.

But here it is.

It will be a while until the experience of that city sifts down through the cells and finds its level; its comparison with every other place and state of mind; but this is clear: 

Paris isn't illusion. It's a forward point in the direction the human thing wants to go. My days on earth would be thinner if I hadn't been there.

The Mirror Lies

Mirrors lie. Ever catch your reflection unaware and see someone you didn't think you were? Whenever you knowingly approach a mirror you start the subliminal process of configuring your face and posture for the camera and your mind for the impact. You're ready. But if you're not braced, if you get ambushed, it can be a shock.

Sometimes I like how I look and sometimes not. These days I'm good, more than usual - I think there's a feedback thing going on with the drift of mood. Still, caught myself in a Walgreen's store cam screen today and couldn't fix my mouth to save my life. It looked like George C. Scott's. 

Now, people are going to see you one way all the time or the other way all the time or they're going to mix it. First impressions are heap big medicine. You don't want to blow it. More to the core, you don't want their response to kill your smile.

Particularly when you're young, you get this negative feedback thing going, you get self-conscious about being self-conscious, you know it shows on your face, and you know the fact that you know shows too. Even now in certain social situations - say, a gallery opening reception, I can start feeling spotlighted and my eyes turn intense and people shrink from me. 

You know Burns' thing, right? "O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us!"

The best you can do is try not to lay faking it on top of whatever else is wrong with you. So see ya.

All Part of a Day's Work

...thanking people. A guy I used to know said that.

Gratitude is kind of a pain in the ass. Sometimes it seems I'd prefer a world without its presence. It smells of servitude. Maybe I should stop participating.

And yet, I am thankful. For what people bring to me from their lives. For artists whose work the world would be otherwise never see. I'm thankful that I'm lucky, that I'm happy at all, I'm thankful that I'm thankful.

That's something that happens. You feel thankful. So how is it "a day's work?" I guess it's in a distinction between the stuff you feel and stuff they tell you to feel. 

When that guy made the statement above, had he ever consciously felt the real thing? Maybe not. He was a young man and disaffected. Maybe all he recognized was the imperative from on high. Still, I know what he meant. If you stop thanking people, what will they do? What will it cost you?

Take the old song Greensleeves, "I delight in your very company." But Henry VIII, or whoever, felt owed by the fact of that delight, of having loved her so well. He had a good brisk thanking coming. In this, I'm for Greenie. She should not be encumbered by his delight or his love. No one owes loving a goddamn thing.

I just Googled "thanks" and you know what I got? Among the hearts flowers and clip art, pics of babes who look like they're about to put out. What does that tell you?

Directive: Never fuck out of gratitude. I never have, and it's not because I didn't owe. Nobody ever owes that.

I mean, obviously, if the way in which I saved you from the monster makes you want to fuck me, that's cool, that’s biochemistry, the limbic system. But, you have to want to.

I don't know.

Sometimes you can just say, “I like it that you...” instead of “Thank you for...” But not always.

I did get through a week without thanking anyone. The trick is to say "great,..." or "I'm happy that..." Unsophisticated forms, but I'm new a this. I notice how rarely other people actually use the word.

Another week. I thanked onebody, one word. Just didn't have the time to not. Like Cicero, St. Augustine, Pascal, Sam Johnson, Twain, or whoever is most responsible for the line that goes like, I'd write you a short letter but I don't have the time, so I'm writing you a long one.

A new surrogate today - "Very kind of you." Veddy kind indeed.

That's sort of it. This time I think I won't even pretend to resolve anything. That all right with you?

Thanks.

And while we're at it, we might knock off saying "sorry," quite so often. Or "excuse me." Like when you pass within two and a half feet of someone in the hall. Unless there are mangled corpses and significant property damage, just nod and walk on by. If you feel like smiling, then do so, a little. Maybe.

Illusion

In the early 1980's, an artist set up a laser projector on top of the Transamerica Pyramid and projected a light show onto the cloud cover over San Francisco.

I was driving cab that night. I was was prepared, I'd read it it in the papers, but when I saw it, a delta of colored lights sliding smoothly across the night sky, recognizing it for what it was, my mind still perceived a solid object, a spaceship. It didn't care what it was told, that's what it saw.

From Plato's Cave through Descartes' Mauvais Génie to the film Matrix, it's an old idea, that we can be tricked into accepting illusion as reality. That two-minute demonstration made it real to me.

In 2001 the USAF Institute for National Security - that's the Air Force - published a 64-page paper titled Nonlethal Weapons: Terms and References, edited by Robert J. Bunker. There are a lot of line items. One, letter K, is Holograms.

The second of three is Hologram, Prophet.

"Hologram, Prophet. The projection of the image of an ancient god over an enemy capitol whose public communications have been seized and used against it in a massive psychological operation [609]."

The light show I saw was by some local artist on a shoestring budget with 1980 off-the-shelf tech available to any civilian. It was enough to fool my senses. We're way beyond that now, and it's said that military technology is always ten years ahead of what the public is told.

So: if a government chooses to deceive its population, however absurd the proposal, we will believe it. Your eyes, ears, and skin will tell you it's true. If CNN reports that a White House Press Release has announced that giant singing jellyfish are landing all over the globe, and supports it with high tech production values, you'll believe. If they project Jesus wrestling Godzilla a hundred miles high over Fresno, and you walk out onto your deck and see it happening, and the president interrupts regular programming with an official announcement, it will become your life. Whatever you believed to be absurd three minutes ago is nothing. You'll think, "I thought they'd  try to cover it up."

This isn't a conspiracy theory - Serge Monast did pimp the idea in the 1970's and 1980's as NASA's Project Blue Beam - I'm just saying it could be done. We have the ways and means. Let's hope we lack the will.

From INSS Occasional Paper 15:

K. Holograms

Hologram, Death. Hologram used to scare a target individual to death. Example, a drug lord with a weak heart sees the ghost of his dead rival appearing at his bedside and dies of fright [149:4].

Hologram, Prophet. The projection of the image of an ancient god over an enemy capitol whose public communications have been seized and used against it in a massive psychological operation [609].

Hologram, Soldiers-Forces. The projection of soldier-force images which make an opponent think more allied forces exist than actually do, make an opponent believe that allied forces are located in a region where none actually exist, and/or provide false targets for his weapons to fire upon. New concept developed in this document.