Ruminations from Panera

Have you ever felt engulfed in amibiance? The yellow walls of Panera cafe are swallowing me. The hot coffee I ordered is burning my blood vessels. The fireplace shows its teeth, grinning, like a Chesire cat. Then there’s an old couple sitting behind me chatting away on President Obama’s Supreme Court judge appointee. A hawk-faced man with specs and a pin-striped tee reads from The Post-Gazette. And I, stoned as hell, sit stangtantly writing for Apocrypha.

This is how I spend my afternoons. My current employer seems unenthusiastic about giving me hours, so this is what I’m left with. Squandering last summer’s salary on coffee and pecan braids. I’m inquiring about an apartment. Temple is so inept with housing information, and so I’m left to make craigslist inquiries. There’s a nice place on Fairmount with red walls and bookshelves. It’s already occupied by two females but that’s fine with me. I’ve always wanted an older sister.

N

In case you’re wondering, ‘N’ signifies the upper-most cardinal direction. Very much like the ‘N’ on Chris McCandless’ belt.

With that said, I went upstate for a few days with the cronies. Tidiute, PA. Along the Allegheny river, betwixt some mountain range I don’t know the name of. We drank enough beer to fill a freight car, smoked enough weed to kill Einstein’s brain cells. I will confess, however, it didn’t live up to the stature of last year’s excursion.

I wish I had pictures to post. Even if I’m an inferior photographer, I still get enjoyment out of the art. To both the dismay of myself, and my mother (who paid a wallet-macerating 250 dollars for my Sony), I no loner have a camera. I theorize it had been stolen and subsequently sold on Craigslist by my Trump-like Korean rooommate. He did sell my calculator, so why not? Fuck that slanted-eyed, Tasmanian mother fucker.

Nah. Namsik, you’re awesome. Don’t let what I write convince you otherwise. I’m a severely impulsive human being, and will almost certainly feel less aggitated tomorrow.

Beginnings of Summer, Parisian Dreams, and My Faux Ode to the Infinitesimal Number of Fans I Have

Venetian Snares pretty much consume most of my time thus far. That and all the boxes of cigarettes I wane my lungs with. I’m wondering how I will react to my permanent move in the fall to Philadelphia. Probably with good spirts.

There’s an interesting piece in The Atlantic about Hemingway’s seemingly life-long (though physical evidence suggests otherwise) rapport with Paris. I first read A Moveable Feast in high school at the suggestion of an English teacher, who I once abhorred and grew to admire. One of the more superb armchair reads, that’s for sure. If there’s one recollection of an adolescent fantasy of mine, it was my salaciousness to be a part of the Parisian literary congregations. My desire to drop out of school to pursue this was overshadowed by the propriety I felt towards my parents; though the salacity never vanished, it now wanes in the face of academic responsibility.

On another note, I’m going camping next week with the cronies. Won’t be around for almost a week. And so I apologize to the micro-hordes of commonfolk that follow my blog. Peace.

Death of the Spring Semester

As the spring semester succumbs to mid-May fun, I wonder about things. I wonder what it will be like living with my parents and siblings for three and a half months. I wonder what Blackie will do if I smoke in his diner? I wonder how much time I will occupy with my friends? and doing what? getting stoned, drunk? roadtrips? If I want to have a productive summer I realize I should remain here, in the city of strictly platonic brotherly love. Or, travel northeast to New York, Brooklyn. Rent a cheap loft, read during the night, write, drink. Gad about Central Park like a faux upper-crust writer. But realistically I know none of this will happen. I’m leaving for Pittsburgh in two days. Not quite the unreal city.

All the same, and because I don’t want to seem overly saccharine, I caught Sin Nombre at the Ritz last weekend and so here’s a review: It’s a documentary-style look at the harrowing journey illegal immigrants take to get into this country, but it’s also a tightly plotted thriller. Brutal, wrenching and filled with desperation and meanness, Sin Nombre signals a major new talent in writer-director Cary Fukunaga, who never flinches while telling a story so grim and sad it moves beyond tears to numbness. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and despite a nine dollar ticket and three dollar coffee, I couldn’t have had a more slaking Saturday night.

And so the spontaneity of summer begins, yes? Hopefully. G’bye Philadelphia.  And g’bye 3.7 GPA.

Ole Blogger

Reading through some vintage Myspace blogs, circa 11th grade, I now realize writing is what I wish to pursue, callously pursue. Not to crack at my own arrogance (and I warn, my ego is similar in depth to that Montgolfier invention way back when), but I have a truly fantastical mind. Of course, this barricades me socially, which I allude to often, but nonetheless exists soley as my circumvention. The seepage of my melting brainwaves, from the pot, PBR, acid, stains my shirt, discolors my skin. But I know I must soldier on, be strong, write, fuck, drink, be happy, hug my mother, go to shows, write postcards. I have a myraid of physcial escapes but only a single mental escape, and so I shall endeavor to seize it, enrapture it, hold it for ransom.

Lalami and Luxenberg

Two online broadcasts worth checking out:

Steve Luxenberg on NPR’s All Things Considered

Laila Lalami with Kojo Nnamdi on WAMU

My thanks to the lovely Ms. Lalami for giving me a shout on her blog. It’s inspiriting to know that I at least lingered in the recollections of such a talented published writer.

New York, New York

I’m writing from New York, in a French cafe called La Parisienne. Central Park lies one block away, in all it’s rustic glory, old-timey taverns, rock-paved bridges, and beautiful scenery. Under the overcast of the New York skyline people are walking about, tourists, slum-dwellers, children, buskers. It’s really beautiful here, and I don’t want to go back to Philadelphia, where I have to do laundry still, and tend to my slightly tumultuous air conditioner. If I could stay here, if I only I could. And if only I could tip the guy playing the accordion across from this cafe. Poor guy, doing what he loves, on these scanty Upper Manhattan streets…and poor me, almost penniless, and without two dollars to take the subway back.

Anyway, I had the most lovely experience at the World Voices festival. I met Laila who signed my copy of Secret Son, and to my incredulity, recognized me from Facebook. To think I considered deactivating my account! I guess it’s more rewarding than I had previously thought. And totally worth the cool connections I kind of have now. Not to mention we shared a glass of champagne. How fucking cool is that? But Laila was amazing at the reading, which I expected. Her novel is well-worth the investment, and contains some rather brilliant geopolitical connotations that not many North African writers have captured (at least from whom I have read). And yes, yes, I really do adore her, and am admittedly still dwelling on the fact she recognized my name. There’s something ineffably sexy about women of art, writers, painters, musicians, that I’m carnally vulnerable to. But I don’t want to sound like a tool, so I’ll move on for the sake of both my hormones and dignity.

One of the writers I was surprisingly impressed by goes by the name of Morten Ramsland. He’s Danish and has a noticable accent that made his reading very enjoyable. Comedic man of well-written prose and poetry–I wish Morten well and am looking forward to reading his novel, The Doghead. Also speaking under the trees of the beautiful Deutches Haus were the Swiss writers Peter Weber, of NYU faculty and multi-layering ability, and Bernard Comment, author of twelve books. Overall the festival was very sating. I would recommend any of the events for those interested.
I should go, yes? The rain has slowed, Zeus roars no more, and my coffee is cold. I’ll take a stroll under the tree canopies of Central Park and hope for a missed connection. Hmmm no, no, not hope for a missed connection. That’s especially boring now that I’ve met Laila and other published writers. Christ. I’m such a minion.