pattismith.net: coffeebreak

JULY 27, 2008
SMILING FACES

Bastille Day came and went. Ingrid Betancourt, freed from her ordeal in the jungles of Columbia, was presented the Legion of Honor, the highest award given by the French Republic. For several weeks, when I was residing in Paris, I passed many walls with her picture posted in multiple. The people prayed, lit candles, and kept her in their consciousness through the long years of her captivity by the FARC. Her smiling face on the cover of the International Herald Tribune made me smile as well. I tore out the picture and slipped it in my pocket.

I gathered my meager belongings, meager only because I prefer to travel light. A few pieces of clothing worked and slept in, then rinsed many times in the sinks of the world. Three paper thin Ann Demeulemeester t-shirts—one delicately printed with the original symbol for the Glass Bead Game. Two pairs of white cotton lisle socks embroidered with wine colored bees at the cuff. Four pairs of white cotton underwear. An extra pair of dungarees. Assorted sundries including a travel-size container of Dr. Sebagh's miracle moisturizer, a toothbrush, salt based toothpaste, four vials of peroxide, eight vials of saline solution and disposable witch-hazel wipes that are good for everything including cleaning the bowels of my Land 250 camera and the mouthpiece of my clarinet.

Random Polaroids slipped in a plastic airline ticket folder:
Two veils Moscow
My daughter Jesse
A fountain in Versailles
A Swiss mountain range
A palm tree near the hotel Le B. in Beirut, Lebanon
Stark shot of a soldier perched on a wall overlooking the ancient arena of Byblos, there to guard the President of the country who was soon to arrive with his wife to attend our concert. A point of pride I admit.
Waltraud Meier in Munich
St. Veronica in Vienna
One lace curtain
One burning heart

Someone had handed me a copy of the last poem of of H.D. called Hermetic Definition, translated by Marie-Francoise Mathieu. Slipped inside a color photocopy of myself flanked by a happy group of people after our concert in Charleville on July 4, 2004. An arrow identified the modest photographer Jerome Therriot who had taken photographs of me by the grave of Arthur Rimbaud for the Charleville newspaper. It was noted that he died recently at the age of fifty-two. I looked at his smiling face remembering our brief and pleasant encounter, refolded the picture and slipped it back in the book.

Certain important things I placed in my shoulder sack: A small eighteenth century icon given to me by Edward Boyakov, wrapped in a length of brown linen. My passport and wad of Euros. A reporter style moleskin notebook, 3 packs of 667 Polaroid film, a worn copy of The Master and Margarita and a tin of aspirin.

I slipped on my black overcoat of finely woven moth eaten black wool graced with my Commandeer florette. It was certainly too hot for such a coat but that was irrelevant. Thus I was ready for the world. I checked out of the four-story whitewashed hotel, which was a friendly and plain structure having the distinction of being situated directly across the road from a cove emptying into the Aegean Sea.

I crossed and sat there alone. It was 6:45a.m. Breakfast was served at seven. I chose some small stones and returned, took a bowl of prunes, a piece of brown bread, some watery yogurt and a bowl of black coffee. The musicians from Manu Chao, who we had opened for, had stayed up all night and were still reveling at the small outdoor bar. Their comradely laughter could be heard throughout the night. The airport shuttle was late, so I joined them at the bar and ordered another coffee. They only had paper tubes of Nescafe to empty in boiling water laced with expiring fruit flies. The Nescafe was excellent, like sour dark water with soft finishes. Manu Chao greeted me warmly. I asked to photograph one fellow who resembled a Jean Genet fringe player. He offered to remove his shirt as to better document his remarkable array of tattoos. But it was his animated face that interested me. Thus I added a blurry shot of his smiling face to my small pile of Polaroids.

It took awhile to load the equipment on the bus. I returned to the water's edge and noticed that the drunken Chaos had plunged into the sea. I saw them waving in the distance as I bid the Aegean farewell.

A thermos of coffee was presented to me as I boarded the shuttle. I had requested it two days before and they had not forgotten. I drank it happily though it tasted suspiciously like the same Nescafe, though minus the fruit flies. But it was not until marshalling another flight and long drive into the late afternoon that I was able to have a truly great cup of coffee. I sat in a nondescript dining area of a so-called art hotel in Torino, with quotes of Allen Ginsberg stenciled on the burnt orange and grey walls and gratefully drank my large cup of espresso diluted with boiled water. And what was it that made it great? I can answer with a smile. Simply that it was Italian!

	brew: nespresso, the nescafe upgrade read: The Fatal Eggs, by Mikhail Bulgakov {link } listen: Politik Kills, Manu Chao {link }
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JULY 27, 2008 SMILING FACES Bastille Day came and went. Ingrid Betancourt, freed from her ordeal in the jungles of Columbia, was presented the Legion of Honor, the highest award given by the French Republic. For several weeks, when I was residing in Paris, I passed many walls with her picture posted in multiple. The people prayed, lit candles, and kept her in their consciousness through the long years of her captivity by the FARC. Her smiling face on the cover of the International Herald Tribune made me smile as well. I tore out the picture and slipped it in my pocket. I gathered my meager belongings, meager only because I prefer to travel light. A few pieces of clothing worked and slept in, then rinsed many times in the sinks of the world. Three paper thin Ann Demeulemeester t-shirts—one delicately printed with the original symbol for the Glass Bead Game. Two pairs of white cotton lisle socks embroidered with wine colored bees at the cuff. Four pairs of white cotton underwear. An extra pair of dungarees. Assorted sundries including a travel-size container of Dr. Sebagh's miracle moisturizer, a toothbrush, salt based toothpaste, four vials of peroxide, eight vials of saline solution and disposable witch-hazel wipes that are good for everything including cleaning the bowels of my Land 250 camera and the mouthpiece of my clarinet. Random Polaroids slipped in a plastic airline ticket folder: Two veils Moscow My daughter Jesse A fountain in Versailles A Swiss mountain range A palm tree near the hotel Le B. in Beirut, Lebanon Stark shot of a soldier perched on a wall overlooking the ancient arena of Byblos, there to guard the President of the country who was soon to arrive with his wife to attend our concert. A point of pride I admit. Waltraud Meier in Munich St. Veronica in Vienna One lace curtain One burning heart Someone had handed me a copy of the last poem of of H.D. called Hermetic Definition, translated by Marie-Francoise Mathieu. Slipped inside a color photocopy of myself flanked by a happy group of people after our concert in Charleville on July 4, 2004. An arrow identified the modest photographer Jerome Therriot who had taken photographs of me by the grave of Arthur Rimbaud for the Charleville newspaper. It was noted that he died recently at the age of fifty-two. I looked at his smiling face remembering our brief and pleasant encounter, refolded the picture and slipped it back in the book. Certain important things I placed in my shoulder sack: A small eighteenth century icon given to me by Edward Boyakov, wrapped in a length of brown linen. My passport and wad of Euros. A reporter style moleskin notebook, 3 packs of 667 Polaroid film, a worn copy of The Master and Margarita and a tin of aspirin. I slipped on my black overcoat of finely woven moth eaten black wool graced with my Commandeer florette. It was certainly too hot for such a coat but that was irrelevant. Thus I was ready for the world. I checked out of the four-story whitewashed hotel, which was a friendly and plain structure having the distinction of being situated directly across the road from a cove emptying into the Aegean Sea. I crossed and sat there alone. It was 6:45a.m. Breakfast was served at seven. I chose some small stones and returned, took a bowl of prunes, a piece of brown bread, some watery yogurt and a bowl of black coffee. The musicians from Manu Chao, who we had opened for, had stayed up all night and were still reveling at the small outdoor bar. Their comradely laughter could be heard throughout the night. The airport shuttle was late, so I joined them at the bar and ordered another coffee. They only had paper tubes of Nescafe to empty in boiling water laced with expiring fruit flies. The Nescafe was excellent, like sour dark water with soft finishes. Manu Chao greeted me warmly. I asked to photograph one fellow who resembled a Jean Genet fringe player. He offered to remove his shirt as to better document his remarkable array of tattoos. But it was his animated face that interested me. Thus I added a blurry shot of his smiling face to my small pile of Polaroids. It took awhile to load the equipment on the bus. I returned to the water's edge and noticed that the drunken Chaos had plunged into the sea. I saw them waving in the distance as I bid the Aegean farewell. A thermos of coffee was presented to me as I boarded the shuttle. I had requested it two days before and they had not forgotten. I drank it happily though it tasted suspiciously like the same Nescafe, though minus the fruit flies. But it was not until marshalling another flight and long drive into the late afternoon that I was able to have a truly great cup of coffee. I sat in a nondescript dining area of a so-called art hotel in Torino, with quotes of Allen Ginsberg stenciled on the burnt orange and grey walls and gratefully drank my large cup of espresso diluted with boiled water. And what was it that made it great? I can answer with a smile. Simply that it was Italian!