Unpublishable Haiku #17

gray mist
one crooked post
under the red balcony

Such a good book

Denis Johnson's new book, Train Dreams. So good. Remember the last time you read a book that kicked you in the gut?

Take it Easy, Take it Hard

Take it Easy, Take it Hard
For Bubba
In the winter I wait for summer. In the thick of summer, it seems like cooler, more tolerable weather will never circle back around. Days and weeks are spiraling past, while simultaneously the bus never seems to round the corner. My friend, you write: Innocents, awaiting the divine, suddenly propelled forward on the edge of an alien tsunami. Fifty years gone in a blink.
And knowing that fifty days and fifty years can blink and drag and blink and drag... how can I argue? How can I deny it?
Instead I will say this:
Go get Marly, walk down and let him splash in the river and shake his natty fur. Sit in the garden near Phebe's witchy thistle patch. Sit in the grass, lay down in the grass. Rest your head on the belly of that smelly precious dog. Light a bonfire, drink wine from a coffee cup on the darkening porch. Dance until the record skips then tell jokes in the kitchen, mosquito slapping. Scratch your beard, take a swim and shake your natty fur. Let your grown son be a child. Take it easy and take it hard. Go get Marly and walk down to the river, I will watch for the bus finally rounding the corner and find myself aboard.

                                                                                                                        -by Angel Hogan

New YouTube Channel

Okay, so at the suggestion of my old newspaper editor, "The Names of Places" has a new YouTube channel.  It is linked to the blog and will be replete with audio posts, slideshows, and Bub songs.  Here's a repeat of a recent Bub song, now available at YouTube.

My favorite Bub song

Perhaps it's a bit sentimental for a half-baked ditty, but what can you do?

You Don't Say

Anyway, there you have it.  Another half-baked Bub ditty.

Insufficient Chairs

Another weird memory.  If anyone can correct or corroborate the details, or add to them, I'd be much obliged.  Chris, Arlen, Primetime Sean; was there anybody else?  Aron, were you there?  Anyway, so as I remember it, we were on a canoe trip down the Sanaga River, in Cameroon.  We were laughing real hard about stuff, like when one of the canoes hit a whirlpool and flipped over.  Then, that night Sean was drying his shorts on the grill and burned a big hole in them.  Man, we laughed so hard.  Arlen kept on yelling: "Prove it!" every time anybody said anything, making some kind of hilarious point about epistemology or something.

After a while we figured out that if we stopped at the riverside villages, the local chief would be obliged to sit down with us in the center of the village and serve us drinks and send us off with armloads of fruit.  As soon as we figured this out, we stopped every time we saw a pirogue tied to the reeds in hopes of coming away with mangoes, guavas, avocados, and lemons.  We'd be paddling away, scanning the forested shoreline for evidence of people, water lapping, long-tailed birds flashing in the green.  When we saw a trail or froth in the water where people washed their clothes or a pirogue, whoever saw it first would shout, and Arlen would yell "Prove it!", then we'd double over laughing as we we made our way cross-current to the shore.

I seem to remember a deserted village.  We wandered up the trail, mouths watering in anticipation of palm wine and fruit.  We came upon a silent cluster of mud houses.  Then a woman scurried into view, waving her arms.  She grabbed us and pulled us around the village, showing us house after house.  "Uncle used to live here.  Brother used to live here.  Cousin used to live here.  Come!  Let me show you!"  She yelled for her son.  A skinny, scared looking boy came into view.  "We have guests!" she said.  "Do you want to see the plantation?"  We followed her at top speed all through the plantation, trees heavy with cocoa pods and oranges.  Then she said, "Come! Let us sit."  So we followed her back to her house and she yelled at her son once again to go find some chairs.

There were not enough chairs.

The Best Company

Listen to Bernardo's story about friendship and fire and what the direction that a house faces can tell you about it's inhabitants.

Bernardo's Point of View

These photos are from Bernardo Morillo's Public Privacy Collection.  Bernardo also tells some great stories. 

 title - bride

title - caledoscopio

title - beso
                                                                                  -by Bernardo Morillo

Blue Grotto

I took this photo on a small motor boat on the Napoli sea off the island of Capri, Italy. It was October of 2011. I remember taking it and liking how simple it all seemed. Just one old guy; one small boat and one little flag. Stark contrast to the horde of tourists on little motorboats and rowboats staring him right in the face; though most outside the range of my camera/phone. I like this picture not only because I secretly wish I was this guy and had this boat and that little flag, but because it reminds me of that particular day. 

The day started off normal enough in the coastal town of Sorrento. I got up when it was still relatively dark. I had a weird fried egg for breakfast which had a round yellow yolk that refused to run. I also mixed some type of cereal with some type of yogurt, had very strong coffee and a piece of bread or Danish probably. The weather was cool but promising. It was early but the sun was already fighting its way into the sky.

I took a taxi with my mom down to the port with an eye toward getting to see the “blue grotto”. I had no idea what the “blue grotto” even was but I figured why not. I like the water. I like the color blue. Sounds like a plan.  The people we were with decided to walk down to the port. Our taxi driver blew right past them as he whipped the taxi around a few scary switchbacks on its way down to the water. After we got out I walked around the port taking a few pictures as mom looked into getting boat tickets. I came back and she was talking to this strange man with an odd look to him. I didn’t pay much attention. I was on vacation and I make a point not to think too hard or worry too much. 

This odd guy ends up leading us down to where this boat is moored. This boat was huge and probably could hold about 200-250 people. I was a little skeptical about being able to get on it because all that I saw were steps. Our odd friend wasn’t as put off. He simply led me around the twenty or so people in line to this side gate that had a ramp down to the loading area. This was no ADA ramp. The grade to this thing had to have been somewhere close to one foot for every one foot of drop. Plus, it was slippery as all hell. Not my idea of a good time but it got the job done and I didn’t fall on my face. We got down to the boat and the folks working the thing loaded us up no problem. Our odd friend disappeared. Apparently, he was trying to sell my mom on a private tour but wasn’t convincing enough. Too bad for him. Again, I really wasn’t paying attention to the details. The way I figured it, even if this boat ride turned into a Gilligan’s Island type “three hour tour”, it beat being at work. So they loaded everyone else aboard and we sailed off the Sorrento coast for Capri.

The trip took all of about twenty-five minutes. It got interesting when a second odd and somewhat creepy old man approached me and my mom. This time, we were both sitting at the back of the boat. ( I wish I knew if this was the bow or the stern but I really have no clue.) Anyway, this guy was trying to sell a private tour too. Only he took it personally when we brushed him off. He scoffed at our plan to get to the blue grotto.

“The grotto is closed!” he said in a sort of half angry, half amused way. “You’ll never get to the grotto!”

This guy was serious. You’d think we insulted his mother or something.  When we finally got to Capri and headed off the boat, he made a point to confront us one more time as he stood with a group of people who apparently took him up on his tour offer.

“You will have a very unhappy time should you try to get to the grotto! You remember that I say this!”

You see what I mean, intense. I felt like I was in some horror movie for a second there. I felt like he was that old person that tells the kids not to go to crystal lake because some killer with a hockey mask is loose but they don’t pay any attention to him and end up dying as a result. At this point I was fully preparing myself for the “grotto monster” should we even get there. It was not to be though- the monster that is, and we never did run into our intense friend again. Instead, we were able to find a second small motor boat that took us out of Capri’s  docking area and back out into the Napoli Sea. We skirted around the rocky edges and stone cliffs of Capri until we made our way out to where holes, both large and small, began to open up in the cliffside of the island.

I remember thinking that the boat we were in had no chance of getting into one of those holes. This boat could only seat about twenty people but it was obvious that you would need a boat much smaller to make it work. Sure enough, when we pulled a little further around the island, we came upon an area full of these little rowboats that were going in and out of these little holes no problem. When it came our turn, I had no idea how I would even get into one of these things. I mean these rowboats sat right on top of the water. They had to. It was the only way you could fit through the openings that led to the grotto. It ended up not being a problem though. I think they specifically waited for this rowboat that had this big, solid mountain of an Italian man handling the paddles. He basically took one look at me, extended an arm and hoisted me from the one boat to the other without so much as a minor hesitation. Under normal circumstances, I think I would have taken a pass on the whole grotto thing if it meant pulling off a stunt like this. But if this guy wasn’t showing any fear, why should I? The rest of the trip to the grotto was subjectively uneventful. It involved the small rowboat, an even smaller cave, some admittedly pretty blue  water and some Italian opera singing. Oh yeah, and there was the inevitability of being tossed back into the motor boat by that same Italian paddle man.

                                                                                                      -by Mark Collier