London, Paris, and Amsterdam

Yesterday my friend arrived from London so we went out on the town. We had to - we stayed at Amnesia (owned by Barney's try the Acapulco Gold) until 22h30 and by the time she dropped off her bags it was too late to eat almost anywhere. Thankfully we headed towards Warmoerstraat and there was a Wok to Walk open. I have to say as far as fast food concepts go - Wok to Walk is brilliant.

Wow. I didn't realise Wok to Walk had so many locations...

Came back to the flat and watched Tosh.0 and old episodes of Married with Children.

We spent a great deal of time my friend and me talking about the crazy circumstances in which we met and how we used to pass the time together in London. L is one of those amazing types. She's brilliant, witty, has some many varied interests, and is a Scouser (from Liverpool) to boot.

One of my favourite stories that is L-centric is once in Islington while waiting for the pedestrian walk sign to indicate I could walk, I took a second too long and this girl behind me said "Hurry up you fat cow."

Needless to say I told her she was quite clever, but I was pretty mad. Who does that? So I hurried to meet L and G and M (my London mates) at the nearby bar where I'd coaxed them to meet me for some mid-afternoon champers (actually Bolly-Stolly's which are an Ab Fab reference to a drink Patsy likes of Bollinger champagne and Stoly vodka) on my expense account. I arrived and had a rant about this stranger, and a few minutes later when she walked by, I had to point her out.

"You're brilliant you. Yes you!" L shouted at the girl. "Don't pay her any mind," L said to me reassuringly and then raising her voice so that the girl would overhear, "she's got a face like a well-slapped arse. Like she should be saying anything about anyone."

It's thanks to Lisa that I've seen Black Books. Or have this vivid portrait of what life was like in Northern England in the late 70's & 80's (Thatcher, Thatcher, the milk snatcher) - my favourite time period of music that gave birth to The Clash, The Jam, The Sex Pistols, Madness, and of course The Smiths.

And that's when I remembered when I knew L would be more than someone I was introduced to by a mutual friend. There's a Light that Never Goes Out. Taking the night bus from Soho to Old Street I mentioned to L how I always wanted to ride the night bus while people sang in unison. So she started singing. P joined in. A few other nameless strangers roused from their drunkeness and sang along. The bus driver joined in and I followed him.

When after the first time we met L, G, and P came to Paris for the wedding of the mutual friend who introduced us we went out for big steaks and to watch the World Cup match France vs. Brazil. When France won we all marched up the rue Rivoli to the Place Etoile. We stayed out until 3 in the morning drinking champers and cheering every time we encountered someone on the street all the way back to the old house. Right after I typed that line, the song "Back to the Old House" started playing...coincidence...

L mentions to me there's a version of Morrissey singing "Every Day is like Sunday" that brings her to tears. So I'm dedicating this to her. She came from London to hang with me here in A'dam and even though a little ditty does hardly do, it's a little something anyways. Not that I want to make you cry. But to say hey girleen, I get why ya do.

Look at the Moz ham it up for his hometown. One day I will see Morrissey in Manchester and L will most assuredly be by my side.

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A Good Ol' Vent

I've been keeping this blog rather sporadically. But in the month or so that I've been away, I've actually been very busy with lots of stuff other than blogging...

1. The book buying continues, as if I could stop it. I'm currently reading a lot of fairy tales and Colette. Freud would love to get me on the sofa over that I'm sure. But even today I went to two place that sell books and passed by the closed WH Smith with regret. I need a 12 step program and Jesus.

2. I went to the book launch for the letters of Samuel Beckett at the Irish Cultural Center in Paris. The two editors who put the book together, Daniel Gunn and George Craig read some of his letters and Daniel kept mentioning that Beckett struggled with being a writer. I waited until after to ask him if he ever became more confident about it and Mr. Gunn said he struggled his whole life. Take this as you will. For me it simply meant no matter what you might accomplish as a writer, you'll always be uncertain. But he also said Beckett knew he had to write and that he knew he wasn't fit for anything else. Inspiring thought.

3. I bought a bike and have been riding all over Paris. It is by far the best way to see the city. I think it's the best thing I've bought since I've come to Paris. I see the city through new eyes and plus it helps burn off all the pastries.

So expect more from me, but in snippets. I'm getting ready to begin my book. I can feel it...or maybe it's just gas?

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Top 25 Things to Do Instead of Writing

1. Cut off my split ends with cuticle scissors.

2. Browse through books written by better writers than me.

3. Fantasize about Morrissey serenading me from six stories down as I stand on the balcony.

4. Fantasize he's not singing "You're the One for Me Fatty", even though I'm doing a lot of late night binge eating.

5. Late night binge eating.

6. Light entire packs of cigarettes on fire, while unfortunately inhaling the smoke.

7. Put on lipstick and admire my reflection in my computer screen.

8. Download interviews from the Paris Review website before they take them down just to make you buy the back issue.

9. Look for random weird things on ebay.

10. Randomly get up and drop my ghetto booty.

11. Write love notes to my boyfriend I don't give him.

12. Look at style.com.

13. Criticize myself after looking at style.com because I can't fit into the clothes I like.

14. Replan my existing wardrobe.

15. Think of all the cool things I'd make if I had a glue gun.

16. Plan vacations

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Tenderize the Night

She is sleeping on a bed as soft as an overcooked steak. The lumpy mashed potato pillows and the afghan with its unraveling bit of string bean yarn frame her body, as still and old as a two day old roll.

But her dreams are sweet. The dull flat, with its dirty tile floor and weathered facade are replaced with walls made of graham crackers. The lifeless posters and cracked plaster are in this sugar spun temperaneous world smell of peppermint and the jewel tone gum drops twinkle. The dining table is bare of good china or her grandmother's heirloom silver. She takes a bite. It's made of chocolate and its joint meet one another in nougat.

She slumbers on. The maid sleeps transformed. The sun bleached uniform is pink and the once sagging skirt twirls in mid-air, dancing with the silk ballet slippers.

In this dream she dresses; not with haste and reluctance, but with expectation. When she looks in the mirror there is a smile there, as if it had been waiting for her face to simply show up and complete the happy reflection.

There is a hint of doom. Behind her she seems the glare of the evil witch's red eyes. Next, she hears the horrible cackle of the witch's laugh. She flees. She tries to fend off the monsters with her licorice whip.

A white hand lashes out from under the overboiled green beans, slapping the top of the alarm clock like a mosquito.

She crawls down the stairs that groan profanities at her, and places her coffee mug on the well worn table. By the time she adds the sugar, the sweetness of her other life is already forgotten.

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The Old Television Set

From Blog Photos

The television had been there for thirty years. You got the sense that if you turned it on, a thirty year old television show would play.

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The Inner Child Outs Exuberence

It always amazes me where used bookshops keep their children's books.

While Calvino and Joyce, Miller and Faulkner, or Rabelais and Proust get prime front of store spots; E.B. White, Jean de la Fontaine, and Roald Dahl get stuck at the dead end of narrow alleyways lined with tall bookshelves. A passage so cramped I began to understand how dental floss must feel.

Still, now that I'm embarking upon the great endeavor of writing a children's book, I wanted to scope out some of my lesser-known competition. What I didn't expect was that the journey would remind me of what I loved to read when I was a child.

When I was seven years old my father took me to Paris where my parents unofficially "lived" since they traveled so much for work. My first memories of the Eiffel Tower, The Arc Triomphe, or any other major tourist site are most easily recalled from the much later age of 9, when I was soooo grown up that my only interest in Paris was MTV and that I could buy Madonna cassettes to bring back to Africa with me.

Only one vivid memory has stayed with me all these years. My first trip to Shakespeare and Co. where I bounced on the bed much to George Whitman's delight, unaware that while I feared bedbugs they didn't really exist unless you let them bite you, you were safe - except they did exist and I was in my childish ignorance probably scaring them for once. After a good jump, my father bought me my very first English book, The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White.

Thanks to Madonna and a stint of schooling in the States, I eventually did read the book in its original language; but before I could read in English I stared at the very simply illustrated book cover and imagined what might be happening inside the book I couldn't read. In my mind the swan holding the trumpet under his snowy feathered wing played in smoky jazz joints and incited soldiers to charge forth towards victory - each time I glimpsed at the drawings inside I made up a story and upon seeing real swans refused to believe that they didn't all have a trumpet stashed away under their wings and that only stagefright (a condition I thought plagued all swans) kept them from honouring me with an impromptu concert, even when I gave up both of the ends of my baguette to encourage them.

To see this book again, now that I am older and have read some of those grown up books, gave me such a feeling of joy. It seemed in that childish place in my heart that book was still vibrating with its story. Despite all of my fanciful imaginings the story I didn't imagine brought back all the stories I had. I saw again what I described to my father as the special neck exercises the swans did in order to be able to play long notes; me mimicking the motion as I circled the desk in his study.

It might seem like a strange idea to take your child to a book store in Paris, but don't let the language barrier stop you. If the cramped alleyways seem troublesome, turn it into part of the adventure.

Your stay in Paris might be a week or two, but a good book is a journey that takes a lifetime.

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