Macaroon double heart tarts stuffed with strawberries and creme and sprinkled with pistachio nuts, from a Paris boulangerie. The platter is 1950s American and the lace-trimmed linen, vintage French.
As Emily Dickinson noted, "That love is all there is, is all we know of love." Wishing you a very Happy Valentine's Day!
Photo by Jordana Saunders.
My love lies bleeding
and no one to the rescue;
true love is fatal.
As the world turns, Selfridges, London.
Ten years ago today, David and I met in New York. A few months later, my daughter Jordana and I moved to London. A year after that, we moved to Paris, for David's job with an international organisation. Jordana attended high school at the American School of Paris and I resurrected my college French and struggled to adjust to French logic. It was my first experience not working for a salary since age 16; initially I didn't appreciate the loss of steady income and control. To lift my spirits, I began frequenting brocantes, flea markets and antiques shops. Soon our apartment was filled with an eclectic collection of art and antiques.
After discovering the endless bureaucracy required to get married in Paris, Jordana, David and I flew to Santa Fe, N.M. Our wedding ironically was at (French) Archibishop Jean-Baptiste Lamy's private chapel. Jordana's friend Vince played acoustic guitar, while she sang Bruce Springsteen's "If I Should Fall Behind." A dozen friends witnessed the happy occasion and later joined us for dinner at the Inn of the Anasazi.
We traveled to many, many places in Europe and the US. At home in Paris, David honed his cooking skills as we hosted hundreds (!) of guests. I became a fan of rugby and horse-racing at Longchamp (although I never bet on horses; just admire and photograph them). My daughter went off to college in the US.
I started this blog and picked up a camera for the first time in many years. I took Eurostar to London at least once a month. I worked on my novel. I wrote poetry. I campaigned for Barack Obama and worked on human rights initiatives. I had a few health woes, but was lucky to have quality medical care in both Paris and London. I studied Spanish in Seville, Spain and photography in London.
I have lived in Paris longer than any city in my adult life (followed by San Francisco and New York). Ten years ago, when David was a guest speaker at an e-commerce conference (at the World Trade Center) and I a writer, covering the conference, I wouldn't have imagined this life. It's had its ups and downs, but for the most part, it's been rich with blessings. While Paris has never felt like home to me, I know we are fortunate. Having traveled as a journalist for much of my adult life, I've learned, as John Cage said, that "we carry our homes within us, which enables us to fly."
Balancing act, Selfridges, London.
P.S. Don't miss your chance to win a copy of Leonard Pitt's new book Paris Postcards! Go here to enter.
Abandoned musical instruments, Hippodrome de Longchamp, Paris.
This morning I had email from a friend, who is a talented poet. Sadly, she is very ill and moving to a hospice. This haiku is for Mandy.
Rain-spattered window, Oxford Street, London. If you and I look out this window, chances are we won't see the same things.
A tsunami in Tonga and the Somoan Islands; an earthquake in Indonesia. Refugees driven from their homes by the conflict in Yemen. Children going to bed hungry; others dying of malnutrition or curable diseases. These are real people grappling with serious issues; huge problems that cross socio-economic divides and traverse geographic borders.
The world has trouble enough. We don't need manufactured hatred and fear-mongering spread by right-wing talk show hosts and conspiracy theorists, polluting the atmosphere. We don't need personal prejudices of two former drug-addicted radio and television hosts foisted on a gullible and too-often ignorant public. The irresponsibility of Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh and their ilk (including the RNC and its ill-advised collaboration with "News"max) and the cynicism of their reckless and inflammatory behaviour beggars belief.
Of course those who shout the loudest don't worry about dangerous consequences of their actions, as long as they're raking in big bucks. Money is power in America; just ask Rupert Murdoch and other corporate media moguls and companies who encourage and sponsor ever-increasing vitriol in the name of ratings. Just ask Hollywood moguls (and French politicians) eager to overlook Roman Polanski's crimes, simply because he's an artist and a celebrity (and his films take in big box-office receipts).
Peace begins at home and we need to dial the hysteria register down a notch or two. We need to THINK FOR OURSELVES; read and be informed about the facts, not speculation or conjecture. Searching for common ground - rather than constantly focusing on our differences - would be a good start.
As Jalaladdin Rumi said, "Out beyond ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing, there is a field. I'll meet you there."
And an excerpt of Mary Oliver's poem Mysteries, Yes:
"...Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers."
"...Let me keep company always with those who say
"Look!" and laugh in astonishment
and bow their heads."
"Look out any window" is a reference to Bruce Hornsby's song of the same name.
Collection of vintage glassware and pharmacy bottles at Gunnar Petterssen's stand at the brocante at Chatou, now underway. See more of Gunnar's finds at 1-3 Allee Pele. The brocante continues from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. daily through October 4th. Tickets are available at the gate.
The last few days have been a whirlwind of brocantes and dinner parties, with four sets of friends in town. Great fun, but exhausting! My husband is off to Oslo and Brussels this week, while I escort said friends to a secret brocante in Paris and again to the brocante and ham fair at Chatou.
This weekend is the stellar Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp, Europe's largest horse racing event. I'll be there Saturday, shooting photos of dashing jockeys and sleek racehorses tearing down the track. On Sunday, I'll train my lens on chic Parisiennes wearing stylish hats. This year I won't be wearing a hat, as I'm more concerned with balancing the weight of heavy camera gear while wearing flat, comfortable boots!
More images of Chatou, as well as photos of the antique Madonna crowns that came home with me, soon. I'll leave you now with "The Poet Always Carries a Notebook" from Mary Oliver's new book Evidence:
"What is he scribbling on the page?
Is there snow in it, or fire?
Is it the beginning of a poem?
Is it a love note?
This week, what will you scribble on your page - or see through your lens, paint with your brush or shape with your hands?
Sculptural medallion partially obscured by ivy at a private residence, Loire Valley, France.
"Beauty is truth, truth, beauty..." - John Keats.
Seems it's getting harder and harder to find the truth. We really have to search for it, amidst all the politics, lies, spin and stupidity. Thankfully, even amidst bad news and chaos, beauty remains. Here's hoping truth and beauty prevail on this auspicious day (09/09/09).
A reporter survived, but Marines died
NYT journalist freed; Afghan journalist, UK soldier killed in rescue effort
More stupidity from a "teabagger"
The novelist Laila Lalami reminded me that 40 years ago today, Muammar al-Qaddafi overthrew the Libyan ruler King Idris I.
At the time, my friend Muna was living in Libya. Years later in Amman, she told me the story; how they awoke at dawn, horrified to find tanks trained on the palace.
Muna's mother worked for the Queen; her Palestinian father for an American oil company. The family fled with just the clothes on their backs. They spent some time in Malta, before working their way to Jordan, where they ultimately obtained Jordanian passports. To this day, they live in Amman.
Laila Lalami wrote: "It seems to me that coverage of Gaddafi is broadly limited to two topics: his social antics (e.g. the tent he set up in the garden of the Hotel Marigny, his all-female bodyguard corps, his ridiculous outfits and so on) and the Lockerbie bombing. One rarely hears about all the political prisoners who have been rotting in his jails for several decades.
"A couple of years ago, the novelist Hisham Matar wrote a very moving piece about his father, Jaballa Matar, who was allegedly kidnapped by Egyptian security forces in March 1990 and then rendered to Libya. He has not been seen in nineteen years and has not been heard from in ten.
How does one remain free from becoming a symbol or a victim? How do we remain whole and free from hate, yet truthful to our memory?
Life attempts to teach us about loss: that one can still find peace in the finality of death. And yet, my loss gives no peace. My father is not incarcerated, yet he is not free; he is not dead, yet he is not alive either. My loss is self-renewing, insistent and incomplete.
I was always told to expect to lose my father. Many Libyan political dissidents have been assassinated or kidnapped. But now I know that I had no comprehension of the danger he was in. If I had, I would have held on to him with all I could, or tried harder to persuade him not to engage in political dissent, perhaps. Regret is the cruellest companion for those of us who are left behind.
I did try to persuade him to leave his political work, because I loved my father more than I loved my country; or, to put it another way, I had learned by then to live without my country, but not without my father.
When Father was taken, the world did feel empty. For the first couple of years, our ship was lost, then we recovered our bearings and learnt that the speed by which one resumes living is no indication of the depth of one’s grief."
Birds fly over a canal in Amsterdam.
A lantern and red geraniums.
A profusion of lavender, hydrangea and other flowers on the front steps of canal houses.
Climbing roses.
Flowers and ivy cascading from window boxes.
Pots of yellow flowers brighten a house's facade.
Window boxes of pansies and petunias grace construction scaffolding.
Gerbera daisies and tulips.
Mary Oliver's poem "When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention"
As long as we are able
to be extravagant we will be
hugely and damply
extravagant. Then we will drop
foil by foil to the ground. This
is our unalterable task and
we do it joyfully.
And they went on, "Listen,
the heart-shackles are not, as you think,
death, illness, pain,
unrequited hope, not loneliness, but
lassitude, rue, vainglory, fear, anxiety,
selfishness."
Their fragrance all the while rising
from their blind bodies, making me
spin with joy.
Butterfly, Paris. Click photo to view detail.
These flights of fancy
help create what you desire.
Aim high as you dream.
City canyons: Regent Street, London, with construction cranes altering the skyline.
In city canyons
I wander and wonder... do
we see the same stars?
Does the night find you
awake, memories burning?
Do dreams remember?
Or does sleep erase
destiny, interrupted;
its traces fading?
I hold the map close
and escape in the moonlight;
shadows unravel.
The view obscured, but
familiar territory:
this heart's journey home.
An ancient story
written long before we knew
which path to travel.
Worlds apart, we crossed
oceans for our moment in
time, sealing love's fate.
A decorated ram's head over an exterior art installation at a Paris gallery.
For the past two days I've been moving furniture; shifting things from room to room or to the cave (wine cellar); giving things away. A few days ago, I suddenly realised my "studio/guest room" wasn't my style at all. In fact, it looked like someone else's art space. So I set about changing it to a more user-friendly area; it's still a work in progress. Photos soon.
Meanwhile, there may be hope for Polaroid lovers seeking instant film.
Isn't it interesting to watch the Republicans have a go at President Obama's new Supreme Court nominee, Sonia Sotamayor? So predictable, these people.
Joan Walsh has an excellent article here; Glenn Greenwald applauds Obama's choice, while lamenting the Republican smear tactics here. Greenwald also writes that the right-wing reaction to Sotomayor says more about her critics than it does about her qualifications. Hear, hear!
Skullduggery among poets is the talk of Britain.
And an ex-Guantanamo detainee tries to adjust to life in Paris.
Follow the leader, courtyard, Cathedral de Barcelona, Barcelona, Spain.
Breaking news 1 p.m.: The peace conference has been called off, due to South Africa blocking the Dalai Lama from attending, BBC News reports.
Both South Africa and Tibet have suffered for decades at the hands of brutal oppressors. So it is with considerable dismay that the world witnesses a defiant South Africa choosing commerce over human rights, much like its government during the dark decades of apartheid. During that time, South Africa suffered organised boycotts and was ostracised by the international community.
The current South African government is apparently willing to accept its new indentured servitude - this time, to China. The government's action certainly doesn't bode well for it hosting the 2010 World Cup.
South Africa is bowing to Chinese demands to refuse entry to the Dalai Lama for a peace conference beginning Friday, March 27th. Both Archbishop Desmond Tutu and former South African President F.W. de Klerk have announced they will boycott the event, if the Dalai Lama is forbidden from attending.
Yet the South African government persists in its unprincipled stance, while the Chinese government freely admits it pressured South Africa to exclude the exiled Tibetan spiritual leader. Further, the Chinese government has announced it will oppose any nation's overtures to meet with the Dalai Lama.
They've forgotten their history,
this ignorant new government
struck blind by greed.
Unaccustomed to power
after decades of none,
they close their eyes
to the consequences
and agree to all terms
and conditions spelled out
by the lenders and investors.
This fledgling government,
still unused to the ways of politics,
stifles any thought of the oppressed
and risks its reputation
for a brand new bank and ongoing servitude
to a demanding Chinese host
who exports injustice, along with investment,
denying human rights to one nation,
while insisting others do the same,
lest the coffers slam shut.
He'd searched, how he tried.
Hearts too long denied,
he flung caution aside.
No mask could disguise
the truth in her eyes
that time failed to hide.
Love's steady flame
difficult to tame;
a silent refrain.
Photo of a vitrine in Selfridges, London.
You know that feeling of recognition when someone really "gets" you? When it seems as though they can peer into your soul and understand something deep and unfathomable about you? Something that even those closest to you may overlook?
Well that's Christina, friend and photographer extraordinaire. Even though we have never met in person, she really gets me. That was reaffirmed today when I opened my mailbox to find her package. Unwrapping the brightly-coloured tissue I was so excited to find a copy of Nikki Giovanni's new book Bicycles: Love Poems. I was even more thrilled - and moved to tears - when I opened the book to find that Ms. Giovanni had signed it for me!
You see, recently Christina took an amazing photograph of Ms. Giovanni. When I commented on the wonderful image Christina had captured with her lens, I mentioned something about being a longtime admirer of Nikki Giovanni's poetry and what a joy it must have been not only to spend time with her, but to photograph her.
A few days later, the book arrived! What a wonderful surprise! Thank you, dear Christina!
And it just so happens that I have an identical red Electra Hawaii bicycle to the one Nikki Giovanni's posing with on the book cover. Mine - which I got in Cambridge, England and brought back to Paris - is languishing, neglected, under a tarpulin on the balcony. Now I love riding bikes - love it! Riding a bike makes me feel happy and care-free. Yet for various reasons - and not just the cold weather - I haven't ridden mine for ages. I think it's high time that bicycle comes out for air.
In the book, Ms. Giovanni writes: "Bicycles: Because love requires trust and balance."
Here is her poem No Heaven:
How can there be
No Heaven
When rall falls
gently on the grass
When sunshine scampers
across my toes
When corn bakes
into bread
When wheat melts
into cake
When shadows
cool
And owls
call
And little finches
eat upside
down
How can there be
No Heaven
When tears comfort
When dreams caress
When you smile
at me
Inspired by the journey of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Notes selected from Jen Lemen's "trust" cards, available here.
Stone sculptures with sorrowful faces, Antoni Gaudi's Sagrada de Familia, Barcelona, Spain.
"And now, I am not I
and the house is not my home."
"Murdered and unknown. No forgetfulness gathers them
and no remembrance scatters them...they're forgotten
in winter's grass on the public highway
between two long stories about heroism and suffering.
"I am the victim." "No. I alone am the victim."
They didn't tell the author: "No victim kills another.
There is in the story a victim and a killer."
They were young, picking the snow off Christ's cypress
and playing with cherubs...
They were young, playing and making a story
for the red rose beneath the snow
behind two long stories about heroism and suffering
and they were running away with cherubs toward a clear sky."
- Mahmoud Darwish, from the book The Butterfly's Burden
As of today, more than 1,000 Palestinians have been killed and more than 5,000 seriously injured during the Israeli assault on Gaza. Nearly all of the dead and injured are civilians. Three Israeli soldiers have died as a result of friendly fire and ten Israelis have died from Hamas rockets or from fighting in Gaza. Both Israel and Hamas continue to ignore a UN Security Council resolution calling for an immediate ceasefire.
The borders remain sealed, preventing Palestinian civilians - even those critically wounded - from crossing to Egypt. The Israelis are allowing only a trickle of humanitarian aid into Gaza. Electricity has been cut and food, water and medical supplies are in short supply. While UNRWA is maintaining nine shelters in Gaza, they cannot accommodate the thousands of families made homeless by Israeli missles and bombs. The people of Gaza are trapped with no way out, while the international community tries to negotiate a ceasefire agreement.
Courtyard, Mosquée de Paris. Photo by Jordana Shalhoub.
To the Israelis and to Hamas:
Where is the humanity?
Do you think
that we don't see
the trail of death and destruction
your sophisticated weaponry
and your makeshift rockets leave in their wake?
Do you believe
no one will listen to the truth
from the foreign doctors who staff
the only remaining hospital
tending the wounded, dying and dead?
Do you imagine
no one will notice
the lack of water, electricity, food and shelter
for a civilian population surrounded
and trapped like rats, with no place to go?
Do you expect
no one will report
that even ambulance attendants
turn up wounded or worse,
risking their lives trying to save others?
When you close your eyes at night
is your sleep untroubled?
Or do the images of dying children
haunt your dreams and jolt you awake,
your heart pounding in protest?
Do you believe
there is any victory to be gained?
Kill all the fighters
and another generation will follow,
schooled by extremists in a rage for revenge.
A humanitarian disaster
unfolding right before our eyes
yet politicians dither and posture,
casting blame like squabbling children,
with little regard for the human costs.
In Gaza, there is plenty of blame to go around. An Israeli incursion that killed several alleged militants within Gaza first broke the cease-fire. Hamas retaliated by firing rockets targeting Israeli civilians. Because of extremists on both sides, Israeli and Palestinian civilians now are living in terror, as missles rain down on their heads. Many Israelis have had to seek refuge in their basements or in public shelters, due to the unpredictability of Hamas rockets. Since the Israeli incursion, thousands of Palestinians have been forced to flee their homes, even though there is no safe place for them to run.
Israel is responsible for using disproportionate force, with no concern for innocent civilians in Gaza. While 4 Israelis have died, 566 Palestinians have been killed, with more than 3,000 suffering serious injuries. Israel has violated the Geneva Convention by cutting off basic services, including water and electricity and preventing supplies and aid from entering Gaza. The Israeli army has destroyed much of Gaza's infrastructure, as well as buildings not linked to Hamas, including the Palestinian President's office, the Palestinian Parliament, mosques, markets, clinics, schools, businesses and homes. Further, the Israeli army has fired on and killed ambulance drivers ferrying wounded civilians to Gaza's only operational hospital. The Israelis also killed a civilian in the West Bank, as he participated in a peaceful anti-war protest.
Shame on Western leaders for their deafening silence and failure to act. Shame on the United States and its spineless representative for preventing the UN Security Council from negotiating a cease-fire or any kind of settlement. Shame on George W. Bush for supplying weapons to the Israelis, therefore complicit in atrocities being committed on a daily basis in Gaza.
Scroll down the page for a more serene post today.
Museum exhibition poster, Barcelona, Spain.
The Night There
"The night there is pitch black...and roses are fewer.
The road will fork even more than before. The valley will split open
and the slope will collapse on us. The wound opens wide. Relatives flee.
Victims kill each other to erase their victims' sight and find relief.
We'll know more than we knew before. One abyss will lead to another.
When we embrace an idea worshipped by tribes and branded on their vanishing bodies,
we'll witness emperors engraving their names on grains of wheat to show their power.
Aren't we changed? Men follow the teachings of the sword
and spill blood. Let the sand pile up..."
Poem from the book Unfortunately, It Was Paradise, by Mahmoud Darwish.
News updates:
Tens of thousands in London protest Gaza offensive
Bush denounces Hamas terror (but gives the Israelis a free pass).
Israel says ground invasion of Gaza is underway
Israeli ground forces push into Gaza
Attacking civilians is a war crime
Israel begins Gaza ground offensive
Scroll down the page for a second post today.
Tiled wall, Northern Liberties, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
"The mother said:
I did not see him walking in his blood
I did not see the purple flower on his foot
he was leaning against the wall
and in his hand
a cup of chamomile
he was thinking of his tomorrow..."
~~~~~
"This seige will extend until the gods
at Olympus are done pruning the Iliad Immortal."
~~~~~
"A boy is about to be born, here and now,
in the street of death...at one o'clock."
The three poems above are from the late Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish's book The Butterfly's Burden.
Read the tragic story of a growing humanitarian crisis in Gaza, as 4 Israelis and nearly 400 Palestinians are killed in the standoff between Israel and Hamas:
UN-Truth (This blog is written by my longtime friend Marian Houk, currently in Jerusalem. I urge you to check back regularly for some excellent no-frills reporting).
In Gaza
Free Gaza
The Guardian
BBC
Jerusalem Post
Al Jazeera
Here is a Langston Hughes poem for this moment in history. (Hat tip to AMERICAblog).
Does anyone care if the woefully ineffective Joe Lieberman joins the Republican caucus? Hasn't he proved where his allegiance lies during his speech at the Republican National Convention? Tell your senators what you think.
And can we please just go back to paper ballots? The company that manufactures the voting machines clearly is incompetent. Their ineptness made voting a fraught process for millions of Americans. They've had plenty of time to correct the deficiencies; yet in this election, problems with the machines were worse than ever!
Barack Obama has won an electoral vote in Nebraska.
Thank you to all who have worked so hard for so long in support of President-Elect Obama. Thank you to those loyal readers who have been supportive of my political posts. Thank you for the nearly 300 post-election emails and messages of joy and jubilation from readers around the world.
We should take President-Elect Obama's words to heart. This election triumph is ours: yours and mine, for our country. We transformed our beliefs and our hopes into action. Yes, we did!
And now the real work begins. As Americans, we bear responsibility for how our democracy works. In these troubled times, we simply can't afford to be complacent. It's up to us to help our new president change our country for the better.
Photo, Birds of a feather, @Home Vintage General, Savannah, Ga.
Undisputed wisdom, Shakespeare & Co., Paris.
Sometimes when speaking out about politics, one gets lambasted from those who disagree or from those uninterested in their government's failings. Sometimes readers express annoyance that they don't see pretty pictures or light-hearted fare they're expecting. Maybe some email filled with hate arrives; perhaps a few rude comments need deleting. So when someone writes a beautiful poem, because of the writer's refusal to be silenced, it's an auspicious occasion.
Today I am honoured and humbled by my Canadian friend Sherrie's lovely tribute "You Could Have Walked Away."
"... you could have walked away
but you stood strong to your convictions
You are the heart of decency, empathy
truth and responsibility
You could have walked away
nestled in comfort, elevated in a new life
Instead you speak loudly for those without a voice
for those without a choice
for those with less,
You speak the mind of the fearful ones
scared of opposing wrath
Committed to change you bravely lead the way
educating the unaware,
Standing for the old healthy America
Other nations look to you with respect
Thank you for your voice of reason
Determination, compassion
I am proud to know a woman
of your quality and substance
A passionate woman
daring to speak against opposition
Heroic enough to speak the truth
because you could have walked away!"
Thank you to Sherrie and to all who have written or commented, expressing solidarity and support for my political posts.
A homeless person's stash near Place de Madeleine, Paris, one of the city's wealthiest commercial districts.
In the Mississippi Delta
children go to bed hungry
as their parents despair.
Living on minimum wage,
just trying to survive
now the factory's shut
and the money's run out.
Forced to rely on charity
and the kindness of strangers.
Trying to hang on,
living hand to mouth:
society's forgotten class.
Struggling to make ends meet
as more government programs cut.
Hard-working, honest people
trying to keep a roof over their heads,
food in their bellies
and their children in school.
Praying nobody gets sick;
health insurance is a luxury
they simply can't afford.
The car went last week;
couldn't keep up the payments
after the mill was mothballed:
a silent brooding sentinel,
waiting for a brighter day.
A day that will never come for their neighbor,
who shot himself in the Wal-Mart parking lot,
unable to face the indignity
of the bailiffs arriving
to auction the family farm,
where four generations worked the land
and earned community respect and recognition.
Unable to weep at the funeral,
his brother put his fist through the wall
of the county clerk's office
raging at the injustice
as news cameras whirred, recording the drama:
an ordinary life under extraordinary pressure,
no one ever should have to bear.
Helpless and nearly invisible
in a society that rewards achievement,
while shoving aside the needs of the poor.
No longer able to provide basic necessities
in the richest country on earth
where the government once served the people
with responsibility and decency.
In New Orleans
Katrina took their homes and jobs;
two years later
government assistance still thin on the ground
and home is a cot in a cousin's house.
Barbara Bush should see them now.*
On a New Mexico reservation
a group of rusty trailers
heat like a furnace in the desert sun
and the nearest job is a half-tank of gas away.
In Michigan, production is shipped overseas
and entire families are out of work,
out of benefits,
out of time.
Hard to hang on
hard to trust
hard to believe
this is America.
*Barbara Bush famously said that those who lost their homes in Hurricane Katrina were "doing very well now" in shelters in Houston and other cities.
Sen. Barack Obama and Sen. Joe Biden have plans to assist the 37 million Americans currently living in poverty. Read their Blueprint for Change here.
Read other contributions to Blog Action Day here.
Church glimpsed through Spanish moss, Savannah, Ga.
I've been so preoccupied with the presidential election, I didn't know about this, until my friend Rethabile emailed me today. But being late to learn about Troy Davis's fate doesn't make my sense of outrage and dismay any less.
In the United States, all too often, people - black and white - have been wrongly convicted of crimes because of tainted evidence. So the planned execution in Georgia today seems particularly reprehensible, in lieu of actual evidence and a Georgia Supreme Court justice's dissent.
Rethabile asked me to write an American sentence (17 syllables) about Troy Davis's pending death. Here are two:
Another black man in the South faces death within a flawed system.
Would they be so quick to execute, if the accused black man were white?
I grew up in the American South, where racial prejudice was rife. Civil Rights activist Morris Dees is my hero. I once worked for Amnesty International's National Campaign Office in San Francisco. And I oppose capital punishment. It is my belief that no man has the right to say who lives or dies.
-------------------------
Scroll down the page for an additional post today.
A house divided, Homeland Security, Savannah, Ga.
The author of this poem about America's diversity is unknown:
"All of these you are
and all of them are you.
And each is partly false
and none is wholly true."
Blossom, Broughton Street, Savannah, Georgia.
Dicen que no hablan las plantas, ni las fuentes, ni los pájaros,
ni el nda consus rumores, ni con su brillo los astros.
Lo dicen; pero no es cierto, pues siempre cuado yo paso
de mi murmuran y exclaman
Ahhi va la loca sonando
con l eterna primavera de la vida y de los campos,
y ya ben pronto, bien pronto, tendra los cabellos canos
y ve temblado, aterida, que cubre la escarcha el prado. - Rosalia de Castro
They say that the plants do not speak, nor the brooks, nor the birds,
nor the waves with their roar, nor with their brillance, the stars,
So they say: but one cannot be sure, for always, when I go by,
they whisper about me and say...
...Ah, there goes the madwoman, dreaming
of the everlasting springtide of life and the fields
and yet soon, very soon, her har will be gray
and trembling, frozen, she sees that the frost is upon the grass.
Vintage violin, hand-stitched book of sonatas and 19th-century walking sticks, Anges et Demons, Cunault, France, July 2008.
When editing a batch of photos for a book project, this one reminded me of another era... A time when some romantic soul might have scrawled a note of longing and left it for an admirer to find. In that spirit, the haiku popped into my head and I "wrote" it across the photograph with "Satisfaction" script. My IT guy in Florida tells me you won't be able to see the script, unless you have the same font installed on your computer. But no matter how the words appear on your screen, the intent is the same.
Moonlight sonata
Be still this force of longing;
heartstrings out of tune.
If you're a regular reader, you already know about my passion for old typeface letters and printer's cabinets. I blame it on my newspaper days, when the smell of printer's ink infused the air with the promise of constantly-evolving news and excitement. In those days to "stop the presses" was an expensive proposition. Sadly, much of the romance once associated with newspaper publishing has wafted away - along with the smell of printer's ink - as technology has improved. Paradoxically, the quality of newspaper content has declined. More and more advertisers are embracing online publications, forcing newspapers to reduce their editorial staff.
The internet has boosted development of new typefaces used for website design and advertising. This year I was thrilled to find a website that offers unique typefaces, many with interesting stories behind their design. Based in Cambridge, Mass., My Fonts has 62,506 fonts and new ones created monthly. With so many terrific choices, I dare you to pick just one!
Climbing the stairway home, Telegraph Hill Historic District, San Francisco.
"Man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments." - John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath, 1939.
Tara Bradford is traveling. In her absence, timed posts should appear.
...Still elusive...Madelyn Mulvaney taking photos at the Granville Island Market in Vancouver. Rarely is she without her camera.
You may know this photographer and blogger extraordinaire through her sunny, uplifting words and unique photos. She's fond of hiding her face behind books, behind her camera, even behind a green typewriter! It's a privacy thing.
Earlier, Maddie had agreed to let her face be shown on Paris Parfait, so I posted her photo. But sometimes she is shy and she asked me to take the first photo down. So I reluctantly agreed. Maddie is not only beautiful, she's witty, smart, talented and compassionate with a warm heart and wise and generous spirit.
I could go on for ages about this remarkable woman, whose friendship is a tremendous gift in my life. We communicated for nearly two years, by email and phone before we finally met in Vancouver, British Columbia.
Maddie and I wandered around the Granville Island Market, where we had lunch al fresco, took photographs until my camera's memory was exhausted and spent too much money buying beautiful journals. We had an elegant dinner at the former speakeasy Lucy Mae Brown's and on my last evening in Vancouver, a more lively meal at a Thai restaurant in Yaletown. We exchanged gifts - including lovely treats sent from our mutual friend Gillian - in my apartment in downtown Vancouver.
We walked and talked for hours about the usual suspects: children; art; poetry; travel; photography; friendship; men. We discussed ongoing creative projects and plotted ways to meet again in our travels. We shared secrets and fears; wishes and dreams. After I returned to Paris, Maddie's detective work helped reunite two long-lost friends...someone special, who plays a key role in my upcoming novel.
Yes, there's something magical about Maddie, the bright and shining Persisting Star!
Pink blossom, Ballastone Inn, Savannah, Georgia.
The prompt for Write on Wednesday is about how we writers handle our inner editor - in other words, banish the unwanted doubts that come to call on a regular basis.
My Aug. 26, 2006 poem Monster of Mayhem explores my feelings about doubt. But since I wrote that poem, I am kinder to myself. I studiously ignore the naysayers around me who fret about whether or not I'm doing enough - simply because they are not allowed to read my work-in-progress. I concentrate much of my energies on writing, while expanding my horizons. New doors have opened and windows of opportunity have been created. My focus has shifted, but I remain focused, with deadlines and challenges that only I can meet. And I simply don't have time to entertain that inner critic or those worriers around me who don't understand the writing process.
I am my own worst critic and I know persistence is key - following an inner vision that burns like a steady flame, driving me onwards. I must keep writing every single day, even if only a few words or thoughts scribbled in a notebook. When not writing, often I'm thinking about writing - working out various scenarios in my head. So when the critics appear - real or internal - I dismiss them. I tell them to just go away, because I am too busy creating to listen. As the Tao Te Ching says, "Care about people's approval and you will be their prisoner." Of course it is impossible not to care about people's approval. But I can't let others dictate what and how I write, lest my work suffer.
As for the internal editor, that's another matter entirely. That editor tells me what to keep; what to toss that might distract from the storyline - or what might work better elsewhere. That editor helps hold my attention to the subject at hand, rather than splinter off on unnecessary tangents. Every writer needs two good editors - both the inner editor and an external one who can view one's work objectively. The old saying "two heads are better than one" particularly resonates when it comes to writing. Sometimes an editor sees something the writer has missed - or suggests a point that needs expanding or a situation requiring further explanation. Often the collaboration between a writer and editor is what makes the stories flow.
Ingrid Betancourt rescued!
And here's a real-life story that's hard to beat for pathos and drama: French-Colombian politician Ingrid Betancourt and three Americans held hostage by FARC rebels have been rescued! Colombian authorities say no one was injured in today's mission.
As FARC's highest-profile hostage for more than six years, Betancourt is said to have serious health problems. The French government has made securing her release a priority, with President Sarkozy stressing the urgency for Betancourt to receive medical treatment. Tonight Betancourt's son Lorenzo Delloye-Betancourt, told the Associated Press in Paris that his mother's release was "if true, the most beautiful news of my life."
"House on fire," Vancouver, British Columbia.
This morning I was reading Katharine Mieszkowski's article in Salon about noise pollution. My poem "Nightingales in Berlin" was inspired by this excerpt:
"Modern cities can be so noisy that ornithologists have found birds warbling at the top of their lungs to be heard. Nightingales in Berlin have been documented singing up to 14 decibels louder than their counterparts in woody environs, in an attempt to make their songs audible above all the background noise. Yet the cacophony of modern life is hardly confined to metropolises like New York or Cairo, Egypt where you literally have to shout on the street to make yourself heard..."
We speak the same language,
but can you grasp my words?
Do you hear me through the noise
that makes it impossible to think
in a calm, rational manner
and just listen to the silence?
Hard to find such moments
trapped in this environmental ruckus
of car horns and accidents and shouts
amidst a dusty haze of pollution.
People everywhere struggle to cope,
living amidst an urban symphony
of false discordant notes.
In Berlin, the nightingales sing louder
trying to restore nature's balance,
where harmony is disturbed
only by birdsong
and thunder.
I was in San Francisco when I got Brazilian artist Mauricio Planel Rossiello's message, complimenting my photograph from Bastille (at left) and asking if he could use it in his work. Upon my return to Paris, I sent the photo to Mauricio.
Late last week, Mauricio forwarded me the result from Rio: a wonderful collage incorporating images from the '40s and '50s, including Catwoman and an American farmer. The collage is currently part of a cultural exhibition in Brazil.
For nearly two years, I've admired Mauricio's work, which infuses art with social and political commentary. In his work, Mauricio creates bold statements that are not only beautiful and unique, but meaningful to our lives.
"I like to get old images and give them a new life and a new history," he said. "Regarding the collages' themes, they have my social-political vision inserted in them. I think that it's important to transmit it through my work."
Copyright 2008 Mauricio Planel Rossiello.
One of my favourite of Mauricio's collages, "Sepias," represents humans in modern society being overwhelmed and depressed by news of chaos and disaster.
The Filbert Street Steps, San Francisco.
Leave the familiar for a while.
Let your senses and bodies stretch out
like a welcomed season
onto the meadows and shores and hills.
Open up to the roof
make a new watermark on your excitement
and love.
Like a blooming night flower,
bestow your vital fragrance of happiness
and giving
upon our intimate assembly.
Change rooms in your mind for a day.
All the hemispheres in existence
lie beside an equator
in your heart.
Greet yourself
in your thousand other forms
as you mount the hidden tide and travel
back home.
All the hemispheres in heaven
are sitting around a fire
chatting
while stitching themselves together
into the Great Circle inside of
you.
Hafiz poem "All the Hemispheres" from the book The Subject Tonight Is Love, translated by Daniel Ladinsky.
Fragile flower, Telegraph Hill, San Francisco.
At last the 15 members of the United Nations Security Council unanimously agree on something: rape is a weapon of war. The UN resolution adopted on Thursday refers to rape as "a tactic in war and a threat to international security."
UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon told the Council that violence against women has reached "unspeakable proportions" in some societies recovering from conflict. "Responding to this silent war against women and girls requires leadership at the national level," he said. Speakers at the council session identified the former Yugoslavia, Sudan's Darfur region, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda and Liberia as regions where deliberate sexual violence has been widespread. In the DRC, 40 women a day are raped.
On June 21, 2006 I wrote a poem Esperance, esperanza and hope about these women warriors. Nearly two years later, not much has changed. Still, they fight for survival.
A private garden near Coit Tower, San Francisco. The garden features traditional roses, as well as abundant jade plants.
For the past two days, have been in the midst of a rare migraine attack, leaving me a bit melancholy. This morning I opened email to discover music and verse to match my mood. My friend Gracey sent this song and another friend sent Wendell Berry's poem The Peace of Wild Things:
"When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For the time
I rest in the grace of the world and am free."
Wishing you all a peaceful Tuesday.
P.S. Susannah has a Popsicle-bright post guaranteed to make you smile.
And in the news: the wondrous, as remains of an ancient church are discovered in Jordan and the outrageous, as the Bush administration willfully protects war profiteers from prosecution.
Words from a fairy tale in a department store window in Vancouver, British Columbia.
For the Writers Island prompt "unexpected:"
On this serendipitous journey
of the heart
take away all the issues
and look at love
or something like it:
the unexpected phenomenon
that shakes up your world
like a snow globe
and changes your view.
Everything shifts
into sharp focus and high gear;
too much in too little time.
a level of intensity
hard to sustain
with distractions and obligations
calling you elsewhere;
yet always thinking
of that open door,
flung wide to joy and possibility.
If only you were brave enough
to walk through it
and embrace happiness,
rather than hide
amidst the shadows of fear.
I knew Jaballa Mater personally. When I was a UN correspondent, I was introduced to Jaballa by a mutual friend at the US-Arab Chamber of Commerce in New York. The friend asked me to take Jaballa shopping for presents for his family. I remember him purchasing a wallet and other gifts at the Cartier counter at Macy's. A group of friends accompanied him to dinner at the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center and the waiter snapped our picture. Jaballa with his shock of grey hair and mustache was laughing, wearing a suit with his signature white silk fringed scarf draped around his neck. There were other dinners, always an eclectic group, whose livelihood or lives were rooted in the Middle East.
Jaballa was living in Switzerland at the time and didn't like to discuss Middle East politics; certainly not the minefield of Libyan politics, which had caused such grief for him and his family. Years later, I was dismayed to learn Jaballa had been kidnapped, while living in Egypt. Widespread speculation was that Egyptian security forces had turned him over to Libya, another victim of Qaddafi's thugs. Until reading Laila's piece today, I hadn't known Jaballa had been heard from at all during the last 19 years. It's possible he is still alive, although who knows in what condition, along with Qaddafi's numerous other political prisoners. Human rights seem to have been forgotten in the West's renewed quest for lucrative oil and business partnerships in Libya.
Another friend, Mansour Rashid Kikhia, the former Libyan Ambassador to the UN, was kidnapped from his hotel in Cairo in December, 1993. Kikhia had resigned his job at the UN and was head of the International Arab Jurists Association. Despite the intervention of the US government and the United Nations, no information about his fate has been forthcoming.
Many political prisoners died in a massacre June 29, 1996 at Abu Salim prison in Benghazi.
In December 2006, I wrote a poem, "Dead or disappeared" about these two men and other activists - and one special friend - I came to know.
Bright young thing
in New York watching
history unfold amidst chaos
key players crossed my path
some became friends
admired for their selfless courage
The last time I saw him
he took off his shoes
and put his feet on the table
at a UN press conference
so we could see the pattern of scars
calling card of the Shah's SAVAK*
He got our attention.
Two weeks later he was murdered.
The last time I saw him
he seemed a little drunk and flirtatious,
escorted by aides and guards
in an Amman hotel lobby
talking about an upcoming meeting
promising an interview
A sobering phone call followed:
felled on his front porch in a hail of assassin's bullets.
The last time I saw him
he was impassioned about
his human rights work
looking forward to an international conference
to expand the jurists' scope and focus
helping secure rights for all
Newspaper headlines reported his disappearance in Egypt;
UN and governmental inquiries produced no answers.
The last time I saw him
I took him shopping
for family gifts at Cartier
they snapped our picture at the Rainbow Room
and we went to a dinner party with friends
then he went home to Geneva
Vanished without a trace in Cairo;
more UN inquiries; no answers.
The last time I saw him
he told me he loved me
and kissed me goodbye
then boarded a plane to Amman
to do his father's bidding
and work in the family business
Less than five months later he was dead,
shot three times in the head.
For those still here
an obligation to tell their stories
remember what they held dear
the struggles and small victories
undying commitment to causes
greater than themselves
*Secret police during the reign of the Shah of Iran
Note that Qaddafi is spelled in a number of ways. At the UN, we spelled his name Muammar al-Qaddafi.
Photo of bas relief sculptures over a doorway in Amsterdam.