July 4 - Cleveland

We're passing by some industrial factory puffing columns of smoke into the sky. Columns and columns of smoke. stuff coming out of one column actually looks like it's on fire - blue fire of some sort. Then dark houses deep in sleep. They're built so close together it's hard to tell if they're residential or warehouses.

The darkness stretch time - not being able to see beyond the window planes it feels mildly as though we're moving in a black box. The windows reflect so when lighted objects are visible it's hard to tell if you're looking at them through the glasses, or whether you're simply staring at their reflections coming from the other side.

I brought a copy of Jack Kerouac's On The Road with me. Funny how for the first part of the book all he talks about is heading West to Chicago and Denver. Makes me think Yeah, I'm heading there too. All coincidential, but of course he's doing it the hard way - hitchhiking.

It's hard to form any sort of impression of a city simply by what's seen from the tracks. They go through back alleys where houses are low and dank, even when the train station is in the middle of the city.

Finally arrived Cleveland. 5:18am. 13 hours of train ride, which isn't that bad but for the temperature. the compartments were freezing. It was so cold my muscles ache. and I had most of my warm clothings on! I don't understand why Amtrak has to punish its users that way. Take that customers! That's for using our service! !?!
Poor Tiffany has to wake up in the middle of the night to come pick me up from the station. It's already light out. And departure's roughly around the same time tomorrow. Argh!

Sunday, June 22nd

"Do not be angry. Try to understand. When you understand you will not be angry."
-Jonas Mekas

Having met Jonas three times and at all times failed to say anything more than a hello sir and a good bye. finally this time, my fourth time, gathering all my courage I spoke to him. And he kindly spoke back. A great man. a wise man. a simple and beautiful being. and me, a nobody, yet he talked to me pleasantly and told stories. stories which even with my terrible memory I remember each word. It is amazing how certain people, simply with their presence, they fill you up to the brim.

I told him I've read I had nowhere to go and that I liked it. very much. Actually, i love it. but love is over used this days and so I avoided it. And he said he would give me a copy. Even now I cannot believe these words. even now they seem impossible to believe. An entire copy from the man himself. A copy of a book I'd tried so hard to find but couldn't. A copy that had inspired me to fill up my journal more meaningfully and to start updating this blog more often. I hope he does not forget...

I have very fortunately enjoyed the company of very inspiring people the past 2 years. The decision to stay an extra night to hang out with Eiko on Thursday was worth every minute.

"Space is never empty. Time is never even."
Such beautiful lines. such delicious movements that warp time and consciousness. Talking to her I feel my world expands and that there is hope. even if blindly. even if unchallenged and untested. hope not for myself. but hope that yes there is room to believe. that art brings something to the world. that beauty, true beauty exists. that i too, want to notice, understand and create such. success or failure is a separate and unrelated issue. unimportant at this moment.

i am very full these days. very full.

stories and creators

So the grandma met the devil on the street. She looked at him and walked on. and when the devil spoke the grandma kept steady. she kept steady and she walked towards the beach and then onto the sea, one step at a time. steady. The grandma walked on and on, till the sun melted into the waters and the stars poked their shiny heads out of the darkening blue. The grandma walked steady.

The grandma reached the other shore and she met the man. He wore a simple white shirt, and a towel across his neck, which he reached for from time to time to wipe of the sweats collecting on this eyebrows. He was engrossed in typing but on hearing the sound of footsteps bouncing off the earth he looked up. The grandma walked up to him, peered into his eyes and smiled, "So, it's you."


And yes, the man, Edward P. Jones, read part of his short stories out loud and breathed life into them, and the girl on the audience stand smiled. The people around her, too, were smiling. She had never read a single line he wrote but she knew she would read plenty after tonight.