Author: tiphane

The Sorry Pedestrian

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I am sorry to have slowed you down Did you have a good time wherever you were rushing to? Did you get compassionate ears to listen to your improvised Excuse, the lack of parking at the door, the traffic, a school bus? I am sorry to have interrupted Or to have challenged your multi-tasking abilities, Yes, conversation, even hands-free, occupies your mind, And sorry pedestrians should know to wait quietly Because it is obvious they are going nowhere. I am sorry I was in your way I understand collateral damage Means I will be the necessary loss In the war you feel is necessary For how would you get where you need to go Without a car, and yes, I will be realistic And stand by to watch your parade. I am sorry you were enlisted as a road warrior And the economy commanded that you drive More, and pedestrian life as its name implies Is so commonplace and unimaginative Unlike your choice of a shiny armor Shielding you from street life. I am sorry …

Why Should I Want to See this Sky Again

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On the way down from Tilden at sunset, I took photos of the glorious sky, but down on Spruce Avenue, a woman asked me why…  And I should explain that living in Berkeley you must get used to being asked, and expect a suggestion in any kind of direction the person wants you to adopt.  The woman asked me why I took photos when it was obvious that nobody took photos any more.  Her children had been camping and had taken videos with their cell phones, and she held hers to show me, perhaps how smaller and lighter they were than my heavy SLR from which a selfie must be a difficult thing to obtain.  As for me, I tried to explain in a few words why I took photos of the sky, in order to contemplate them later.  That’s why they are still photos, to serve as the starting point of a simple thought, perhaps delayed from this moment, when there were no words to describe what you saw and why you wanted to …

Glendalough

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My flight to Dublin is an hour late, and I wonder if I’ll be able to catch the 11:30 Glendalough bus. It’s called the St. Kevin’s bus service, picks up passengers at “Top of Dawson Street opposite Mansion House” which, after looking at the Google Map, is near a stop of the 747 Dublin Airport bus (College Greens). There’s also a 700 bus, which would drop me on Kildare Street. Fortunately, only carrying a backpack that I could take with me on the plane, I swiftly go through Irish Immigration and Customs, find an ATM (advice: request an amount that isn’t a multiple of 50, to get some convenient 10 Euro notes), find the bus and its imminent departure displayed, and up I go on the double-decker bus to Dublin. On the road I see the 700 bus passing us and leading the way to town. In a hurry, it would have been better, and the 747 bus detours on crowded small streets before crossing the Liffey. But I make it to my stop, College …

you are here

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He wrote that on the side page of his calendar.  “You are here.”  Actually, the period more like a middle dot. “what is that supposed to mean?” a voice in his head asked. “I don’t know,” he said to the voice.  “Those were the words that came today.” “Is that because I wondered why you hadn’t written anything yet?” “Yes.” “Is this like an existential statement?  A zen thing?” “More like the state of the world as I know it.” “Isn’t it also a refusal to participate, by that I mean I asked you to write something, you thought about something, but you don’t want to write it because, well, because you find it’s not of interest to you or to the world as you know it?” “Yes.” “Perhaps the world as you know it is a construct,” the voice in his head said.  “Perhaps I have led you to believe certain things that aren’t true.” “Perhaps, but the only certainty I have is that I am here, and you are not questioning that.”

Fractured Selfie

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Take your own picture at the end of your arm into megapixels down to more megabits and shown as megapixels that you, like the proverbial giant from your personal fable, can hold in your hand and retouch and aggrandize yourself and fix it up before you crunch it into bits, megatons of them blasted into cosmic waves captured at a desert location not far from Area 51, like time travel and teleportation, temporarily pulverized and spray painted onto fibrous optic fibers and spied upon not optically not visually but virtually by a vigilant machine, then vaporized up in a cloud from where it rains upon devices reconstituted on shiny LCD impressing eyes and minds to like or prefer not to.

Dare to Stare

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to be read with a lit candle on Solstice night Dare to stare into this flame, this singular substitute of the sun, your point of light for this long night of solstice. Dare to stare and fuel this flame with your memories of all kinds and flavors, let them evaporate into the stars above. Dare to stare and celebrate this moment. There. Stare.