And now for some Poetry, Dutch and Deutsch style!

The following is some slightly more artistic writing that I did, inspired by the Netherlands and Germany. Dig in. (And yes, there is product placement in the poetry, of sorts. Call it the new post post modern.)

Two Ends of a Bridge
Focus on the sun, the warmth on your eyes,
burning through the fall goosebumps breeze
See the blue dot behind your eyelids
Rising just out of view.
If the two ends of a bridge don't meet
It's probably to let a sailboat pass through
Unless the bridge over the river Drina has been blown in two
Think of Isidora's gift and her friend in Hamburg
Think of how amazing life is, or how
awful it can be, as in the genocide book
How life is often (always?) both

Untitled (06/09)

The mind craves change, but so much is the same

We are more attractive when with someone

When home, moving seems better

When away in a god place, everything feels like home

Just because I want something different, rarer

does not make me better

Just because i want someone to change does not

mean I must not accept them now.

Down at the Beach

Photo courtesy of Benjamin Chang. Check more of his photos here and here.

5x2 trampoline area. Yellow padding over the springs, green/purple/yellow/blue trim on black mats. A 12-year old boy jumps alone, tentatively, unimpressively. A girl steps on the second mat from the left, row farther from the sea. She is 16-25, probably towards the younger side, light brown hair in a ponytail, brown tank top, blue shorts. Her hops begin, probing and testing, never wasteful. She goes from corner to corner, lightly. Then she flips backwards. Her form is perfect, with straight legs, an unmoving upper body, and arching arms. When I do gymnastic movements, I achieve movement through force; short, explosive contortions or circles that signify power but cannot be pretty in observation. I land in spite of myself. She moves through grace, suggesting only the barest exertion. Her legs appear powerful from my stairway perch, but more as a result of her movement than as a tool to achieve that movement.

She spans the whole mat, perhaps 2mx4m. She flips forwards, she flips backwards, she lands on her butt and then twists off the bounce before landing again. She stands on her hands. Her training must be as a diver or a gymnast. Or as a trampoline artist. She disappointingly jumps a pedestrian 720 rotation. She atones by landing a backward flip with a twist, and again forwards. She may realize she is being watched.

The younger boy is off by now, outgunned and outshined. An older boy, abotu 25, the younger boy's brother for sure, blond, and long like a swimmer, dressed only in thigh low swim trunks and tall man musculature, rises from a chair nearby next to a pretty girl in a red bikini, and steps onto the mat two over from hers, on the same row. He briefly warms up and launches his body into back flips, front flips, and a double back flip, which he does not quite land.

Undoubtedly, he is also very skilled, and his grace is far greater than mine. But power infects his movements as well, allowing him more revoutions but robbing him of her elegance. He looks like a diver, and he appears to be showing off or competing in a way that she does nto. I am projecting, of course.

She steps off. The younger boy returns and emulates his brother, attempting a front flip. She is now on the sand, by two wooden bars; I realize the fenced in section of beach they are in holds a nearly full array of gymnastic equipment: rings, bars, and so on. She tries to do a one-armed cartwheel on the sand. She does not quite succeed. I can do a one-armed cartwheel (though maybe not on sand). I think this proves my point. She puts on sneakers, walks over to talk to the bikini girl, and then leaves the gymnastic compound.

The older brother continues for a couple more minutes and then sits and stretches. The little boy continues for a brief time alone before growing bored. The sea laps at the sand, unchanged, and the wind gusts, unchanged, knocking over my plate of fries so as to stain the concrete with sand-specked mayo and ketchup. The scene ends.

This, at least, is how I remember it.

Tyranny of the Next

The tyranny of the next

Release yourself from expectation

Detach from plans and schedules and details

Accept that the essence is the same

The company, the air, the direction.

The details are just details

The tyranny of the past

But I am just as at fault as any

And on the road, the blame is needless

Useless, in the way.

Let the mistakes go. Let tomorrow be.

Breathe. And again. Breathe.