I was 18 the first time I stuck my thumb out on the roadside and found
I’d grown up a mere day-long hitchhike from paris. I slept in the bushes
at Disney land and woke up to a yellow-vested chainsaw shouting at me
ina language that I do not speak. I walked through the empty show-lit
pinochio set and train into the city with a cough and cold, where a woman
came from the rain into a parking garage where I looked up from the sausage
I was cutting on the step. ‘I’m sorry this city is so cold’ she said and handed
me a blue five euro note.
But the story begins the day before At ‘Le Piano Vache’ in Paris
with no windows, the bartender telling his patrons, if they want to talk,
to go to hell and do it there. The Left-Bank gypsy four-piece playing
away their age and day jobs. The nicest seeming portly dumpling on the contra bass,
groaning after solos. The accordion, was he a retired doctor or a street sweeper;
the way strain ages man is universal. The way that jazz can humble us will do the same.
The second selmer in the rythm sound that only six steel strings and an oval soundhole
can achieve, and last, the fingers of guitar stool working post-impressionism
on the blurred neck of his metro-stop guitar. Each man cut from cloth by separate scissors,
but seeming as though they all could share the same name.
I found myself with two hours’ sleep: a bus, two metros, and a train-ride north of paris,
in the minor airport town, where the shuttle did come, and the taxis were not there,
and finally, the city bus brought me to a closed gate. If missed my flight,
or my flight missed me, then I am meant to be somewhere else-
I drew a map to luxumbourg, because to discontinue aiming is to lose.
And in the sugar, there is nothing.