My four-year hiatus from academia is over. Half of my first class at Georgetown was an introduction to WordPress, the same software in which this is being composed. I’m still optimistic.

Between Once and Man on Wire, there’s an undercurrent in my choice of cinema this past weekend of little things — pop songs and filament-tied-to-an-arrow — urged by good-humored gamines and can-do cads toward the seemingly impossible. I’m not in touch with most of my mentors from five or six years ago (and in some cases not on speaking terms), but I sense they’d smile knowingly at the return on their investments of encouragement and time (if not straight cash), the dividends paid to progeny. I didn’t know then clearly who I was or what was next, but their guidance in entrepreneurship, design practice, and, let’s face it, psychological warfare — and away from hourly retail in indistinct suburbs, indefinitely — capitalized the belief that I was meant to transcend the path my history implied, make great art, write a killer thesis, see the world. And lately, though it’s been a difficult belief to sustain, I’m here. The band’s in the studio; the cable’s between the towers.

It’s daybreak, and it’s time to dance.

As the Broadway stagehand strike closed and I rushed the box office for a ticket to “Cyrano de Bergerac” last weekend (and will do the same for “Rock ‘n’ Roll” before too long), I was reminded—as I was more consistently my last weekend in California than even I have recently allowed my introspection to persist—the extent to which my life is a bento box. Fine company discussed why it’s been so long since I’ve cooked for more than myself in Washington, why I don’t share this meticulous presentation of delicious mundaneness, and what (or precisely who) could inspire me to set a table for two; because the answer to my lousy luck with single women (and predilection for dead-end romances) no longer seems to be a factor of BMI or psychiatric distress, or even my stultifying good taste.

Why should it matter that I’m borne on a crest of denial, was my frequent reply. In my grown-up shoes and somber coat, I have sufficient cover to effect my desired changes to political infrastructure, inconspicuous to eyes that falsely discern my appearance as agreement to a status quo. And I think those effects, though lesser than curing epidemics and famine, to improve others’ lives are worth pursuing despite the New Year’s Eves spent jilted.

Nevertheless, it seems an especially appropriate discussion now in the afterglow of “Cyrano,” where in the last act the troublesome loneliness has soured the titular character’s idealistic mischief into proselytizing bile, and in anticipation of the final season of The Wire, a narrative that more than any other I’ve encountered addresses quixotic workaholics on the fringe of the clusterfuck of American politics (myself among them) with the notice the job will not save you.

And maybe we’ll have this conversation again, perhaps after a road trip to Arcosanti, St. Vincent at the Rock and Roll Hotel, Charmaine Clamor at the Brooklyn Public Library (she actually performed at Roscoe’s in Long Beach, of all places, last week), visits to theatres showing Persepolis, There Will Be Blood, and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the purchase of the perfect slouchy chair, and every single-serving of acculturation sequestered in lacquered walls, another lonely lurch into evening. And perhaps I’ll think differently of my social austerity, perhaps I’ll reconsider the merits of my lonely pursuits, though I somehow doubt that my presence will intersect with what (or precisely who) I might find equally compelling.

I spent parts of last weekend visiting with former professors in galleries, with Heather at her studio, partaking in the lives of artists in Los Angeles, confronting my talents for discourse and composition, in diminished though ample effect, on a now dusty mental periphery, a few hours’ intersection with a road less travelled. And though I now find myself approaching drawing and bookmaking less as a compulsion than a personal restoration, it, like the unrequited-love flip-side of the workaholic cycle, exists in a state of disrepair proportional to my increasingly cynical intellectual trajectory and, however coldly, given to the past. To restore that disposition to unrequited love—I don’t know.

Rushing box offices of Broadway theatres in snowy weather after The Rings of Saturn and a Five Guys bacon cheeseburger on the Chinatown bus to New York is the kind of activity enjoyed regularly and solitarily, because although I know some who would hypothetically (and only occasionally) accept the invitation, no one ever does by dint of geography or financial or physical restraint. And though it is ostensibly a whimsical weekend, it is wholly representative of what I demand of a prospective romantic partner, and not simply to tolerate it or to even partake in the itinerary enthusiastically, but to augment it (I don’t mean simply an order of fries) and bind the experience as much to her self as I have to mine.

The job will not save me. And art may not save me. And graduate school may not save me (I, coincidentally, am satisfied with my surprisingly above-average GRE score and have shifted my attention to the qualitative components of my applications). Travel, literature, films, and music may hardly pose an obstacle to labor-borne damnation, however noble its effects. And for as much as they/you worry, I sometimes wonder if even my closest friends are up to the task.

One topic I’d considered for my thesis is the relationship between savior culture and nocturnalism, or how the latter allows a critical detachment from the former, and specifically, how an increasingly globalized workforce acting on behalf of disparate time zones will affect the practices of monotheistic religion and executive political power. It strikes me that the ability to believe in a savior, and consequently, in the concept of monogamous love, is subliminally reinforced by the association of consciousness and animation with the single, blinding illumination of a medium-sized star. For nocturnals, however, light is artificial and distributed, its position—overhead on planes and buses to guide one’s reading or a single spot to illuminate an actor on a dark stage—directed by purpose. Or it is reflected in the moon, which itself guides the tides, or conveyed over exponentially notated distances by gas giants.

This is hardly a tidy argument, but I feel that my nocturnal experience constantly reminds me that life is as much due to that overriding source of illumination as a series of functional relationships, and I burn my candle at both ends not as much for my benefit but to be a beacon to those arriving at the same understanding. “Is life just a miserable series of let downs or what,” Mani texted as I was leaving Los Angeles. Single servings in lacquered walls, it would seem. My reply: And I could hardly ask for better friends to share them.

Upon describing my apartment to my mother during a phone conversation (rather recently, already months after I’d moved in), annotating from my punch list—paint, halogen, cabinet hardware, and so on—she succinctly restated my bloviating with the phrase, “you’re living in a before.” One of the constants in my life is asymmetry, and I find myself applying this imbalance I once disdained as a lens of optimism to separate the apex of my existence from, more or less where I am now, its midpoint, with an ambition to set a median greater than the mean. What that ambition comprises, however, I have yet to cohere into a uniform and quantifiable after.

In late September, I confronted the option of starting a new job closer to my ideal career (on the present web design trajectory) in the city that, from the south where I’d been raised, physically and metaphorically represented the north—San Francisco—with necessary salary and benefits accounted. And, though I lost some sleep to its consideration (and some leave to the interview process), it was an easier decision than I’d expected: I chose to stay here. Having recently taken occupation of an apartment on Capitol Hill and a niche at the office as the idealist who writes snarky memoranda, I’ve come to an understanding with this city—an understanding that includes a pay increase and support through graduate school including tuition reimbursement. Beyond these material benefits, however, I’ve also brought more weight to bear on this spring-board job—applying my zealotry to research projects and finishing what I started on House.gov—and, with a master’s degree likely added to that load, jacked up the elastic potential energy of my résumé. Furthermore, re-arriving at the terms of a permanent settlement is a process I have no desire to undertake, in spite of my fondness for the city itself—when I’m done here, I intend to be through with geographic monogamy.

And that seems to be the iconic story of the past year of my life: passing through airport security, re-examining and sometimes very nearly attaining what I love, and, in the wake of each round-trip flight, reducing my ambitions to mere “acceptable eventualities” and rendering past victories pyrrhic. What once appeared as solid ground years in every direction I find myself re-mapping as mediocrity’s quicksand, and as each day forth has been another step to avoid that weak terrain, I find myself on this long stride—25 hours till midnight (24 songs, 79:45)—reconsidering the circumstances (an absurdly prolonged and subsumed existential crisis, now at mid-life) that have lent the recent passage of time such a tenuous, deliberate pace.

The 24 songs here are vignettes from other playlists—a week of being a passenger in the rare left-hand driver on the A11, work music from sleepless weekends spent on the design of my portfolio site, songs that accompanied the constant re-arrangement of furniture in my new apartment, timely incidentals from jukeboxes and FM radios, and the late-summer North American travel spree—so there are obvious gaps and spared puns (previous drafts followed ‘Ooh La’ by the Kooks with ‘Ooh La La’ by the Faces, expanded from ‘California’ to ‘Look Inside America’ to ‘This Bitter Earth,’ and were bookended with ‘1234′ by Feist and ‘Hotel Yorba’ by the White Stripes with ‘1, 2, 3′ by Camille betwixt, for instance, and I resisted the temptation to arbitrarily include anything by Joy Division). Nevertheless, it has an arc, and at the ends of this final draft are direct references to two films (both with 1970s UCLA pedigree)—Harold and Maude and Killer of Sheep—that approximate the yang and yin, respectively, of my defining films of this past year (if Stray Dog closed with a pop song, that would occupy a place here for similar reasons; I must acknowledge Rushmore’s impact though the aforementioned theme was cut).

And though at the end of the arc, as at the end of this year, the past looks worse for wear and the future seems a museless exercise in sociopathy where my passions are reduced to hobbies, I still have to plant my advancing foot somewhere. And though I no longer have a destination in mind, my itinerary has a few broad parameters: to leverage my existing resources to enliven the journey and to take each step with relish. Some of it may manifest itself as a community of like-minded people with whom I would embark on my graduate studies (hopefully) or a series of occasions to distribute correspondence of increasingly exotic origin, some of it is just a matter of dimmer switches and potted plants and steps trod on sidewalks hither among the glamour of city girls in winter.

The sentiment from Geek Love (though I haven’t had sex with Siamese twins) seems appropriate here: “And I’d figured I’d come to the end of being amazed. Run out of it, like you’d run out of sugar. But when I saw you lovely girls I thought to myself, maybe there’s more to life yet.” However, unlike that hedonist singularity and the allegorical novella of the first part of this narrative, Every day is a song for a holiday, this shift to a more optimistic brand of fatalism is borne of a series of events, of seemingly unassociated verbs, nouns, and a mass of adjectives. But by giving them sequence and contexts, it is my hope that, for you as they have for me, from these passages might emerge a story, like a footpath on a field of grass between two buildings, a patchy and unsanctioned route of convenience through a verdant square, inaccessible to official cartographers and for that belonging more to its travelers.

Had I visited Montréal when I was 19, buying too much second-hand music, attuned to markers of soi-disant hipness through vodka hazes, and leading a life of dissipation, dressed in dubious vintage, it would’ve been the place I would’ve liked to grow old. It strikes me as a stubbornly unique place, the one city in all of North America that acknowledges its European colonial heritage as integral to its identity — Vieux-Port cobblestones, haute cuisine, and all things vintage — under a Francophone umbrella. Aside from that, learning another language requires an investment of embarrassment and miscommunication, both of which I embodied excessively that awkward year, and the lazy passage of time in Outremont, Mile End, and Plateau would’ve synchronized to my innate rhythms before I accelerated them to workaholic speed.

From my visit with Ky Vinh last year came the recommendation to practice French in Montréal, though the temptation of fluid conversation in English proved overwhelming. I watched Cinema Paradiso at the end of the World Film Festival, tracing its weft and weave from college courses in Italian, my recent familiarity with a French phrasebook, and visual cues — following enough to make me want to understand it now. Sean recounted his screening of Babel in Poland without English subtitles for a section of the narrative in Japanese sign language. And while Star Wars III: Backstroke of the West is the stuff of legend, I personally had the surreal experience of watching “King of the Hill” dubbed en français.

In Chicago, I met Santiago from the University of Minnesota when he ordered a Boddingtons, and we discussed our respective months in the nations of our ethnicity — for him, Madrid. I asked him to advise me a course of activities from the perspective of a Madrileño, and he noted how bullfighting and flamenco as activities of upper-class Spaniards had gypsy origins. We discussed the beauty of Barcelona, the Catalan language barrier and how it stunted his exploration of the place. He had been working with the education-abroad program on campus and had been struggling to quantify travelling’s value in business. I told him: being in a place where one’s language is useless forces one to rely on context to exist and broad, universal gestures to communicate. These experiences where one is forced to rely on fundamental design principles — color paradigms, pictograms, and the like — not only underscore their importance but, and perhaps this is more important, endow one with a unique empathy for the people who rely solely on their consistent implementation for survival.

The father-and-son proprietors of Botines are Catalan. Sean’s description coincides completely with my opinion of the place, so I’ll simply quote it here: “the amazing curiosity/junk shop on St-Laurent, north of Mont-Royal. This is one of the most amazing stores in the world (and ridiculously cheap). I don’t remember what it’s called, or EXACTLY where it is, but if you walk north from Mont Royal on the east side of the road, you’ll come to it in a few minutes. There’ll be some lame stuff outside – bicycle helmets, used books, but STEP IN.” They speak Catalan to each other and communicate with customers in French and English, and they moved to Montreal when the son was one year old.

Over dinner conversation last night, someone else at the table had taken meetings at a Korean company that were simultaneously translated, and he marveled at the translators’ ability to receive one language as input and instantly produce another language — words, inflections, gestures — as output. He noted that once the translators understood the jargon they were repeating, they may very well have been able to add to the discussion in their own right.

The relationship between nationalism and language is a strange beast to me, partially because I hardly feel a sense of belonging anywhere my midland American accent is inconspicuous (and often enjoy places where it is scorned), but mostly because my professional calling has forced me to inhabit a staggering degree of nations. I’ve worked almost entirely in the United States, but producing work for musicians, artists, merchants, universities, and politicians has required me to learn their jargon, to trace the weft and weave of each profession, and pay attention to context. I picked up The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana at Indigo on Sainte-Catherine while looking for postcards, and the plot of it seems appropriate for the situation where I now find myself: an antiquarian book dealer loses his memory and the plot of the novel concerns its reconstruction from childhood onward, reliving the protagonist’s youth as a series of illustrated books, dusty encyclopedias, and pop songs and Fascist anthems on Tuscan radio. Regarding memory, I have the opposite problem, but I’m beginning to realize how my identity now is a sum of cultural experiences and the language I speak is its consequence.

By the way, I am firmly in the Saint-Viateur camp as far as bagels are concerned. Their sesame bagel is possibly the best food value in all of North America — I would love to pit its minimalist greatness against the myriad zings of a King Taco carnitas burrito that entertain the tastebuds. I can’t relive my 19-year-old existence with my 24-year-old knowledge, but it’s possibly more fun to revisit that reckless existence knowing I can afford the cuisine.

In other news, hardly two weeks passed that I was back in Washington — my Chicago trip was just three weeks ago and I’m currently reporting from San Francisco (well, Milpitas, but I was there earlier today and am returning tomorrow), and with not-one-but-two round-trips to Los Angeles in pre-production, a New York daytrip the week after next, and a day in-transit to Manila early 2008, it’s tempting to measure my life in boarding passes, foreign currencies, and postcards sent. And though it’s my spoken ambition to calibrate my existence to the basic unit of a transcontinental flight, my worst-kept secret is that I’d like to land somewhere and know, quietly, sincerely, that I’ll be understood.

Good morning all.

I had tried, or I should say, I am still trying and writing and researching and conversing and attempting to construct a narrative that somehow casts the activities of my European vacations and the months between as myth and metaphor, a microcosm of the improvisational information architecture, anomalies of sociology, and decline of western civilization in the first decade of the 21st century. Given the pretentious mess that promises to be, this chapter of my pop-music autobiography may be the closest thing to a straight narrative of my week’s sojourn in Brussels and Paris, 11-19 November 2006, I might extract from that unwieldy text. This chapter and the one that will follow shortly after (a second volume that picks up where this leaves off, mid-January 2007 through my week in England and the beginning of spring—’the fall of Icarus’ and ‘the winter of our discontent,’ as it were) are sourced differently from their predecessors—rather than being a current account of my state of mind and music library, its contents are more dependent on found materials from burned CDs in glove boxes, radio-surfing in Paris (ironic then that this entire mix is in the English language), jazz concerts in Brussels, and one track I’m especially sure will raise eyebrows, from my father’s library during my monthly transcontinental flights to Los Angeles—the aural residues of those aimless but purposeful travels. And though the words and instrumentation are not the more literal musical avatars through which I usually stage my drama, they are perhaps more authentic because they were present at the moments they here represent.

And while the plastic manifest is prepared for those who elect to receive them, those 19 have already been digitally replicated, in their precise order, compressed in a single 128 kbps mp3 file exceeding 79 minutes in length, given the title Every day is a song for a holiday. The cover will be this picture from that overcast Thursday, at the Bourse, where I caught the 95 back to Watermael-Boitsfort:

On Sunday night Ky Vinh and I, over dinner of mussels (though a Vietnamese preparation) and beer at his father’s restaurant in Ixelles, discussed how English as a language is more communicative and transactional than French, which is more expressive, and how as a result of this structural difference, the Anglophonic literary arts tend to emphasize purpose and plot—the totality of the composition—while their Francophonic counterparts are more concerned with diction and meter—the raw materials and their relationships—and so perhaps I perceive this chapter’s weaknesses based on my Anglophone mores. Regardless of whether this theory withstands academic rigor, I will say that the ‘culture of bread’ that exists in Francophone countries, the innately and unequivocally high standard for comestibles—with its attention to raw materials and their relationships—sadly has no equivalent in the United States. The rotisseried chicken I would eat in the United States was purchased in black plastic trays with mass-produced side dishes; on my first morning in Brussels, I joined Ky Vinh and his mother for their weekly tradition of rotisserie chicken and accompanied him to the market on the Ixelles pond to procure it (and stop for a coffee and speculoos beforehand).

He took my Lonely Planet phrasebook for a spin, or rather, he dared me to—he sent me to buy two tomatoes and celery, and later, a baguette (which I did meekly) while he bought a fruit tart at the patisserie adjacent. And while the bird, enormous by European standards, was succulent and the skin roasted golden, the baby potatoes that accompanied the dish had been roasting in a tray beneath the rotisserie in the drippings from the chickens above, the vegetables and fresh meats before my eyes which had been seemingly gamma-corrected for the pornographic standards of American grocery consumers, and the sun’s play with the pond and the majestic houses that stared it down on that cool morning defy my grasp of English adjectives to sufficiently describe them. After twelve hours’ delay arriving to Brussels from Washington, via Chicago, via London, my vacation had taken a decidedly auspicious turn.

The next day in Paris promised rain; we loaded up on diesel and made for A1. I continued to skim my phrasebook, uttering every road sign in a futile attempt to develop a passable French accent. And it seemed natural that in my anticipation of Paris, we should play the soundtrack to the film that pretty much defined the city in this decade: (Le Fabeleux destin d’)Amélie (Poulain). “My cousin plays the piano,” Ky Vinh says as he cues up the fourth track of the CD. “I ask her to play this whenever I visit.”

I spent that Monday in Paris with him and returned Friday morning via train—he met me at the Louvre after work, after the three-hour drive from Brussels, after I’d spent the day as a proper tourist, starting all manner of conversations with “parlais vous Anglais?” Restaurants advertised beaujolais nouveau on their signboards; I had the assiette du beaujolais, he had the roasted chicken. The disadvantageous exchange rate for Americans is seemingly weaponized by fountain drinks—a Coca Cola runs 3€, a 330 ml bottle on a London Underground platform £1.50. We stayed the night at Hotel Ribera in the 16ème Arrondissement after a dead-end search for a decent jazz club.

Two years ago, in the idle months before our inter- and transcontinental migrations, we took a break from our usual discussions of clustering algorithms—he played “Mr. Jones” on a borrowed acoustic guitar, I tanked up with whiskey and cognac and sang, poorly, foregoing the second and singing the third verse straightaway before Ky Vinh acceded to provide vocals as he strummed. He maintained an interest in jazz that intensified since we last met—taking saxophone lessons, collecting the recordings of John Coltrane, scouring YouTube for Thelonious Monk performances. We went to Sounds, his favored jazz bar in Brussels, twice in my week there.

He proposed a sovereign nation whose primary criterion for entry was physical beauty, where the beautiful ingenues of the oppressive governments of Asia, Africa, and especially Eastern Europe would migrate freely as a stepping stone to their desired first-world destinations—either a Schengen country or the United States. The city-state’s immigration board would essentially be a panel of judges akin to a beauty pageant, except actually invested with political force by the state. Tax revenues would be generated through the traffic of ogling tourists and wealthy jetsetters hoping to parlay their fortune and nationality into acquiring a trophy bride.

At Sounds, a striking blonde took residence at the table closest to the stage, nursing a decanter of red wine. Hands folded, tucked underneath her chin, which swayed independently of her shoulders, which remained still. Ky Vinh observed her, observed me observing her, and confirmed vocally what we’d both concluded the moment she passed our table and remained in our peripheral visions: she is granted citizenship, even a government appointment if she so desires. I appointed her the “minister of war,” and Ky Vinh asked the reason. “What you propose is Troy inhabited solely by Helens. You’re going to need a good minister of war.”

On Wednesday night, we opted for Muziek Publique’s program: Tricycle, a contemporary Flemish trio, instrumentation of accordion, bass, and saxophone, playing at the Moliere. And although we were disappointed to find the Moliere an auditorium-style theatre rather than a smoky bar, and Tricycle’s repertoire wasn’t as much jazz as an interpretation of European folk songs with jazz influences, the trio and their auxiliary players were nonetheless entertaining masters of their craft, to the point that I was compelled to spend 15€ to buy their latest CD, “King Size” (and blow my cover when asked to wait for the change or pay with smaller bills). The recorded version of “Belly Button” ends with the sound of a dog barking, also the sound of the Praha room, the spare bedroom of Indi’s house, in the late mornings when her neighbor’s dog howls its discontent most violently. Nouvelle Vague earned their spot during another late-morning waking, hungover on Shing’s sofa the second day of this year. After a breakfast of pho, we went to Acres of Books where I bought my copy of Geek Love.

I woke up first, Saturday at Hotel Ribera, and had a shower before waking Ky Vinh. Our itinerary for the day was Musée d’Orsay and the Basilique du Sacre Cœur; a boat ride on the Seine in the afternoon, time permitting (it didn’t permit). Cleaned up and heading north toward Montmartre and the basilica with a parking ticket and a little late for a croissant, the Andrews Sisters on the radio had put themselves on a loop in our heads—working for the Yankee dollar, indeed. Driving back south towards d’Orsay, he asked me what I thought the disc jockey was saying. “¿Habla qui?” is what it sounded like to me, as I eyed the sidewalks for parking. He said, “That’s ‘Art Blakey’ with a French accent.”

He talked about the thrill of jam sessions in live jazz performance (except drum solos, which didn’t impress him much). My appreciation is not usually for the inherent creativity of improvisation but the recapitulation of the song’s motifs when they’re over.

We bought sandwiches near the Sorbonne and took lunch at the Jardin du Luxembourg (and the fellow in red standing to the left of the palm tree would have been blocking my view of the pond had I been present when the accompanying picture was taken), took our seats facing the pond as 2° 20′ east rotated away from the sun and the branches of the trees seemingly planted in sand appeared at once gilded and frayed in autumnal twilight. It was not only a moment, we both knew while it was still present, we would look upon nostalgically in our future, but as we observed a father help his toddler son pilot a model sailboat on the pond we faced, a moment wherein we recognized the moments in our respective futures for which we would feel nostalgia in a later future still. I realized that I’d learned to recognize the hallmarks of those occasions because they were merely occasions—rare memorable moments of our experience that we knew to savor now that we knew their infrequency.

On Thursday night, after I’d spent the day roving with my camera at the Musée royaux des Beaux-Arts, Grand Place, and the Mannekin Pis, we opted to take in a movie, and I joined him to return overdue CDs and suggested The High Priestess of Soul and The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady (the latter an unintentional counterpoint to my association of A Love Supreme with Tokyo) for his next set—we played the former on the way to the theater. We watched Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, a German-financed film about French perfumers, speaking in English, shown that night with French and Dutch subtitles—the adaptation of a novel about a fatally ambitious perfumer with no scent of his own. (Then again, watching jazz performance in Brussels seemed equally knotted with global history: Belgian performers working in an American musical idiom with the saxophone—a musical instrument of Belgian heritage.) I sipped a can of Hoegaarden during the film, and in the theater, as in Ky Vinh’s car (where I also sipped beer), there were no cup holders—a design decision surely driven by the aforementioned culture of bread, because what sad souls keep a liter of cola nearby any chair they’re bound to spend a few idle moments? Ky Vinh noted that a point from the novel that doesn’t adapt well into the film is how his lack of an olfactory trail aided in his abilities as a murderer (which served his career as a perfumer)—a biological disproportion that predisposes him to professional excellence, as it were. The plot lacked (by my value system), though the production values are superb.

Driving from the theater: Listen, I implored. The vocals seemed to be in a different time signature than the music, just as she starts singing “I’m going back home, I tell y’I'm going back home now”—the piano dares us to imagine that it is indeed being played by the same woman who is providing the vocals, as much as it thanks us for paying attention. Heading back to Brussels on Saturday night, after a stop at the ridiculous Publicis Drugstore on Champs-Elysées to pick up Coke and water (I picked the bottle of St. Georges simply for the design, which alerted me to the typographic harmony of Optima and Gill Sans and later made an appearance in Indi’s redesigned résumé), The Roots came on the CD player as we slogged through traffic towards the Paris peripherique on my last night in town—he pointed out the sonic burst of a needle dropping on vinyl at the beginning of “Star” on Sunday morning and I’d been attuned to the opening seconds of the track since. As we attempted to leave the city (Porte de la Chappelle to the A1 was closed that night), we switched to the radio where I identified the song just ending as a Madeleine Peyroux single. After a week of road trips, we both tired of the CDs we kept in the car—Charlotte Gainsbourg’s new single made the playlist as the sodium lights lining the highway median indicated we were back in Belgium.

This is part of a longer (yes, longer, like a book, you know what that is) travelogue which I’ve tentatively named “The Fall of Icarus,” after the myth, after the painting by Pieter Brueghel in the collection of the Musée royaux des Beaux-Arts, after the subject of the William Carlos Williams poem named for the venue, after the Henri Matisse cutout in the collection of the National Gallery here, reproduced as a wool rug and adorning the floor between my bedroom closets. In considering the myth of Icarus and the people who are my Dædalus and my King Minos and the context that is my Labyrinth, in considering Brueghel’s landscape and Matisse’s reduction, in considering the measures of flailing melody of improvised jazz, in considering the normalization of geographic and emotional straying as a means to security as defined by capitalist societies, in considering the literal act of human beings taking flight—on jetliners and hang gliders and other winged innovations—I’ve come to understand that the greater achievement may not have been in engineering for the land-bound human race the ability of flight but the means of safe landing. Traveling is but the measured solo, a jam session in a live performance, and the return to routine that follows is the recapitulation, the revisitation informed by the improvisation that preceded it.

During my stay, as my experience of Paris in autumn had revealed a metropolis free in the awareness of its twilight, I began to wonder what would follow New York and Hong Kong as the 21st century’s global cities, as they had followed Paris and London of the 19th century. Dubai and Shanghai? Ky Vinh argued that unlike their predecessors, they exist in the context of governments that place restrictions on intellectual movement, with which I agreed. But, looking back at that argument, would that necessarily halt their ascendancy? The architecture of the 20th century favored the heights of finance—banking, insurance, and the singular pursuit of monetary wealth. Perhaps intellectual freedom and its artisanal manifestations would not be the defining characteristics of the 21st century’s defining cities, rather, the bastard form of capitalism to which the 20th century had given rise.

I received a copy of The Cruise as a birthday gift and proceeded to share it with friends of similar tastes or in similar straits on my travels to Los Angeles in November and December. The subject of the documentary observed about New York (while narrating a double-decker bus tour of the city): “When you are sitting in the middle of midtown Manhattan, you are sitting amongst a 20th-century invention, a city that grew up at an explosion, as an explosion, it is an explosion, an experiment, a system of test tubes, gurgling, boiling, out of control, radioactive atoms swirling. Civilization has never looked like this before. This is ludicrousness, and this can not last.”

And what of the rebellious intellectuals who conglomerated in coffee shops and theatres, who provided global cities with cultural capital to match their fiduciary wealth, their venues now annexed by the same machine that threatens their existence? “The State does not give power (pouvoir) to the intellectuals or conceptual innovators; on the contrary, it makes them a strictly dependent organ with an autonomy that is only imagined yet is sufficient to divest those whose job it becomes simply to reproduce or implement of all of their power (puissance).” I had been reading “1227: Treatise on Nomadology:—The War Machine,” the chapter in Deleuze-Guattari’s A Thousand Plateaus in spare moments on my vacation in preparation for a meeting of my fledgling book club on the Sunday night I was due to return to the States.

Ky Vinh said as he drove me to the airport on Sunday morning, apropos nothing, “I don’t think you’ll be happy working in a regular job.” I returned to work on Monday, at the end of my improvisation, at the end of my solo, thrust back into the routines and motifs, back to security as defined by capitalist societies, back to the state apparatus. I’d read about nomadic war machines and the myth of Icarus and watched jazz performance as intellectual exercises, and as I’ve been tailoring this abridged version of my travelogue, it seems I’ve even vacationed as an intellectual exercise.

And though the words and instrumentation of this chapter are not the more literal musical avatars through which I usually stage my drama, this text may vouch that they are perhaps more authentic. And as I’ve come to realize there is a difference between intellectual exercises and learning, between expanding one’s range of metaphors and enhancing one’s ability to live, between communication and expression, I’ve come to realize that’s worthwhile, even admirable.

(Three thousand words, and I haven’t said a thing about the waffles or frites.)

I’ve been trying to quantify what it means to be older, to understand the process by which one adapts the tropes of the aged. I wonder if an elder conscience is one that no longer adjudicates between what is right and what is wrong but between what can be forgiven and what can not be forgiven, if wisdom is the knowledge of how much injustice one can inflict and withstand and experience the consequence of inflicting and withstanding injustice. It is a fact of our physiology that we become more attuned to bitterness and less attracted to sweetness as we age, but in what science is the bond forged between idealism (or wonderment or creativity or innocence) and saccharinity? Is cynicism the olive of attitude, that briny defense mechanism we only grow to appreciate once we can suck it out of the bottom of a cocktail glass emptied of gin?

“History is only bitter to those who expected it to be sweet” is a quote from Sans Soleil, which I watched again on Saturday night, alone in my apartment as I ate my dinner. It is the kind of cheerful pleasantry that defines this latest compilation of songs and chapter of my pop-music autobiography: We may be tiny, but we’re two of a kind. There’s nearly eighty minutes of 128 kbps mp3 in that one 73 MB file—the plastic manifest will be distributed when I return from Europe, Brussels and Paris, specifically.

In a thick of professional malaise and prolonged existential crisis, optimism takes the form of an affirmative answer to questions like: “Is my culpability for immoral acts offset by my insignificance in the grand design of the universe?” So much for wisdom and experience.

Paper cranes by Shing, made from a piece of paper taken from the end of a plastic-straw wrapper.

And although I have been unable to mitigate my existential crisis for several months now, one way to mitigate its effects is to realize that I am not alone in my cosmic tininess. The title was inspired by a pair of paper cranes that Shing folded after we shared a plate of tacos, folded from squares of paper torn from the end of a wrapper for a plastic straw—the picture of it will be the cover for this album. Last August, I visited her in Vermont on the weekend of her birthday. Across the Atlantic, I will be staying with Ky Vinh for a week.

I have been thinking about the nature of presence and absence in relationships, how friendships are often defined by the mutual intermittent presence of an other—I realized the strange role of intermittence in that definition when Josh visited me the week before last. We joined Cheryl for lunch in Bartholdi Park on the Thursday of his stay, and she asked if he had flown here primarily to visit me—he had. I realized in that exchange that mutual presence now requires a greater sacrifice of time and transportation—in closer proximity to my friends, the beginning and end of our mutual presence was defined by a clock, not a calendar; following the intervention of transcontinental distance, these rendezvous have taken on the necessity of flight, of clean bed linens and a well-stocked refrigerator. Our mutual presence now requires a greater sacrifice, and to those who have visited, I am humbled and grateful.

Over the last week, friends have been sending cards, books, and films (and I thank you)—Saturday, those were followed by phone calls from their celebrations in my honor, despite my absence in Los Angeles and New York. From both gatherings, the first greeting was imbued with the polite enthusiasm that accompanied the initial toast, followed hours later by a satellite link of lesser comprehensibility. Nevertheless, I paused my film to listen, amused and a little saddened; I let my dinner go cold. When I finished my gin, there was no olive at the bottom of the glass. And while I’d like to think that this is a metaphor for my personality, it isn’t. And I like olives.

A coworker told me a story today about his experience at a lobbying firm for whom RJ Reynolds was a client, particularly about the bowls and trays of free cigarette packs in their lobbies and offices. At the time he didn’t smoke, and he felt ashamed taking them until he saw that wealthier and more powerful visitors habitually stuffed their pockets full of free cigarettes, at which point he started stockpiling smokes for his mother and sisters.

Now, around this time, RJ Reynolds acquired Kraft and their American-cheese singles empire and thus diversified the gratis platter in their lobby, at which point in the story I quipped that my coworker had at least once in his past “a safari jacket stuffed with Velveeta and cigarettes.”

And then I observed that following any plural noun with “and cigarettes” renders it wonderfully absurd and melancholic, like a linguistic sidekick that hangs on the phrase like a perpetual cartoon cloud. Consider: Coffee and Cigarettes and Romance and Cigarettes (a further search of IMDb yields Bread and Cigarettes and Buttermilk and Cigarettes).

Clowns and cigarettes. Bullets and cigarettes. Reindeer and cigarettes. Eyeglasses. Carpenters. Tampons. Meat pies. Bass guitars. Dadaists. Attorneys general. Feather dusters. Crackwhores. Geometric solids. Athletic socks. Snakes. Toss pillows. Legal precedents. Tourniquets. Lima beans. Web developers. Evildoers. And cigarettes.