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.)

Found on a 200 mL tub of Tesco Finest crème fraîche.

I cooked salmon with dill and chives and mashed potatoes on Thursday night for dinner. Part of the bargain was that we stocked up on supplies for dinner at Tesco, which has held my fascination since my father started tracking its movement as it prepares to invade the United States.

Wall textures at Oxford Circus tube station.

Pedestal of a statue near the Palais des Congres.

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.

I took receipt this weekend of another batch of 152 x 216 mm Green Apple notebooks—adhesive-bound this time, but its interior pages are the same thickness and the rule-line color the equivalent grey of its spiral-bound sibling more commonly in my possession. I make this request of travellers from Manila, and I answer to each traveller why of all possible things I have taken advantage of their offer and expense to only lug around a few cheap notebooks (and a reasonable quantity of polvoron and pastillas de leche, natch). The answer is never completely resolved to any of those travellers, for who wants to hear after a substantial international trek the rantings of a paper junkie? I doubt there are many who would wish to know the answer in any condition, though I resolve to publish it here simply to make it known, and less likely, perhaps to stir among my readership a great demand for these notebooks from Filipino travellers to come.

To first judge a Green Apple, one must know the color of its covers—near-fluorescent green, and not in the sickly brightness popular in the early ’90s but visible from a distance nevertheless. It is a singular shade and remarkably easy to locate with only minimal ocular contact with the contents of one’s backpack. For this alone I might be thankful.

However, the interior pages—the actual writing surface of a Green Apple—is where a notebook transacts business, and this is where I am sold. The paper is thick enough and no thicker. I can’t quantify grammage, but it’s thinner than your average copy paper and thicker than onion skin and Bible stock—it happens to be the precise thickness that allows for but doesn’t necessarily encourage double-sided writing. Neither gel nor rollerball ink bleed through, and the pressure required to apply ballpoint leaves an invisible but tactile impression mirrored on the other side of the leaf.

When graphite is at hand—even hard, 6H graphite (though I hesitate to think there would be a moment in my life when that is the only pencil within reach)—the aforementioned grey rule lines (unlike the bright blue common of ruled paper) excuse themselves to the background of one’s visual field, respecting even the slightest pencil mark. It isn’t to the same extent as Tufte’s ghost pad (thankfully, not even close), which also makes it easier for one to render script to a baseline when necessary but doesn’t fuss a tendency to non-linear thinking.

The particular size is my preference (other sizes are available), which is portable though not pocketable. My thoughts tend to fit proportionally to the page—there isn’t an expanse of white space clamoring for unnecessary development or a mental curtailment brought about by the page’s edge. And I rarely want for a flat surface since it fits neatly on my upturned right hand.

And while I am a stickler for quality (and perfection when possible), my preference for Green Apples outweighs any erstwhile desire for Moleskine notebooks or the aforementioned ghosts—it is, to me, to someone who greatly values paper and engages it frequently, the perfect notebook.

Moleskine makes a wonderful notebook, but it’s too precious. The black covers are classy for bookshelves, though difficult to locate on sight in a crowded bag. And for my daily notes, I have no need of archival paper. While I would gladly take ownership of such a notebook if it were ever presented as a gift, I have no presumptions that my daily scrums with language and accrued information have any right to the same preservation as the thoughts of the absinthe-sucking artisans who made them famous. Archival paper is a resource of such expense (and these are some pricey pads of paper) that it on principle rejects mere musings and demands a proper composition or at the very least a thorough study, which I rarely provide (though that I would hesitate to use such a notebook says as much about my confidence in my intellect as my reverence for quality leaves). Some use Moleskines on a daily basis until the edges are rubbed and the pages are coughing charcoal when they are shut with force, and claim them to be as near perfection as only time in one’s industry can develop.

But there is perfection and there is perfection for application. Green Apples have neither legend nor history and consequently no air about them, which makes them much easier for me to toss and tatter consequent to daily use. The line heights are suitable, the rule colors ideal, and the paper thickness seemingly tailored to the parameters of my penmanship. And as long as travellers from Manila are accommodating my requests, I’ll never be without one. And as of this moment, I’ll never be without an answer to their inevitable question.