American Flâneurism

"The Flâneur"

He considers the boulevards ideal for thinking,
so he takes the air on a weekday evening
to best appreciate the crisis of modern life.

I thought I would try this for a while,
but instead of being in Paris, I was in Florida,
so the time-honored sights were not available to me
despite my regimen of aimless strolling—

no kiosks or glass-roofed arcades,
no beggar with a kerchief covering her hair,
no woman holding her hat down as she crossed a street,
no Victor Hugo look-alike scowling in a greatcoat,

no girls selling fruit or sweets from a cart,
no prostitutes circled under a streetlamp,
no solitude of the moving crowd
where I could find the dream of refuge.

I did notice a man looking at his watch
and I reflected briefly on the passage of time,

then I saw two ladies dressed in lime-green and pink
and I pondered the fate of the sister arts,
as they stepped into the street arm in arm.

Who needs Europe? I muttered into my scarf
as a boy flew by on a skateboard
and I fell into a reverie on the folly of youth
and the tender, distressing estrangement of my life.  (9-10)

Melancholic

And this is the house where I
I feel alone
Feel alone now

And this is the house where I
Could be unknown
Be alone now

Soon the waves and I found the rolling tide
Soon the waves and I found the rip tide

"This means something. This is important." -Roy Neary

I wish that I was just alluding to a cool 80's sci-fi movie with the borrowed title of this post, but rather, I am strongly suggesting that you read this article:

Ghosts Riding Paris

On a bike blog that I read, I came across this funky mix of ghosts, fixed-gear cycling culture, and techno. The description of the project can be read below the video (Caution, lots of pretension ahead). Kind of cool if you like bikes. If you don't, it might look kind of dumb. If you need some help enjoying it, just think about how cool the idea of an intimidating, night-riding peloton of ghost riders haunting Paris. Oh, and one of them has a wicked beard. That's kinda cool isn't it? Well, that is, at least until someone decides to make it into a feature-length film.



Here is a description of the "project" taken from the youtube page of the video:

Project "Ghostrider" was born form the desire of two fixed gear passionates who decided to film their night strolling in the french capital city.

Fond of images (the first one is a film director, the one a photgrpaher) (Editor's note: It's obvious the neither one of them is a writer) and fixies, Jérémy and Anto, aka //Les Darons//, catch the adrenalin spirit of the discipline inside their cameras. The first opus "Ghostrider" is soon massively shared (Editors note: I haven't seen the first video, and I couldn't find it after a brief search, so take the use of "massively" with a grain of salt). A year later, it's time for "Ghostrider II", with only one leitmotiv  the search for danger that brings out the filthiest instincts  (Editor's note: Okay, these guys take themselves way too seriously...seriously...serious, man.)

As a result, they created a mind blowing video you cannot look away from (Editor's note: Seriously...), since the mastered elegance of the black & white contrasts with the frightening visual reality, increases bu the oppressive beats of Gesaffelsetin, the new prodigy of the techno scene.

The producer's atmosphere seduced the riders and the idea of a collaboration naturally grew up. "Viol" (from his upcoming "Conspiracy Pt. 2" EP, out July 19th on Turbo Recordings , full of howling and heady sirens, was obviously the right track to illustrate this out-of-time night ride. (Editor's note: Have these guys considered a career in academia? They are just vague enough that I'm sure they could publish frequently. They would be especially successful in a Visual Studies program.)

The crew is now chock-full of ideas and carious projects so watch out ! [sic] (Editor's note: Okay, maybe they could use some lessons in punctuation.) You might run into them at dawn...

José Emilio Pacheco Among the Ruins

As I prepare for exams I have very much enjoyed reading the poetry of José Emiliio Pacheco once again. As it turns out, he is scheduled to receive an award in Mérida the day of my exam defense and my adviser was invited. We may have to change the dates of my exam, but if my adviser ends up going, he is going to try and get a signature for me from my favorite poet. I also really love the later prose poetry of Borges, but since I haven't read Borges for a month or so, and I am currently reading Pacheco, at the moment I can say that Pacheco is my favorite poet. Now that I have been to Mexico City, I find that I feel even more connected to his poems, as he often alludes to specific locations around the city (as he did in Las batallas en el desierto). The following two poems are poems that explore the idea of poetry as ruins, enjoy. (Photos my own)

Chapultepec: La calzada de los poetas

              En el Bosque de Chapultepec y cerca del lago hay
                   una calzada en que se levantan monumentos de
                   bronce a los poetas mexicanos.
                                              Guía de la Ciudad de México

Acaso más durable que sus versos el bronce
y nadie alza los ojos para mirarlos.
Aquí en el bosque sagrado,
cerca del lago y la fuente,
enmedio de los árboles que se mueren de sed,
por fin se encuentran en paz.

La hojarasca de otoño les devuelve en la tarde
palabras que dejaron sin saber para quién ni cuándo.

Y perduran en bronce porque escribieron.
(No para estar en bronce escribieron.)

Extraña sensación esta vida inmóvil
que sólo se reanima cuando alguien los lee.

¿Qué leemos
cuando leemos?
¿Qué invocamos
al decirnos por dentro lo que está escrito por ellos
en otro tiempo, incapaz
de imaginar el mundo como es ahora?

Algo muy diferente sin duda alguna.
Se gastan las palabras, cambia el sentido.

Aquí bajo el sol, la lluvia, el polvo, el esmog, la noche
yacen los prisioneros de las palabras.

Tarde o temprano: Poemas 1958-2000. 3ra ed. revisada, corregida, y aumentada. México: FCE, 2000. (436).

El futuro pretérito

(Nuevos poetas, 1925)

En la ciudad hay temor. Estallan bombas.

Dejan por todas partes un reguero de muerte

y de mutilaciones.

En cada esquina se produce un asalto.

Grupos innominados

asesinan a alguien por lo que hizo o no hizo.

Arde una guerra que no encuentra nombre.

Unos contra otros, todos contra todos.

Reina el dinero que no vale nada.

Sin embargo la vida continúa.

Se habla mal de la gente,

se hacen reuniones

y se forman parejas. 

Se maquina un futuro

que no será como lo imaginamos.

El extranjero dale del hotel.

Va por la calle entre los asaltantes,

los mendigos ubicuos,

los cambistas de dólares.

Llega a una librería de otro tiempo, otro mundo.

Aquí es donde terminan los orgullos.

Cementerio de libros,

posteridad promiscua en que conviven

La guía del buen cristiano y La función del orgasmo.

Entre tanta hoja muerta que amarillea quebradiza

surge un libro con manchas sepulcrales

--pero que nadie ha abierto.

Estremece pensarlo: nadie ha abierto

Nuevos poetas

y han pasado casi ochenta años.

Esos Nuevos poetas

deben de estar hace ya tiempo muertos.

Bajo hontanares de polvo,

cordilleras de tomos que ya nadie

volverá a leer nunca,

papel marchito por el mismo tiempo

que antes de cancelarlo

lo hizo semilla, árbol, madera, pulpa,

hoja en blanco

y novedad que un día olió a tinta fresca,

lo esperaba una ruina intacta.

¿En dónde habrá aguardado tantos años el libro

al impensable que vendrá a su encuentro

cuando el mismo

se halla mucho más cerca de todo esto

que del milenio ajeno amenazante?

Compra Nuevos poetas

y regresa al hotel y abre sus páginas.

Lee la polémica

que estremeció las letras nacionales

a mitad de los años veinte.

No se la explica:

a la vuelta de casi un siglo

todos escriben de manera idéntica.

Lo que más la conmueve

es que los polemistas se confíen

a un porvenir que hoy ya se hundió en el pasado.

Se ha convertido en tiempo inconjugable:

el futúro pretérito.

De los Nuevos poetas de este libro

no quedó un solo nombre, un solo verso.

El extranjero ve su porvenir

bajo esta cripta hecha polvo.

Tarde o temprano: Poemas 1958-2000. 3ra ed. revisada, corregida, y aumentada. México: FCE, 2000. (551-53).