a desert tidal

kijal . cities of sand, 1

hwei — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 01:54:08 +0000

Late in the year, the monsoon descends from distant skies and distant cities. The ocean charges up and down the sand with a new and electric energy, anticipating the arrival of reinforcements.

You can stand on the beach and drown in sunlight, but when you step out of the water the wind is cold on your knees and ankles.

Thus winter comes to the South China Sea.

kyoto . cities & mountains, 1

hwei — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 07:18:45 +0000

The traveler arriving in Kyoto on a grey autumn morning experiences a tremendous sense of calm; as if the mists in the surrounding mountains settle upon the city, and the spirit of the mountains seep into the ancient roofs and walls and travel along the telephone and electric wires until all the time in the city assumes a grander scale, becomes heavier, sleepier, more ponderous and majestic.

The mists transfigure not only the city but the people within it, natives and travelers both.

singapore . cities & songs, 1

desertidal — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 14:00:05 +0000

The absolute law of Changi is that the traveler’s luggage arrives before the traveler, even in the flurry of airplanes touching down all together at midnight. Singapore is extremely precise. It is also extremely popular at midnight, and so, standing in the tail-end of the reticulated python queue of people waiting for a cab, the traveler is introduced very early to the concept of many people occupying a small but exquisitely maintained place.

On this occasion we travel there in the guise of concert-goers. The concert-goer differs from the traveler in possessing a specific purpose to undertake a journey, that is, to spend half the entire journey in anticipation of a concert future, and the remaining half revisiting memories of a concert past. Very little time is spent by concert-goers talking nostalgically about the past, or food, or shopping, or the future; even less time is wasted by concert-goers loitering about shopping malls all day, or walking by the river, or settling down to have coffee. In this light it is more accurate to record this as a true journey after all. (Sorry Jess)

Nevertheless Maroon 5 contrive to be a magnificent performance and they play guitar with great energy and it is a shame it only lasts an hour and a half. An initial exit is mistaken for an intermission; the encore is mistaken for a second half. The stadium where the concert is held has been thoughtfully located in a beautifully landscaped wilderness of clipped lawns and spotless motorways, very far away from easily recognizable metro stations; if there are any within walking distance, they have evidently burrowed down for the night, and are not to be found. We cunningly trace bus stops by foot until managing to ambush a number 60, which takes us over a bridge and into suddenly familiar civilization.

Civilization being defined by: lights, crowds, concrete, cafes, even close to midnight. It is far too late for anything healthy. A Hong Kong cafe whose name you see and forget even sitting directly below the sign, soft eggs (served inexplicably with dark soy sauce instead of light) and butter-kaya toast, chemical canned meat, ramen, coffee. An empty chair for a missing companion. In the chatter and lights and flow of time we forget, happily, that we came to this city in search of songs.

chicago . cities & desire, 1

desertidal — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 00:22:56 +0000

The traveler arriving in Chicago this March finds it overwhelmingly large and cold and concreted, alternately brown and white from architecture and snow. From the airport one crosses long lonely highways, skipping from the occasional shadow of one tall dusty building to another. Slowly the distance between shadows diminishes, suburbs come together, leafless witch-trees fade away, bill-boards and flat office walls with glass spider-eyes crowd out the sky. Crossing a bridge, half-asleep, the traveler realizes that daylight is dimming and looks up: sees a darkened sky, crammed tight with buildings shoulder to shoulder, horizon to horizon. The road stretches in front forever; we are forced to stop at irregular intervals regardless, allowing countless intersections full of angry traffic to pass through. Peering down each road, the city continues infinitely in layers and sub-layers of walls and windows and scaffolding, pavements and lamp-posts and traffic lights, all at perfect right angles to one another.

By evening, light shrinks out of the sky, filters downward and spreads out among the constructs of the city. Becomes: a million lamps in a perfectly straight line, like landing-lights guiding wanderers from the stars to land along N Michigan Ave; a neon guitar embedded in the roof of the Hard Rock Cafe; a giant green and red frog scaling the Rainforest Cafe; Portodillo’s (which we mistakenly attempt to make reservations at and discover this to be both impossible and unnecessary); white lights tangled in empty trees; pedestrian traffic lights going red for danger and white for safe passage. The traveler may stop at a Cold Stone Creamery for cold rolled ice-cream spread out flat on a slab of chilled marble to enable the folding and mashing in of bananas and pecans and Reese’s Pieces; weather conditions are irrelevant.

In March also the natives traditionally dye the river green, and accompany this achievement with bagpipes and a parade. Despite promises of sunlight and clear skies, the traveler may be cheated into going outdoors in only a light coat and no hat, only to see his breath hanging in the air before him, obscuring his view. On this particular day the traveler is well advised to share a footlong bacon and cheese on Italian bread with a companion before walking up and down the river searching for a spot by the railings from which one may cheer on the dying of the river. The boats who perform the dying are stellar performers who taunt the crowd by zipping up and down without actually releasing any dye until one leasts expects it. As the dye leaves the boat it turns yellow and orange, disappears into the white froth of the boat’s wake, and lazily emerges as a bright scalding green, visible through the grey and black streets for an entire day. But this is the last many spectators will see of the green river; the crowd is already dispersing in search of Guinness. All in all, a good one.

In Grant Park it will appear that someone has industriously captured a city exactly identical to this one, and trapped it within a gigantic silver bean. Residents of both this city and the trapped city find themselves drawn to one another through the invisible barrier. It is a popular meeting-place between the two, though no communication seems possible.

The traveler who confesses even the smallest affection for animals will enjoy a small percentage of the parade, and the entirety of the Shedd Aquarium. Or:

fish fish fish corals eels reef fish giddy SEADRAGON SEADRAGON seahorses SHARKKKKS manta stingray hammerhead blue tang HEY IT’S DORY! DORY DORY DORY ok lunch omg massive cheesy beef sandwich ok done belugas belugas porpoises beluga calf PENGUINS! PENGUINS PENGUINS PENGUINS ohhhh GROUCHY PENGUINS sharks sharks ok done exit

The walk back to downtown is best undertaken underground or within the cover of large solid buildings. Choosing the path tracing the edge of the lake beneath the witching-trees is best done if one does not mind constantly walking against the powerful wind attempting to send one back to the aquarium.

The traveler wishing to obtain a higher view of the city may climb the John Hancock Observatory to admire the blue lake (false sea) and shore and dark sober buildings like IBM server towers and a sea of grey and white and brick stretching as far as the eye can see. The traveler wishing to obtain an educated view of the city and other worlds may stop at any of the art museums or institutes absolutely littering any main street. In fact there is an infinitum of activities for the traveler to pursue; the only activity a guide may presume all travelers have in common is the pursuit of sustenance, and advise accordingly. That is to say:

Portodillo’s hot dogs with relish, mustard and ketchup (and raw onions, optional)
Giordano’s deep dish pizzas with absolutely no side dishes or beer
Baby back ribs with chips and gumbo on the side
Honker’s (Goose Island) Ale
Jambalaya
Catch 35′s jumbo scallops on risotto and the appropriately named Sinful Chocolate Cake
Banana Fosters Honey Pecan French Toast
Andy’s Chicken Penne A La Vodka
Chicken vesuvio at the Holiday Inn

And so on.

In the last week of March, exceeding all expections, it begins to snow. Late at night there is a bridge we cross in pursuit of a real jazz club; there are gaps in the stones of the bridge as there are gaps between platforms and trains, but where the gaps of the subway are evil and heavy with the absence of any solid substance, the gaps of the bridge are light and inviting, the wind rushes through them bringing on its back the sound of waves breaking against the riverbanks below. On the streets of this city in winter, more than in other seasons or cities, the traveler encounters a sense of needing to be somewhere else, and the sense comes upon one urgently. Yet in recollection, half a world away, the traveler’s memories of the city are of those moments spent traveling (on the street, in a cab) and waiting for traveling to become possible (at a traffic light, for the snow to clear). The traveler leaves the city (and the city the traveler) dissatisfied, looking back; the highway to the airport becomes a line taut with longing to return.