Friday, July 16, 1999

Jacmel - Port-au-Prince

Jacmel and a shower. Before I forget too much of La Vallée, I should mention the way people talk to one another when they meet on the paths. They talk quietly. They walk slowly. It’s as if the slightest whisper would make them expire. I like it all right.

Winzeler just revealed to me his love for the girl Erick couldn’t keep his hands off of. Love all over is exactly the same. I’ll be sticking to my patchwork girls for a while, tho.

Last night in a dream I was at another Concordia film screening. Ian and Matt had redome my bio the night before, all without telling me, and all of a sudden I was face to face with 60s footage of my mom. (Freud would love these dreams of mine … I’m a little unsure about even recording ’em, but they seem harmless enough, even funny.) The opening animation merged with a medieval Persian illumination of Sufis doing hard drugs. My mom’s voice overtop, describing a controversial paper she wrote on this painting. Cut to an interview with her, caught wading waist-deep in a lake, young and belligerent and smugglin. The interviewer is a 60s hunk, also waist-deep and with a snorkel around his neck. I’m watching this and thinking, huh, my mom was pretty hot and everyone here knows it, I wonder what expression I should have on my face in case anyone looks? Then a wave comes up and wets her shirt, when she notices, she laughs and covers herself. She ends the interview by passionately kissing the 60s hunk and mockingly swims off-screen. He puts on his snorkel and follows. Cut to me, an old man in a roomful of dioramas displaying the night’s other dreams, begging the audience to see that I am unlike my mom. Apparently I also fought in WWI, in Austria. Watching the film, I am touched by my improbable genæology. I think this’d make a good film … I like the idea of making fake 60s documentary footage.

Jacmel is all colonnades and balustrades. Hard to imagine it as the town Gottfried abandoned his life for.

[Mansion-fronts in Jacmel]

The man jammed in next to me on the bus home was an awful old black Mr. Neumar. He had a live chicken in his lap—it took me a while to realize it was bleeding all over his shirt. The bones were sticking out of its armpit. The fumes didn’t quite overcome me, but the woman in front of me didn’t fare so well … She puked all over herself and the floor. All in all a bad ride.


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