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riverrunpasteveandadams · 2 years ago

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(itty bitties thickiodai all a willy wonker could fixate upon

or fuck with or over-deliberate mixes on mixes

glistening kiss wasted time fixes at face value

all under and no rutger delineated richer)

weather pack of marlboro 100’s would materialize

outta of thin air or we just happened upon a gang

of sisters going our way with just enough room for the lot

burbon boon docks out there in the emerald dixies fixities

bonnie & laud whos father was working

wistfully willy with the police k-nine duckdog coppers

robbers too they were

even shaking the bullbury whistlers down

for the smallest nickle of the smallest

bowlpack this side of st.strawberrys

forever wine wis-constainteeming with time

the lost blue barrel-rolls & owsley’s two timings

that we saw back there on vanderbelt & whistley

phantoms in the street flickering light posts

at witching hour once again

osolate accordion gideons copy

in the drawer at the motel six

to which we find ourselves amist

with comradery libation

mixes in with ginger speckled spots of opal rovers

royalties steely as they were bronzen

breezen with the look of a holy man

that hasnt slept in days with cheerful spritzer

up to not sleep again tonight

are you willing doctor?

(15)

not much on the tele

sitting quietly smoking in the deli

last of the coffee

last nickel on the paper

only option now is to wait for the check to clear next tuesday

to the slow dissonant hum

of one lonely saxophone in an alley a couple blocks away

down by the liquor store

when i lived on vanderbelt

the man inside used to sell laced tobacco cigarettes

his iranian family owned that store for generations

& in the basement they would always keep

a small table for the hasiche smokers

as well as the card players

and way in the back

a little broom-closet for the working girls

seasonal caricatures

where is your one room hideaway

your cigarette paradise

where is your thinly veiled chamber

the veneer of shallow lighting

slowly peeling away at the unforgiving day

pleasing the night walks come

still in star-twinkling amnesia like qualities

wandering circles around the corridor

unseen flashing phosphorus crawling in the courtyard

playing with forces and fae by sigil

then candle-light

& smoking mirror

(2)

every pixel transfigured

enigmafied friend

E.T. phone home, do you read me

E.T. completely

infixtured by the night seascrolls

temporarily transported by

the fixtures of light

illuminated in every way

perhaps transfigured

at satiation trainyards

yonder birdlike

secret stations

lord i remember

easy though peezy perhaps

corrosive catering to the trivial

needs & laments of the zeitgeist

rolling thunder as they

were participating in

a protection rite with fire

testing testing one two three

said the operator on speed

here we go again

said the otter to the left

storm cloud tracers

tracy chapman on transistor radios

in the drivers seat on the freeway

back from south jersey

subway skylines

subletting subcities

hiccups from the anonymous hippopotamus

printed and pampered on postage

marked friend of the devil

return to sender

suddenly from stage left

the bender on 8th street

thats a wrap boys- cut

or so says the cabbie

dont listen to him

hes on amyls with a bad heart

spooks from the flop house

all haunt inn

(21)

the house on fire

whisper echoing

green books on green books

can you still believe its all for

green books and good acid

imported cargo

imp imported cargo

starting south

we begin in houston

ending in the mighty

congo river man

a half dozen arabian nights

now we begin the other way back

through caldonia manifolds tanquerayian

blocks and blocks of uninterupted garments

leather satchels containing el supremo

chickens feet for good luck

potions galore tiny inlet dwellings

candleside riddlers

nuancers necromancers

the layaway clairvoyant

bins of fish

every sort of fly ointment imaginable

caskets of dreams

cuban breezes chartreused and succumbed

to the tangier unmitigated lining

however riddled with folly

be it may

handing in stained yellow papers

to a circus in juan paris

stopping by to see johnny paria

at a small roadside attraction inlet

quickly as cowboy coffee induced mayhem midways

& chickens running around with

their heads chopped off

(26)

salmon glue

one of them shouted

a blessing in yiddish

that girl is poison poising itself

on the radio dial

just as we pull up to Tom’s diner

one cigarette for each of us

back at the remote outpost there in the desert

the camel back importers cargo carriers

were bringing a ton of red lebanese hashish

from a trade town just north of the border

we awaited them with mint tea that steeped

deep into the night

as well as

a gang of belly-dancers who’d been

flown in the night before

specifically for this occasion

the arrival of the red leb

patagonia

one of them exclaims

that was my dream lastnight of patagonia

tumbled down shack in big-foots it was

reading five verses of amazonian soplar literature

& suddenly it all flowed back

images of seraphim & sirena approaching

images of some of them muddy

others all dressed well in clean white clothing

down there the fixation then was moonshine

so every friday afternoon we would gather

preferably no less then a dozen of us

& drive out to houston paying twelve a cap

& with that we could haul enough back

to supply the entire county for a week

we did that every weekend for a decade

then reagan got elected and that was that

imported sugar cane or cherry flavored pop

was the only game in town

so the soliders surged on til dawn

when by bask morning-light through

velvet shade they did receive the call they

had been waiting for all this time

on a pink tele- it was louise

they were down at the terminal in westport

approximately 40 minutes by auto-bus

from our remote outpost somewhere in the dunes

between the frontier & egypts southern most point

in the babeloid region, also known as Valdez*

hectares beyond the thresholds of our jurisdiction

thus we were forced to rush in by stealth

(3)

REAL PEOPLE

TRUE STORIES

UNADULTERATED INSCRIPTION

reads the foney tabloid with

a crude pictograffiti of george bush

giving a rub and tug to a martian

on the white house lawn

hey now all good things in all good time

he said sardonically lighting up a spliff and passing

to the left

right in the time net before the scheduled entry

into the trading panel

we had used up mostly all of our uppers on hand

during the brief but intense flash with the pirates

at new guinea

all the variants of drug addled crux dividers walked through

these ports at at some ragged wretched time or another

however twisted or undistinguished from the periphery

slimey toadstools & the barways walked through by tangeria

hotel babblers, mind mice and the seething soup seekers

of muck and littered propheticus

casitas burden the bourbon-bury mind sippers

like the ghosts of amulet bearing pirates

looking lately into obsidian sunglass mirrors

& the cheers-mates divides found in friar field vietnam

sinking ships & brand new quicksilver salamanders

who poisoned themselves back into

the clotted timestream by

hookwink & soft-pond tactics alone

the souls of lost sailors & dead shaman

sandbank dealers & a new orleans maiden-like hierarchy

holy-week brandish of sacred markers &

makers of witchcraft devised by KFC confessionals

with long-lines & tokes of datura in the middle-school-lunch

cafeteria waiting line lego rooms

filled with outrageous

arabic geometry signature

in their natures seething like

broken spanish entities

in subliminal outake

(5)

an outline of hegemony

here in the world as it were

or was back there in the hotel rooms

at san luis cooped up on speed

who was looking out the window

and through the bubble-gummer

or cowboy boot wearer

what have you

but you know

suddenly i felt the sudden urge

to articulate the experience

and thus here we are

gathered around a window

sunshining freshlhy

albiet were all smoking

and talking over one another

how exciting caffeine tends to the nerves

to the ninth degree until second hour

if i wasnt in my right mind

i might say we have a gracyth lace

of the old go fast in there somewhere no?

a tar spirit wedged beneath the tandem spirits

so tender & wavingly at lengthful & grateful

transmigration of a phoenix

involved in certain spiritual states

including psychosis

we decided it was better to disguise

the acid casualties as clowns

to better move them discreetly from

our distant quarters in the non local sanctuaries

of psychotomimetic antiquity vis-a-vis

the grizzled backbury peyote deserts

of the mid classical maya

until recently this was somewhat

of a simple procedure

new blockades were placed at powerspots

encrypted punto tecalotes guarding all

of our most trusted cardinal points

and thus we hired the specialist

el coyote

the modality was as factual as

we could possibly write in

to the bloody script to begin with

gesturing towards the ticket booth

blargzeebubbed both whispering so quiet and free

buzzed of delineated cheap coffee echoing

the ugly whims of burroughs vis a vis

the tangier hashish jelly saga

we made sure to dial in our woes

to the receptor cite

no matter how many times we hit

the croacher as as hard as we possibly could

for days on end unrelenting the charge hold

give it another minute or integer

shell load in undoubtful

smacked the lips of the tender

still sipping on hiccups and barbury fumbling

with banknotes and letters of a long exiled

main street

(24)

loud typewriters clicks designs

im sitting there at toms diner, go figure

the lightning aint so bad after-all

cuppa joe & a side of toast

thanks betty stelmer

we went to high-school together

back in those days

sandstone slippers & a lovely young lady

named sandy preference whisky bourbon rye

so we took our chances in a cadillac

and headed towards tangier way

hashish castles there

so says the latter

black velvet in its entirety

the whole ways home

somewhere in that hotel lobby

smokey as it was blessed

someone complained about the speed jitters

over-sensitized now cant concentrate he complained

whole lobby sweeps silence

a pin drops

stopping for gas they go ahead

& pickup a hitcher

calls himself phantom 309

fits in with our troop just fine

someone call sampson

somebody shouted

from a half a block over

weve got ourselves a real

space-case over here, okay?

(10)

it started as a simple food and whiskey mission

and water too, but we’d forgotten

and soon after would have to double back

but no matter & nobody minded

it was a clear blue sky desert in surround

like the truman show or beetlejuice

we didnt question the script & ended up rolling

with the punches all the way back

to the tellers quarters

riffing off the midlife crisises of the

common-folk

fumbling with pennies & lint-like pocket minutea

pack of zigzags invokes laughter

& then the sound of choppers

war get to the chopper

claus hurry quick get to za choppa

the valley was clear and empty

there we’re people out there though

hiding in the daytime like coyotes

or used car martian lizard salesmen

from dallas

(1)

a private room &

the return to san luis

dreams of blown out station-wagons

on the outskirts of vegas

a jalapeno violin singing us

turpentine blues on a backbury bust

a bus inching towards the edge of frisco

someone asked him for a quarter

digging in pocket past

the lint and detritus

showing them off invoking them

back around he said

here ya go kid ya got a match?

they called him the contrarian

like a wino centaur

like a matchbox forgotten in an

old pair of crusty levis

like elvis’s outdated bottle

of port from michigan marked 1863

we didnt care and popped it open anyhow

one of us decided to take that

88’ oldsmobile down to the drugstore

for a box of vicks inhalers

we snatched up the last one lucky

took out the cotton

& threw it in the fire

blacktop singers

they snap their fingers

to the twinkling

of fallen starts

someone is playing the harp

down there on vine street

in the passengers seat of an oldsmobile

i think of her name was eighty-eight

i think someone stole the

freight-train liner

took it past smugglers cove

the only place they know we’ll never go

(23)

the band was hot so we danced

the famous merengue

then we darted back

now we fade to black

the was the sean shem

brother rivalry all over again

after not speaking for months

after christmas disaster

the mask of hallucinatory worry

and need not to worry

i know how these type of sharks work

and within the fortnight daggers daggard

their way through message totemologies

but lucky for us brushed with sunspots

in legacy power nigredos

sipping stiffly on walkabout cathedrals

and this was known so it as shown

in blows below the gut

the best we can do is an honest mockery

shipping into harbors wherein the lively

about couldnt come or refused to

or took methmolly for seven days

and turned green X

turned off text messages

blocking all archonic disruptions

influctions of geltab jelousies & romances

left back in durango shipping containers

with rapturous ecstasy we knew in our

hurting hearts the compost of

secret legacy lovers and runners

who long distantly woke up like mondo mike

fucking in pools of goats blood at tampa bay

or tagging hater in the first circle k

when you landed in vegas

neon scintilla crap tables abound

first wash was out there at baker

with the green magnet magnesium magnetism

lettered and walked in its way

foretold in sunspot illustration

all vectored solemnly&stiffly taken at face value

unable to domino sphincter cheers californian

her sandmarkers and miles of desert as feverish vision

bequeath riggamarole jerijuana stamp postages

lettering and lockinglitter bitter spitter offers

blotters left in antiquity blessedbe

then gets up to change the cantar

only to forget our placement in

the dreamery reading

or doubt what the hell river it was

that us or quetzalcoatl come here

to speak into existence

in the very first place

cigar breaks & walks around the savanna

layline boundaryside whisping up

memorium of the very first traversals

or the new yorkers dark night

we came here to amnesiate

(25)

it was spring & willy nilly was working with the yacuruna again

it was holy meat week & they required a sacrifice

either swine or foul

one in the same willy thought to himself

cutting off the end of a cigarette & handing it to the priest of the clan

this tradition has long run in the family for generation after generation

he muttered twistedly half smiling

& caressing his tiny precious portion of tobacco

all of the family’s priests & priestesses chanting

the ancient hymn

whoo amei damei yaa

taking turning flipping the dial on the radio

it was the only song that was broadcast for a thousand miles

& they played it on repeat until the morning light

every morning for forty days and forty nights

some of us tone deaf after some nights

not minding whatsoever and eventually

finding the ability to fall into trance

during the deep night psalms

flashbacks to burgers and fries

back there down in the city

the timestreams fanciful dishes

hashish from lebanon abound

martian radio stations dishing out info on

omlette russian-routlettes

taking it all in

willy at once in a buzzing storm

of confusion and confections of the city

wearing away at the teeth

gum-like bedbugs crawling at the skin of

various informants residences

with drugs hidden in baby formula

as the perfect disguise

and a cover up for the vicious gnawing craving for

possesions in pulsating-powders & arms

the screaming wheel of dervish

buzzing religious conviction both

within & exterior to the hypnagogic trances

of dreamlike phanthasma-phenomena

of its constant consumers

building silently

wave after wave of amnesiate understanding

plunders the mind crawling the coils &

a way out of existential invalid litter departments

put on hooks for hoots

& heavy ingestions put towards rethinking

cadavers in caravans

steeping mint tea excursions into the savanna

darkly scanning the midnight horizonal

hallucinatory ambidextrousness

looking into the aether for elephants who

possessed societies secret but learned to live outside

of it they were our masters and to them we would wildly

approach in prayer

veiled by secret integers & invisibility serums

slowly sipping in the cabana, awoken by wind

& the drifting siren of ancient chime and whirling dervish

immensities lost in the bubbling muck of disoriented history

(6)

the lady with the fan

she cools us

lady in the catacombs

zombie siren of kennedys spark

destruction is another form of creation

the immitigate uttered from

the gutteral depths of 57th st

shem dynasties aside

marijuanos on the hillside

god forbid its saints week

we settled up and gathered up

our rationed portions & put them

on the table out front

for everyone to see

five dollars a hit

okay so over a beer

we went there

not to say i feel exactly better

but real indeed alive

indeed refreshed to a degree

boo who

a damaged weakling defends itself

3 weeks after the fact

big whoop big whopper

the brother rivalry

an unmatched dynamic

(16)

asphyxiated on dandelion wine

oh mary oh jesus where do i even begin?

sun setting on an empire is that it?

speaking of instincts

the devils weak

beautiful express faces pass

in all the taxis of the world

back home cascadas, sleeping lamp giants

waiting in the precipice

its just a little ways she assured the others

whilst taking a giant ripper off the

pcp packaged spliff

how strange the scintilla

she barked before cutting

all her ties, quickly skipping town

& heading for the hills

back toward kensington ways

the midst, sand salamanders joking

in the juxtaposition of the roses

faced down and looking lightly through

the window cupboard shade covered veiling

the scintilla awaiting winter kingbury

whos bringing acid whos bringing crumpets

to a maddened tea party in the bushes

sparsely spacing out illiterate tantrums

from dross matter heiroglyphic opinions of our starbound selves

cardinal signal around & bounded to temporal fixies

immensities

heriphanies

lipid

a from riches to rags backstory

the boston ragga

dodging bullets left and right at infinitum

clever fox of the backbury

show your scales

reveal reveal reveal i say

set in holland 1945

ringing any bells yet?

what about saved by the bell? or frasier

or fran to tell us danger dances

apart from the static

there was the overplayed music

downgraded the bandwidth

of what just it was we couldnt say yet

we just had take a hint

then wait the usual 40 minutes for entrance

(19)

lets restart

friendly aesthetic near

the hillside depot

as they approach the trainyard hyponogogic

it is more then a hallucination

antiquity

oh my- broken good

who’s expertise?

todo todo bien

todo bien

it was the best we c u in asia

when i come you need

yes it could be okay

Lee RIbbenii

what- great environment

great

la grazia delle parole

yes indeed

yes indeed-

there we go

lets head south baby

(20)

they were cranking out pure kilos of grade A

japanese chach at per kilo pennies on the dollar

there was only one person mr.pink & me knew who

knew what to do with those kinda numbers

unfortunately he was taken out earlier

that december during an incident with the

cartels in a case of mistaken identity

up in reno

so we were then forced to move west

where folk we once considered kingpins

back home that is in vermont

had somehow blended had acquiesced here

like camouflage breaded butter X

fantasy island saloon,

platoons of vigor & servitude

all counted specially & coiled smooth

moves bequeath basket-cased

as it was nior’d

honored and learned nightly by sams steaks

taken up for some and down

for tuesday shmoosday others

rutgers, gushers, marx brothers

& exploding symbols heald

& inevolving within timberside seances

pixie as they were midnight

rose-garden fauna egyptian’d

(13)

Bagwhan shree rajneesh, one of nuns begins to blurt out-

nearly stuttering and other troublesome utterances

A seizure of tounges,

“The Bagwaan she went on,

bagwhaan shree! rajneesh, rajneeshy”

we let her go like this for around 40 minutes

before finally, at our wits end with zero alternatives left

we were forced to tied her up & at

4:30 AM eastern state time Sister Anne

of the Lutheran Church of Nazarene

was given a 500 MG shot of thorazine

directly into her jugular,

unconscious in seconds &

by the time she around rose shortly after

her condition returned to safely back to base-line

( we agreed to keep an eye on her during the

the table session’s with special attention

directed toward not allowing her to drink anymore

then a single cup of daime at a time )

it’s 10 AM on a friday,

new orleans shoppe window open,

a perfumery with side deals,

magic deals,

literal charms for sale as well as jasmine-

smoking in a bed, in a shed,

in a chevy chase canary paced place

some of us are melting in our own juices

who-hooo do you trust? blaring incessantly on the transistor

sitar, overpowering by the psilocybin-

Callet trailed, endless masks made by the scoupel-

written in dragons blood over the doorway

unwritten invisible coffee dates with

phantoms of english antiquity

Australian kangaroo salesmen,

ounces of bolivian marching powder sealed in a locked vessel

headed from panama across the atlantic on a three day journey

2 hostages, one illuminated port

in the dusty backbeat sagas of westports most infamous

& terrible dragstrip

officials crooked for hire, sidewalks in the customs office

we turned our heads to the Gods

a window opened from a black and yellow lit

parlor of the redlight indistinguishment sectors,

just a mile away from our stated destination

at the transatlantic sea-station

positioned in an outpost just north of the border,

we needed to make it past this kurdish checkpoint

before the dawn does-

(4)

these little town blues

these vagabond shoes

calling clown-like ambulances

leaving 17th & 57th

headed towards geronimo blvd

with broken arrow phone calls

glasses of water rusty spoons & Busch

delivery with deliverance

we had to pick up scooter from the lot first

before we caught the itching fix in the gyre

catcher in the ryer

like forever pushing totemic inches

past the blood-brain barrier

down there on 57th where the riversrun

with sludge veins full of muck

mindless scrolling machines allegedly

seen dishing out euphoria by the dozen-fold

so say our critics whos sweet sickness

is an itchy glaze of bologna for 50 cents a pop

all the way down to the houston-river

would we ever make it past

the black growling threshold guardians

of the ciudad or else find ourselves

lying before dumpsters worshipping

the dieties of alleyway

& sky fixture fractions

alike us on our run to score

the perfected effervescent illumination sagas

just west of hollywood

and the geronimo blvd highway makers

who marked a thousand lanes

to the left hand sight

a thousand to the right out of sight

a wad of hash for your time perfectedly churned

& paired with yelping cupful portions of

californian divinatory serums

seances bad sneakers and singers

albeit sneaking suspicions of hefty cuts

of the baby laxatives

within and around the chartreuse variants

of amyl & trimethylated leisure like

substantial inheritances

nuances shiver me timber tumblefuls

whopping past portions mailed from arkansas

to our doorsteps just in time before

the jiminy cricket-like creatures spring fourth

singing a dop-op

whos gonna carry me home?

aint got sense enough to leave that burbon alone

(11)

mixing medley in the middle with moon-light

shakey ground says the batter bear better then burroughs

into the psalmful leavings of arclights unknown

past the platoon stickers,

beyond the trash fences of romantic antiquity

the steam-files bull on and breed

betting 50 on a saulsbury steak

or some sort of chicken cutlet in the runner

left on revenge repeat

we sung ourselves a little song

& then backed away

packing everything neatly in the caravan mirage

in the shade or else taken back by

the ever present hallucinogenic hum

be it frog-juice or pellets

of jacksons best designer brand speed

easy now said the one with the ring

& two left facing shoes

now we dont want to get all carried away okay

but if we just splice out some sort of

small-time portion of the crumbcake

or perhaps make a brew with teatime feathers

oh the trusty teatime feathers

gets the whole gang of em up and atom

when the afternoon sun looms near the horizon

screw it day time or night

whenever she visits its a grand occasion

upwards towards the transmigrational highway

one of them belched

passing the tonic towards his left

picking something up in the periphery

something harbored like jasmine rice

something entangled like

rustys old tape recorder

-we would take it out to los angeles

& sitting by the river all the time

waiting for betty to get off work

then we could come home & show her

with rockabye sweet baby james on

& haight ashbury hashish jelly

of course she assumed

as she always does when we are in those states

trancelike as they were amoeboid

that this was a

perhaps the tangier go away

that would turn itself invisible like the rocks

the moment we arrived into town

shoreside was always the same with

these gingerbread mayhem invested thunderbirders

running around like headless cockatoos

except only this time

they decided to wear dress shoes

back at base they were preparing

for the mumification of who they could

not name in the telegram

none the less we decided to go with our mission

further into the frontier

of white speckled satiations

of unruly divide & conquering

all carefully making sure to

load our canteens to the brim with rum

before catching the ferry over

(12)

turning the gyre ever softer towards

the ridge of aeonic millennia

we gasped at blooming artificiality paradises

instantly upon time-stream arrival indextures

tens of thousands of miles streaming stratospheric

in the butte of a moments quickening

storming us by quicksilver secondaries

the hands of history,

fighting for informational eternity

brask, right up to the gullet in gears

fashioning the work-place

landmarked by leisure

still probing the market for the machina

still glittering down the line totemic

concession stands for the archbishop

at the island for eels

we couldnt believe

that they burnted themselves out so quickly

we all gathering our belongings

proceeded to high tail it

all the way down the line

either oklahomian or mexicana

hows the wife & kids

we meet everyday at the strange cafe

we meet at the strange cafe-time burial

burial time typewriter

typewritten in special membrane

the brain remembers its own name cleary

its wits vastly dialectic & innumerable

keeps encapsulated satiated

heaped on there- gnawingly

senile, almost tumeric distanced

bequeathed beneath the rosebury

sampling simple traces

environs & aardvarks alike

squeaky and tender as the bishop promised

going gargantuately into the gauntlet of life

lamenting over harms done

presuffixed and over time eventually delineated

to the slime like it was carnal

lime-light of west hollywood

with its fits and fashions phoenixed

egyptian magicd like the

chest cupboard kept in the hills

working on tantrums

tidal waves of them raving hysterical

maddened as dawn, streaky pink-eye horizonal

at colt-45 walkers in tango with disco-coppers

hot on the beat and hopped up on a thursday

for almost no real reason at all

as cept to scope, callin themselves the law

vigilante justice my ass

(8)

glamour professionals

by the rivers of babylon, its venice beach baby

writing scripts on napkins in indian ink,

kitchen sink showers (first memories of bathtime)

astoria, a hiccup in the rutter-

via confession by cinema side trails

sipping mango juice under polaris,

are we mister potter?

the imp confessional of antiquity

snicker from the right corner

flying anvils, galaxies of amnyls,

nitrates, glycerides

marketing techniques via tangier

& west congo conch fritter

picking up after dark

theres a fire inside the wind of the mind,

come walk with me alone, it says

now the whole gang of hyperdimensional

cast members gather tightly, close quarters

& hearing upon what has happend

to the old mans leg, he vowed

never to ride a caballo again in this lifetime

or atleast what he spoke before sweet drink

made its way around the table at

the great hall of duke

the cinco minuto exspresso

talking political jargon

supposedly a mexican composition

done from los angeles telepathically

who could say? we had noone on hand

to verify personally, so we took

their word for it and proceeded

to donate the requested $6000 USD

needed for the bond

after growing up

the only way they knew peace

was to return to the chaos

of upbringing circumstance

via bus-station or jukebox circlings

where’s the kid with the chemicals

an entourage of questionable characters

could they be in cahoots with the coca-chewers?

nightingdale

a cross examination

octopi-like tendencies, gallow-like

2,3,4,trimethyloxyphenethylamine

what do ya mean ya dont like me cookin?

just another passing fix, eh?

or does G-d owe you the world?

shady grove, my little love

shady grove I know

(9)

I couldnt vouch for leftie

i told him, look man

if you want to find savage henry

then your going to have

to get out of vegas immediately

past pahrump theres an old dirt-road

with a blown out station wagon

rusted onto the side of the desert trench

about a half mile from the road

its where all the vegans go

and the freakers that couldnt

make it slab-city

you have to go it alone

or they will never let ya in

he stood and thought

to himself for a moment

contemplating the ifs

he’d been up for 3 days

on the way down from tijuana

clasping tight to the leather satchel

cutting his hair first

then secondly make up as a disguise

a paved road pointing west

no money down

it was paid entirely in credit

they packed up the hitch

then stopped at smokeys

we found a stray out by the highway

took her with us

we wanted to name her sally at first

but after some tequila we agreed on darcy

blues players on the am radio

right as we crossed

the county into mississippi

(18)

paying the pod piper

is that it?

is that all you think were doing here immanuel?

siphoning bionical hyponotics

psychotic lovers of sorts

a tangoist

we recoiled & waited out our hunch

disaster letters scattered the garage

stupendous timing, the left one

her stills sitting at home

gathering rootbark

tidying up dust off her pictures

from the guadalajara borrachera saga

now succumb to the twiddling

of thumbs & paperveiw

not so bad after all

taking a drag from the spliff

welcome to the after after hours club

cuddle up

make yourself a drink

(14)

wise men gathering drinking manischewitz

in the circled fountain

at the center of cemetery

down on Lutz & Vanderbelt,

hither here, their betting on something clear

must be some sort of lunar cycle round concerning

the daughter of the rabbi- & whats this?

im getting something, their telling me something

about the queen of scotts in new york

for a wedding,

they were engaged at the pyramids & apparently

the spirits followed them all the way

from those catacombs hibiscus scented lettering

on all postage sent during the brief but intense

time they shared together in giza

we hence fourth proceeded to down and out drown

ourselves in a sort of giant pool of margaritas

ah yes, full gang in company alliance

we couldnt pool it all in without a bbq basket

of easter eggs & pints of aether

some for ourselves and of course

a dashing ration for th fellas back east

(7)

heres a sandian fully

who translates themselves

into gibberish hymns

heres a telecaster with an iron heart

falling again for the damsel in distress

experimenting with cardiac typhic fever

rippling with exponential dopamine hits

oxytocin out the whaa-zoo

a thickening sludge like quality

spills across the temporal landscape

& after some years no effect

at the finger tips & extremities

come the decade and a half mark

sadly no effect at all

packing the bags toward sicilia

where the tormented sagas had begun

back there at bar stool love affair

where whiskey with beelzebub

dressed us tango and took us for

love-fools around the ringer margarita

tri-ad of lux intermediaries

egyptianism believers in crux

& crocadirro headed entities alike

like light fixtures opalescent

by the horizon lines at dusk

woozy and tactile like in their demeanor

never skipping a beat

& darting up the ley lines to latitudes

just south of a texas free for all

(17)

papelito del computadora

honey made me

statues incubating amoebi

sand dollars sand dollars sand dollars

last call no deals

squealing salemen

mile runners hobos

& the elderly

all gathered hastily

in red valley california

we pulled into town deep night

the evening before

woke up by the side of the highway

in an inlet near the woods

some poor fella living in a campsite

not far off the road

comes asking to barter

food if i had it

because they had all the marijuana

they could ever smoke

but were short on munchies

i checked the reserve & did a quick inventory

whilst ransacking the rig

in search for lost totem from africa

which recovered shortly after

however met its fate on

an evening that july in the depths of summer

first pass through taos new mexico

a fare place to part ways i suppose

letting go of sentimentality

ridden objects redirects the focus

on an inner remembering

an inner knowing of powers

easy to say when your free

but upon stumbling one wakes up

to find a wise mans blessing

brought by horseback beneath

a shooting star yet again

granted only of course

on the assumption on the fact

that one makes his way back

casket-cases filled with budweiser

wasted minded billionaires recoil backwards

staggering into the work bench

but not on impulse or to search for

a desire lost in ethers of childhood

back there a thousand lifetimes ago

in the shmegma where we lost our head

my head ended up on datura beside the highway

benzedrine lake and all the hiccup ghosts

we tamed nightly by the cross-reaches

of our hometown & the beach that was

accessible fifteen minutes

small runs down to the corner store

to purchase truckers speed

that same poison of the desert here too

then there too

gigantic myths that we use like

a snake who self germinates

to write the world in its way

to tell our myths

(22)

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burigi-chato-safaris · 2 years ago

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3 Days Lake Manyara and Ngorongoro Safari

3 Days Lake Manyara and Ngorongoro Safari Overview.

Paraphrase

Explore 3 of Tanzania's most famous national parks in 3 days Start with a visit to Tangier National Park, home to herds of elephants and towering baobab trees. Then drive to Ngorongoro Crater, a true animal paradise where you can see the 'Big Five' in one day. Finally, at Lake Manyara National Park, climbing lions and over 400 species of birds await Service included According to Camp Safari itinerary Transportation by 4x4 safari vehicle Professional English-speaking guide Professional English-speaking safari guide stay in a tent Camping equipment (tents, mats, tables, chairs, etc.) Meals as per itinerary drinking water tea, coffee All national park fees

Best time to visit Lake Manyara During the summer months (November to April), flamingos, wildebeests, zebras and other migratory birds can be seen grazing on the shores of the lake. Remember that Lake Manyara's summers are rainy and the nights are cool. Prepare your Tanzania safari-packing list, pack the appropriate safari gear and an umbrella, and plan your visit carefully. It is recommended to take a walk by canoe. 3 Days Lake Manyara Seasonal weather The Lake Manyara region enjoys moderate temperatures throughout the year On warm, windy days, cool air descends from above the Crater Lake Valley, keeping nights cool. Warm coats and trousers are also popular in summer Dryest months: September to July Worst months: November to April Hottest months: (300°C / 860F) January to March Coldest months: (250 °C / 770F) June to July Lake Manyara is the best time to see flamingos and other birdlife. The best time to see migratory birds in Tanzania is summer, which lasts from November to April. Their migration begins in November and lasts until April in the rainy season. Flamingos typically live in the shallow waters around the lake and vary in distance from the road depending on the water level of the year. The best season for bird watching. Animal sightings occur year-round, but are most common between June and October when lake levels are low, grazing activity peaks, and the north side of the park fills up quickly. March and April are the best months to see wildebeest and zebra migration Tarangire National Park Tarangire National Park is known as an excellent bird watching destination and is home to abundant wildlife, especially during the dry season when the Tangier River is the only source of water for the area The landscape here is particularly interesting due to the many picturesque baobab trees,3 Days Lake Manyara

Why visit Tarangire Embark on a walking safari and marvel at ancient baobab trees. Discover hundreds of ancient cave paintings near Koro. Tangier is famous for its herds of up to 300 elephants. An often overlooked gem framed by the thick branches of sturdy baobab trees, Tarangire's distinctive skyline provides an ideal backdrop for watching the game, especially during the prime winter months. The wetlands, which dry into green grasslands during the dry season, attract grassland animals such as elephants, buffalo, and antelope. Lions and other predators are frequently sighted. The park is home to over 500 species of birds, some of which are endemic to Tanzania. At the southern end of the park, away from the bustling north, there is a camp dedicated to walking safaris, where guests can soak all their senses in the experience of exploring the African bush on foot Perfect time for getting to Tarangire Tarangire is beautiful in both wet and dry seasons, making it a perfect year-round wildlife viewing park. Between August and October, when wildlife is at its most abundant, the park offers particularly good conditions for wildlife viewing. Park highlights diverse wildlife Tarangire is home to all of Tanzania's most famous animals, with the exception of the endangered black rhinoceros. From tiny dik diks to towering African elephants and giraffes, visitors come from all over the world. In addition to these popular animals, the park is home to three endangered species found nowhere else in the country. A fringe-eared oryx with graceful antlers towering above a giant kudu and a small ash starling. Tanzania's largest elephant population Tarangire is famous for having the largest elephant population in Tanzania. During the dry season, herds of up to 300 elephants can be seen searching underground rivers in Tarangire's apparently dried-up riverbeds. Thanks to their abundance, elephants are a common sight even during the rainy season when other park residents roam freely in his 20,000-square-kilometer park. Migration The migration takes place in Tangier National Park from June to November each year. It's not as spectacular as the legendary Serengeti wildebeest migration, but it's still an impressive sight. When other water sources dried up, the Tarangire River became the park's only source of water, attracting herds of wildebeest, zebras, gazelles, and wildebeest, as well as lions, leopards, and other predators. Tarangire, on the other hand, offers fascinating wildlife viewing. Large herds of moving animals are easy to spot thanks to the dry landscape. About Ngorongoro The Ngorongoro Conservation Area is located in northern Tanzania. It is home to the massive Ngorongoro Crater and the "Big Five" species (elephant, lion, leopard, buffalo and rhinoceros). Huge herds of wildebeest and zebras cross the grasslands on their annual migrations. Semi-nomadic Maasai livestock graze alongside wild animals. Hominid fossils dating back millions of years have been unearthed in Olduvai Gorge weather Ngorongoro CA has a mild and temperate climate. In this region he has two rainy seasons. A 'short' rain from October to November followed by a 'long' rain from March to May. Precipitation is generally felt in the form of short showers. Best time to travel in Ngorongoro. If you're vacationing in Tanzania, your trip will likely be for a safari, a beach visit, or both. In general, the best time for safari in Tanzania is he from July to October. It is the dry season and the weather is sunny. As the park dries up, the bushes become less dense, making it easier to spot animals, but they are forced to congregate at the remaining water holes. Short rains (sometimes seep in December, January and March) This does not mean that December, January and February are still not the best times to visit Tanzania.

#lake manyara

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noelcollection · 3 years ago

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Happy British Tea Day (April 21st)! Steep in this interesting bit of tea history and these tea titles from your James Smith Noel Collection!

It is difficult to believe that the United Kingdom have not always been the hosts of tea though it is now deeply woven into English culture and society. It was not until exploration and trade opened to the Far East (Asia) when the later Elizabethans began to hear tales of brewed cups of chai leaves in Japan and China through the East India Company in 1598. There is an urban legend of when tea first arrived in England. Lady Mary Douglas of London was given a dried bouquet by her lover , a member of the trading company , who had returned from China with the bouquet. Lady Mary dunked the collection of faded blossoms into a vase of water. Then during the night she awoke thirsty and drank the vase water. It is said that the bouquet’s blossoms were from a tea plant, however, there is no date that correlates with the urban legend.

The East India Company began to introduce tea to England and other parts of Europe in the mid-1600s. Tea was first offered for commercial sale to the public in 1657 at a coffee house in Exchange Alley in London. The first coffee house, introduced by the Greeks to the English around 1650, was opened in Oxford. Tea and coffee are common drinks for the English though the type of coffee being popularized among the English was the Turkish style of coffee, and also (hot) chocolate was being offered and popularized. It was in 1666 when the East India Company gifted 23 pounds of a “rare” type of tea to the king and also to the Russian tsar.

The use of “cupp of tee (tea)” was first noted by a clerk of British navy, Samuel Pepys on September 25, 1660, when he met with his colleagues. And his wife had her first cup of tea seven years later according to his personal writings on June 29th. And so the rise of tea drinking society began and the enjoyment of coffee began to fade out thanks to Charles II marriage to the Portuguese Princess Catherine in 1662. While tea-drinking was already a custom of the Portuguese royals and nobility, Princess Catherine’s dowry included rare teas such as Tangier and Bombay for court use. Tea began to become a regular import for commercial use in 1669 with the East India Company.

Americans are not unfamiliar with the history of unfair taxing of common goods. Let us remember the Boston Tea Party when crates of tea were tossed into the Boston Harbor as a reaction to taxes from the crown! Britain also taxed tea and chocolate in 1660 and the taxes on tea gradually increased until the 1720s when the import tax was lifted since tea was a common drink of the higher social class, until the 1730s.

It was until the 1730s that tea was a popular drink held at court and coffee houses in England. However, the common family was beginning to enjoy a cup of tea at their daily table. This tea was normally black tea which did not have any additional tax unlike the herbal counterpart of green tea. Another interesting closing fact is that tea joined the smuggling trade along with tobacco, silk, and brandy.

Woodward, N. H. “The English Discover Tea.” In Teas of the world. New York: Collier, 1980: pp. 48-70.

Here is a small selection of books about the United Kingdom, the Boston Tea Party, and Tea. In celebration of British Tea day check the J.S. Noel Collection for other musings about tea! (Tea set was loaned by one of our catalogers)

https://bit.ly/3K1wxQf

https://bit.ly/3EDaXjP

https://bit.ly/36CEZrE

https://bit.ly/3xFWe6x

#specialcollections #books #Tea #cuppatea #british tea #boston tea party

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aswithasunbeam · 4 years ago

Link

May 1814

The great commotion in the front hall woke Hamilton before the knock on the bedroom door. He could hear distant voices, muted but abuzz with excitement, and a drumbeat of heavy boots against his hard wood floor. After adjusting the blankets over Eliza’s shoulder, he rolled to the side and began the arduous task of transferring himself into the chair parked beside the bed. By the time his aide made it to his door, he was arranging a blanket over his lap.

“Sir? Urgent news.” The light of a lantern spilled through the small crack in the door, just large enough for his aide’s head to peek inside.

“So I gathered from the circus in my front room,” he grumbled in a whisper.

“Sorry, sir. The news caused a bit of a stir.”

His aide pushed the door wide for him to make his way through to the hall. Hamilton motioned his head for his aide to close the door behind him. Only when he’d heard it click closed did he ask, “What time is it?”

“Just about four, sir.”

Lanterns were lit in the front room, he could see, and men in blue and buff uniforms were hurrying to and fro as though it were mid-day. Not yet ready to face the brightly lit and busy scene, he rolled into his office instead, his aide a pace behind him.

“What’s happened?”

A wrinkled note was thrust into his hand. He unfolded the paper and stared at the scribbled intelligence report. With a sigh, he rubbed his hands over his eyes before fumbling through his desk for his glasses. At last the blurry scribbles assembled into intelligible words, but he still stared down, blinking.

“Has this been verified?” he managed.

“Yes, sir.”

He looked down at the paper and read the message yet again, eyes fixed on the first two catastrophic words: Bonaparte defeated.

“Then God help us.”

His aide bowed his head momentarily. “Shall I prepare the carriage, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose. I should be at the White House.” After his aide hurried out, he added to himself, “For all the good it will do.”

Quietly as possible, he made his way back to the bedroom, forgoing any light in the vain hope of not waking Eliza. He’d nearly managed to wrestle himself into uniform in the dark when he heard her stirring in the bedroom. “Alexander?”

He sighed. “In here,” he called, a little breathless as he finished maneuvering his breeches into the right position. His arms were shaking from effort as he reached for his uniform coat.

A soft golden light flickered to life behind him. He heard her footsteps coming towards him as he finished fixing his cuffs, caught up in the sleeves. Her arms circled around his shoulders.

“You should be asleep,” he said.

“So should you,” she replied, squeezing him gently. “What’s happened?”

“Napoleon Bonaparte has abdicated his throne and gone into exile in Elba.”

“Bad news for Bonaparte.” She yawned over the name, her nose nuzzling the nape of his neck. “But why has that gotten you out of bed at this hour?”

“It’s bad news for us.” He took a moment to adjust the Diamond Insignia of the Society of the Cincinnati that had once belonged to Washington, his palm closing around it for a brief moment. “If the British aren’t fighting Bonaparte, they only have one conflict to turn their attention towards. British troops will be flooding into Canada, and more undoubtedly will be reinforcing Cockburn on Tangier Island.”

“You’re worried about the capital.”

“Yes.”

“Madison still won’t see sense?”

“Every time I start to bring him around, Armstrong steps in his with nonsense. He’s convinced Cockburn and the rumors of a threat to Washington are a distraction meant to draw troops away from the real conflict in the North.”

Eliza’s lips tickled at the sensitive skin under his ear.

“Stop.” A laugh slipped from his lips despite himself as he turned his head back towards her. “You’re tickling me.”

“Oh, am I?” She sounded far from repentant. The feather-light touch of her lips resumed.

He laughed softly as he reached back to shoo her away. “If you’re going to kiss me, do it properly.”

She shifted, her hand running over his shoulders as she came around to face him. In the dim light, he could still see the strain from her bout of pneumonia in the slightly sunken quality to her cheeks, the loose fit of her night dress, the lingering pallor in her cheeks. Stark reminders of the price this pointless war had nearly extracted from him.

He’d insisted she return to the Grange to recover when the worst of the danger from her illness had passed. The tragic loss of their dear sister Angelica during her convalescence had been yet another blow. Hamilton had felt it keenly, both for having lost a treasured friend and as another reminder of how very real the threat of losing Eliza was. When he'd arrived home for the funeral, he'd found his wife a shadow of herself. He'd stayed in New York for two weeks, comforting her as best he could. And when he finally could put off the journey to the capital no more, Eliza had insisted on joining him again. Had he been stronger, better, he’d have insisted she remain at home, safe away from the political machinations and the real threat of invasion. But having her at his side once again, so close and real, had proven a temptation too sweet to resist.

He reached out to brush a loose curl back behind her ear, his thumb stroking over her cheek. His strong, steady, beloved wife. Her lips brushed against his. He tugged her closer, deepening the kiss. When she pulled back, she looked into his eyes and smiled.

“Everything will be all right,” she whispered.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you. That’s enough.”

“Sir?” His aide knocked on the outer door to the bedroom, interrupting the moment. “Your carriage is ready.”

He blew out a frustrated breath.

Eliza’s hands cupped at his cheeks, forcing him to meet her eyes. With utmost certainty, she repeated, “Everything will be all right.”

From her lips to God’s ears, he prayed.

“Go back to sleep,” he ordered, nudging her gently. “Rest. I need you strong, my angel. You have no idea how much.”

“I’ll try.” She stole another kiss before releasing him. “You go save the nation.”

He chuckled. “I’ll try.”

“British warships are already heading across the Atlantic,” Madison read aloud from the latest intelligence dispatch.

“Any word of their heading?” Hamilton asked.

“Canada, obviously,” Armstrong answered, without having looked at a single piece of intelligence.

“Obviously,” Hamilton repeated under his breath.

Armstrong shot him a look across the table. Hamilton answered by making another attempt at his coffee, the poor quality masked nicely by the fact that it was still boiling hot. Madison pushed the dispatch towards him.

“You’ll need to alert Burr. He needs to prepare.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

The Northern front, at least, he felt more confident about, especially now that Wilkinson had offered his resignation in the face of certain Court Martial and removal. Wilkinson’s conduct had been negligent bordering on treasonous, but it had ended with the right man in command. And after a full winter of solid training and proper supplies, the troops were as ready as they’d ever be to face battle once more.

“And,” Madison paused for a long moment, deep in thought, “Start preparing a small force here in the Chesapeake.”

“Mr. President,” Armstrong objected immediately.

“Small?” Hamilton asked in the same moment.

“Two thousand men to start.”

“Two thousand? Against the full might and fury of the British army?”

“We can muster militia to make up the deficit of numbers should they be needed.”

“Should they be…” Hamilton took a breath, trying to keep his voice even. “They’ll come for the capital, Mr. President. I can assure you of that. Even without reinforcements, Cockburn is preparing for an invasion.”

“We can muster militia,” Madison repeated.

Gritting his teeth, he forced out, “Yes, Mr. President.”

“A waste of resources,” Armstrong muttered stubbornly.

“Whether they are necessary or not, we can’t afford to equip another full army,” Gallatin added from down the table. “Harrison’s force in Detroit cost us nearly three million dollars without having marched an inch. The war has interrupted commerce to such an extent that even with Congress authorizing additional taxes, our revenue is still down. We’re teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, Mr. President.”

“But Congress authorized another thirty-two million in loans, didn’t they?” one of the clerks from the War Department asked nervously.

“We have no credit abroad,” Hamilton offered, meeting Gallatin’s eye. “No one wants to lend to us.”

Gallatin nodded.

“If I may, Mr. President,” Gallatin continued tentatively, “I do have a suggestion for mitigating the crisis.”

“What’s that?” Madison asked.

“Re-charting the Bank of the United States may ease some of the financial strain.”

Hamilton had to work to keep his jaw from falling open in shock.

Madison wasn’t as successful. “How exactly does another bank help us, Mr. Gallatin?”

“The Bank of the United States was empowered to make short term loans to the government, removing the necessity to go begging abroad. We were also entitled to a portion of the Bank’s profits from the commercial business, a revenue source sorely missed especially now when taxes aren’t bringing in revenue as they should be. And the Bank was authorized to manage timely repayment of foreign loans, a job that very shortly will be taking up a great deal of resources from the Treasury.”

“Congress isn’t going to authorize a second Bank in the middle of a war,” Madison said.

Hamilton cleared his throat. “If I may, Mr. President, there won’t be much more of a war if the country goes bankrupt. Of course, ideally, the charter wouldn’t have lapsed in the first place. This is precisely the sort of crisis the Bank was designed to mitigate. And getting it up and running again in this economy will be no easy accomplishment.”

Gallatin met Hamilton’s eye. “Should Congress authorize another charter, I would…I would appreciate your input on seeing it successfully enacted, General Hamilton.”

“Of course,” he replied, striving for a casual tone. “It would be my honor, Mr. Secretary.”

Madison’s lips thinned. “Keep trying to find a source for the additional loans Congress has authorized, Gallatin. I’ll… I’ll give some thought to the other matter.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Gallatin agreed.

Hamilton looked down at his notes in front of him, fighting a triumphant smile.

#hamilton fanfic #alexander hamilton #eliza hamilton #hamliza #life hereafter

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elsaclack · 5 years ago

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the smell of coffee runs through my veins

or,

five times jake smells like fresh coffee grounds (and one time he doesn’t)

hi @winnietherpooh!!! so i wasn’t originally your assigned writer for the @b99fandomevents summer 2019 fic exchange, but they unfortunately had to drop out due to some unforeseen circumstances, so i stepped in!! i loved all of your ideas, but i decided to go with a jake/amy coffee shop au (with a liiiiiiiittle bit of jake/rosa friendship thrown in for good measure). it’s also the first time i’ve successfully finished a 5 times fic ahhh!!! i hope you like it!!!

He smells like fresh coffee grounds.

She isn’t sure what to do with that, at first. She just honestly wasn’t that into coffee. It always played the role of a last-resource fuel to keep her awake when all else failed - never something to be independently enjoyed in an otherwise leisurely setting.

It makes sense, then, that she falls in love with a man who loves coffee.

He smells like fresh coffee grounds on the morning she meets him, looking haggard and disheveled at five in the morning, the stains on his flannel shirt just visible in the early morning light. Shattered glass litters the sidewalk just outside of his coffee shop’s door, catching the flickering street lights above them like urban diamonds forgotten in the rough. There’s another man, a shorter, older-looking man, pacing back and forth in the street just beyond the curb, looking more like a worried first-time father outside of a delivery room than a man whose place of business was robbed overnight.

Rosa is busy examining the busted windowpane in the door, so Amy turns to the shop-owner - whose stained flannel shirt smells like fresh coffee grounds despite him not even entering the store yet that morning.

“My name is Detective Santiago, and I’ll be the lead detective on this case.”

He shakes her hand and manages to flash a smile - albeit a shaky one. “I’m Jake,” he says, “Jake Peralta.”

His hand is warm, and when she pulls her hand back to her side, the faintest scent of coffee grounds wafts toward her.

It’s a B&E - security cameras from the flower shop across the alley caught images of three perps hauling off through the back door with armfuls of merchandise and a particularly heavy-looking espresso machine - and within four hours Amy and Rosa are cuffing all three and calling in assistance to recover the merchandise from an apartment in the Bronx. The espresso machine is toast - apparently they dropped it three times in their attempt to escape unseen - but other than the general stench of cigarettes clinging to the merchandise, everything else is relatively unscathed.

The open sign hanging in the shop window is turned off, the front door is locked, but Amy manages to spot Jake through the window inside the shop as she approaches. He darts to the door immediately to let her in, looking anxious and hopeful in a way that makes her stomach bottom out despite her best efforts to remain unaffected. He up and hugs her when she tells him they solved it - and it’s like the scent of fine Colombian coffee has come to life and enveloped her fully.

(She wonders, briefly, if this is the kind of sensation Manny gets when he talks about food being so good that it’s all-consuming.)

“Do you like coffee?” he asks once they’ve parted.

“I love it,” she hears herself say.

His grin is brilliant, nearly blinding, and he trips over his own shoelaces as he quickly backs away from her. “Great,” he says as he rounds the far end of the front counter. “This one’s on the house. In fact, all of ‘em are. Forever.”

“Oh - you’re very generous, but I can’t accept -”

“Sure, you can,” he interrupts loudly. “Your money’s no good here, detective.”

She stares for a beat, biting the inside of her cheek to tamp down her smile. “It’s, uh, Amy,” she finally says - and some of the frenetic energy that overtook him moments earlier seems to dissipate, if only slightly.

“Amy,” he repeats, voice low and warm in a way that sends a thrill down her spine.

He smells like fresh coffee grounds every morning she returns - which is often, for a person who doesn’t drink coffee. The windowpane is replaced after a few days and the shop is reopened for business, and every morning she stops by on her way to work, he greets her loudly by name and introduces her to every other customer in the shop as the detective who saved the store.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t save the espresso machine,” she says on the fourth morning, pointing up to the chalk-written menu hanging behind the counter - at the COMING SOON written over the line that advertised espressos before.

“It’s fine, it’s why I’ve got insurance,” he shrugs. “New machine should be here by Thursday of next week, which means we’ll have it up and running for the Friday morning rush. Here, try this one - I added a couple of shots of cinnamon. I think you’re gonna really like it.”

(She does.)

Charles, Jake’s cook, takes a shining to Amy right away - in addition to the free coffee, she often finds herself juggling several pastry bags on her walk to her car. Some are certainly better than others; while Jake seems to be learning about what Amy likes and dislikes and customizing her drink accordingly, Charles tends to be a far more adventurous eater and seizes any opportunity to expand Amy’s palate.

“It’s a poppy seed bagel with a wasabi-infused cream cheese, drizzled with a caramelized citrus simple syrup,” he tells her proudly one morning while loading the bagel into a pastry bag. He’s pressed up against the edge of the counter, leaning toward Amy as he speaks; it’s how he misses Jake’s exaggerated gag from by the register, earning a nervous laugh from Amy. “I know the flavors don’t sound like they’ll go together, but trust me, it’s delicious. You’ll love it.”

(She doesn’t.)

“You can tell him you hate it, y’know,” Jake tells her after Charles walks away.

She shoots him a look as she straightens her blazer. “I don’t wanna break his heart,” she sighs, and he nods in understanding. “Besides, not everything he gives me is inedible. I like poppy seed bagels. And the citrus stuff actually sounded kind of good -”

“It’s really adorable that you’re trying to be gentle with him, but I hired him to make, like, blueberry scones and chocolate chip muffins. Stuff that normal people want to eat when they go to a coffee shop. If you don’t nip this in the bud, he’s gonna want to try to sell that stuff again and I’m not about to have that fight for the fourth time -”

“Alright, alright,” she interrupts, briefly raising both hands in defeat before snatching her briefcase, the pastry bag, and the to-go cup of coffee from the counter. “I’ll tell him the next time I’m in.”

“So, tomorrow,” Jake says.

Heat drips from the tips of her ears, but there is no judgement or derision in his expression - just expectancy, as if her presence is a given. “Actually, it’s - tomorrow is, um, my day off,” she stammers, “so I don’t know if -”

“Oh.” She’s fairly certain there’s disappointment in his voice - his shoulders definitely dropped, his gaze definitely lowered to the countertop between them. “Sorry, that was presumptuous -”

“No, no, it’s - I mean, I’ve been in here every other morning this week, so -”

“Well, uh, hey, have a good day off -”

“I might still -”

“You don’t have to -”

“I’ll be here.”

He pauses, a crease appearing between his brows. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll be here,” she repeats, “but maybe not ‘til after the morning rush.”

He smiles, the dimples in his cheek flashing. “I’ll see you then,” he says with a two-fingered salute.

He smells like fresh coffee grounds at the end of the day, battle-worn and weary but smiling and groaning in all the right places as she recounts her harrowing arrest of a man with a bag of human ears on the subway earlier that day. The hysteria of it all had taken up most of her day - she was only able to break away from paperwork at eight o’clock this evening, putting her on the coffee shop’s front stoop at precisely nine-oh-three, three minutes after closing.

Which of course didn’t stop Jake from holding the door open for her as he insisted she come inside. It turns out he had quite the day as well - his afternoon barista called in sick, leaving him with a sixteen-hour workday she unwittingly extended. “Stop apologizing,” he tells her as he passes her a mug full of steaming decaf coffee. “This isn’t work.”

His eyes are bloodshot and his eyelids seem to stick together every time he blinks, but he’s awake, he’s invested in her story, and there’s something a little different about the way he smells tonight - like the fresh coffee ground scent infused in his very atoms has blended with something spicier, something tangier. He’s slouching in his seat, legs splayed out wildly beneath the table, and even with one leg bouncing he’s practically emanating exhaustion.

“I should go,” Amy says for the third time. “You’re practically falling asleep over there.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, voice quiet and worn. “I think I have some stuff here to help me stay awake.”

She laughs, and he grins, eyes twinkling in the low light. “You’ve had a really long day, Jake.”

“So have you,” he reminds her, tone taking on the faintest edge of a disgruntled toddler refusing to nap. “You don’t see me trying to kick you out.”

“I don’t have to be at work at five in the morning,” she reminds him, and he rolls his eyes, a strangled grunt escaping his throat. “You really, really should go get some sleep.”

“I don’t wanna,” he mumbles, crossing his arms a little tighter over his chest. “This’s been the best part of my day. I don’t want it to end.”

“I’m the best part of your day?” she asks skeptically, ignoring the now-familiar thrill in the pit of her stomach to focus on the blush igniting in his cheeks. “I didn’t know you loved me so much, Peralta.”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, “I had a bunch of, like, snooty soccer moms come in and bitch me out because I didn’t make their mocha chai lattes with extra whip and extra sprinkles at the exact right temperature, and then they all blasted the shop with one-star reviews on Yelp,” he leans forward to bury his face in his hands. “And then Daisy called out sick, and Charles tried to crucify me over some oregano or something. Today sucked, and you’re, like, super nice, and I like talking to you because you don’t yell at me about coffee or oregano.”

It’s quiet for a beat - and then Amy finds herself leaning forward, her fingers closing over his left forearm. His skin his just as warm as she remembers; his eyes liquid and piercing as he peers at her through his fingers. “I’m sorry today sucked,” she murmurs sincerely. “D’you want me to track all of those soccer moms down and arrest them for disorderly conduct?”

He snorts and drops his hands to the table, and she quickly retracts her hand. “Maybe,” he says with a pseudo-thoughtful nod. He studies her face for a moment, his gaze darting over her face as she pulls a long drink from her coffee. “Thanks, Ames,” he says softy.

It’s quiet enough that she almost misses it, but he holds her gaze when she meets his eyes. “For what?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Being you. You just - you always know what to say.”

“Well that’s definitely not true, but - you’re welcome.”

He hugs her right outside the coffee shop, and she hugs him back - he’s warm and soft in that unique half-asleep way, and she curls her fingers into the loose folds of his flannel shirt, fighting back the urge to squeeze him to her as hard as she can. He’s slow to pull away, slow to retreat; it’s not until he’s a good ten feet away that he finally raises his hand in farewell, nearly tripping over a stray cafe table from the bistro next door to the shop before turning his back and walking away in earnest.

She can still smell that spicy, tangy something wafting off of her blazer when she gets home.

He smells like fresh coffee grounds when Amy finally convinces Rosa to come back to the coffee shop with her - a good four months after the case officially ended. By then Jake’s perfected Amy’s entirely unique order and has had it added to the menu; The Santiago Special now graces the bottom of the left hand side of the chalkboard, written in Daisy’s perfect looping scrawl.

“Detective Diaz!” Jake leans across the counter to shake Rosa’s hand as they approach, looking every bit as thrilled as Amy hoped he would be. “Welcome back! It’s good to see you again, how have you been?”

“Fine.” Rosa grunts, already scanning the menu over Jake’s head. “What d’you recommend?”

“Well, what do you like?”

“Coffee.”

It’s silent for a beat - and then Jake seems to realize she won’t be expanding any further. “I can respect that.” he says, casting beneath the counter for the already-opened bags of coffee grounds they keep stored there. “Sweet or savory?”

She ponders it a moment, lips pursing slightly. “Sweet.” she finally says.

“You got it. Regular for you, Ames?”

“Obviously.”

He flashes her a grin over the countertop before setting about working, and Rosa leans against the edge of the counter, seemingly taking in the rest of the shop. “It’s nice,” she finally says as she returns her attention to Amy’s face. “I can see why you like it so much. Is all of this artwork local?”

“The paintings are,” Jake confirms as he measures out coffee grounds. “The photography isn’t. A lot of those are stock photos that came with the frames - I just needed to fill empty space when I first moved in here, but I didn’t have the budget for legitimate photography. I’ve been meaning to take them down, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“There’s a farmer’s market not too far from here that sometimes has a photographer selling in a booth,” says Rosa. “She’s pretty good. You should check her out.”

“You go to a farmer’s market?” Amy asks incredulously.

Jake snorts as Rosa rolls her eyes. “I’ll definitely check her out. Are there any painters there? Like, murialists, I should say?”

Rosa frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” she says. “I mean I’ve seen some people selling paintings, but I’ve never stopped and asked. I usually go for the fruit, the locally sourced honey, and the pottery.”

“You’re into pottery?”

“No.”

Jake pauses, a peculiar grin on his face. “Aren’t you partners? Shouldn’t you guys know, like, everything about each other? Or did the cop movies lie to me about that, too?”

“Well up until about sixty seconds ago, I thought we did know everything about each other,” Amy sniffs. Slowly, Rosa shakes her head, eyes never leaving the corner of the menu board. “Is your name even Rosa?”

Rosa turns her head, holding Amy’s gaze. “No. It’s Emily Goldfinch.”

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny.”

“I’m not kidding.” Before Amy can get another word in, Rosa returns her attention to Jake. “Are you thinking of putting a mural on that wall?”

“Yeah, but I really want to find a local artist who won’t charge out the ass for it, y’know?”

“Amy paints.”

“Wha- I don’t - I mean -”

Amy splutters as they both turn to look at her. “You paint?” Jake asks, the corners of his lips quirked upwards.

“I mean I - I sort of - I’m not that good -”

“She’s excellent,” Rosa interrupts, “I’ve seen some of her stuff. I think it would fit in with the vibe you’ve got going in here.”

“Well, I’d probably pay out the ass for you to paint a mural in here,” Jake says, abandoning the coffee grounds to plant both hands on the counter. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course, but I’d love to talk to you about it.”

“Um - I mean -”

“Take some time to think about it,” he says, moving to resume making their coffees. “I’ll ask again later.”

Amy’s still staring when Jake slides their cups across the counter - on Amy’s sleeve, he’s written Ames, and on Rosa’s, he’s written Emily??

“I like him.” Rosa says once they’re back in Amy’s car. “He’s funny. You should paint the mural.”

“I don’t know if I’m good enough to paint an entire mural,” she mutters, tucking her cup into her cupholder and starting the car.

“You won’t ever know until you try. And I think that this is the place where you should really try.”

There’s something significant to Rosa’s tone, something meaningful in the slant of her head and the angle of her brows, but there’s traffic coming, and they’re three minutes late coming back from their break, so Amy just heaves a sigh as she pulls out of her parking spot.

He smells like fresh coffee grounds when he hands her a shirt with the shop’s logo on it - a simple, minimalist drawing of a coffee mug on a plate in side profile, thin white lines against dark blue material - and he’s grinning like a fool when she pulls it on over her ratty painting clothes.

“You’re officially on payroll,” he declares, dragging a table backward to make more room. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thank god, I was really struggling to make ends meet.”

He laughs outright at that, pausing halfway through dragging two chairs away. “Please,” he says once he’s recovered, “you probably have, like, eight savings accounts.”

“I have one, thank you very much.”

He’s still chortling as he drags the last table away - leaving an empty stretch of wall sprawled before her, a slate-grey canvas that stretches from floor to ceiling. She’s got sketches taped around the outer edges of her work space and a respectable collection of paints and brushes clustered together on the floor to her left; from the corner of her eye she sees Jake draw even with her to her right as she studies the space, staring at the wall as well. “It’s gonna look great,” he assures her.

“I just feel bad that you have to be closed for two full days.” she says as she turns toward him. “That’s a lot of money you’re losing out on.”

“I’d rather miss out on two days of business and have an incredible piece of artwork done by an incredible person than be open for one more day with lame stock photos on the wall.” he says earnestly, and the tips of her ears burn. “This is gonna bring more people in, Ames. We’ll make our money back in a week.”

“What if the painting sucks?”

“We paint over it with the stuff I have in storage and you start over.”

“That’s another day wasted, though.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t have to deal with any annoying Brooklyn hipsters and I get to hang out with you. That’s not what I’d call a wasted day.”

She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too broadly as she turns back toward the wall. “I’ve never done anything like this before.” she reminds him, voice small.

He touches her shoulder, fingers curving over the upper ridge and squeezing as his thumb sweeps down her arm several times. “It’s gonna look great.” he says again. “I’m really, really excited.”

He retreats to a chair dragged to the opposite wall and sits, and Amy inhales deeply, praying he can’t read her nerves despite her shaking hands. It’s a painting, Amy, she reminds herself. Relax.

The first touch of paint to the wall is agonizing, but a split-second later she’s liberated; Jake kicks on music over the shop’s speakers from his phone and she’s back in the groove, like she never left her last college painting class. She pauses only occasionally over the next several hours - for bathroom breaks and lunch and once, briefly, when paint dripped into her coffee - and by the end of the day she’s studying a nearly-completed mural, taking notes on her sketch for areas that need touch-ups when she comes back tomorrow.

“Okay,” Amy says, folding her sketch and tucking it into her pocket with one hand while tucking her pencil behind her ear with the other. “It’s not all-the-way done yet, but it’s mostly done. I just need to do a couple of touch-ups in some spots once the paint is dry, but that’ll take less than an hour tomorrow. What do you think?”

Jake’s silent, an unreadable expression on his face, when Amy turns toward him. He seems almost winded as he slowly stands; his eyes follow each line of the mural, sweeping up and over and down and up again. It’s pretty abstract, considering her penchant for still-lifes, more of an explosion of muted pastels in sharp geometric shapes that fade back into the grey of the wall along the outermost edges. “I love it,” he breathes.

There isn’t a single modicum of insincerity about him, so she tamps down a smile and turns back toward the mural. “I wanted it to feel like Brooklyn, and like the shop itself, which is why it’s kind of modern-looking and has a lot of sharp edges and clean lines, but...I also wanted it to feel the way that I feel when I’m here. Which is why I used pastels.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees him draw up even with her; he’s no longer looking at the mural. “What’s important about pastels?” he murmurs.

“Well, they’re - they’re soft. Cool, but not cold - they’re refreshing, like an oasis. It’s like an unexpected bright spot in the midst of a lot of sameness. They’re sweet, and calming, and - and I just - I really, really, really like them.”

She can’t bring herself to look him in the eye, but she can hear his sharp intake of breath. Tension radiates off of him in waves, and it’s suddenly near-impossible to draw a breath. “I love it,” he repeats, softer than before, and the too-familiar thrill bottoming out in her belly feels like the opening of a bottomless cavern and the smell of coffee grounds grows stronger as he leans closer -

A sharp knock on the window behind her has them both jumping backwards - an unfamiliar face is pressed against the glass, peering inside. “Are you open?” she asks as she jiggles the locked doorknob.

“No.” Jake says back loudly, stepping around Amy to point to the darkened open sign. Amy watches him go, one hand over her heart, the other pressed to her suddenly burning cheek. “We’re not open again until day after tomorrow.”

“Can I get a coffee to go, then?”

“What? No, we’re closed. We’re not making coffee today.”

“There are two of you in there, why can’t one of you make me a coffee?”

“Because we’re closed and we don’t have any coffee to make today. Come back on Tuesday and we’ll have some for you.”

“This is ridiculous, I thought this place was supposed to have good service!”

“It does. When it’s open.”

The would-be customer rolls her eyes and storms off, shouting obscenities and promises to drink only Starbucks moving forward as she goes, and Jake watches her go with his hands on his hips. “There goes another one-star review. You see what I deal with every day?” he mutters as he turns back to Amy.

“Well, at least your place has a reputation for good service,” she tries.

“Oh, you and your silver linings,” he says with an affectionate smile.

The heat still burning in the tips of her ears has spilled down to her cheeks now; slowly, eyes never leaving his face, she steps backwards. “I should - I should let you go -”

“Right, yeah, it’s nine,” he murmurs, glancing at the clock above the front door to confirm. “I’ll, uh, walk you to your car?”

“You’re parked way further away, I should be offering to walk you to your car.”

They both laugh, Amy’s filtered with nerves, and in the dim lighting she can see his throat moving as he swallows. “Maybe - maybe I could walk you to your car, and then you can give me a ride to mine?”

“That’s fair,” she concedes with a nod.

They’re in the front seat of her car ten minutes later, parked behind his beat up old Mustang four blocks away from the shop. He’s in the midst of recounting an exchange not unlike the one they just had with another customer, imitating a high-pitched Long Island accent perfectly with a comically distorted face, a smile twitching across his face with each new peal of laughter from Amy. The tension from earlier has not dissipated, but she finds she doesn’t mind it here - not with him sitting so close, smelling so good, smiling at her like that.

“It’s late,” he finally sighs, patting his palms against his thighs.

It’s not, not really. She’s off tomorrow. “A little,” she murmurs, hoping her reluctance to leave isn’t as evident in her voice as it feels.

He smiles, warm and affectionate, and lets his head fall back against the seat. “The mural is really beautiful,” he says softly. “I can’t wait to see it again tomorrow.”

It’s hard to tell with what limited light is spilling into the cab of her car, but she’s fairly certain he’s looking at her lips; she swallows thickly, and his eyes dart back up to meet hers. “Me either,” she whispers.

She’s not sure if it’s him, or her, or the gravitational pull tugging at her very heart, but the next thing she knows is his lips on hers and his fingers in her hair. He tastes like cocoa and indulgence, like every sweet thing in her life; he sighs against her and shifts closer, and the familiar scent of fresh coffee grounds envelopes her every sense.

He smells like soap, like clean earth, like fresh rain falling on grass and trees, like something spicy and tangy. He’s awake when she opens her eyes - he’s been watching her sleep, she realizes with a touch of embarrassment.

The look of awe-struck wonder in his eyes doesn’t allow the embarrassment to last for long.

“Hi,” he murmurs as she shifts her head on her pillow to look at him more directly.

She laughs and he flushes pink, head dropping down just far enough that the still-damp curls at his hairline brush against her arm. She bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep from reaching out to touch his hair - before realizing that she can do that now, probably.

So she does.

He lifts his head just slightly the moment she cards her fingers through, and his expression is so soft and so affectionate she’s certain her knees would have given out from under her were she standing. “You smell different,” she whispers.

“Different...bad different?”

“No, good. But different. You usually smell like coffee.”

“Well, I typically try not to bathe in it,” he mutters, and his fingers gently close over her elbow bent up against the mattress. “But it’s hard not to smell like coffee all the time when you own a coffee shop.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” she says, grinning as she ruffles his hair. “I’ve actually always loved the way coffee smelled, even if the taste is kind of so-so.”

He furrows his brow, and a split-second later she feels her stomach bottom out. “The taste is kind of so-so?” he repeats, and she retracts her hand to pull his comforter up over her head. “Amy, do you not like coffee?”

There’s laughter in his voice and the mattress beneath them is quaking, and she lets out a groan she’s sure is comically muffled on the other side of the comforter. “I’m - it’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just - before we met, I never really - I mean I did, but only when I was, like, on the verge of passing out asleep at work - I just never really -”

“You said - on the day we met - that you love coffee.”

She flips the comforter down with enough force to bounce them both slightly, earning another volley of giggles from Jake. “Well, I do now!” she half-shouts.

“But you didn’t then?”

“What was I supposed to do? You were really cute and you were being so sweet and I had no idea we’d - that you and I would -”

“Oh, my god, you are so cute when you’re all flustered,” he interrupts, lightly poking her upper arm before curling his fingers around her bicep in earnest. “I’m really glad you lied about liking coffee.”

She rolls her eyes, but can’t fight back the smile spreading across her face. “Me, too. Even though I have a feeling I’ll never live it down.”

“You definitely won’t.”

He leans down before she can retort, and his lips are as soft and warm as they were the night before. His kiss is warm and sweet, thorough and electric, and before long she forgets her embarrassment and instead focuses only on the way his hair feels thick and soft between her fingers.

She’s practically panting by the time he pulls away, her eyelids fluttering open to find him looking down at her with an undeniably satisfied expression on his face, his kiss-bruised lips parted as his own chest heaves. “So glad you lied,” he murmurs before leaning down to quickly nip at her chin.

“I need to take a shower before we go back to the shop,” she says as he rolls out of bed and arches his back. “Do you mind if I use your stuff?”

“Do I mind if you smell like me for the rest of the day? Uh, no,” he winks cheekily as she rolls her eyes. “Towels are in the cabinet to the right of the toilet. I’m gonna make a breakfast run while you’re in there - muffins okay?”

“As long as Charles didn’t make them.”

He laughs as he tugs his shirt on, eyes twinkling with mirth. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get within a city block of them,” he assures her as she sits up in bed. “Can I get you something other than coffee to drink? Like maybe tea or apple juice?”

Despite his obvious joking tone, she senses the note of sincerity beneath the question - like if she really wanted something other than coffee, he’d take no personal offense. And it’s like all of a sudden, every insecurity of his is laid out bare before her - and she knows he’s not only asking about coffee. “I want coffee,” she assures him, pouring every ounce of conviction into the words. “I’ve been wanting coffee for a long time now.”

He smiles, small and shy, and steps toward the bed to kiss her soundly once more. “You’ve only been up for five minutes,” he murmurs against her lips.

She smacks his shoulders and he laughs, recoiling backwards. “Go get breakfast and I’ll shower and then we can go straight to the shop to finish this mural up. I want to be done before ten.”

“You have other plans today?”

“Yeah, I’m spending the whole day with you, and I’d rather not fight self-entitled hipsters through the shop windows.”

“Fair enough!” he shouts through a broad grin, yanking his jeans up his legs and bounding out the bedroom door. “I’ll be right back!”

It isn’t until well after the front door has slammed shut, after the water has begun pouring out of his showerhead and the steam has enveloped her body, that the scent wafting off of her own skin reaches her consciousness -

She smells like fresh coffee grounds.

#b99 summer 2019 fic exchange #b99fandomevents #my b99 fics #b99 #jake x amy #winnietherpooh #peraltiago #peraltiago fanfiction

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tripstations · 5 years ago

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Where to play, stay and chill in Greater Palm Springs this Summer

By Paul Johnson on Jun 05, 2019 in Accommodation, Attractions, California, Food and Drink, Going Out, Hotels, North America, Regions, Restaurants, Travel Miscellany, USA

Sunrise hikes, mornings at the pool, midday spa retreats, mister-cooled dining al fresco, and dive-in movies under the stars—summer has arrived in Greater Palm Springs.

Ask any local or frequent warm weather guest, summer and fall in the oasis offer plenty of perks—unbeatable prices, super affordable family vacation packages, fewer crowds, and a host of water-centric activities like Splash House, an annual multi-venue music festival taking place June 7–9 and August 9–11. Held poolside at the Renaissance, Riviera and Saguaro resorts, the parties continue into the night with open air After Hours events at the Palm Springs Air Museum.

In June, film buffs can count on quality storytelling at the Palm Springs International Short Film Festival & Market (June 18–24) as ‘ShortFest’ marks its 25th anniversary this year. Now the largest film festival in North America, the festival screens more than 300 short films and attracts filmmakers and industry players from around the world.

Looking ahead, Greater Palm Springs makes a great weekend base from which to experience Joshua Tree National Park’s fifth annual Night Sky Festival (September 21)—highlights include a Star Party with 20 telescopes, music, constellation tours and sky stories. In October, Wanderlust Wellspring (October 4–6) returns to Palm Springs with a sensational array of interactive classes, workshops, holistic treatments, services and much more. Stay tuned for the line-up of wellness thought leaders, teachers and healers to be announced this month. Autumn also brings several more special events including the inimitable Palm Desert Golf Cart Parade (October 27), Greater Palm Springs Pride (November 1–3) and the second edition of Ironman 70.3 Indian Wells La Quinta (December 8).

Greater Palm Springs is currently undergoing a series of hospitality enhancements that will give travellers to our destination more tourism options and amenities than ever before. Twenty hotels and resorts have recently opened, refreshed their properties or are in development throughout our nine-city oasis. In the meantime,The Bell: A Taco Bell Hotel and Resort will be popping up in Palm Springs for five days beginning August 9.

Here is the latest on where to appreciate culture, savour, play and stay in the nine cities of Greater Palm Springs.

Desert Hot Springs

Appreciate culture

Step back in time at Cabot Yerxa’s Hopi-inspired Pueblo Museum. Greater Palm Springs has a rich Native American history still thriving today. This museum, built in 1941, is filled with Native American art and artifacts. Visitors can see how artist Cabot Yerxa built the pueblo himself, using objects and materials he collected across the desert.

Savour

Eat whole foods with a side of spa. Essence at famed Two Bunch Palms serves up a menu wholly focused on “sustainable, local, seasonal and organic” ingredients. The farm-to-table restaurant features vegetarian, vegan and gluten-free fare amid an atmosphere awash in serenity and scenic views.

Stay

Escape to an exotic riad reminiscent of Tangier. Retreat to El Morocco Inn & Spa, an intimate boutique hotel centered around a secluded courtyard and spa. The decor features a blend of color and furnishings, many of which the owner purchased in Morocco, including handmade fabrics from women’s co-ops. Amenities are generous—from the French press coffee accompanying an expanded continental breakfast to a movie library, infrared sauna, spa garden, and perfectly chilled Morocco-tinis.

Palm Springs

Appreciate culture

Agua Caliente cultural center and spa will open in 2020. The Agua Caliente Band of Cahuilla Indians is in the midst of building a spectacular new center in downtown Palm Springs to showcase its Native American heritage. When complete, the center will feature a new cultural museum, spa and bathhouse that celebrates the Tribe’s ancient Agua Caliente hot mineral spring, a central gathering plaza, gardens and walking trail.

Savour

Gather under the clock for good cheer and great food. Housed in a restored 1936 building in La Plaza downtown, Grand Central Palm Springs is a combination coffee shop, restaurant, bar and event space with a warm welcoming setting that invites diners to unplug and reconnect. You’ll find a fresh take on old favorites—stop by for breakfast and order your French Toast sweet or savoury — and even a monthly coffee membership for that much-needed daily jolt.

Stay

Andaz Palm Springs to open in late 2019. Listed by Forbes as one of “The Most Exciting Hotels Opening in the U.S. in 2019,” this new 150-room luxury hotel is bound to entice travellers with its full-floor spa and fitness center, two pools, stylish restaurant serving up Argentinian fare and stunning views almost everywhere you turn.

Cathedral City

Appreciate culture

See Broadway-caliber productions and performances at CVRep. Following an active schedule of summertime jazz and cabaret offerings, the acclaimed CVRep has four exciting offerings on tap for the upcoming season: Donald Margulies’ Pulitzer Prize-winning play Dinner with Friends (November 6–24), Tony Award-winning musical Ballroom (January 9–February 16, 2020), The City of Conversation (March 11–29, 2020) and Native Gardens (April 22–May 10, 2020). Now located in its new 208-seat playhouse, CVRep is wowing locals and visitors alike.

Savour

Embark on a globally inspired culinary tour. Cathedral City’s diverse ethnic food scene boasts both hotspots and hidden gems laying out a smorgasbord of delectable dishes. Crave Italian? Reserve a table at Trilussa, Nicolino’s or stop by Frankie’s Italian Bakery (also a restaurant) for out-of-this-world Sicilian-style pastries. For authentic Mexican food, visit La Tablita known for its signature parillada, go Greek at Yianni’s Taverna and Wine Bar, or try BontáRestaurant & Bar for an inventive menu combining German, Argentinian and Italian cuisine. Fans of Indian food will find a wide selection of dishes at India Oven. Top it off all off with a frozen paleta at La Michoacana Ice Cream Parlor.

Stay

Whitewashed Villa Mykonos caters to the LGBTQ traveller. This upscale Mediterranean-inspired Cathedral City resort features ten 1,500 square foot villas—some pet-friendly—with dual master suites, luxe bathrooms, fully equipped kitchens, dining and living areas, and private patios or balconies. The pool, spa and BBQ areas make it easy for guests to mingle and entertain outdoors.

Rancho Mirage

Appreciate culture

Tour famed Sunnylands Center and Gardens. In 1963, Ambassador Walter and Mrs. Annenberg commissioned the construction of Sunnylands as their winter home; the rest is literally history. Today, visitors can tour the historic mid-century modern estate, viewing treasures like the more than 3,000 letters from 11 presidents dating from Dwight D. Eisenhower to Barack Obama. The Sunnylands campus also encompasses a contemporary 17,000-square-foot visitors center, nine acres of gardens, and 1.25 miles of walking paths. But Sunnylands’ relevance in the world of global politics can’t be understated. U.S. Presidents have hosted numerous meetings with foreign leaders earning Sunnylands the nickname of the ‘Western White House’. Please note that Sunnylands is now on summer hiatus and will reopen September 11 with tours resuming in the fall.

Savour

When in Rancho Mirage, eat Peruvian. The new Maria José Peruvian Gourmet restaurant has taken over a space in The Atrium and is getting rave reviews for its delicious authentic Peruvian cuisine, South American hospitality and stylish décor. Go for the delectable starters like ceviche and causa, a stuff mashed potato terrine. Try the lomo soltado, fresh seafood and chicken dishes, and don’t pass up the rice pudding and Peruvian ice cream.

Stay

Recharge at Omni Rancho Las Palmas Resort & Spa. As easy walk to THE RIVER entertainment destination, Omni Rancho Las Palmas offers nearly every resort amenity under the sun: 20,000-square-foot spa, 27 holes of championship golf, 25 tennis courts, fitness center and five restaurants. A two-acre water playground, Splashtopia features a lazy river, water slides, cliffside hot tub and sprinklers. Those sanskids will find respite at the adults-only pool.

Palm Desert

Appreciate culture

Find amazing art around every corner. The City of Palm Desert maintains a dynamic public art collection with more than 150 pieces on display throughout the city at locations like Civic Center Park. Palm Desert also presents biennial exhibits along the main thoroughfare in the El Paseo shopping district, a community art gallery, and offers free, guided tours of the collection on select Saturdays September through May.

Stay

JW Marriott Desert Springs is in the midst of a makeover. This magnificent 450-acre vacation oasis with its stunning labyrinth of waterways is reinventing itself with a complete remodel of its 884 guestrooms, lobby, meeting and dining areas. The luxury resort will remain open during the project, scheduled to take place in stages.

Indian Wells

Play

Practice your back swing at Indian Wells Tennis Garden: Keep your fitness up with a day at the Indian Wells Tennis Garden. Famed as the home of the annual BNP Paribas Open (March 9–22, 2020), the Indian Wells Tennis Garden is the second largest tennis stadium in the world. Visitors can watch a match or hire a court for the day to play.

Surf the Indian Wells Golf Resort on a golfboard. The environmentally friendly golfboard is letting players “surf the earth” on Indian Wells’ championship golf courses. The motorized scooters speeds up pace-of-play so golfers can get in more rounds.

Stay

Kick back and relax in this refreshing – and soon-to-be refreshed – luxury resort. This summer, Hyatt Regency Indian Wells Resort & Spa is undergoing an exciting enhancement with the addition of a three-story water slide tower and lazy river, as well as upgrades to the lobby, restaurants and meeting spaces.

La Quinta

Appreciate culture

Become a desert artisan at Old Town Artisan Studio: Visitors can channel their inner creative at the Old Town Artisan Studio, where they can take up classes in everything from clay sculpting to jewellery making.

Savour Indulge in wine and food pairing experience at Cork & Fork. The idea for this noted bistro came from weekly wine gatherings at Chef Andie Hubka’s adjacent cooking school, Cooking with Class. Patrons laud the award-winning restaurant for its food friendly wines and creative seasonal small plate menus. Reserve a space at one of the popular Chef’s Table wine dinners.

Stay

Spend a weekend, week or month by the lake. Greater Palm Springs meets Provence at The Chateau at Lake La Quinta, a 24-room boutique hotel boasting picturesque views, lakeside dining, lush grounds and beautifully appointed rooms. An idyllic destination for romantic getaways, weddings and special events.

Indio

Appreciate culture

Experience the City of Festivals. Mark your calendars now because November and December bring a flurry of annual festivals to this growing east valley city: Taste of Indio; Cars, Stars & Rock ‘n’ Roll & BBQ Festival; Dia de Los Muertos celebrations, Indio Powwow, and Indio International Tamale Festival (December 7–8), ranked a “Top Ten Food Festival” by the Food Network.

Savour

Another cool eatery from Chef Andi Hubka. Heirloom Craft Kitchen serves up an inventive menu showcasing small and big plates, salads, sandwiches, blackboard specials, and a nice selection of vegan dishes. Order a side of the famous truffle tots and wash it down with a grapefruit basil spritz. The Craft Beer & Wine program features small up-and-coming producers focused on sustainability.

South of the border cuisine stands out in Indio. There are so many outstanding Mexican restaurants in Indio, we’re hard-pressed to name just one. Family-owned Rincón Norteño has been a locals favorite for more than 50 years, while the Chile Relleno en Ahogada at Soul of Mexico gets rave reviews and El Mexicali Café has a loyal following for its traditional dishes and home-style Mexican breakfasts. There’s also Pueblo Viejo Grill & Tequila Bar, Macario’s Grill, El Campanario and many more on this unofficlal Mexican restaurant trail.

Coachella

Appreciate culture

Coachella Walls displays captivating socially conscious art: launched in 2014, the Coachella Walls is a mural project by local artists, showcasing art that reflects Greater Palm Springs’ agrarian roots and the city of Coachella’s community. Download a map from the Visitors section of the City of Coachella website and take a self-guided walking tour.

Savour

Baked goods from Panaderia Las Tres Conchitas. Situated on 6thStreet in Pueblo Viejo near City Hall, this local bakery churns out some of the finest Mexican breads and pastries in the Coachella Valley. Beyond the excellent pan dulce, bolillos and Conchas, the panaderia offers a mouth-watering selection of cookies, cakes and muffins.

Stay

Coachella’s first resort is now taking reservations. The highly anticipated opening of the city’s first resort is set to take place this fall. From the IHG Hotel brand and scheduled to open in November, Hotel Indigo will feature 250 casita-style accommodations, a 10,000-square-foot party pool, and 11-acre concert venue.

The post Where to play, stay and chill in Greater Palm Springs this Summer appeared first on Tripstations.

from Tripstations http://bit.ly/2Kr2WEI via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Tripstations

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jewish-pride · 6 years ago

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Within several months, on December 19th, 1656, Congregation Shaar Hashamayim opened in Creechurch Lane in the City of London. (A related Spanish & Portuguese congregation in New York City, Shearith Israel, was established two years earlier in 1654 and remains the oldest Jewish congregation in the United States.)

Just a few years later, Pepys found himself at Shaar Hashamayim during Simchat Torah, completely aghast at the joyous scene before his eyes. In his diary entry for Wednesday, October 14th, 1663, he recorded the event, forever capturing for posterity the mood from that Simchat Torah evening 350 years ago:

Up and to my office, where all the morning, and part of it Sir J. Minnes spent, as he do every thing else, like a fool, reading the Anatomy of the body to me, but so sillily as to the making of me understand any thing that I was weary of him, and so I toward the ‘Change and met with Mr. Grant, and he and I to the Coffee-house, where I understand by him that Sir W. Petty and his vessel are coming, and the King intends to go to Portsmouth to meet it. Thence home and after dinner my wife and I, by Mr. Rawlinson’s conduct, to the Jewish Synagogue: where the men and boys in their vayles, and the women behind a lattice out of sight; and some things stand up, which I believe is their Law, in a press to which all coming in do bow; and at the putting on their vayles do say something, to which others that hear him do cry Amen, and the party do kiss his vayle. Their service all in a singing way, and in Hebrew. And anon their Laws that they take out of the press are carried by several men, four or five several burthens in all, and they do relieve one another; and whether it is that every one desires to have the carrying of it, I cannot tell, thus they carried it round about the room while such a service is singing. And in the end they had a prayer for the King, which they pronounced his name in Portugall; but the prayer, like the rest, in Hebrew. But, Lord! to see the disorder, laughing, sporting, and no attention, but confusion in all their service, more like brutes than people knowing the true God, would make a man forswear ever seeing them more and indeed I never did see so much, or could have imagined there had been any religion in the whole world so absurdly performed as this. Away thence with my mind strongly disturbed with them, by coach and set down my wife in Westminster Hall, and I to White Hall, and there the Tangier Committee met, but the Duke and the Africa Committee meeting in our room, Sir G. Carteret; Sir W. Compton, Mr. Coventry, Sir W. Rider, Cuttance and myself met in another room, with chairs set in form but no table, and there we had very fine discourses of the business of the fitness to keep Sally, and also of the terms of our King’s paying the Portugees that deserted their house at Tangier, which did much please me, and so to fetch my wife, and so to the New Exchange about her things, and called at Thomas Pepys the turner’s and bought something there, an so home to supper and to bed, after I had been a good while with Sir W. Pen, railing and speaking freely our minds against Sir W. Batten and Sir J. Minnes, but no more than the folly of one and the knavery of the other do deserve.

Pepys’ depiction seems pretty similar to what one might see today on Simchat Torah, and offers a rare portrayal of early modern synagogue practice on one of the most festive days of the Jewish calendar. The story continues to be told to Jews and non-Jews alike when they enter a Spanish & Portuguese congregation in America and Europe on Simchat Torah night, with the hopes that they too will experience a similar feeling of festive, jovial, communal frivolity in celebration of the Torah.

#spanish and portuguese synagogue #jewish pride #jumblr #minyan pride #london

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formeryelpers · 3 years ago

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Viet Café & Sandwich, 4378 Thornton Ave, Fremont, CA 94536

Fremont/Newark banh mi usually isn’t as good as what you’ll find in Milpitas and San Jose. Viet Café is a new banh mi shop and probably the best banh mi in the Tri-Cities area. They have 8 types of banh mi to choose from all priced at $7.25 (e.g., grilled beef, grilled chicken, pork belly, BBQ pork), as well as bun/vermicelli, spring rolls, and drinks (e.g., Vietnamese coffee, boba drinks).

#2 Deluxe Combination Banh Mi Thit Nguoi ($7.25): For bread, they used a long, thin baguette than a crusty roll and they did not toast it. I don’t mind that it wasn’t toasted because the baguette was fresh. It wasn’t a real Vietnamese baguette made with rice flour but it was fresh, chewy and not too bready. I really liked the bread. They included slices of cha lu and other cold cuts, pate, jalapeno, cucumber, cilantro, and pickled carrots and daikon. The veggies were fresh. The pickled carrots and daikon were on the sweeter side; they should have been tangier – however, this didn’t bother me too much.

You should be able to find parking in the strip mall. FYI, $10 credit card minimum. During my visit, they were only offering takeout. They had a few chairs but no tables. The décor is a bit strange but they probably didn’t remodel the space much when they took over the Yogurt Delite space. The sandwiches were ready quickly, probably because they don’t toast the bread?

4 out of 5 stars

By Lolia S.

#Viet Cafe #banh mi sandwich #banh mi #Vietnamese sandwich #Newark #Vietnamese food

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impressivepress · 4 years ago

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Travel in the Footsteps of Henri Matisse in Morocco

Until the advent of mass tourism, North Africa’s jewel, Morocco remained a relatively unknown world of Sultans, spices and sparse deserts. A number of artists throughout the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries visited this faraway land. Through their artworks, the public could learn about this unknown country. One of those was Henri Matisse.

Matisse’s Journey into Art

Henri Matisse (1869-1954) was one of the 20th century’s most influential artists. Born in Bohain-en-Vermandois in northern France, he didn’t start painting until he was 20. After a year of legal studies in Paris, he returned to northern France to become a clerk in a legal office. During this time he attended a morning drawing class at a local art school. Then, in 1891, after recovering from a severe case of appendicitis, he left his job in law. He went back to Paris and began his journey to becoming a professional artist.

His career spanned an impressive six decades and he became synonymous with his expressive use of color and Fauvist style. Throughout his career, Matisse’s paintings most commonly depicted figures in landscapes, portraits, interior settings and nudes.

Henri Matisse in Morocco

When we think of Matisse, Morocco is not a country that automatically comes to mind. Heavily influenced by the countries of the Mediterranean, much of his artwork is tinged with the color and the essence of these places. However, reaching a point in his career when he needed a little inspiration, he decided to visit Morocco in both 1912 and 1913.

The artist set out to discover this remote country and its people. Like many artists of this time, he went in search of North African culture, in search of the Orient, and the exotic. Matisse was drawn to this land by the images of lions, deserts, Sultans, jewels and spices. Above all, the main objectives of his travel to this faraway land were to find a new artistic direction and discover its culture.

The Grand Hotel Villa de France

Our journey to Morocco begins at the Grand Hotel Villa de France, where Matisse stayed during both his trips to Tangier. Landing in this port city in 1912, Matisse was at first disheartened. Writing to his friend, the poet Gertrude Stein, he complained that for five days “it had rained incessantly”. As a result, he was confined to his room. It was here that he first began painting in 1912.

With little else to inspire him, he started painting the objects and views he saw around him. Firstly, he turned to the flowers in his room, as can be seen in the painting Vase of Irises. Exploring the realms of light and color, this painting presents the flowers neatly placed on a marble top dressing table. Yet, it is his famous painting of the beautiful view across Tangier from the hotel room’s window that defined Henri Matisse in Morocco. Landscape Viewed From a Window, looking out over St Andrew’s Church to the kasbah beyond, is a classic example of Matisse’s bold use of colors to encapsulate landscapes. Nowadays, the hotel allows visitors into this room to look out upon the scene that Matisse saw all those years ago.

Enthralled with the view from the hotel, he painted another view in The Bay of Tangier. Painted from a different angle, he shows the blue and green tiled roofs of the city, as well as the sweeping bay and looming rain clouds.

The Medina and Surroundings

Our next stop, following Henri Matisse in Morocco, leads us to the kasbah in Tangier and its surroundings. It wasn’t long before the skies cleared and the hot North African sun shone down. As such, the artist was finally free to walk around and discover the city’s charms. However, not straying far from the hotel, he painted the majority of his work in Tangier’s kasbah, fortress, medina, and medieval walled city. Naturally, like anyone arriving in Morocco, he was eager to see Tangier’s kasbah, the maze-like market of the city.

Firstly, in Entrance to the Kasbah, he presents sharp contrasts between light and shadow, so characteristic of Morocco. A typical Moroccan scene, the painting illustrates the keyhole-like entrance to the market, with a local man at work on the left. The fierce blue of the sky clashes with the vibrant red of the floor to capture the vivid color contrasts.

Next, he leads us to the tomb of Sidi Boukoudja in Le Marabout. Located on the edge of the kasbah, this building is a typical representation of the type of architecture found in Tangier, and Morocco. The building, built in 1865, is used as a shrine to honor the life of Sidi Ahmed Boukoudja, a family member of the city’s then patron. Although Matisse typically painted unusual, abstract portraits, his paintings from Morocco were much more realistic.

A Short Coffee Stop

Meandering around the zigzagging little paths of any medina may prove to be quite tiring. Perhaps a short stop off at a local cafe would be just the break one needs. This was the case with Matisse, who stopped at a charming little cafe next to the kasbah. Inspired by the bustling little cafe and its people, he captured the scene in Moroccan Café. This time using much lighter colors, he paints the cafe goers in their traditional grey jellabah and white turbans. Something that would have seemed very exotic to the Frenchmen at this time.

Mesmerized by its whitewashed houses, centuries old palaces and blend of North African culture, it is clear that Matisse was greatly inspired by Morocco. In 1915, long after his travels were over, he honoured his time in Tangier with the cubist painting The Moroccans. Above all, he captures the cafe culture of the city describing the artwork as “the terrace of the little cafe of the kasbah”. He depicts three distinct sections; a mosque behind a balcony with a flower pot, a vegetable patch and a man wearing a turban. The block of black color unites the three parts together, presenting an interesting perspective from the cafe where he sat.

Moving Forward

For anyone planning a trip to the mesmerizing city of Tangier, let these paintings be a starting point. Follow in the footsteps of Henri Matisse in Morocco, and discover this awe-inspiring and vibrant land through his art.

~ Charlotte Stace · June 26, 2020.

#matisse #art article #morocco #painting #daily art magazine

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shoplivinggardens · 7 months ago

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A haven for cozy relaxation right in your own backyard, Outdoor Santorini furniture features plush comfort, a clean-lined design, and a spacious profile that makes an attractive statement on the porch, patio, or by the poolside.

#Santorini Furniture #breeze outdoor furniture #breeze patio furniture #tangier coffee table

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coldlipsmag · 7 years ago

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PHONELESS IN BERLIN

Words: Kirsty Allison

All photographs by Martyn Goodacre, except images of Danielle De Picciotto’s art, and Alexander Hacke’s studio…and the portrait of Morgan, by Kirsty.

Clouds’ shadows camouflage the sea. Sardine boats dodge the lifeboat wind farms. I jet-trash over last night’s cab, and the phone left on the back seat.

SCHONEFIELD AIRPORT

“Yes,” with an ‘of course’-face, “It has all the streets on it.” The tourist board office give me a map with the VisitBerlin travel card – 41E for 6 days, generous. I like free travel, and I like maps. Not Maps that rhyme with apps. I see the island of West Berlin – I put all the streets in my long black woollen notebook pocket.

U-BAHN/S-BAHN

Map in a glass cage – no index – I’ll take a photo – look at it when I’m moving – I can’t take a photo. My cogs shift from the cybernet dimension.

Alone. Letting go of my infatuation with being monitored, I feel an analogue glitch, a slip of fortune as I enter the low-rise city, uninterrupted with pings.

A watch. I could buy a watch – to tell the time.

I could walk rather than do the connection.

THE HORRORS / Synästhesie Festival / Volksbühne

“The people putting this festival together told me this granite floor was from Hitler’s Bunker,” says Anton Newcombe of the Brian Jonestown Massacre and A Records, DJing in the green room, two floors of sweeping staircases up in the People’s Theatre of Mitte’s Rosa-Luxemburg Platz – once the centre of East Berlin’s GDR.

“Do you believe them?” I ask, of the 8MM Bar promoters who put the festival together. We consider the plausibility, the Nazi star, in dirty creams and blood reds.

Mark Reeder later confirms it to be from the Nazi Vice Chancellor office. And of the cenotaphs stashed beneath the KuDamm – the Nazi spikes. Close enough. Anton is a hero – DIG! the film he stars in aside spars, The Dandy Warhols – an essential on the rock n roll rites-of-passage Reading List. Between his selection of classic psychedelia: “I was born in 1967, in California, of course I’m psychedelic”, with highlights such as Fabio Viscollios 7”, he sets the record straight on all kindsa connections that zip around my references of the night – the stars that guide us, the magnets who form us.

Arrival in Neukölln

So 90s, no blue arrow locator. Without the digital psychographic veils of my screen, the meaning of wrong direction changes – I love to travel, to feel on top of the globe, wherever you walk, with only the weight of the identifiers you carry.

Natural order leads me to Stroke Order – my faux-god-sista, of the Sacred Sound Club – her haus is pink. Y3 shoes, high ceilings, dribble shower, CK mirror. She’s a costume designer for films, but has been hiding out here for a year. Making minimal techno – using autonomous sensory meridian response samples – sounds that turn us on.

Our mothers are pretend godmothers to me and her. She grew up in Vancouver. Dad is a motorcycle racer and ballet dancer in Japan.

Synästhesie Festival / Volksbühne

CAMERA take to the main stage of seated theatre hall. Brutalist fractal collage films of matrix shifting cities, juddering with intent. Projections of you watching me watching you – perhaps being shot live in the auditorium – full scope. Beaming around the physical force of a standing drummer triballing out for a 20 minute set on a bass drum, snare and cymbal. The centre-piece. Astral simulacrum to The Egg who I played with earlier this year. The standing drummer keels in sweat, throws a death white sheet over the drums as though he has beaten them dead, only to dampen their noise, and continue hitting and hitting. Keys, 2 x guitar, sitar bass, different genereration radical on sax – elf dancing.

I’m reminded of the need for parameters – the ones we invent to live inside. The significance of numbers plays on the screens – another hallucination. A replacement for seeing everything through snapshot Insagram lens. Abandoning our digital religion – is so FKK (freikörperkultur – the GDR East Berliners act of rebellion was to strip on Sundays around the lakes – to rip off the communist soaked nylons of identikit clothing*). So naked.

TANGERINE DREAM

A violinist in black – modular synth Memotron on one side – a bank of other buttons on the other side. One life. One nerve shatters and then rest follow. First they twitch, and glitch the matrix…

I catch a bit of THE PINS – all girls – superhot, riot grrrrl electronica.

THE HORRORS

Violent Lenin Uber Alles track shatters across the increased scale of the stage for this headline performance – punk anger of East Berlin, red deco chandeliers of alles Ku-damm Cabaret glory. Waiting for Faris Badwan, the singer who I first interviewed for Dazed and Confused, making a film about his illustration – and exhibition, I wonder about the symbolism of genre/sound/music/art as signs of the times – about resonance – of what we are creating and producing – of X Factor sounds as the capitalist panacea – of our art resonating our environment – or us gravitating towards it. Stroke Order making techno in Berlin.

The futurism of white noise perfection – the dystopian values, four albums in from when I first met Faris – he was maybe 23 then. Unsure if he was going to carry on at St Martins art school. By the time I interviewed him again for Vogue, he was not going back.

And here, seated in the very front row – I witness the evocation of destiny – he’s become less of the shy frontman, but someone who is commanding the respect of the universe – he violently whips the mic lead – he hails the pulses of front row screamers, bonding their necks with rubber wire – he in black PVC – guitarist in red lipstick – beautiful rockstar boys. Lyrics are lost in the Elritch reverb – Faris is crown stealing. Volatile black energy of goth industrial – contemporised by Tom Furse – and his techno pyramid synths. Ice sweat dripping Hackney vampire bassist Rhys Webb. Faris has become storming iconic balearic, striding over theatre seats, in smart city shoes. It’s cosmic goth, it is power – it is owning the depth of Poe hell to Blakean heavens. From voyeurs to submission, the audience leave satisfied.

WEDDING/NW multi-cultural reaches of the city.

Fire station studio. Danielle De Picciotto walks us across a courtyard in twilight. Pyramid of flowers, split by stairs to a below-sea-level, waiting buddha, draped with beads. Left and right basement of Californian security doors, co-joined studios, His and Hers. Drums on the male side, Alexander Hacke, Einsturzende Neubatten – poles of metal to hit. Next door: paintings of black and white folklore S+M dolls with tripped out wings, and photograph reflections. Hers. With tea. Laughter. Discussion. Love. She is love.

***

Lost – ghetto kid guides me and Stroke Order to the ambient dinner in a bar beneath a block in Wedding: soundproof triangles of three-tone pastel shaved hardwood. Clean vegetables, and a series of performances from three post-Akai-ists. Poetry, soundscapes layering paranoic schizophrenic voices – a DJ girl in from Seattle. The residents, ex-pats, from across Germany, and the world – carrying less ego than London. A wholesome intellect carries through, it gets lost in the whirl of London survival. I think back to hanging with the man commonly known as Rodent, the Sex Pistols’ sound tech – he was saying everything is lost in our digital times – the lack of ability to hang out together, they had to live frugally, himself in the studio of The Clash. The intensity of art. It’s easier here. To get involved in your creativity – away from the grab.

SUNDAY

Home jukebox, coffee, and Okay Cafe cinnamon swirls at Jason McGlade and Anne-Cathrin Saure’s (the art director/photographer, and designer of Cold Lips II, and co-createurs of the Shedville font). They moved back here recently – but Jason’s back and forth to London, working on an incredible analogue Polaroid project.

Stroke Order and I head out to Berghain – but instead collide with a very old friend who’s been living in Thailand for 14 years – Martyn Goodacre. He took the most iconic picture of Kurt Cobain, and many more. We tried doing music together when we worked on magazines. We go to a bar, meet with a midwife – talk about the horror show of birth, the guidance into the world, policed by the womb and the channel to birth and the rejection from the vulvic eye. The propulsion.

MONDAY MORNING COMING DOWN FROM AN EMAIL THAT IS CHANGING MY LIFE

Space, China – coffee with Mark Reeder. His vinyl of Mauderstadt is out now. I’ve just run a trilogy of stories on him in DJ Mag, explaining his part in Berlin, from being the Factory rep in Berlin in Joy Division days, through to putting on punk gigs in East Berlin, recording the music in gay bars to play to New Order – thus Blue Monday – and since, from inventing trance music with his label MfS – getting Paul van Dyk on the map – he’s the man. His uniforms. Rare light.

“Danielle [De Picciotto] and Katia – Love Parade would never have started without them.”

[Love Parade was the street party that began in the ecstatic reunification of East and West Berlin. The wall came down in 1990. The old GDR was a wild land. Read Danielle De Picciotto’s Beauty of Transgression for more…or watch Mark Reeder’s B-Movie…and his forthcoming E-Movie.]

He realises he’s late for his lunch…

Alone, back on the Neukölln streets, I look into the door of a Moroccan cafe – get called in by a round-faced Muslim woman, grey jumper, jeans – trainers – Tangiers market vibes, enter – beans – good – no English – point at a box – I don’t know if she knows I don’t want a tagine but takeaway – they waterfall me mint tea – the door slams shut. There are stickers on the wall tiles – plastic table cloths. Am I about to be drugged? Locked in – I have few Euros and no phone to be stolen.

I sit, read the Unspoken Berlin I’ve picked up – and wait for either the drugs to kick in, or to relax. Oh, some brot on the table – no it ain’t Gucci Bloom sea hedgehog fennel and jerusalem artichoke, chestnut puree and scallop, purple watercress like the exquisite experience of Lokal where local ingredients will dance on plates for us later – nor is is it as refined as the Techno sauna we’ll meditate in around the bar – but it is E2.50 and beautifully wholesome – the chickpeas are larger than London.

—-

Neurotitan have taken Cold Lips and my last 3 copies of Unedited. Stefi there is lovely. It’s somewhere that’s always called me on previous trips to Berlin. Many putting a film together that became impossible, about Manuel Gottching, of Ash Ra Tempel – and E2:E4 – the most sampled record – inventor of ambient – before Eno, before the HANSA recordings of Iggy and Bowie. I tell Stefi of my gig last night with Whisky and Words at the Keith bar – where Stroke Order – her pals – and Jason McGlade come by – and Mark Reeder. And Rasp Thorne [post coming to Cold Lips soon, or buy the second edition for total spread]- the consumate performer – lighter over here – my lips are still red from the wine. Stephen Crane. Rasp’s performance of Crane. He’s so good.

Everytime I get on a train here the stasi black jacket ticket checkers are on the same carriage. It’s happened to Morgan 3 times in her year here – and 3 times with me in as many days. I am able to fight my usual paranoias from the top of my Maslow pyramid – the email from a publisher – saying he wants to publish my novel – the one I have had two agents hawk around in 11 years – during which time, I have changed, and so has the story. It is the best email I’ve ever had. Here, lying in bed on the Monday morning after meeting with Anton Newcombe and front row for Faris – Faris frow.Two days later, I’m still flying, as I hit EchoBucher, back in Wedding – they’re taking some Cold Lips…I drop into Potsdamer – meeting… No fucking way. Ticket checkers.

Zug Fallt aus!

You have amazing eyes – you look like Madonna said the guy from Milano – I’m hoping he means old skool hot Madz. En route to the airport – delays – nerves shot / triggering towards Parkinsons and spiked dreams. He calmed me – so did the guy who was also travelling to Stansted – as we ran for the plane, and vice versa. Detoxed from the phone, train home, to the temple – travelling with Alice A Bailey. Nanobotic karmic overide. More ticket inspectors – haunted by the stasi – on plane now – could do with some extra O2 from the overhead locker after running in a coat I just bought which I think I may be allergic to. But it’s so warm.

*German born LA-resident, Benedikt Taschen, the art collector and publisher, has directed the content of the new EAST GERMAN HANDBOOK. An encyclopedic collab with Wende Museum, a place of Cold War artefacts in Culver City. It’s a compendium of communist porn – picture-led, masonically-charged graphics of the whole nine yards of life behind the wall – from ideal weaponary to food, fags, appalling vodka, and the requisite communist shit shoes. It’s got 50s utopian vision written all over it.

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