corbeauxblog

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Oh. My. God.

Yes, I'm still here. And you thought that I bit the bullet, packed my bags, and moved to one of those sunny islands with cuddle fish?

No way, José! 🤠

I checked the last time I posted. It was back in February 2017.

Oh. My. God. A couple of years more, and it would have been a decade since I scribbled down my thoughts and mingled with you.

Let's change that, shall we?

Did I just save you from an unnecessary anniversary, candles, and cake? I know you would have liked that. Oh, wait. I've got no readers anymore? Does that mean that even if that anniversary did happen (the one where I didn't post for 10 years), nobody would show up?

You don't say.

This might be because I squandered my blogger portfolio and chances back in the 2010s when I stopped writing/posting.

It's a shame, really, because I hadn't depleted the story well at that point.

Yes, I hear your line of questioning. How come you didn't continue? What went wrong?

Your honor, I have no defense ready at this point. Give me a few posts, and I'll open up a bit more. I was a late bloomer, and sometimes it shows.

I'll leave you at this point to talk amongst yourselves.

Oh, just so I don't forget: I learned this during my adult years (and I still am one). I'm making this into a weekly thing. By this, I mean these posts. Come on, keep up! This means that come next Thursday, there will be a post awaiting to be read by you, non-existent reader. Yes, you are the one who shall be entertained. You are the one who may or may not read my stories. Yes, you, who may be intrigued and at the same time frown in surprise about what you've discovered on the World Wide Web.

Any foreshadowing about the topics you may cover? Imagine you haven't put on a pair of shoes for a number of years. You enjoyed wearing them before. However, now you have to ease into them to get that snug, comforting feeling again. Patience IS a virtue.

Isn't it wonderful? The unknown? And... that's why they call it a leap of faith.

Come with me if you want to leap...

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Visuals & Design

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From the Archive: Credit Cards

I follow the concierge through a maze of narrow hallways until we enter a minuscule interview room. It looks to be prepped for an important guest. A woman is going over questions in hush tones in one of the corners. My throat dries up. With a loud gulp I straighten my tie and try to look confident. I run my hand through my hair. The poor substitute of a comb doesn't help my messy hair. With a swift movement I make my way to the interviewee chair and attempt to sit down unnoticed. Failing dreadfully at doing so. The moment I reached the cushions all the lights turned my way. The lady from the corner stood in front of me. She sat down steadily, almost as if she was acting in front of an audience. "Mr Corbeaux, what can you tell us about the pros and cons of credit cards?" These tiny plastic rectangles with a magnetic strip became a quintessential part of our lives. Possessing one is a sign of independence and immediate wealth at one's disposal. Having a few of these bad boys and using them haphazardly can leave you stranded on debt island. Nothing clears out your wallet and makes it more streamlined than a few plastic cards. The instant you draw one you feel like you have all the power of a consumer at your fingertips. Don't get me wrong, you really do, all the way up to the end of the month. At that point the monetary institution kindly reminds you of the amount due. The horror!  Let's turn the page and look on the bright side of things. Using a credit card is straight forward. Consider it a worldwide accepted currency. Personally, I only have two. In my case, there's no reason to have more and I consider it plenty. However, I'm not most people, which makes me sometimes think of those who tend to have more accounts, more credit cards and other membership cards. You might end up lost in the pile or cary too much plastic in your wallet, or purse for that matter. What if you could have all payment related cards in one? Surely you heard this one before. There's but a handful of companies who are trying to break the ice with a "one card to rule them all" philosophy. One particular startup stands out - Coin. It's straightforward method of integrating your cards is sleek and hustle-free. I might not be the target market, considering having only two cards, but my curiosity peaks when it comes to gadgets, which actually make things easier. How about paying with our phones? Or having only our finger scanned to get things done? We have definitely come to the intersection of tangible versus virtual. This could be the right time to make the next step in payment with a substantial impact on the environment.* All in all the credit card is here to stay, at least for now. It will take us another few years, or even a decade even, to bypass the rectangular plastic and go with one of the above. Until then, be safe and don’t make “debt island” your holiday destination.

*17 billion plastic credit and membership cards are made annually

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It seemed to be one of those blue-skied mornings

One of those where autumn presents itself in a spectacular fashion. I peered outside in hope to catch a glimpse of that early morning sun. Those rays which shine through street gaps. That blue-yellowish light which makes mornings a little bit warmer, a lit bit cozier. Apart from the warm cup of coffee I held in my hand, this morning was a serene insert into my daily commutes. All of a sudden a voice came crashing down from above. It wasn't the distinct sound of God announcing Judgement Day, nor the voice of the unknown female who lets us know the next stop. It was a raspy, Tom-Waits-like voice of the bus driver. How often do you hear those men and women speak? They remain anonymous most of the time. Well, all expect this one. He didn’t say much, but in his heavy Jutlandish Danish I was able to distinguish a sentence: "Kig ud på fjorden og se de smukke farver af solen.” Which means: “Look outside and see the beautiful colors of the sun on the fjord.” I believe certain kinds of beauty are ephemeral. They constitute of short glimpses, moments, brief instants. It’s hard to describe them because they are unique, each and every time. To put it this way, have you ever tried to describe a painting to a blind person? Sure, you can name the characters, objects, author, period, style, technique so on and so forth. No matter what you do, you can’t with certainty convey the beauty, or ugliness for that matter, of a piece of art. It requires all senses. It cannot due with one or the other. I have no picture of what I saw. What I have, though, is a vivid memory of an image that would have been neglected if it wasn’t for a slight nudge from the “voice above”. I snapped right there and then to realize one very important thing: We loose our perception of the world around us if we let our own consume us. We, in a way, go blind.

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Tom Waits: Spare Parts & Closing Lyrics

Somebody said to me one day:

"Christ, Waits! You look so goddam raggedy, why don't you get yourself something to wear, you know?"

I said: "Yeah well, not a bad idea."

Maybe a serious seersucker Saturday evening cranberry accoutrement ensemble would be nice. So, I went down to Seider & Seider and I said:"I want something sharp!"  I said: "I'm kinda in the market, in the neighborhood of something like... maybe some green gabardines with boneroo britches. And a leviticously duteronomous sort of catastrophic lunch-box Stetson, you know. I'd like to get some Danger High Voltage slacks, with high top, mid noon, brushed suede penny loafers, so I can be passing out wolf tickets regardless of where I go." Walk into the 20 Grand Club... And the Soul & Inspirations are playin'. Yeah, and you're cuttin' a rug and pullin' on a coat and emotin'. Band is kickin' into some long version of 'Harlem Nocturne' or somethin'. You get designs on a girl in the corner. You say: "Say baby... live around here?"

- Tom Waits

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Dumas’ Ancestry

There’s something about this quote that resonated deep inside of me. It might be the rare instance when I come across Dumas’ name. Or perhaps the inspirational nature of the short. Most likely it’s the essence of equality that runs through-on-through the lines. Why and where we come from makes us who we are, but in no way should make us a target.

 One day a man was taunting Alexandre Dumas，the great French novelist, with his ancestry． “Why,” snarled the fellow, “you are a quadroon; your father was a mulatto, and your grandfather was a negro.” “Yes,” roared Dumas,“ and, if you wish to know, my great-grandfather was a monkey. In fact, my pedigree began where yours terminates.”

 Glossary: Quadroon – a person who is one-quarter black by descent Mulatto – a person of mixed white and black ancestry, especially a person with one white and one black parent

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The Island

Island by Not Quite Black and White website // blog // contact

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Lips

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A story unlike any.

(This Craigslist ‘Missed Connections’ Ad, 43 Years in the Making, Is Simply Heartbreaking | Adweek)

I met you in the rain on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved to kill myself.

One week prior, at the behest of Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger, I’d flown four B-52 sorties over Hanoi. I dropped forty-eight bombs. How many homes I destroyed, how many lives I ended, I’ll never know. But in the eyes of my superiors, I had served my country honorably, and I was thusly discharged with such distinction.

And so on the morning of that New Year’s Eve, I found myself in a barren studio apartment on Beacon and Hereford with a fifth of Tennessee rye and the pang of shame permeating the recesses of my soul. When the bottle was empty, I made for the door and vowed, upon returning, that I would retrieve the Smith & Wesson Model 15 from the closet and give myself the discharge I deserved.

I walked for hours. I looped around the Fenway before snaking back past Symphony Hall and up to Trinity Church. Then I roamed through the Common, scaled the hill with its golden dome, and meandered into that charming labyrinth divided by Hanover Street. By the time I reached the waterfront, a charcoal sky had opened and a drizzle became a shower. That shower soon gave way to a deluge. While the other pedestrians darted for awnings and lobbies, I trudged into the rain. I suppose I thought, or rather hoped, that it might wash away the patina of guilt that had coagulated around my heart. It didn’t, of course, so I started back to the apartment.

And then I saw you.

You’d taken shelter under the balcony of the Old State House. You were wearing a teal ball gown, which appeared to me both regal and ridiculous. Your brown hair was matted to the right side of your face, and a galaxy of freckles dusted your shoulders. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

When I joined you under the balcony, you looked at me with your big green eyes, and I could tell that you’d been crying. I asked if you were okay. You said you’d been better. I asked if you’d like to have a cup of coffee. You said only if I would join you. Before I could smile, you snatched my hand and led me on a dash through Downtown Crossing and into Neisner’s.

We sat at the counter of that five and dime and talked like old friends. We laughed as easily as we lamented, and you confessed over pecan pie that you were engaged to a man you didn’t love, a banker from some line of Boston nobility. A Cabot, or maybe a Chaffee. Either way, his parents were hosting a soirée to ring in the New Year, hence the dress.

For my part, I shared more of myself than I could have imagined possible at that time. I didn’t mention Vietnam, but I got the sense that you could see there was a war waging inside me. Still, your eyes offered no pity, and I loved you for it.

After an hour or so, I excused myself to use the restroom. I remember consulting my reflection in the mirror. Wondering if I should kiss you, if I should tell you what I’d done from the cockpit of that bomber a week before, if I should return to the Smith & Wesson that waited for me. I decided, ultimately, that I was unworthy of the resuscitation this stranger in the teal ball gown had given me, and to turn my back on such sweet serendipity would be the real disgrace.

On the way back to the counter, my heart thumped in my chest like an angry judge’s gavel, and a future—our future—flickered in my mind. But when I reached the stools, you were gone. No phone number. No note. Nothing.

As strangely as our union had begun, so too had it ended. I was devastated. I went back to Neisner’s every day for a year, but I never saw you again. Ironically, the torture of your abandonment seemed to swallow my self-loathing, and the prospect of suicide was suddenly less appealing than the prospect of discovering what had happened in that restaurant. The truth is I never really stopped wondering.

I’m an old man now, and only recently did I recount this story to someone for the first time, a friend from the VFW. He suggested I look for you on Facebook. I told him I didn’t know anything about Facebook, and all I knew about you was your first name and that you had lived in Boston once. And even if by some miracle I happened upon your profile, I’m not sure I would recognize you. Time is cruel that way.

This same friend has a particularly sentimental daughter. She’s the one who led me here to Craigslist and these Missed Connections. But as I cast this virtual coin into the wishing well of the cosmos, it occurs to me, after a million what-ifs and a lifetime of lost sleep, that our connection wasn’t missed at all.

You see, in these intervening forty-two years I’ve lived a good life. I’ve loved a good woman. I’ve raised a good man. I’ve seen the world. And I’ve forgiven myself. And you were the source of all of it. You breathed your spirit into my lungs one rainy afternoon, and you can’t possibly imagine my gratitude.

I have hard days, too. My wife passed four years ago. My son, the year after. I cry a lot. Sometimes from the loneliness, sometimes I don’t know why. Sometimes I can still smell the smoke over Hanoi. And then, a few dozen times a year, I’ll receive a gift. The sky will glower, and the clouds will hide the sun, and the rain will begin to fall. And I’ll remember.

So wherever you’ve been, wherever you are, and wherever you’re going, know this: you’re with me still.

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Palette.

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Under the wave

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CrowBar: More of Her

These sudden rushes of blood putting us into a state of elevation. Our minds digress from topics and we zone out. We escape to reality beyond the one we know. We create our own. We stay in touch by threads of yarn. We yearn for images and voices clearer than day. We can't stay away.  

For how a corner city glows, She bestows upon me. You - Me Carefully selects the chord and the song's key. For the city For the entrance fee For free. Don't hesitate, Go on, Go. You'll see, How she embraces me.  

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Road trippin'

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Figures of Speech

Minimal Vision [definitions] by Francheska Baquiran

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CrowBar: For Her

Satin spires of bewilder beige rave through the horizon. Salt water comes and goes with a sound of rush. Yellow light courses through her veins,   It spills over her sandy shoulder. Pebbles are smudged away by the ocean. Clouds are incoming. Rain is imminent.

The winner was a piano. Tucked away in the back of the quiet hall. There, I felt inspired. And I felt courageous. At first touching the ivories with respect, learning how to caress them. Then I gathered a bit more courage and pressed them harder. Re-learning how to touch them so they give off just the right tone, in just the right loudness. So I sat there and I played. Eliciting bittersweet tones from keys I haven't touched for what seemed to be ages. And it felt good. And it felt empowering. I woke up from my petit concert slightly dazed and confused. Quickly grabbing my things and the moment with me, I walked away. Smiling as if pretending that there were a few people that applauded in appreciation.

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How to perceive time.

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CrowBar: Aftermath

Little heartbeats of light passed by the window blinds. They spread their tiny wings all across this haziness. The petit lodgings get illuminated by their shine and shimmer. These brave little warriors bear gifts of warmth and light. Humbly, I accept.  

Sitting among these adjectives nouns and a few verbs I strive to become human again.

Caught in-between illustrious string quartets where one weirdo chimes with his keys to break on through. All so he can light his fire and become a rider of the storm.