111 Steps to Paris: May 2012

Thursday, May 31, 2012

64. Leaving on a jet plane

Tomorrow is the Crossing. We leave from Paris, to Reykjavik, to New York, and then plonk down in sweet ol' Cackolack at midnight, local time. It'll be 6 am for us. Fun. But the journey itself reminds of all the great things about flying.

63. This is the end

'Tis our final night in Petit Bateau, my sweets. I may write about that in the coming days. But a couple days ago my friend Anna responded to something I said about our last trip to Recloses, something along the lines of, "Why do the good things always have to come to an end?" So I'm going to write about that tonight.

62. For love of the Enterprise

She's a fine ship, my loves. She's carried the name through many vessels, both actual and imagined, though not necessarily fictional-- yet.
I give you a sonnet to all of them.

This doesn't include JJ Abrams' re-envisioned Enterprise, which I hear
is an element of argument amongst those geeky enough to worry.

61. The Drenchening

Today we went to Lac Daumesnil, a little lake in/near the Bois de Vincennes, over in the southeast corner of Paris. It was lovely, and one of the things Megan had wanted to do since she first came here during the winter was rent one of the barques, or rowboats, and go puttering around on the water. Today we did so, and got what we deserved.

No kids; that's not Sebastien Chabal. Though I understand your confusion.

60. Recloses, je t'aime

I only wrote of Recloses (pronounced ruh-cloze) once, though we went there many times. Louis would trade his cottage for our apartment so that he might get a weekend in Paris and we could have a weekend not there. The Larry family treated us as though we were part of them, sharing meals and adventures and birthdays and firewood.

This past weekend things worked out so that we were all there at the same time: all the Larrys, their/our friend Anna, and the lads in the cottage, Louis and Ariel, hung out for the evening so we could celebrate Shaie's 6th birthday.

Recloses, and the wonderful people we met there, was the sweetest part of coming here. It's going to be the hardest part to leave behind.

59. Elegy for a sheep

We're in Recloses again this weekend. In the back yard is a goat, Blanchette, and a sheep, Dolly. This morning we couldn't find Dolly. Usually she's hard to miss; like pigs, sheep loom much larger in real life than they do in little plastic barnyard toy sets. But, "Oh well. Not my sheep, not my problem," we thought. A little while later, feeling curious, we made a more thorough search and found her in the tool shed.

This is from February, when she was feeling...a little more herself.

58. The Mark of Cain

I don't have long to write, my loves. We're in Recloses this weekend for Shaie's birthday party. I'm sure you remember her from my earlier post about our stay there. Anyway, it's big fun party, as a party for a six-year old yet full of adults might be.
But tonight's poem is not about that. It's about my future tattoo.

This picture is foreshadowing

57. Feels Good to Burn

When you know what you're supposed to do in life, it's easier to set your course than if you've been given complete freedom. But without that freedom, you don't get to choose your destiny. Which is better? To do what has been chosen, and fully realize what has been prepared for you? Or to set out into the unknown, without no guarantees as to what will come, but at the same time without limits placed upon you?

Who will I be? A god encased in human form? Or just some guy stuck in a tiny apartment?

56. Spells and poetry

There are books and books and books on how to write. I haven't read them all, but I've read them some. They have some helpful things to say, but oddly, I haven't found one that describes my process and writing space.

This is where the magic happens.

55. I owe my soul to the Company store

We're coming to the end of our time here, and with it, my freedom from worrying about not having a job or how I'm ever going to pay off all the student loans I got in order to pay for the teaching job I never got to keep. It makes me sad, my loves. I got this mill-stone 'round my neck that just won't go.

Captain Graduate didn't owe nobody a nickel.
I miss that guy and his not-owingness.

54. Paul Revere- the sonnet

Every day I'm sonneting, jims and jems, and a good bit of that is me trying to figure out what I'm going to write about. What more can I say about Paris? Do I want to turn off a bunch of people by writing about Star Wars (again, I think)?

Every day I write a sonnet and then, time allowing, I write another. This one has less of a sense of urgency, because I've got that day taken care of. But sometimes removing that pressure makes for a better sonnet. The thought that started this one was: What if I rewrote the Beastie Boys' Paul Revere as a sonnet?

I even did it as a Spenserian one. They're trickier for me, though getting less so. Enjoy.

53. The City of the Dead, Drowned, and Drunk

Today started without a clear clue, sent us to a cemetery, and wound up with us laughing uproariously. It was a good day. First we were going to meet with Nails at Cemeterie Pere Lachaise, but then we found out that Nails' iPhone got stolen, but we were going to try to meet up with her anyway...no. Is too long. I sum up.

elevator saucy

52. All your time are belong to us

Hello, my name is Nathaniel Sternbergh, and I'm an addict. I've never really indulged this addiction to the extent it would like, but the times I have loosened its rein a bit and let it play tell me that to unleash it completely could very well lead to the end of my marriage, social life, all the usual stuff.

This was my gateway game

But if I'm careful I can take the beast out for a walk sometimes.

51. The road home starts with boxes

Our time here grows short. We leave in exactly two weeks. In fact, in exactly two weeks we'll be somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Or maybe we'll be cooling our heels in JFK. Regardless, we started taking our first steps along our Exodus just the other day.

One of those shirts lashed to the side fell off on our way here. I cried when I found out.
That's how exhausted I was. I cried because I'd lost a white tshirt.

50. Sonnet all the things!

First off, my loves, I want to pay obeisance to Allie Brosh, author of the blog Hyperbole and a Half and unwitting (and usually uncredited) creator of that "...all the things!" meme you may have seen here or there. She is incredibly hilarious; I have cried from laughing so hard while reading her blog. You should check her out.

Now. Back to me. Writing a sonnet a day winds up being more than just sitting for a few minutes and cranking one out. I can do that, at times, but they're not my best. No, a good one takes at least a half hour-- more for those tricky Spenserian jobs-- and then it'll probably want some tweaking when I transfer it from my notebook to my computer. And I like to do more than one a day, if I can, to make up for days when I just can't make it work or there isn't time. And the best sonnets, I feel, are made when I get to sit in a cafe with a beer and sip, scribble, stare, rinse, repeat.

World-famous sonneteer returning home after
a hard day writing at the bar.

49. Seventeen days?

We're gettin' short, darlings. Three more weeks and out. Or so. But the length of time between now and our exit date reminded me of a conversation in one of the finest action/horror movies ever made.

"We'll put the hot tub here; it'll really work with the feng shui..."

48. You like it? I will smash it 'til it dies.

There are TV shows that delight in being horrible. Horrible takes different guises. Sometimes there're serial killers that only kill bad people and you're not sure sure how you feel about that. Sometimes the characters are just total chauvinistic jerks that you hate yet want to keep watching. Sometimes the characters and events seem written to squash any hope you ever had of good things happening for or to the people that you love. And sometimes the opening credits are just so entrancing because of the clockwork cities that pop up...well, if you don't know what I'm talking about by now, you won't connect with today's sonnet (Spenserian, by the way)...

47. Megan vs. the Dissertation

The whole point, the raison d'etre for our being here, if you will, is so that Megan can do research, at the source, for her dissertation about...well, that's her story to tell. But I have watched her deal with what has turned out to be a much more treacherous stretch of water than we had been led to believe.

She's a masterful captain, my dears. And lacking the ability to help her meaningfully, all I can do is write poems about her awesomeness.

The work is hard, but it doesn't always have to be in musty libraries.

46. I'm telling Mom....

Bonne fete des meres! Well, French Mother's Day isn't until June 3rd, at which point we'll back in the land of Moon Pies and Cheerwine. But today is Mom Day in Les Etats Unis, so whoo hoo. In its honor, I have not one but two sonnets.

45. Hoodie homesick

There are things I brought here that I haven't worn once, that were a waste of space in a place that doesn't have much to begin with. And there are things that I didn't bring that I really wish I did.

Can you believe that this hoodie costs $300?
Oh, complimentary shipping, the site says. Pfft. Better be.

44. Tonsil hockey

Smooches and groping and lots of French kissing. That's what happens all the time here. You joke about it, but it's also true.

Yeah. That's hot.

43. Sun and guns and tons of fun

Today was gorgeous. Just the comfortable side of hot, sunny but with some clouds to break it up and a breeze. Perfect for a walk to l'Isle de la Cite, the island in the Seine where Notre Dame cathedral stands. Oh, now I'm spoiling the sonnet. Some stuff happened and was seen.

People don't give the ass-end of the cathedral its due;
she really shows off her flying buttresses back there.
Hot.

42. Stupid laws and the stupid stupids that...stupid.

Shame, my loves. That's what's caught in my craw. My home state is apparently almost two thirds asshole. I can't even defensively say that my home county was one of the seven that has a majority of not-asshole in it.

Yes, morans. Get a brain. Until then stay away from voting booths.

41. Sympathy for the supervillain

In stories, the best bad guys are never going around gleefully declaring, "Oh I'm bad, I'm bad, whee what fun evil is!" Although I suppose I should offer up Iago as a nigh-archetypal exception. To prove the rule, don't you know. But my favorite bad guys have been the ones that you can almost understand, almost feel bad for, even while you wait for Captain Superpants to swoop in and defeat them.

No, there's nothing homoerotic about Lex Luthor stabbing Superman in the back with a spear.
Despite their faces. But you should check out the whole vid, especially if you like apocalyptic
no-holds-barred superhero smash action. Watch it here.