Surrealist Café Opens!
08.6.2011
On today's menu, the results of our first Surrealist Café community collage. Readers will recall that we asked you to walk into a cafe precisely at 1 p.m. on Saturday, July 30, and record, in whatever medium you chose (poetry, prose, photography, etc.), what you observed. These contributors seized the time, and amazed us with their originality, fecundity and talent. All contributions are (c) 2011 by their individual creators.
This post is dedicated to the memory of our friend, mentor, role model, and surrealist creative, Jane Winslow Eliot, who died at home in Venice, California on Sunday, July 31.
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Margo Berdeshevsky, Starbucks, Rue de Rivoli, Paris, France:
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John Harris, Les Deux Magots, Boulevard Saint Germain, Paris, France:
Hemingway would have called her "a well built woman," meaning sturdy and with a good shape. Her long hair, cascading in multi-colored curly strands reflects light like the leaves of Paris' majestic plane trees. She is reading Sartre's Nausea in French, and I know she is French because she wears her clothes well, and not the other way around--as with many chic American women. If there is a "seduction" factor in France that goes deeper than sex, it is here in the café, where Hemingway and his women float through like ghosts, making my heart beat faster.
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Diane Sherry Case, Starbucks, 26th and Wilshire, Santa Monica:
I wanted this to be playful. But in came a girl with a bashed-in face. Her remorseful boyfriend spent the night in jail, bloody fists and bloodless heart. He remembered their love way too late as his fist flew toward her face and he just couldn’t stop it, he just can’t stop it. I wanted this to be fun. But here she is, her lips caked with blood. Her son came home all hyped up and wired, swearing, You stupid bitch. Then out flew her truth. I never wanted you to begin with, I was sixteen years old. I just wanted to be playful. But here she stands with a bruised green nose. Plastic surgery, what are credit cards for? A new nose, some pouty lips, as if men will come running with hard-ons for her, a hundred hard-ons, she could choose. She picks up her purse, afraid to be seen, and leaves, as the kid with the derby stands there calling her name, Stella, chai latte, Stella, chai latte.
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Janelle Balnicke, mobile sidewalk cafe, Worthing-on-Sea, England, UK:
See Worthy Widow Walking by Worthing-on-Sea, Saturday July 30th 1PM
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Tara Ison, Steve's Espresso, Tempe, AZ, USA:
A chalkboard whiteboard blank-parchment fresh-drywalled neck nape, this faceless fetus-soft young boy sitting there back to me, young man man-boy, spread sheet of buttered filo leaves asking to be rolled stuffed baked tasted swallowed whole, a new-shelled pink abalone steak slab smelling of weed and salt and waiting to be licked and nipped by wolves, sniffed and gripped by some mean old bitch who has gone from buttery young flesh herself to crusty dry talon’d owl, who who who is she anymore to taste wet plump tongue and will he leave flee finish his coffee and leap upon his hyped-up hipster sneakered feet and buoyant himself away, will the back of his young man boy neck escape so easily my horned veined crepe’d hand before I am over and done?
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Stuart Balcomb, Rose Café, Venice, CA, USA:
TEN CITIES: See how the scene and circumstances change with each new location:
Los Angeles: the Player, in his requisite Hollywood black, pitching a script to a hot, young actress.
Seattle: art dealer in Pioneer Square, lunching with his gallery assistant.
Buenos Aires: metal sculptor in La Boca, tourists from Florida at next table.
Boston: jazz club owner, discussing his lease with landlord's wife.
Seville: meeting his daughter-in-law for the first time, his only son having died last week.
Perpignan: owns four fishing boats, wants to sell one.
Albuquerque: Hitman, flown-in to find former mob member, now in the Witness Protection Program.
Munich: Belgian tourist, imploring his estranged niece to stay and have a litre of Hefeweizen.
Palm Springs: retired airline pilot, moved here for his asthma condition.
San Francisco: bartender on his day off, lunching with waitress he secretly loves, but won't ever tell her.
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Scott MacFarlane, The Bunker, Mount Vernon, WA, USA:
“Bunker”
One o’clock
home
from the inferno, from her
duodenum raging
like Der Führer concussed in his bunker,
like a pickax impaling the blue iris of her mortality,
like stillbirthing.
“I can’t live like this.” Woe and tears
drip
drip
drip of drugs
end her Third Reich of agony,
extract the axe
resurrect the old her,
day-to-day.
Saturday’s
peace of
acquiescing
pain.
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Ann Denk, Café Inconnu, Newport Beach, CA, USA:
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Joanne Warfield, Rose Café, Venice, CA, USA:
Little Kenzo
Ahh, little Kenzo, full of pure joy,
What’s to become of this four-year-old boy?
A rocket scientist or a priest yet to be?
What lies in his future, the world will soon see.
There’s hope, I do glean, in his backpack of books,
and in the kind eyes of his mother’s sweet look.
With all of our children so gently embraced,
This surely would foster a true state of grace.
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Steve De Jarnatt, Food, Pico Boulevard, West Los Angeles, CA, USA:
A familiar face. A face that feeds me. On the Westside now. But it had given sustenance mid-town for years. It all came back one day. Judy, Judy – Judy’s.
I’m a regular — tri-salad to go, meatloaf from heaven. Comfort. FOOD. And idle, always interesting chat. The Eames—ADD—locavores. Today I go by ruled by time, on an expedition to capture a moment. But she’s not in today far as I can see. I scour the faces. Families picking crusts like any other, the solitary ones who homestead a table for the day—the Gort glow of their MacBooks winking. Nothing to write home about. Or to Paris.
There she is — in the kitchen. Judy’s reddened mug. Overseeing something emerging from the oven? Crying. With someone else who’s crying. Through the portal square, framed beside The Specials. String hair down from the bun. Moving from the frame, off stage—unknown.
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Suki Kitchell Edwards, 8100 feet up Animas Mountain, Durango, CO, USA:
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Dawna Kemper, Pat’s, Topanga Canyon, CA, USA:
Bright yellow bandana-print muumuu fringed bottom smocked bodice you keep pulling up to cover the bikini top with the cacophony of black and white letters pressed against each other. What do they say? (I can’t tell without staring.) Speaking Spanish to the waitress to your husband to God. Unruly waves of dull brown hair pushed free of your face by a wide stretchy black band bold in your pockmarked makeup-free beauty. Flip flop dangles and falls from your pink lacquered toes and stays off, foot dangling free naturally expressive the hands, too, painting words while you speak chopping smoothing waxing the air in front of you. You eyed my boyfriend’s plate when it arrived, then back to talking niños with your husband hands still moving pausing only when your own plate of eggs was delivered, latching hands with your man to offer up a whispered rezo a Dios.
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Bruce Moody, Café Inconnu, Crockett, CA, USA:
The Crimson Jumper
She walked a hundred miles in one week, once. From a disappointment in love. She didn’t know where she walked. Those old roads. Her head down. Just walked. Until love fortified itself in her, and dropped off its silver lamé of being duped. Now she sits guarded by her garments, which are unremarkable, which fit, which are comfortable and offer neither disguise nor invitation. She bends over her gadget. It does not mean anything to her, but it works for work. This is a strong woman, the air around her declares. Or a stronger woman. Stronger than before. She does not trumpet it. It is just in the air, like oxygen is in the air. Useful. Wiser. Benevolent.
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Lorie Adair: Steve’s Espresso Café, Tempe, AZ, USA:
He scratches behind an ear, cups his chin in a hand pale as a fish. He speaks to a friend; his mouth is thin, teeth the color of dishwater. Reaching into his pocket, he shifts to stand. At 6’ 3”, his thin legs poke from blue scruffs. He removes an I-Touch, rubs his fingers along the screen. He listens to his friend, grunts, holds the Touch 8 inches from his face. He sets it on the table, nods at his companion then lifts the screen again. He tilts it; a background beat of Soul. He stands, signals the barista. “Another to go.” He flips open courier bag, placing Touch in its pocket, angling laptop in its slot. Humidity like sex. Later, he reaches for the Touch, scrolls through the list, his forefinger sliding along glass. Caressing black space, he forgets the color of her eyes, the brand of lipstick she wears.
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Patrice Bilawka, Café Literati, West Los Angeles, CA, USA
Dusty Brogues
The Stranger strolled into the café and took his place across from me. Every day, same time—10 a.m. Just like me. He rarely looked around, but when he did he would sometimes cringe. His eyes were a blue, watery abyss. We never spoke. But I thought, “Maybe today… yes, maybe I should say hello.” Would I smile, or nonchalantly stammer a quick greeting? I would just do it. And whatever came out would be fine. I was looking at his shoes. Dusty brogues. Then I brought up my glance, and…the Stranger disappeared. He didn’t get up and leave, or switch to a different chair. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed. No. But he was gone. Do crazy people know they are going crazy? Do they keep things to themselves, like seeing people disappear? That was 7 weeks 2 days and 4 hours ago. The Stranger has not returned, and I have not seen anyone vanish since.
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Jon Hess, Café Literati, West Los Angeles, CA, USA:
"We close in five minutes," says the cricket behind the counter at Café Literati. Her fabulous gold hoop earrings sway, patting her neck. Her freckles are peach colored. "Well?" Her smile is nice -- her sadness deep. Her guitar is waiting for her in the trunk of her beat-up old Honda Civic. Chairs are put on tables. I'm the last customer. I wanted to tell her that I came here to write about her for my friend's blog "Paris Play." But then the seductive mystery of not knowing would be shattered and she would no longer be a stranger. Then I want to tell her to never stop singing, because her music heals her. The room is quiet for a moment. Minutes later, I step onto the LA street and imagine Paris.
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Richard Beban, Café André Breton, Paris, France:
Reader Comments (18)
Pour le...Café game: good game: out of order: surreal: serve/ café au lait/ ballon de rouge/ "lingering death" tie-break/ egg/ first service/ ghost in the net/ slice/ hail mary/ retrieve/ challenger/ chop/ baseline/ match points/ all-court/ backhand/block/ break/ brutaliser/ bye/ call/ can-opener/ consolidate/ crossover/ cyclops/ deep/ default/ double bagel/ fry/ futures/ game point/ gut/ hot dog/ hold/ inside-out/ over-wrap/ poaching/ pulp/ retirement/ spot-serving/ triple-bagel/ sudden-death/ croque monsieur/ croque madame/ match-point...
xxx, margo
What a wonderful memorial tribute to Jane. I was so deeply saddened today to hear of her passing … what a great loss to culture and to all who were fortunate enough to know or meet her. This is a very powerful time of the year, the first harvest when the great Gods of the Grain are honored. July 31st is the official day, the day Jane left. It’s called Laamas or Lughnasadh after Lugh, the Celtic deity who presides over the Arts and Sciences, and married Éire (Light) whom Ireland was named after. I shall envision Jane taking her art into the light....
This Surrealist Play was a great mixed banquet of moments in the minds of many — a collage indeed. It’s ever fascinating how differently we each see and translate the world around us at every moment. I've always wondered if it would be possible to switch with someone, to see through their "equipment," and vice-versa, postulating “if only he could see what I do, perhaps he would understand what I mean,” or “I wish I could see what he's seeing....” I would be very curious to look out from in there. It would quite strange and I’m sure fascinating — for a moment. Maybe this could solve the world’s problems, being in someone else's stead; powerful to poor in an instant.
— For now that's science fiction. In the meantime we remain in the Tower of Babel trying to communicate as best we can. And, we have these wonderful interesting perspectives to gaze upon and read for the "swap of views at 1 p.m. in a cafe somewhere in the world."
Loved it… do it again.
I loved reading / hearing / seeing / feeling all of these. What amazing players you have. I'd love to see more! Love, Jennifer
Chere Margo,
And we say "tenez!" or "tennis!" or "jeu de paume" to you! You do know more than a few playful word games.
XOXO,
Kaaren & Richard
Dear Joanne,
What a beautiful tribute to Jane Eliot. Yes, it was Sunday, July 31st. We love your reminding us of Laamas or Lughnasadh, and of the Celtic gods, Lugh and Eire, and do think of Jane and Alex's lives as a marriage of art and light.
Wasn't this experiment in communal collage fascinating? I guess that is the purpose of both art and compassion, to imagine yourself into the minds and hearts of others. And art and compassion COULD solve the world's problems, if we all practiced both. Jane was a consummate artist and so deeply compassionate, so large-hearted.
Thank you for contributing. It seems right somehow that you and Stuart were at the Rose Cafe on July 30th. We had our last lunch with Jane and Alex the day before we left L.A. in January... at the Rose Cafe.
We loved this Surrealist Cafe experience too, and will certainly do it again, with another spin.
Love,
Kaaren & Richard
Dear Jennifer,
All the contributors thank you! Lots of talent here, don't you think? We WILL do it again--IF you join us next time.
Love,
Kaaren & Richard
Love the Surrealist Cafe - so many good pieces and terrific photos. It's a book!
>
> You guys are killing me - exceptional writing, powerful photos, great editing, beautiful publishing...
>
When we were sitting at the Rose Café I thought of Jane and Alexander being so close by... This adds even more poignancy to the Surrealists Café experience and your intuitive timing on the date to have it take place. I'm sure there was an energetic, creative lift that I'd like to think Jane felt and helped orchestrate. She was present.
Thank you again for this experience of international co-creativity
Joanne
As I prepare to head back to the States and anticipate my cafe cultural crisis--adjusting to superior coffee but inferior culture (no Seine/Eiffel Tower/Louvre/ Place Contrascarpe/ Blvd St Germain/etc outside the window), I will have your Paris Play/Surrealist Cafe virtual world to visit from time to time, putting me right back where I love to be. Thank you for that.-- L. John Harris
Bon, donc: let the games begin :) xxm
UN PEU DE JEU DE PAUME
Pour le...jeu surréel du Café surréaliste: un bon jeu: repêcher /dedans ou dehors/ prioritairement, la commande, étant en panne: encore plus surréel: servir / le café au lait/ le ballon de rouge/ "la morte lambinante" un break/ un bris blanc/ un ouef/ sevice à la cuillère coup chopé/ juge de filet/ le premier service/ fantôme au filet/ le slice/ salut marie/ recouvrer/ challengeur/ chop/ point de départ/ match points/ all-court/ coup de revers/ barrer/ casser/ brutaliser/ jeu décisif/ bye/ s'affermir/ appel/ ouvre-boîtes/ consolidate/ retraverser/ le cyclope/ profond/ par défaut/ double bagel/ frire/ futures/ game point/ le bide/ “hot dog”/ tenir/ à l'envers / sur-emballer/ braconnant/ batter comme plâtre/ la retraite/ spot-serving/ triple-bagel/ sidération/ madame/Monsieur X "mène" 5 jeux à 4 / croque monsieur/ croque madame/ la balle de match...jeu de paume…& pause: une pause-café.
You sweetheart, Diane.
A lot of exquisite writing and photos, no?
We loved the power of yours. You go out looking for play and you encounter sorrow. That's the way of the world, isn't it.
XOXO,
Kaaren & Richard
Dear Joanne,
This is uncanny to hear: always when we went to the Rose Cafe, with Jane and Alex, or without, we felt their presence a block away. How strange that we all knew her, yet only met you both months before we left L.A.
I always felt Jane to be my spiritual mother, as well as one of our closest friends.
Have you read "Around The World By Mistake," her memoir of going with Alex and children, Winslow and Jeff, on a freighter from the Mediterranean Sea half way around the world? It portrays a journey through many countries, many characters aboard this ship of fools, a model of how to teach your children vast imaginative creativity, a marriage of true depth and co-creativity, and, unknown at first to the parents, a most dangerous trip.
I feel Jane's ongoing presence, as if she is still with us.
Love,
Kaaren & Richard
Dear John,
We're happy to have this account of your Cafe Deux Magots fantasy. (Though perhaps this woman wasn't an Ernest Hemingway woman at all, but a John Harris woman.) And we know we'll see you back here soon! We think you should just move to Paris.
Love,
Kaaren & Richard
Dear Margo,
For those who aren't fluent in French, I'm adding a Google translation of your message:
"A bit of Jeu de Paume (a tennis game)
For Thurs ... surreal surreal Café: a good game: fish out / in or out / priority, the order is broken: even more surreal: to serve / the coffee / the red ball / "the dead buggers "a break / break a white / a Eggs / sevice with a spoon once nabbed / judge net / first service / ghost net / the slice / hello marie / recover / Challenger / chop / start / match points / all -short / reverse shot / cross / break / bully / tiebreak / bye / grow stronger / call / can opener / Consolidate / recross / Cyclops / deep / default / double bagel / fry / future / game point / the gut / "Hot Dog" / take / upside / on-pack / poaching / batter as plaster / retirement / spot-serving / triple-bagel / stunning / Ms. / Mr X "leads" 5 games to 4 / croque monsieur / madame croque / the match ... ... Jeau palm & pause: a coffee break."
This is the way poets play tennis, yes?
Love,
Kaaren & Richard
yep. poets and tennis. lovely. all of it. all of "us." & ain't google a barrel of pickles? well, it left out the pouring of surreality and the hail mary (bloody?) and who knows what more, but translation being a loose woman at best..., this could become a habit. (need i say my wrist is tordu (sprained) from falling off a Parisian bike last saturday, & i have no backhand to speak of,terrible at tennis, but I could not resist typing with one fineger. )
bon mots & bises to all,
m
Ah Margo,
Those Paris bikes. I hope your wrist heals fast. Is it your writing hand?
We're watching Last Year at Marienbad. Easier to learn French when the speech is poetry.
Un paysage, je crois, Un paysage de neige.
Better than Google.
XO,
Kaaren & Richard
Thanks, K, love the velib system in Paris...like changing horses in the old west, and keeping on riding, but every rider has her day, mine came going too slowly--over a speed bump at la Bastille! ...twas the left that got twisted, so still have my writers paw, one finger typing for now, and the camera, well only room for one digit anyhoo.
xxxm
Margo,
You are brave to brave Paris traffic. I'm sure if you had to, you'd write with your nose.
May your hand swiftly heal.
XO,
K