Et alors Le Calliope, aprés sufrir longtemps sous la diable de la langue anglais, est arrivé au le plus civilisé région de la monde. C'est-à-dire, la monde francophone. Finalement nous pouvons exprimer nous-mémes en notre français cassé! Quel plaisir de parler cette langue, quand on sait qu'autres commes Voltaire, Baudelaire, Ferrier, Camus et Sarcozy parlaient dans un façon similaire!
Mais je m'écarte...Nous avons bienvenue aux Bruxelles par un malfrat qui nous a dit "don't you know you in the baddest part of brussels? "
Nous ne répondisons pas. Mais il continuait "what chew lookin' for? weed? smack? coke?"
"nah.." nous grommelons. Et il reculait, pour commencer parler avec une homme qui venait d'arriver avec un vélo qu'il evidemment a volé. Ils commencaient discuter de la bicyclette.
Après de faire du vélo au travèrs de cette ville, nous avons apprendu d'un squat pas loin d'où nous étaions. L'addrès c'était 123 Rue Royale, et au mème temps que nous nous dirigeons vers ce squat nous discutons de la posibilité quelq'un nous a donné un faux addrès. Mais c'était vrai, et ce squat de huit étages a été chez notre pour trés jours. Les personnes étaient trés gentiles et il n'y avait pas un pénurie de viande ou d'autre nourriture empaqueté que des supermarché donnaient libres chaque jour. Il y avait aussi un atelier vélo dont nous avons utilisé avec plaisir. Alors merci beacoup 123, et nous esperons retourner encore.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Oh Fair Citadel of Antwerpen!
Your packs of delightful children attract me (not in that way) and your parks of leisure are of calibre to rest my heavy brain matter upon! Your Turkish markets feed our distended bellies so wraught by the ravages of days upon a weary metal steed! Oh Antwerpen, where a young musician in the braided wreathes of grain gave me a sleeping bag since I had forgotten the -10 C bag at the Villa in Utrecht! Oh Yeah, Fair Antwerpen, you was alright.
Antwerpen truly taught the Calliope of the Future that our visage upon Bicycles of High Stature rather draws the eyes of local populace. We ate cheese upon baguettes in a playground, surrounded by mostly arab children and one Belgian girl with a cat on a leash. The cat was named LaLa and was in a constant state of slinky escape, only to be pulled back by that cruel pink cord. OH LALA, how I wished to free you from your cruel bonds, so that you might run free in fields of sardines under carpeted clouds raining sweet milk from the Heavens! Alas, no, Lala, forever must you endure the touches of children in parks...
We rode on into the Centrum of the city to a Bibliotek and passed in proximity of a vagabond soup line. We inquired of their nature, be they food-not-bombs or elsewise. They were a christian coalition bent on feeding the poor and offering options for self betterment, and the meal was delightful curried rice and pork, and We Didst Eat, dear reader!
I talked ecumenical and spiritual meanderings with the Christians, and they offered us their hospitality and a place to sleep be we in need. A Rwandan man swooped in and offered the house of his Rasta traveller brother...
Again we found ourselves in the park where we met the jugglers who wouldst leave me with a sleeping bag and some cds of their band Kuskessarm before departing. We didst drink beers on that grass and were surrounded by Serbian Roma children who claimed they were in a circus. I fixed a bicycle wheel of theirs and they ran around sticking their fingers out of their pant zippers and thrusting their hips at each other. Oh the raucous!
At the eve's end we met our host, Dominique, a delightful and wonderful creature hell bent on being a gracious host. He has many cats, two who allow themselves to be touched in some way, and a large stone buddha burns a candle in the room where we slept, content with his hospitality, conversation, and vermuth.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
And so it begins...
After two and a half days riding, we have arrived in the Citadel Antwerpen. ´Twas a rather fatiguing journey, to say the least, and even as I write this Tovio sleeps soundly nearby. We guided our ungainly steeds out of Villa´s boreen in the chill pre-dawn hours of early morn, and began to make our way to Rotterdam, a city we knew of which we knew naught.
The ride along winding country roads under the pleasant heat of the Dutch sun was enough to lift our spirits as we rattled ever closer to our day´s destination. However our contentedness was promptly put into check when, upon arriving at the local Bibliotheek, I observed some rather discouraging responses to the eloquent plea I had bestowed via CouchSurfing to several of the locals. One woman quite rudely stated that she did not have a couch for us, while another said she preferred guests "a little more her age." After some frantic attempts at searching for any nearby squats proved fruitless, we decided to bypass this ville and set up camp somewhere to the south.
We stopped at a local Texaco on the outskirts of the city to satisfy our need for stroopwafels, and met a few friendly locals who seemed rather nonplussed at seeing us upon our monstrous velocipedes. Soon after we continued riding, I shouted to a local pleibean child as to the direction of Belgium, in response to which he silently shook his head and continued on his way. Nevertheless, we rode on in a direction bearing south, confident that we would have to reach the more civilised Flemish-speaking regions at some point.
And we did, after anoither day of riding through the strangely apocalyptic windswept plains of Zuid-Holland, passing what seemed to be the same flock of sheep again, and again, and again, until the fietspad which had cushioned us thus far suddenly disappeared and we were left to ride on a narrow shoulder along a highway, whence we realized we were in Belgium. We were truly in Jacques Brel's country now.
The ride along winding country roads under the pleasant heat of the Dutch sun was enough to lift our spirits as we rattled ever closer to our day´s destination. However our contentedness was promptly put into check when, upon arriving at the local Bibliotheek, I observed some rather discouraging responses to the eloquent plea I had bestowed via CouchSurfing to several of the locals. One woman quite rudely stated that she did not have a couch for us, while another said she preferred guests "a little more her age." After some frantic attempts at searching for any nearby squats proved fruitless, we decided to bypass this ville and set up camp somewhere to the south.
We stopped at a local Texaco on the outskirts of the city to satisfy our need for stroopwafels, and met a few friendly locals who seemed rather nonplussed at seeing us upon our monstrous velocipedes. Soon after we continued riding, I shouted to a local pleibean child as to the direction of Belgium, in response to which he silently shook his head and continued on his way. Nevertheless, we rode on in a direction bearing south, confident that we would have to reach the more civilised Flemish-speaking regions at some point.
And we did, after anoither day of riding through the strangely apocalyptic windswept plains of Zuid-Holland, passing what seemed to be the same flock of sheep again, and again, and again, until the fietspad which had cushioned us thus far suddenly disappeared and we were left to ride on a narrow shoulder along a highway, whence we realized we were in Belgium. We were truly in Jacques Brel's country now.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Indeed we are not Robbers!
And so we searched for the fabled squat of TNO in the little known City of Zeist. Lush and Posh, Zeist rests on the outskirts of Utrecht, which is also somewhat lush and posh but is no't currently keeping up with the Jonezeists. Kayne upon his tall bike, I with two destined-to-be-tall-bike frames held upon my shoulder, we didst jump the fence at TNO believing we hadst arrived.
We were immediately puzzled. What squat dares trim their hedges? we quandried. Within minutes not more than five, we realized our folly and returned across the fence to be greeted by the local Politie (Dutch for Bobby which is English for Copper, which is an Americanism for Garda, which is Irish for Police Officer which is too long, obviously to say with any regularity, though I do feel regular every time I say it).
I immediately apologized and said we were but stupid folk, confused by the sign in the front that read TNO. Apparently we had been trespassing at an Animal Testing facility, not the squat also known as TNO.
Well, the police asked to check our bags and commented on the great deal of dental floss we seem to be carrying. "That's an American thing, isn't it, floss?"
"I suppose, good Sir," I replied.
They realized that we had led ourselves astray and thence directed us to the actual TNO by way of spelling out words we were not apt to pronounce with any clarity, or decipher, good sir by listening to them in their phonology.
Again, we became lost, and sadly returned to the Villa to each spoons of chocolate and peanut butter and feel sorry for ourselves.
HOWEVER!
The next morn, I walked to the squat TNO, which happens to be not more than 5 minutes by boot from where we have been sleeping. Imagine that. The former animal testing facility is nestled in the midst of an evergreen forest, and I, with my two frames, didst traverse to there, where I met the fabled TB.
Not tuburculosis, though the austerity of such an artist as he, would make any conservative person's lungs bleed, without doubt. At the doorway to his fabled abode, I called "hello?" I hear in answer "hello?" Again, I called, and again, one answered. "I can't see you." He finally said.
I entered the house where I had been greeted by friendly dogs, onto the wooden floor and turned to see the glass door to TB's bathroom. He was in the bath reading an issue of Mad Scientist Monthly! Who, dearest Reader, has a glass door to their bathroom, save one who spends quite a deal of time in the bathtub reading Mad Scientist Monthly!
Well, I explained my plight, that I had foundst two bicycle skeletons and I wished to inquire of his alchemical skills in binding them together.
"Come back at 8 in the Eve," he said "and bringst everything you will need."
Kayne and I returned as the sun was dipping below the trees. On the walk there, we passed a children's summer training facility where lads and lasses and combinations of thereof werest cheering recklessly at the sight of our bike of abnormally high stature, brought as an example to TB. When we arrived at TNO, our host greeted us and showed us his pulse flamethrower. Then he showed us another flamethrower patterned after the cannons the Germans used to bomb England in WWII. He then took us to his workshop where, by magic, tools and artistry, he didst combine my two bicycle skeletons into one.
AND SO BEGINS, REQUIEM TO A DETHASAUR (dethasaurus death II)
I wish we had a camera. Fuck you amsterdam for stealing it from us. And my bike tools.
We were immediately puzzled. What squat dares trim their hedges? we quandried. Within minutes not more than five, we realized our folly and returned across the fence to be greeted by the local Politie (Dutch for Bobby which is English for Copper, which is an Americanism for Garda, which is Irish for Police Officer which is too long, obviously to say with any regularity, though I do feel regular every time I say it).
I immediately apologized and said we were but stupid folk, confused by the sign in the front that read TNO. Apparently we had been trespassing at an Animal Testing facility, not the squat also known as TNO.
Well, the police asked to check our bags and commented on the great deal of dental floss we seem to be carrying. "That's an American thing, isn't it, floss?"
"I suppose, good Sir," I replied.
They realized that we had led ourselves astray and thence directed us to the actual TNO by way of spelling out words we were not apt to pronounce with any clarity, or decipher, good sir by listening to them in their phonology.
Again, we became lost, and sadly returned to the Villa to each spoons of chocolate and peanut butter and feel sorry for ourselves.
HOWEVER!
The next morn, I walked to the squat TNO, which happens to be not more than 5 minutes by boot from where we have been sleeping. Imagine that. The former animal testing facility is nestled in the midst of an evergreen forest, and I, with my two frames, didst traverse to there, where I met the fabled TB.
Not tuburculosis, though the austerity of such an artist as he, would make any conservative person's lungs bleed, without doubt. At the doorway to his fabled abode, I called "hello?" I hear in answer "hello?" Again, I called, and again, one answered. "I can't see you." He finally said.
I entered the house where I had been greeted by friendly dogs, onto the wooden floor and turned to see the glass door to TB's bathroom. He was in the bath reading an issue of Mad Scientist Monthly! Who, dearest Reader, has a glass door to their bathroom, save one who spends quite a deal of time in the bathtub reading Mad Scientist Monthly!
Well, I explained my plight, that I had foundst two bicycle skeletons and I wished to inquire of his alchemical skills in binding them together.
"Come back at 8 in the Eve," he said "and bringst everything you will need."
Kayne and I returned as the sun was dipping below the trees. On the walk there, we passed a children's summer training facility where lads and lasses and combinations of thereof werest cheering recklessly at the sight of our bike of abnormally high stature, brought as an example to TB. When we arrived at TNO, our host greeted us and showed us his pulse flamethrower. Then he showed us another flamethrower patterned after the cannons the Germans used to bomb England in WWII. He then took us to his workshop where, by magic, tools and artistry, he didst combine my two bicycle skeletons into one.
AND SO BEGINS, REQUIEM TO A DETHASAUR (dethasaurus death II)
I wish we had a camera. Fuck you amsterdam for stealing it from us. And my bike tools.
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Fair City of Utrecht
We arrived in Utrecht quarter past Eleven, Kayne upon his tall bike and I upon a not-so-tall bike. The cobblestone lanes were aflood with Easter holiday egg hunters, casually drinking coffees at any of the omnipresent shops. A 3 arm-span squatter symbol watched like an anarchist giant's eye from atop a building in the middle square, a sign perhaps, that Utrecht has a golden vein of acceptance for Calliopal meanderings.
Why do the Dutch sit facing the street? It is an odd quality, that when sipping coffees, they turn the rest of the world into their own bike-in-theatre. As a pedestrian or driver of bicycle, one feels somewhat on stage. I feel my costume is not adequate, mayhaps, and I feel I should ask the director for motivation.
But I digress. I will digress slightly further as I gather my thoughts.
They are effectively gathered now, so I wilst continue.
We made our way to the Villa of Henk Van der Deen, a local bard and houser of travelers who had arranged a performance for ourselves and another for that eve at De Kargador, which I believe translates roughly as "the driving alligator." It was a lovely evening indeed. The music was lovely, the crowd was extravagant, the space was an arched half-tube of a room, a catacomb of brick, and sound moved through it like sirens singing in the sea.
Cedarwell, from Sheboygan, Wisconsin, land of cheese and beer, was incredible I must say. I hope we may play more shows with him in a bright future filled with cheese and beer.
We rested Saturday in the Villa of Henk and departed Sunday, bunny sex zombie jesus day, for a squat we had but heard mention of in the neighboring town of Zeist. I carried an abandoned bicycle on my back, in the hopes of using it as the top of another tall bicycle.
About this squat...Nature is reclaiming the surrounding property, and the elves who reside within the man-made edifice are happy to let her. They also have welding machines and metal tools fill their workshops, thus the Calliope may BUILD.
Why do the Dutch sit facing the street? It is an odd quality, that when sipping coffees, they turn the rest of the world into their own bike-in-theatre. As a pedestrian or driver of bicycle, one feels somewhat on stage. I feel my costume is not adequate, mayhaps, and I feel I should ask the director for motivation.
But I digress. I will digress slightly further as I gather my thoughts.
They are effectively gathered now, so I wilst continue.
We made our way to the Villa of Henk Van der Deen, a local bard and houser of travelers who had arranged a performance for ourselves and another for that eve at De Kargador, which I believe translates roughly as "the driving alligator." It was a lovely evening indeed. The music was lovely, the crowd was extravagant, the space was an arched half-tube of a room, a catacomb of brick, and sound moved through it like sirens singing in the sea.
Cedarwell, from Sheboygan, Wisconsin, land of cheese and beer, was incredible I must say. I hope we may play more shows with him in a bright future filled with cheese and beer.
We rested Saturday in the Villa of Henk and departed Sunday, bunny sex zombie jesus day, for a squat we had but heard mention of in the neighboring town of Zeist. I carried an abandoned bicycle on my back, in the hopes of using it as the top of another tall bicycle.
About this squat...Nature is reclaiming the surrounding property, and the elves who reside within the man-made edifice are happy to let her. They also have welding machines and metal tools fill their workshops, thus the Calliope may BUILD.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Where hath the Calliope found themselves? In a Hamsterdance!
We were robbed, nay, shanked by bicycle hooligans in a week-old squat named "under the bridge." It was under a bridge. They took my tools, and for shame our camera for lo we would transport ourselves out of Port Amsterdam into the slightly more north part of Port Amsterdam, to the legendary of Freaks.
We arrived at the end of drive and I jumped the barbed-wire fence and searched about the old wherehouse, seeing nary a soul. I returned and Kayne and I transported our baggage over the gate and trees to a more secure locale so that we might dig deeper into the quagmire of trash and gutted boats and autos for a sign of human life. Human life we didst find, dear reader, we didst, in the form of a gaggle of pirates, some on LSD, others simply drunk on liquor and sleep deprevation. It had been 4 of their birthdays. That would seem rather unlikely, if 30 people didn't live in this abandoned wherehouse and school.
One party-goer walked barefoot in the smoldering coals of a fire full of rusty burned nails. A woman cornered me and with piercing eyes told me of her daughter and how there were bad times but her friends had saved her. We haggled our way into at least staying the night there, though we would have to go to a meeting the next day in order to be granted a longer reprieve from the anxiety of homelessnessness.
The next day, after an exhaustive bout of street performance and interweb research in the tourist quarter of Hamsterdance, the Calliope made its way back to the House of Freaks. The meeting was a highly functional yelling match in Dutch and English and concerned upcoming parties, the nature of casual insults, and the prevalence of dog shit throughout the fabled crusty lands. I made our case to stay a few eves. Itt was, apparently accepted. No "yes", no "no", just a healthy noncommittal. Our tent was pitched, so who cared, right? Thank you Amsterdam, for as one friend said "it's like they think they invented activism."
Past the Nissan factory and flanked by rail upon one side and ditch the other, we velocopeded our way to a squatted Harbor. Yes, that's right, a squatted harbor. Kayne welded a tall bike whilst I looked through frames for something to build for our upcoming ride to Barcelona. Dearest reader, it is truly a tragedy that we no longer have a camera. They have a catapult here, built from railroad ties and a crane shovel that apparently launches things into the adjacent bays. There are cob houses, happy animals everywhere, a huge machine shop. It's truly a steam punk's endless wet dream. It lies on the outskirts of Hamsterdance, nestled next to a Roma village, under massive wind turbines. The large Warehouse is filled with classic cars and boats being refurbished and has a simple, yet glorious name (for those of you who love your dear Calliope)...ROBODOCK!!!
Kayne welded, in that wonderful land of Robodock, two frames of bicycles one uponce the other and ghost rode it back to the House of Freaks for further repair. We ate peanut butter sandwiches by the eerie streetlight, silently lamenting that we had chosen to investigate the House of Freaks before venturing to the land that held Robodock.
We arrived at the end of drive and I jumped the barbed-wire fence and searched about the old wherehouse, seeing nary a soul. I returned and Kayne and I transported our baggage over the gate and trees to a more secure locale so that we might dig deeper into the quagmire of trash and gutted boats and autos for a sign of human life. Human life we didst find, dear reader, we didst, in the form of a gaggle of pirates, some on LSD, others simply drunk on liquor and sleep deprevation. It had been 4 of their birthdays. That would seem rather unlikely, if 30 people didn't live in this abandoned wherehouse and school.
One party-goer walked barefoot in the smoldering coals of a fire full of rusty burned nails. A woman cornered me and with piercing eyes told me of her daughter and how there were bad times but her friends had saved her. We haggled our way into at least staying the night there, though we would have to go to a meeting the next day in order to be granted a longer reprieve from the anxiety of homelessnessness.
The next day, after an exhaustive bout of street performance and interweb research in the tourist quarter of Hamsterdance, the Calliope made its way back to the House of Freaks. The meeting was a highly functional yelling match in Dutch and English and concerned upcoming parties, the nature of casual insults, and the prevalence of dog shit throughout the fabled crusty lands. I made our case to stay a few eves. Itt was, apparently accepted. No "yes", no "no", just a healthy noncommittal. Our tent was pitched, so who cared, right? Thank you Amsterdam, for as one friend said "it's like they think they invented activism."
Past the Nissan factory and flanked by rail upon one side and ditch the other, we velocopeded our way to a squatted Harbor. Yes, that's right, a squatted harbor. Kayne welded a tall bike whilst I looked through frames for something to build for our upcoming ride to Barcelona. Dearest reader, it is truly a tragedy that we no longer have a camera. They have a catapult here, built from railroad ties and a crane shovel that apparently launches things into the adjacent bays. There are cob houses, happy animals everywhere, a huge machine shop. It's truly a steam punk's endless wet dream. It lies on the outskirts of Hamsterdance, nestled next to a Roma village, under massive wind turbines. The large Warehouse is filled with classic cars and boats being refurbished and has a simple, yet glorious name (for those of you who love your dear Calliope)...ROBODOCK!!!
Kayne welded, in that wonderful land of Robodock, two frames of bicycles one uponce the other and ghost rode it back to the House of Freaks for further repair. We ate peanut butter sandwiches by the eerie streetlight, silently lamenting that we had chosen to investigate the House of Freaks before venturing to the land that held Robodock.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Financial Fools Day and the G20 in London
The Guardian Clip of a gentlemen malfeased by police at the G20. He later died of a heart attack.
Oh dear Readers, what shall I speak of the fair people's battle in London?
Twas the first of April, and all through the streets, not a being was quiet, save perhaps the police. As they battered and pressed against the great righteous throng, they inspired the weary to break out into songs. Albeit, Kumbaya has been too often heard, there were also some poems both politic and absurd. We pushed at the back, with quite fearful peace in our eyes, open palms, no threat to the police. They battered and kicked with their steel-toed leather boots, and purpled my shins to tear up our roots, until in a moment we all sat, they quit. How bad it would look for them to bludgeon those that would sit. And we sat most the day until the night came to roost, and they started again, to ram our caboose. They moved us, at length, without sparing the whip, for we are the bad children on this sinking ship.
Earlier in the day, I asked a Bobby (as they call the police here in her majesty's England) what was his first name. He wouldn't tell. I started calling him 3, as that was the first of three numbers on his lapel. He was not amused.
I cannot speak of the long-term results of such protests, nor will I speak of the politics. Here is a set of lovely images for you, dear reader, so that you make of them what you will.
Tovio
A bicycle-powered generator making the soundsystem of Climate Camp into a formidable weapon of organization...well, if everyone wouldn't have been quite as drunk as they were. Still, pretty neat.
Climate Camp prior to the police pushing the lines back.
Everyone sitting after it was clear we wouldn't be able to hold the police back.
My valiant attempt at writing with my very power of CURSING!!! I do, however, wonder why someone would tape "cunt" onto a window. Seems rather time-consuming.
Kayne smiling with the Climate Camp party going on behind.
The day after the fiesta/fiasco, we played a quick set at RampARt in London, to a gaggle of the weary protesterators and they didst whoop and hollar, old chaps. One was wearing old chaps, in fact. We like UK, because apparently you have a thing for us. We've been hurt, we're sensitive, we like to see you liking us. We like you. Maybe one day we we'll make it a little bit more. Brown Chicken Brown Cow...
Oh dear Readers, what shall I speak of the fair people's battle in London?
Twas the first of April, and all through the streets, not a being was quiet, save perhaps the police. As they battered and pressed against the great righteous throng, they inspired the weary to break out into songs. Albeit, Kumbaya has been too often heard, there were also some poems both politic and absurd. We pushed at the back, with quite fearful peace in our eyes, open palms, no threat to the police. They battered and kicked with their steel-toed leather boots, and purpled my shins to tear up our roots, until in a moment we all sat, they quit. How bad it would look for them to bludgeon those that would sit. And we sat most the day until the night came to roost, and they started again, to ram our caboose. They moved us, at length, without sparing the whip, for we are the bad children on this sinking ship.
Earlier in the day, I asked a Bobby (as they call the police here in her majesty's England) what was his first name. He wouldn't tell. I started calling him 3, as that was the first of three numbers on his lapel. He was not amused.
I cannot speak of the long-term results of such protests, nor will I speak of the politics. Here is a set of lovely images for you, dear reader, so that you make of them what you will.
Tovio
A bicycle-powered generator making the soundsystem of Climate Camp into a formidable weapon of organization...well, if everyone wouldn't have been quite as drunk as they were. Still, pretty neat.
Climate Camp prior to the police pushing the lines back.Everyone sitting after it was clear we wouldn't be able to hold the police back.My valiant attempt at writing with my very power of CURSING!!! I do, however, wonder why someone would tape "cunt" onto a window. Seems rather time-consuming.Kayne smiling with the Climate Camp party going on behind.
The day after the fiesta/fiasco, we played a quick set at RampARt in London, to a gaggle of the weary protesterators and they didst whoop and hollar, old chaps. One was wearing old chaps, in fact. We like UK, because apparently you have a thing for us. We've been hurt, we're sensitive, we like to see you liking us. We like you. Maybe one day we we'll make it a little bit more. Brown Chicken Brown Cow...
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