TravelStream™ news feed for member ayotte.john on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/ayotte.john en-us Copyright ©2010 TravelPod.com Mon, 05 Nov 2007 15:38:35 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1194294240/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1194294240/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1194294240/tpod.html Mon, 05 Nov 2007 15:38:35 -0500 To Sweden and untold adventures, a writer's holiday and gap-year extravaganza. Kapow!

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Stockholm, Sweden

We were pretty busy running about but on the seond day i brought the digital and took some pictures of the oldest parts of town.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1194030900/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1194030900/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1194030900/tpod.html Sun, 04 Nov 2007 18:23:14 -0500 The following is a compilation of the poetry and essays i have written while abroad in Sweden

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Vidö, Sweden

The Sick Rose...

A one ACT play in six scenes
by John Ayotte

Cast in Order of Appearance

HAMPUS- Male, mid twenties. Skinny and pale from lack of exposure to sunlight. Deep sunken eyes rimmed in red from drinking. Skinny. A heavy drinker and a writer, main character.

PETER- HAMPUS editor and old friend.

POLICE OFFICER- Male, Pretty self explanatory

NEIGHBOR ONE- Woman from first floor. Has a cake burning in the oven. grumpy

NEIGHBOR TWO- Man or woman, lives below HAMPUS.

ACT I

Exposition

A dimly lit set, blue lights rise on a cluttered one room apartment in New York City.

There is a desk with piled high with paper stacks open books, paper cups and spoiled take out food boxes. On the edge of stage left sit's a dingy bed upon which lies HAMPUS. HAMPUS is a writer, of sorts, he hasn't written anything in six years since he was nominated for the ......prize when he was 22. Since the he has lived off Random prize money he made in his younger years. He gets up and sits at his desk looks at his pencil a bit, Whites a line, crosses it out and goes back to his bed. There is a knock at the door. ENTER PETER HAMPUS editor and friend.

SCENE I

PETER walks through the room in a nice suit. He carries a black plastic bag that he stuffs all the take out boxes in. He says hello and when there is no reply from HAMPUS he checks his pulse and chuckles a bit and rips the blanket off him and stuffs it in the bag. From his jacket he pulls out a new blanket, a red one, that could have been stolen from an airplane and tosses it to HAMPUS who mutters and covers himself back up. After he cleans up a bit he sits down in HAMPUS' chair and looks through the papers shaking his head.

HAMPUS

What day is it?

PETER

Friday, nothing this week either?

HAMPUS

Bugger off. Not this week, not last week, and unless the bottle of scotch under my pillow freezes...there wont be anything worth reading next week either.

PETER

Jesus Hampus, you gotta stop this. That nomination went to your head, and now here you are six years later, not a line worth reading... you're better than this Hampus.

HAMPUS

Bugger off.

PETER.

living off prize money, drinking yourself to sleep every day-

HAMPUS

For breakfast!

They both laugh

PETER

And your neighbors say the only time you ever go out is on Sunday to buy out the package store., what's happening to you?

HAMPUS

It's called writers block. I have ideas. Yes, but nothing that manifests itself as credible, especially after the sauce wears off. Speaking of... (he pours a drink for Peter and drinks out of the bottle)

PETER (politely sipping, making a face at the strength of the liquor)

I don't believe in writers block, remember what Professor McClinn always used to say?

Writers block is simply the-

HAMPUS and PETER

Dread that your going to write something dreadful.

HAMPUS

I know, I know.

PETER

I'm surprised, I didn't know that you went to any of his lectures?

HAMPUS

I didn't, I copied your notes when you were off boning Mary Big-bust

PETER

Mary Branhouse, you know I never boned her, she was my studying partner...and besides... that's a horrible nickname... horrible.

Silent grinning, then they both laugh loudly

There's a banging from below as NEIGHBOR TWO calls out.

NEIGHBOR TWO

Quiet up there!

HAMPUS and PETER calling to the floor.

Shut Up!

More laughter

HAMPUS gets up off the bed, tips the papers onto the floor and pulls out some more and then looking up from his desk

HAMPUS

And what should I do then, be a maid like you? No one asks you to come here, you're supposed to edit my writing not my life. Get out, I'm depressed now, thinking of college life, things were soft then... just Bugger off, go...walk your dog.

PETER

You know I don't have a dog.



HAMPUS
Me either! Gross animals, they shit all over your house. Now...Bugger off!

PETER

Yeah, wouldn't want an animal making a mess in your house.

PETER shakes his head and walks out dragging the trash bag with him. HAMPUS is now alone in his apartment, sitting at his desk. He puts his hands on his head and wipes the papers off his desk with a clean swipe not looping to see where they land and goes back to his bed and pulls out the bottle. As he lies down, he takes a long drink and puts the bottle on the floor. As the bottle touches down the lights FADE TO BLACK. The lights come up on the same SCENE, nothing has moved a week later save three or four more empty bottles on the floor beside the bed, there is a knock on the door as PETER ENTERS.

SCENE II

PETER

Still hard at work I see.

HAMPUS

What day is it?

PETER, Doesn't answer, he collects the bottles and moves to leave pausing at the door.

PETER

Want to talk about your stuff? Have a...(hesitating)...drink?

HAMPUS (waving a half filled bottle from his bed)

Not enough for the both of us, see ya later...

PETER goes to leave, looking dejected.

HAMPUS

Make sure I get the returns on those bottles.

PETER shakes his head and leaves. HAMPUS stirs and gets up, he pulls out his chair and muses aloud spearing freely with the audience. Shattering the fourth wall in a way that would make even Mrs Hanson blush.

HAMPUS

He's right you know. I'm killing myself, living off petty awards drinking my life away. I can't write, hell, I can't even think. I wasn't always like this you know. I lived in a nice flat, I sat at a real desk with type writer and words, god, words would just come. Hah! It all happened at once, I wrote that book. What a load of crap! (he pauses) good crap I guess, nearly got me the novel.

It's a tired depressing feeling... I move to write, then, nothing. First I would just stare at the blank pages for hours then I turned to the bottle and that made the waiting easier. Now all I'm doing is writing, waiting for something to come. My own prisoner of my own keeping, the only thing I leave this hell hole for is to buy more bottles. He pauses and takes a drink. And then there's my editor. Peter. I don't understand him, all these years of visiting and nothing, and still he shows up without fail every week, if it weren't for him I wouldn't even know what day it was, no I wouldn't talk to anybody at all.

FADE TO BLACK.



SCENE III

The lights come up on the same SCENE, HAMPUS is slumped over his desk, he lifts up his head and which has paper stuck to it and yawls. He peels off the paper as he goes to the window and looks out. Says with a sigh, morning. And lifts up his pillow to find nothing but an empty bottle. He picks it up, grabs a the red blanket from the bed, Wraps himself in it and moves to the door glancing at his desk as he goes by. He continues on and then, stops suddenly and rushes back to his desk. He picks up pages and pages that have been written on. He is amazed as he reads aloud mumbling over words.

HAMPUS

What the hell is this? It's, it's, my handwriting, on my paper, with my pen, but...not my words, or...

He looks confused as he reads to himself mumbling a bit what appears to be beautiful poetry.

HAMPUS

But I haven't written poetry for years...I...

He looks at his bottle and then to the writing and then shakes his head a bit. And EXITS.

Quick fade and then the lights go up as HAMPUS ENTERS with a paper bag clinking lightly. He puts the bottles under his bed and turns to the audience.

HAMPUS

This happened again.

He pulls out a drawer with some papers from his desk, showing them to the audience.

And again. Night after night. At first I thought it was a fluke, the black outs weren't uncommon... but the writing was. I was overjoyed at my progress, writing like I never had before, I would drink myself to sleep, and wake up remembering nothing only to find hundreds of lines of the purest poetry. I mailed in my first completed manuscript in six years. And Peter came right over.

Knock on the door and ENTER PETER.

PETER.

Smiling. It's good Hampus, it's real good. I have a letter here from the firm. They're giving you a Contract, 30 000 clams on the completion of the next manuscript, no less two hundred pages and it's yours. You are going to be great again. What happened? I was coming in here once a week to pick up your garbage and now here I am with a check for a whole lot of dough.

HAMPUS pulls out half a bottle of whiskey and grins,

HAMPUS

This calls for a celebration!

PETER (grimacing at the drink)

No thanks, and you shouldn't be celebrating yet, the other half of this check comes when you finish that. (points to the papers on the desk) Now what have you written today?

He moves to the desk to read.

HAMPUS

Get away from that! And...(pained as if by a bad headache)...get out, your interrupting the process! Get out.

PETER

Come on Hampus, get over yourself. We´re best friends Ain´t we? Oh whatever, just keep writing, and keep off the sauce. You know what you remind me of? Blakes poem about the rose,

PETER
recites gesturing to the bottle in HAMPUS' hand as the invisible worm.

PETER

O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.



PETER leaves as HAMPUS takes out the cork and takes a drink in mocking reply to Peters recitation.

HAMPUS (calling after)

You remind me of Blake, blah.

SCENE IV

The set goes to black and comes up on HAMPUS in bed, waking, he goes to his desk and smiles.

HAMPUS

And what did the Booze Fairy leave me last night?

He chuckles to himself and reads, nodding and smiling, he gets to the last pages last lines and reads aloud...

HAMPUS

...And his secret dark love, Does thy life destroy...wait. I know this. Its, oh god.

There is a knock At the door and PETER ENTERS smiling.

PETER

Ah, the new pages... lets see em

HAMPUS absent mindedly hands over the pages to PETER who scans them. As he comes to the last page he reads aloud the same line and chuckles to himself.

PETER

Interesting, you used Blakes own words as the close. Clever, I always had a thing for Blake. It's unusual, interesting. Fresh. I love it.

HAMPUS

Well I don't. I hate Blake, I hate this piece

PETER

No no no, it's good, really good. You got a thing here. Using Blake like that. Really... revolutionary, you know I have been reading some new poetry by this girl down at the university, she's been toying with this idea too, but you. You got it. Really.

HAMPUS

Well I got it do I? (he pauses)... I.. I got to uh.. Make a confession, it's uh... I got a.. I've been having these black outs.

PETER

Well you do drink a lot-

HAMPUS

No, it's not like that. I've had blackouts before but this is different. I wake up from these spells and the writings done, perfectly, like clockwork...everyday I drink till I wake up and there it is on the desk. Finished.

PETER

That's pretty heady stuff Hamp I don't know whether to congratulate you or stick you in the wacko ward. (sarcastically) What are you saying then, that someone else is writing this...this.. Masterwork. That's ridiculous.

HAMPUS

No, I'm just saying...yes. Y-you know me, I've never written anything like this before... poetry, Blake! God I hate Blake. It's not possible.

PETER

Yes, yes it is. And you wrote it, all you. We're going to be great again!

HAMPUS

How do you know? What do you know about anything? unless...

He stops and thinks and then gets angry

HAMPUS

You! You bastard, you've been writing this, you and your college whore! You've been waiting till I drink myself to sleep and then putting this on my desk. Give me my key! Now! You bastard!

PETER shakes his head in disbelief and take the key on the single ring out of his pocket and drops it on his desk.

PETER

This is crazy talk. Your still drunk you know, You know I could never, I could never....

HAMPUS

Quietly. You bastard. Get out!

HAMPUS grabs PETER as he turns to leave and they start fighting, there is a lot of shouting between the two men and the wrestle down to the floor on the scattered pages as the lights fade out. There is a shot from a gun but it is too dark to see what happened.

SCENE V

The SCENE is lit this time with red lights and HAMPUS is lying on his bed. On the floor lies PETER in a pool of blood. HAMPUS wakes up, sees the body and is in a panic. He rushes around the body and clutches his hands in his head, pulling on his hair.

HAMPUS

No no. What have I done, etc...

HAMPUS drags the body off stage and returns to pick up the pages and clean the floor with the blanket from his bed. He stares at the blanket and the blood on the floor and then gets down to wipe it up. He takes all the material with blood on it and the blanket and puts it in a black bag and EXITS the stage. He works in a panic all the time, only taking brief pauses to consider his actions. FADE TO BLACK. The lights go up as HAMPUS ENTERS with a bucket and a scrub brush. He scrubs the already clean floor where the blood was. And from his seated position he drops the brush into the bucket with a hollow splash and speaks out.



HAMPUS

Even if it was him... even if that bastard did write those pages... why did I have to go and do a thing like... oh Jesus, what have I done. My only friends in the whole world, dead, and by my hand. Jesus,, why me!

He continues to scrub the floor, and stops again.

Oh, poor Peter, what did you ever do but try to help me? All those years, all those visits. I see now, you weren't just cleaning my apartment and looking for the next hot piece of literature. You were here for...me. You were always there, and now...you are just a stain and a pile of ashes in the basement furnace.

(a small revelation)

Now you are heating this hell hole, this heat (grasping the air) is you. Jesus! What did I do?

HAMPUS scrubs vigorously at the floor, harder and harder, sweating, and wiping his head.

HAMPUS

God it's so hot in here. I'm burning like...he did.

He rips open his shirt and wipes his brow again. He can't get cool. He takes off his shirt and stand up ruffling his hair, he cant get cool. He reaches under his bed and takes out a bottle with only a little left.
He drains half of what left of the bottle in a single swig and wipes his mouth and forehead. Still obviously burning in the heat. He goes to the window and pulls it open. Sitting on the sill he breathes the air...

HAMPUS

God the air is so cool, what is it, November, December?

He looks out of the window and gazes off.

HAMPUS

It's winter at least. There's snow on the streets. But what did he say? Bake? How does it go? Here to you Peter (making a toast) the only friend I had left.

O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

HAMPUS takes a deep breathe, drains the bottle and puts it on the floor, he looks up to the audience and softly says, farewell, and falls backwards out the Windows leasing the red blanket Draper over the sill, where it will remain to the end of the ACT. FADE TO BLACK.

SCENE VI

Lights up. The policy officer is in the room with a notepad talking to NEIGHBOR ONE who talks as if she has a cake burning in her apartment. NEIGHBOR TWO and PETER stand about.

NEIGHBOR ONE

No, I told you before. He lived alone, there was no one. No one ever comes up here excerpt for him toting his bag of booze.

POLICE OFFICER

But you said you heard shouting the night before he died?

NEIGHBOR TWO

I live rights below him. There was always scouting and laughing. I think he was crazy, always drunk, scaring the children. He kicked my dog once.

The POLICE OFFICER takes this down and looks out the window.

POLICE OFFICER

Well, that's that then. Closing his notebook. Looks like a clean cut suicide to me. And no one had keys to his apartment?

NEIGHBOR ONE

God no, theres only one key to this room and it's rights there on the desk.

NEIGHBOR ONE EXITS

PETER

Suicide... He gives a nervous laugh. I thought he moved out of town, or died. He hasn't sent anything into the office for years. Just living off his prizes all this time. It's incredible. If I had know he was here I would have come to see him, poor bastard.

POLICE OFFICER

And how exactly are you related to the deceased?

PETER

I was his editor back in the day, but I haven't heard from him in years, not since I got out of the editing game.

POLICE OFFICER

And when was that?

PETER (sighs)

Jeese, must be four years now.

POLICE OFFICER nods and EXITS with NEIGHBOR TWO (who is still complaining about the noise) except for PETER who hangs back for a moment to read the scrap of paper on HAMPUS desk.



PETER

O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

PETER folds the paper and looking to make sure no one sees him, puts it in his pocket. He stands in the middle of the apartment and sighs deeply.

PETER

Blake...

Lights FADE TO BLACK as PETER EXITS and audience cheers like mad through their unstoppable tears.

END









Authors Notes-

Lights

Lighting should be a cold blue and a bright lighter blue on the desk and bed. After the murder, the lights should be red and regressively grow hotter till the suicide.

Costumes

PETER should be dressed in a snappy suit, he will need a double shirt that has a blood stain and bullet hole.

HAMPUS dressed in tightly fitting clothes to accent the starvation and alcohol abuse, also, his red blanket should be worn whenever appropriate wrapped around his shoulders and back.

Policy officer, self explanatory. I'm thinking this is set in the late twenties

First neighbor should be wearing a dress, but an apron is a must, perhaps some flour smears.

Second neighbor. Shabby suit or dress depending on gender.

Set

Plain set, everything placed to actual size. Cheap wooden desk/table with wooden stool in center with Window behind and to stage right, it needs to be operational plus a mat behind to muffle the sound of HAMPUS falling out the window. Door on stage right. Bed located to left of desk, low plain cheap mattress, no sheets or head board. think heroin addict apartment, feel free to put up disgusting wall paper and apply random smears to the walls.

Props
.

Lots of paper and paper doubles with blood, paper with writing on it etc. crumpled paper to decorate the desk and floor, take out boxes and paper coffee cups. Pens, and lots of bottles at least five or six, standard one liter bottles some half full others empty. PETER will need a red blanket and a black trash bag, a check and I think that's it, but do what you think is right.
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]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1194030720/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1194030720/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1194030720/tpod.html Fri, 02 Nov 2007 15:13:42 -0400 To Sweden and untold adventures, a writer's holiday and gap-year extravaganza. Kapow!

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Nyköping, Sweden

Hello,
Well, I'm in Sweden. I have been here about ten weeks now and have really gotten to know the area and some of the people. I am of course playing music at the local music school and have made a bunch of new friends. You would have loved the concert we just had, it was pirate themed, here everybody really is into dressing up so the costumes were really good, i know how much you appreciate a good costume. I got my own scene, playing the super sexy mandolin wielding pirate who wooed (sp?) all the kökahar, which i helped to translate as Strumpets. Strumpets are very popular here. There is even a makeup box labled strumpets now, it made me feel at home to see all the over made up teens girls with lots and lots of rouge plastered clevage singing drinking songs with pirates wielding swords and guns, rum bottles etc.... sex, drugs and pirates. What else? In other news things are going well here in Nyköping, I am living both here in the town in an apartment and on a small island off the coast of västervik, called vidö, And that is really nice. On a infinitley more interesting note, I have noticed a few things about the youth culture here, they are really fashion conscious, which at first i took to be a sign of extreme consumerism. everybody is into fashion, everybody. i had a clothing nightmare when i got here and found that all my pants were too baggy (except for my tight black jeans) and all my shirts too big. but then i realized that what these kids were doing was expressing their political beliefs though their style. yes you read correctly. political beliefs. I had this explained to me by lots of people, and i wouldnt have believed it otherwise. Sweden has a very liberal governement at the moment, boderline socialism, but there is (especially in the town i am living in) a growing neo-nazi party whos political beliefs are something like, get rid of forigners from sweden so that your white children can have a safe future, for the foreigners are the cancer of our society. they are in search of a pure scandinavian race, white skin blonde hair blue eyes, you know the tune. so here the kids dress either to openly oppose these beliefs, or to support them. scarily there are a large amount of neo nazi youths, usually they are 15 to 18 years old, and they wear the swedish flg on their shirts and jackets, which is the adopted symbol of their party. scary. i dress pretty much like a bohemian, because thats what i am, and i have been yealled at and approached a couple times by small gangs of neonazis on the streets. I just tell them that i am a canadian tourist and they leve me alone, eh, but if you dress like a beatnik and you are swedish it means you are an anti fascist, and the neonazi gangs will chase you down and beat you up...basically. all this seemed impossible to me, teens that actually have strong political beliefs and show it in the streets. it just doesnt exist in america. So anyway, and heres where the letter gets interesting, there was a demonstration in the town square -which is this beautiful old cobblestoned square, looks just like something out of a european guide book- that was organized by the neo nazis, it was scheduled to begin at noon and there would be speeches etc. well, being at the music school and hanging out with alot of left minded people alot of us had this idea to set up an antifascist demonstration at the same time. we showed up an hour before the neo nazis were scheduled to arrive, but it wasnt just us, alot of people had come up from stockholm and norköping, all told about 70 anti fascist demonstrators. we had set up a small platform to make speeches on and we had red and black flags which symbolized the social democratic party a megaphone and a few soccerballs. well, the police came too, alot of police, with dogs, and beat sticks. then the neonazis showed up marching in lines, waving the swedish flag, all 50 or so of them with bleach blonde hair, alot of the youth had black military issue hats on and heavy black boots. the tension was turned up immediately, the police jumped to escort them through our mass of demonstrators, who were jeering and yelling and swearing at them. there was a small brawl and some of the neonazis surrounded this guy and started yelling at him. lots of people just started verbally fighting then and there. the police broke it up and no one was arrested. as the nazis were escorted over to the other side of the square by the poice, a human barricade of policemen with dogs was errected between the two groups. and police were patrolling all around us the whole time. we stood that way, yelling chants and booing over their speeches. three hours later the protest was officially over, the nazis tried to break through the police line but were escorted out of the square but a parade of policemen. as they left the square and went down the street that leads in front of the clock tower, the anti fascists raced up the clock towers hill all the while shouting '' älerta! älerta! anti-fascista! '' which is sort of a rallying cry in translation something like ''alert now! alert now! all you anti fascists!'' and then at the top of klockberg we could see the neo nazis down below, they broke through the police line and started charging up the long hill. the antifascists started charging down, all the while shouting ''älerta! älerta! anti-fascista! '' tearing limbs off of apple trees, picking up rocks and fistfulls of gravel, they even tore apart a bench and grabbed hunks of wood and metal to use as weapons. i was scared. really scared. i had run up the hill, yes, but there was no way i was going down it. the poice were a little bit slower than the antifascists and as i stood looking down on the scene below they rushed past me then with their dogs and beat sticks drawn. there was mayhem in the streets, the neonazis were pushed down the hill to the road side by the time the police started arressting people, and the destruction continued as huge metal garbage containers were rolled into the street and dumped over to add to the chaos. i watched as the flags that we had been carrying earlier were tranformed from symbols of leftist thinking to spears and clubs. reinforcements were called in and in twenty minutes it was all over. i have never seen such insanity. what ignorance. ill write more later, cheers! j
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1189441860/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1189441860/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1189441860/tpod.html Mon, 10 Sep 2007 12:34:30 -0400 The following is a compilation of the poetry and essays i have written while abroad in Sweden

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Nyköping, Sweden

The Diary of a Workingman
In 15 Songs

Introduction
John built his house and family on a small island, a bus and boat ride away form the city. He had his sucess in this tiny cottage, a workingman established in the middle class. And there his fmaily grew, children, neighbors and all the comforts of weekend gatherings and that rare three week break at midsummer. And there his family grew.

Song One
He tied a red scark around
His neck, pushed his sleeves
Up his arms. Wide bands. And
A snus under his lip- for custom´s
Sake.
He tied a red scarf around
His neck and got on his knees
To plant his hands.
In the Earth.

Song Two
One telephone to call
Papa. On Wednesdays.
Cabbage? Okay.

Song Three
Two
Running wild through
The forests. Astride
Two
Wild horses made of
Ash limbs, Klaus has a
New knife, so his horse
Gets to be white. Small feet. Hooves.
Beating the summer mud.

Song Four
Saturday night.
Whiskey and wheezing accoordians
Accompany songs of sucess and fat times.
Boiled cabbage and potatoes.

Song Five
Sunday baths and scrubbed cheeks.
Laundry day.
The scarf is washed again red as
relentless blood. Revolution and
Rock music. Tied tight.

Song Six
Today a ten horse outboard and
New water skis to fall flat on our faces,
In big boat
Wakes.

Song Seven
The workingman comes
And goes
Day after day in the naked
Summer, bringing.
The bacon.

Song Eight
Workingman´s cottage,
Jotul stove and ice box.
Card table, fishmeal crates to sit on.
The bunks stacked too high.
Husky voices
Politics and summer suns.

Song Nine
He tied the red scarf around
His neck and left for the
City. To push with the rest.

Song Ten
There on the workingman´s island they
Found small girls to hold hands with.
andkisswhennoonewaslooking.

Song Eleven
And he tied the red scarf
Around his neck.
Rough hands.
Pushing with the rest.
And he tied the red scarf
Red red scarf
Around his neck.
Rough hands pushing
With the rest.
And he tied the red scarf
Around his neck.

Song Twelve
Here in the tiny house
They sat in the heat of
Perpetual July, drinking
Beer from cans. Listening to
the radio. Jumping Jack Flash.

Song Thirteen
And old joys still
visit the red-scarfed workingman.
The papa.
He finds an accoordian´s breath
still singing.

Song Fourteen
And We´re taking our coats.
To the city.

Song Fifteen
The door rattles harder these days.
The children are gone.
To the city.
And the workingman´s red scarf.
Still tied.
´Round his working man´s neck.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1188812760/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1188812760/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1188812760/tpod.html Fri, 07 Sep 2007 09:19:09 -0400 The following is a compilation of the poetry and essays i have written while abroad in Sweden

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Nyköping, Sweden

In Bustleville Cantos I-IV

Canto I
Here on the cobblestoned world
A million shoes click and clump on this
Blustery day.
Sleepytown dreams are packed away and
New life fills the tiny-shoppe streets. Is this Europe?
Ah! But wait! here an immigrant in
Flat-foot-beat-top-attire crouches on his crate- a brass
Trumpet in his hand. Cold metal singing out in a
Bizzare scene... the street is transformed to the lonely
Tune of lost stranger days, bounding from wall to the
Sky and all purpose sees suspended. Now, the pigeons
falling from the open ways above and the streets are
Grayed. Now, the crashingjostlingbumbpercars ramble through
This cacophonous world. Lo! where has the sun gone now?

Canto II
Where did America go? Here in the streets of my supposed
Euro-dream there is color, yes.
Where is my house and roof, an island among the fields?
Here on the perpetual catwalk, the window shops, people, bicycles!
Where are teh children with the shaded faces, and sunburnt necks?
Here the men hug each other in the streets, a veil is lifted, lips are kissed!
Where did America go? th great flood of the Atlantic has left
That land sunk. That storm has left me washed of conciousness.
Here in the streets of my Euro-dream there is usic and dancing children
all somber wishes and coal littered villas are forgotten-
Oh how unfortunate I am a stranger here, I wish to dance too.

Canto III
Bustletown brick
Pink and gray. The scenic
Towering masses!
Teen romping-
Hairdo-town!
Gusty-busty day!
Sing out Hyperion!
Here I perch!

Canto IV
Behold! an obelisk stands! The perfection of geometry.
How Euclid cheers arm in arm with Pythagoras, wiping away
The streaming tears... Behold! the rock! Can you not
Hear the choruses singing in their temples? Can you not
Feel the palapable joy of the massing, parading crowds?
It is mine, this obelisk!
See now, my obelisk, fashioned with celophane tape
And a used cereal box. teetering under the halogen lights,
Humming, humming. It is a cat toy, three inches tall. Here
In the temple of my kitchen, all alone a-night in bustleville.


In Sleepytown & Bustleville
From this chair I see
Sleepytown and
Bustleville.
Eternal summer is
The city square.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1189095240/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1189095240/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1189095240/tpod.html Thu, 06 Sep 2007 12:41:35 -0400 To Sweden and untold adventures, a writer's holiday and gap-year extravaganza. Kapow!

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Nyköping, Sweden

Here are some photos of the town, I did not take them, but rather stole them from google earth. but the descriptions are my own... have fun.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1188938580/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1188938580/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/my-notebook/1188938580/tpod.html Wed, 05 Sep 2007 02:48:38 -0400 The following is a compilation of the poetry and essays i have written while abroad in Sweden

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Nyköping, Sweden

Orphans in no particular order..

I
Here in Hellsons Gården-
The Cafe breathing softly.
Men drink cofee.

II
I am a big blue chair
Just waiting for lucky bastards
To stop and sit down.

III
fat birds flit from perch to post
Under the leafy roof-
And crooked men switch from
Cigarettes to white china cups
That have been washed a thousand times.
And I am sitting breathing the coffee
Filled breeze.

IV
Everyone owns their own cafe! RATS!
The coffee houses rest, amber lavendar
And clear dropletts in delicatle glass
Vials. The distilled perfection os a days
Countless scents. Lingering perfumes to bathe
In, as the morning bells ring out in
´´Unseasonably brisk weather.´´

V
Cold table ocean top
Aluminum street corners
tripped on shoelaces.

VI
Bustleville empty
Cops in neon vests biking
Hold my hand sweet girl.

VII
Holy Bustleville isjust a tool
Fixing their broken life support
Dishwashers and fashionable hairdos.
Dogs must be walked outside
click-click-click-on-the-bustle-ville-street.

VIII
Sneak away- run!!!
The mob of lotus eaters.
Pulling for new days.



A Few Charachterizations

I
Carefully stepping
The goggle-eyed creature moves
In his big green coat.

II
Grey haired woman
Black leather and gold rings-
roosts in plastique chair.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1186666800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1186666800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1186666800/tpod.html Tue, 04 Sep 2007 16:42:40 -0400 To Sweden and untold adventures, a writer's holiday and gap-year extravaganza. Kapow!

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Portland, Maine, United States

Leaving today for Sweden.. or so i thought.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1186778340/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1186778340/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1186778340/tpod.html Tue, 04 Sep 2007 16:40:44 -0400 To Sweden and untold adventures, a writer's holiday and gap-year extravaganza. Kapow!

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Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, United States

Whoops, delayed for a night.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1188938280/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1188938280/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ayotte.john/sweden-2007/1188938280/tpod.html Tue, 04 Sep 2007 16:38:53 -0400 To Sweden and untold adventures, a writer's holiday and gap-year extravaganza. Kapow!

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Nyköping, Sweden

In Europe, everone..EVERYONE owns their own cafe, or at least frequents one particular one so frequently and so often it is often hard to distinguish between who lives there and who merely works there. Going to a cafe in Europe is as much an artform as it is a hobby. One will generaly stop there for breakfast coffee and perhaps a slice of bread with some jam or butter. Approaching the counter you might here something like ¨Jag skulle villa ha en cop cafe och en litten bröd med sylt¨ to which the reply is, ¨ja, varsågoda, det är tsjo-sju krona tack¨ and before the blonde waitress who works in every cafe in Sweden has a chance to reply there will be twenty seven kronar on the counter counted out to perfect change. Today i found a nice little cafe off of the main street, its doesnt look like much from the fron, just a simple archway built into the wall of a red stugen (small barn red cottage) but when i entered- following the distinct smell of coffee and smoke that surrounds cafes- i found an open courtyard, quite spacious while mainaining that cozy-ivy-covered-open-sky feel that felt just right. it was only a little past eight so there were very few people there, just a few old hashing over the morning news and the unseasonably brisk weather, so i went up to the counter and was directed to the coffee stand (you have to pour your own coffee most places). then i picked a table in the corner and sat about writing and doing what i do.

Everyone owns their own cafe! RATS!
The coffee houses rest, amber, lavender
And clear droplets in delicate glass vials-
The distilled perfection of a days countless
Scents, Lingering perfumes to bathe in,
As the morning bells ring out in the
Unseasonably brisk weather.

Generally going to a cafe is not a drop in pop out task. It is to be enjoyed one sip or comment at a time, leaving plenty of break in conversation for contemplation and breathing. Coffee is enjoyed in Sweden quite a bit, this country consumes more coffee per annum than any other country in the world, and its very apparent. When you go to a cafe, you purchase a coffee for around eighteen krona, which is approx. three dollars, but it is expected that you go back for seconds (remember you fix it yourself) thirds even -if the waitress has popped out back for more napkins- fourths, which i figure puts the price of a cup at eighty cents or so, and its always good coffee, strong and of a good quality, even at the McDonalds...er.. so i hear. i havent actually gone there yet. The MickeyD´s in Sweden is very different as far as appearance goes than in America, the one in Nyköping was built into a preexisting building (they are not allowed to put up plastic shops) and it has funky sofas, wooden tables, stained glass windows and yes, even a fireplace. I suppose the food is much the same though, however it is considered very chique to go there and alot of youth get their Big-Mac fix there on the way to school. Not for me necessarily, i think i´ll stick to my cafe for now. goodnight, it may only be 430 there but here it is way past bedtime, godnat.
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