Amour, Imagination, Rêve

The name Air is a ackronym for Amour, Imagination, Rêve which translates to Love, Imagination, Dream…..
So… I discover this band, (AIR) and thinking on it, I don’t even remember the process that it happened. Truthfully, there is such good music out there at this point, I can’t remember when it was this nice, maybe 30 years ago?
They have a nice combination going, muted Electronica, good vocals, and a nice Euro kinda sound. Funny enough I had been aware of their work for awhile, but I never figured out who was doing it. Check out “The Virgin Suicides” soundtrack…. That’s AIR performing it.
So… watch the videos, give me some feedback n what you’re hearing, and what you think of it.

If you like their stuff, you can find it readily on the web….

Enjoy Yourselves, More Later.


On The Menu


AIR – Mer Du Japon

The Great Spirit Names the Animal People: How Coyote Came by his Powers

The Poetry of Lorna Dee Cervantes

Bio: Lorna Dee Cervantes

AIR – Once Upon A Time

Art: Gil Bruvel



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AIR – Mer Du Japon



The Great Spirit Names the Animal People: How Coyote Came by his Powers (Okanogan)

from Mourning Dove, Coyote Tales (1933).
The Great Spirit called all his people together from all over the earth. There was to be a change. He would give names to the people, and the Animal World was to rule. The naming was to begin at the break of day, each one having the right to choose his or her name according to who came first to the Spirit Chief’s lodge. The Spirit Chief would also give each one their duty to perform in the changed conditions.
It was the night before the New World. Excitement was among the people. Each one desired a great name of note. All wished to be awake and first at the lodge of the Great Spirit Chief. Everyone wanted power to rule some tribe, some kingdom of the Animal World.
Coyote was of a degraded nature, a vulgar type of life. He was an imitator of everything that he saw or heard. When he asked a question, when he asked for information and it was given him, he would always say, “I knew that before! I did not have to be told.” That was Coyote’s way. He was hated by all the people for his ways. No one liked him. He boasted too much about his wisdom, about everything. Coyote went among the anxious people, bragging to everyone how early he was going to rise, how he would be the first one at the Spirit Chief’s lodge. He bragged of the great name he would choose. He said, “I will have three big names to select from: there is Grizzly Bear, who will be ruler over all running, four-footed animals; Eagle, who will lead all the flying birds; Salmon, who will be chief over all the fish of every kind.”
Coyote’s twin brother, who took the name of Fox, said to him, “Do not be too sure. Maybe no one will be given his choice of names. Maybe you will have to retain your own name, Coyote. Because it is a degraded name, no one among the tribes will want to take it.

Coyote went to his tepee in anger. He determined not to sleep that night. He would remain awake so as to be the first at the Spirit Chief’s lodge for the name he wanted. . . . Coyote’s wife (afterwards Mole), sat on her feet at the side of the doorway. She looked up at Coyote and said in a disappointed tone, “Have you no food for the children? They are starving! I can find no roots to dig.”
“Eh-ha!” grunted Coyote sarcastically. He answered his wife, “I am no common person to be spoken to in that fashion by a mere woman. Do you know that I am going to be a great Chief at daybreak tomorrow? I shall be Grizzly Bear. I will devour my enemies with ease. I will take other men’s wives. I will need you no longer. You are growing too old, too ugly to be the wife of a great warrior, of a big Chief as I will be.”

Coyote ordered his wife to gather plenty of wood for the tepee fire where he would sit without sleep all night. Half of the night passed; Coyote grew sleepy. His eyes would close however hard he tried to keep them open. Then he thought what to do. He took two small sticks and braced his eyelids apart. He must not sleep! But before Coyote knew it, he was fast asleep. He was awakened by his wife, Mole, when she returned from the Spirit Chief’s lodge, when the sun was high in the morning sky. . . .
Coyote jumped up from where he lay. He hurried to the lodge of the Chief Spirit. Nobody was there, and Coyote thought that he was first. . . . He went into the lodge and spoke, “I am going to be Grizzly Bear!”
The Chief answered, “Grizzly Bear was taken at daybreak!”
Coyote said, “Then I shall be called Eagle!”
The Chief answered Coyote, “Eagle has chosen his name. He flew away long ago.”
Coyote then said, “I think that I will be called Salmon.”
The Spirit Chief informed Coyote, “Salmon has also been taken. All the names have been used except your own: Coyote. No one wished to steal your name from you.”
Poor Coyote’s knees grew weak. He sank down by the fire in that great tepee. The heart of the Spirit Chief was touched when he saw the lowered head of Coyote, the mischief-maker. After a silence the Chief spoke, “You are Coyote! You are the hated among all the tribes, among all the people. I have chosen you from among all others to make you sleep, to go to the land of the dream visions. I make a purpose for you, a big work for you to do before another change comes to the people. You are to be father for all the tribes, for all the new kind of people who are to come. Because you are so hated, degraded and despised, you will be known as the Trick-person. You will have power to change yourself into anything, any object you wish when in danger or distress. There are man-eating monsters on the earth who are destroying the people. The tribes cannot increase and grow as I wish. These monsters must all be vanquished before the new people come. This is your work to do. I give you powers to kill these monsters. I have given your twin brother, Fox, power to help you, to restore you to life should you be killed. Your bones may be scattered; but if there is one hair left on your body, Fox can bring you back to life. Now go, despised Coyote! Begin the work laid out for your trail. Do good for the benefit of your people.”
Thus, Coyote of the Animal People was sent about the earth to fight and destroy the people-devouring monsters, to prepare the land for the coming of the new people, the Indians. Coyote’ eyes grew slant from the effects of the sticks with which he braced them open that night when waiting for the dawn of the name giving day. From this, the Indians have inherited their slightly slant eyes as descendants from Coyote.


The Poetry of Lorna Dee Cervantes

“Love of My Flesh, Living Death”
Once I wasn’t always so plain.

I was strewn feathers on a cross

of dune, an expanse of ocean

at my feet, garlands of gulls.
Sirens and gulls. They couldn’t tame you.

You know as well as they: to be

a dove is to bear the falcon

at your breast, your nights, your seas.
My fear is simple, heart-faced

above a flare of etchings, a lineage

in letters, my sudden stare. It’s you.
It’s you! sang the heart upon its mantel

pelvis. Blush of my breath, catch

of my see—beautiful bird—It’s you.

“Poet’s Progress”
for Sandra Cisneros
I haven’t been

much of anywhere,

books my only voyage,

crossed no bodies

of water, seen anything

other than trees change,

birds take shape — like the rare

Bee Hummingbird that once hovered

over the promise of salsa

in my garden: a fur feathered

vision from Cuba in Boulder,

a wetback, stowaway, refugee,

farther from home than me.

Now, snow spatters its foreign

starch across the lawn gone

crisp with freeze. I know

nothing tropical survives

long in this season. I pull

the last leeks from the frozen

earth, smell their slender

tubercular lives, stand

in the sleet whiteout

of December: roots

draw in, threads of relatives

expand while solitude, the core,

that slick-headed fist of self, is

cool as my dog’s nose and pungent

with resistance. Now when

the red-bellied woodpecker

calls his response to a California

owl, now, when the wound

transformer in the womb

slackens, and I wait

for potential: all

the lives I have

yet to name,

all my life

I have willed into being

alive and brittle with the icy

past. And it’s enough now,

listening, counting the unknown

arachnids and hormigas

who share my love of less

sweeping. For this is what

I wanted, come to, left

alone with anything

but the girlhood horrors,

the touching, the hungry

leaden meltdown of the hours.

Or the future — a round negation,

black suction of the heart’s

conception. Save me

from a stupid life! I prayed.

Leave me anything but

a stupid life.

And that’s poetry.

“California Plum”
for Nathan Trujillo, discovered frozen to death in a

public restroom in Boulder. Feb. 3, 1992, and

identified only as “a derelict.”
I suppose I was a derelict.

I was a derelict’s kid. I succumbed

to man and minotaurs were

a thing of the past not

in my vocabulary. I knew the trees,

the fruit, the sweet, the fences

in my neighborhood to get me there

where dogs and men can’t reach.

I beat the boys and joined

their clubs. No initiation

could deter me. Oh yeah,

I know where the tracks go,

how to catch it going South,

what to carry, who to talk to,

what size jar of instant coffee

will get you into camp–

how to walk like a child

of a maid, go inside the Inns,

at 10am the leftovers line

the galleys: ham and omelet,

waffle, cutlet, biscuit, gravy….

I filled my skirt with jam and ate

through noon. I judged my troops

by the content of their refrigerator

(only ones with working moms

could pass). And oh, my literate

acquaintances! My bums and

babblers banging in the stacks!

I suppose I’m just like they are,

dry inside at last, pumping

the poems of Pushkin, Poe and

papers by the racks. I sat in there

most every day, whoring working

hours away. I know the open places, graves,

the cemetery gate — the only one we’re allowed

to pass without eviction. Idle tears

will get you anywhere, said Tennyson.

You can read it in our clothes, the rips

we care to camouflage, bunker, in clunky

shoes and hand-me-nots, the stabs, the odds

of ever reaching our normality. I’d say I was

a derelict — I was a derelict’s kid.

“Drawings: For John Who Said to Write about True Love”
“The writer. It’s a cul-de-sac,” you wrote that

winter of our nation’s discontent. That first time

I found you, blue marble lying still in the trench, you, staked

in waiting for something, anything but the cell of your small

apartment with the fixtures never scrubbed, the seven great

named cats you gassed in the move. I couldn’t keep them.

You explained so I understood. And what cat never loved

your shell-like ways, the claw of your steady fingers, firme

from the rasping of banjos and steady as it goes

from the nose to the hair to the shaking tip. My favorite

tale was of the owl and the pussycat in love in a china cup

cast at sea, or in a flute more brittle, more lifelike

and riddled with flair, the exquisite polish of its gaudy

glaze now puzzled with heat cracks, now foamed

opalescent as the single espresso dish you bought from

Goodwill. What ever becomes of the heart our common

child fashioned, red silk and golden satin, the gay glitter

fallen from moves, our names with Love written in black

felt pen? Who gets what? Who knows what becomes of the

rose you carried home from Spanish Harlem that morning

I sat waiting for the surgeon’s suction. What ever becomes

of waiting and wanting, when the princess isn’t ready and

the queen has missed the boat, again? Do you still write

those old remarks etched on a page of Kandinsky’s ace

letting go? Like: Lorna meets Oliver North and she

kicks his butt. The dates are immaterial to me as

salvation or a freer light bending through stallions

in an air gone heavy with underground tunnels. Do you

read me? Is there some library where you’ll find me, smashed

on the page of some paper? Let it go is my morning mantra

gone blind with the saved backing of a clock, now dark

as an empty womb when I wake, now listening for your tick

or the sound of white walls on a sticky street. Engines out

the window remind me of breathing apparatus at the breaking

of new worlds, the crash and perpetual maligning of the sand

bar where sea lions sawed up logs for a winter cabin. I dream

wood smoke in the morning. I dream the rank and file of used

up chimneys, what that night must have smelled like, her mussed

and toweled positioning, my ambulance of heart through stopped

traffic where you picked the right corner to tell me: They think

someone murdered her. You were there, all right, you were

a statue carved from the stone of your birth. You were patient

as a sparrow under leaf and as calm as the bay those light

evenings when I envisioned you with the fishwife you loved.

And yes, I could have done it then, kissed it off, when the scalpel

of single star brightened and my world blazed, a dying bulb

for the finger of a socket, like our sunsets on the Cape, fallen

fish blood in snow, the hearts and diamonds we found and left

alone on a New England grave. Why was the summer so long

then? Even now a golden season stumps me and I stamp

ants on the brilliant iced drifts. I walk a steady mile

to that place where you left it, that solid gold band

thrown away to a riptide in a gesture the theatrical

love—so well. What was my role? Or did I leave it

undelivered when they handed me the gun of my triggered

smiles and taught me to cock it? Did I play it to the hilt

and bleeding, did I plunge in your lap and wake to find you

lonely in a ribbon of breathing tissue? Does this impudent

muscle die? Does love expire? Do eternal nestings mean much

more than a quill gone out or the spit? I spy the bank

of frothed fog fuming with airbrushed pussies on a pink

horizon. I scored my shoes with walking. My skill is losing.

It’s what we do best, us ducks, us lessons on what not

to do.

Thanks for the crack,

you wrote

in my O.E.D. that 30th renewal when the summer snapped

and hissed suddenly like a bullet of coal flung from a fire

place or a dumb swallow who dove into the pit for pay. Kiss

her, and it’s good luck. I palm this lucky trade but the soot

never sells and I never sailed away on a gulf stream that divides

continents from ourselves. But only half of me is cracked, the

other is launched on a wild bob, a buoy, steadfast in storm. I may

sail to Asia or I might waft aimlessly to Spain where my hemp

first dried from the rain. My messages wring from the line,

unanswered, pressed sheets from an old wash or the impression

of a holy thing. But don’t pull no science on this shroud, the

date will only lie. She’ll tell you it’s sacred, even sell you

a piece of the fray. She appears on the cracked ravines of this

country like a ghost on the windshield of an oncoming

train. She refuses to die, but just look at her nation

without a spare penny to change. My wear is a glass made

clean through misuse, the mishandling of my age as revealing

as my erased face, Indian head of my stick birth, my battle

buried under an island of snow I’ve yet to get to. What could I do

with this neighborhood of avenues scattered with empty shells

of mailboxes, their feet caked with cement like pulled up

pilings? Evidently, they haven’t a word

for regret

full heart.

Someday, I said, I can write us both from this mess. But the key

stalls out from under me when I spell your name. I have to fake

the O or go over it again in the dark, a tracing of differences

spilled out on a sheet. If I could stick this back

together, would it stay? It’s no rope, I know, and no good

for holding clear liquid. I gather a froth on my gums, and grin

the way an old woman grimaces in a morning mirror. I was never

a clear thing, never felt the way a daughter feels, never lost

out like you, never drove. My moon waits at the edge

of an eagle’s aerie, almost extinct and the eggs are fragile

from poisoned ignitions. I’m never coming out from my cup

of tea, never working loose the grease in my hair, the monkey

grease from my dancing elbows that jab at your shoulder.

But I write, and wait for the book to sell, for I know

nothing comes of it but the past with its widening teeth,

with its meat breath baited at my neck, persistent as the smell

of a drunk. Don’t tell me. I already know. It’s just the rule of

the game for the jack of all hearts, and for the queen of baguettes;

it’s a cul-de-sac for a joker drawing hearts.

Lorna Dee Cervantes (1954 – )

Through her writings, Chicana poet Lorna Dee Cervantes evokes the cultural clash that Americans of Mexican descent frequently face. Born in San Francisco, Cervantes’ “maternal Mexican ancestors intermarried with the Chumash Indians of the Santa Barbara, California, area, and her paternal ancestry is Tarascan Indian from Michoacan, Mexico,” reported Roberta Fernandez in the Dictionary of Literary Biography. Cervantes and her mother and brother moved in to her grandmother’s San Jose, California, home around 1959, when her parents divorced. “As a child she discovered the world of books in the houses which her mother cleaned,” noted Fernandez. She became familiar with Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, and Shelley. By the age of fifteen she had compiled her first collection of poetry. In 1974 she traveled to Mexico City with her brother, who played with the Theater of the People of San Jose at the Quinto Festival de los Teatros Chicanos. At the last moment, Cervantes was asked to participate by reading some of her poetry. She chose to read a portion of “Refugee Ship,” a poem “which renders the Chicano dilemma of not belonging to either the American or the Mexican culture,” remarked Fernandez. This reading received much attention—appearing in a Mexican newspaper, as well as other journals and review. The poem was later included in her award winning poetry collection debut, Emplumada.
“Emplumada is a collection of bilingual free verse in simple diction—a glossary of Spanish terms is included—that paints strong visual images and diverse moods,” described Lynn MacGregor in Contemporary Women Poets. It includes verses of mourning, acceptance, and renewal and offers poignant commentary on the static roles of class and sex, especially among Hispanics. Characterized by their simplicity of language and boldness of imagery, the “poems in Emplumada form a tightly knit unit which shows readers the environment into which the poet was torn, the social realities against which she must struggle, and the resolutions she finds for these conflicts,” said Fernandez. “Written in a controlled language and with brilliant imagery, Emplumada is the work of a poet who is on her way to becoming a major voice in American literature.” Emplumada has earned considerable critical acclaim; and in 1982 it won the American Book Award.

AIR – Once Upon A Time



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