11/02/11

February 14 - love as commodity and pink consumerism - I opened my mailbox and I found a book. Jonathan Livingston Seagull (by one Richard Bach) was left there on 11/02/11 to wait for me for three days. A friend thought I needed a reminder that in order to achieve anything in that crappy life I need to try harder. She also reminded me that I'm a big pussy.

The book stayed on my bookshelf for a couple of weeks before I finally decided to pick it up and read it. Actually re-read it. The first time was eight years ago when I thought that having red hair makes me cool. The time when I thought of two beers as a lot of alcohol; when I wasn't neither a heavy smoker nor a freaking pothead; when I didn't have to shave; when I was still a virgin (all these quite irrelevant).

I thought eight years are enough time to make me read this parable of recycled Zen Buddhism differently. But no. I still think, as my friend said, that the seagull is helplessly romantic. And beautiful.

I am not able to recognize the naive little bastard who was once me when I look at the mirror, but there should be something left, right? I thought of writing a book review for the college magazine but the mission seems impossible to me now. Who is going to write it? The old me, or the new me? Or some future me? Or some non-me.

This is why I'm blogging about it. Because I cannot possibly review this parable. I can only punch the buttons of my vaio - which is what matters. A seagull told me that I have to do what I love, do it as much as possible, develop it, push harder and harder and harder... A little prince told me that essential things are invisible to the eye (now carved in my skin for as long as I live and probably for some time more before my skin decomposes)... And I'm telling myself that not everything is possible, that I will fail at certain things, that I will fail to see certain things... But there is a good chance that I won't fail at everything. Or something like that. Just keep on flying, dude.

looking down

ok, apparently homeworks are my writing driving force. i have a vague idea, an image, somewhere in this chaotic brain of mine, to turn this into a short movie. anyone care to join(t)?

Looking down

For 10 straight minutes looking down

Walking around and seeing sound

I know these streets better than

I know myself

Now I get them with my shoe soles

Reversal of roles

Following chalk arrows pointing

Pointing and exploiting

Exploiting my trust

But the direction is safe

I end up talking to my shoes

“So, how ya doing my old friends?

You’re from one of those brands:

The expensive and the posh?

But you’ve carried me in rain

And you’ve treaded on slush.”

They keep their silence and continue walking

Remembering the shapes of the streets.

Bikers passing by

Cars passing by

People passing by

And I don’t receive a single “Hi!”

But I am looking down

Trying to keep my focus intact

I am helped by the smoking buddy between my fingers

She’s dangerous, in fact

But her sweet death lingers

And I have more time to smell burnt fuel

It’s a whole different universe down here

The universe of chewing gum and nicotine buds

The ants, street cats and bodies of dead birds.

It’s strangely ordered and yet chaotic

I hope my presence is not despotic

Stepping on the railing –

Equilibrium in and out just failing

Arms stretched for a flight

But still looking down

Not flying up but turning left or turning right

Stopped at the end

Looked up, not ready to defend

Not ready to pretend

Not ready to offend

The pavements have become my walls

The shafts – my windows, my doors.

Reordering the dimensions

With this youthful lack of patience…

I just wanna walk the streets.