So I tell myself: a person is not a house. A person is not even a hotel. There are rooms inside people - that much is sure. For whenever something (a film, a scrap of a symphony, a curt kiss) moves them, the furniture inside them gets rearranged and you can hear the slight scraping sounds of the change taking place inside them. Yet even if people are rooms, we have no right to rent them - all we can do is visit. The way we visit the earth, the way we borrow time. The way that goodbye lands on our lips the very second we utter hello.
For the last few days: nothing but mental silence. Or rather, there’s been this banging and clanging of irrelevant every-day thoughts which contribute so much to survival and so little to the soul. Yes, I went to the philharmonic, I walked over old crushed snow, I saw Melancholia again because some movies must be seen more than once. I copied some poems into my journal, so as to steal the inspiration which isn’t given to me freely as of late. Yes, I dreamed awake. I dreamed of being away, somewhere on a deck chair in Spain, in a room of my own with long scrolls of sentenses unrolling like waves in the brain. I imagined myself below a slower sky, in a country where gravity has a weaker pull, where people float effortlessly instead of stomping around in a hurry.
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored
means you have no
Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
I don’t know how to become one with you.
If you’re heaven, then tell me.
I will kneel to every god.
If you’re hell, then tell me.
I will fill the earth with sin.
I don’t know how to become one with you.
If you’re an invaded soil, then tell me.
I will make my skin your flag.
If you are, as I am, a gypsy,
draw a border around me:
make me your country.
It takes a lifetime to grow into manhood. It takes a lifetime to grow into womanhood. Dresses and ties, sex and wine, have next to nothing to do with it. Maturity takes plenty of pain which is digested and ripened into something savory and serious. Being a man, being a woman, also doesn’t mean ceasing to be a child. On the contrary, it means accepting play as an element of work, it means freedom of flapping one’s wings, of expressing joy in tracing the contours of clouds. It doesn’t come instantly. One may almost arrive at maturity by the age of fifty. Another person might do it quickly. Time, the universal kind of time, has nothing to do with it. It’s more about the process. One either devours experience, taking in large gulps of grief that comes with it, or one enjoys it bite by small bite. I’m kind of in-between - still growing, still ripening, still becoming and being born -
portrait of decadencei\ve just come back from a poetry reading. here is a parody of the full-of-apathy contemporary verse scene:
depression is decadence. i think i can afford it. every monday selling poems for the price of toilet paper. paper is like ashes. paper is like cigarettes. dancing in the darkness. cemeteries of cities covered with a fog of friends. dear drugs, it is not over. depression has just invited me for another drink, and i’m paying. i need time to think. years to write and fight. fight and write right. i buy wrong words for the price of vodka. in my old, aging apartment, i close eyes of windows. windows of eyes. ex girlfriends visit with goodbyes in their hands like gifts. cigarettes and sex. the meat of my mind will be consumed by future generations. by dead and dying nations. in a language nobody knows, in a bar where nobody goes. these words of mine are time killing words. assassins of days when rains piss from the sky. this world of mine. depression is decadence. i think i can still afford it.
Don’t you just hate it when you leave a window open in a dream? Sure, the wind can waft in and out, spreading the smell of fresh linen, dandelions and other dreamy things. But being awake, you can’t just go back to that room and protect it from rain. You can hardly even do it sleeping. Which dream door should you open? And will everything still be there, if you are lucky enough to locate the dream room in which you spent your hours the other night?
and then again, wouldn’t it be much better to be a tree? to simply stand there patiently; while time rings and rings, and rings?