When we see the beauty of the snow, when we see the beauty of the full moon, when we see the beauty of the cherries in bloom, when in short we brush against and are awakened by the beauty of the four seasons, it is then that we think most of those close to us, and want them to share the pleasure. (Yasunari Kawabata)
"Once I wanted to prove the world was sick. Now I want to prove it healthy. The detection of sickness means that death has established itself as an element of the timetable; it has come within the range of the measurable. Where there is no time there is no sickness."
Roy Fisher, from "City" in The Dow Low Drop: New and Collected Poems (Newcastle: Bloodaxe, 1996), p. 27.
So do I, so do I. That's why this winter vacation, after having cursorily dispatched the season's greetings, I made a vow of (temporary) timelessness. No emails, phone calls, and let alone facebooks, twitters & other such follies: dear friends & colleagues and, above all, dearest arse-lickers planning to pester me with selfish requests, I'll be incommunicado till further notice.
Not away from the world, but more fully immersed in it, hopefully, among the snow and the trees, in the shadows, away from the crude light that separates and divides everything into watertight compartments, into senseless schedules.
'The nightwalker, on a terrace in the garden, unaccompanied, hardly aware of it, half hopes to overhear - that haunting thing. Something that hovers, maybe hovers only just beyond the rim. A thing that he has not thought of yet, that no one ever heard.'
David Gascoyne, 'Night Thoughts', in Selected Poems (Enitharmon: London, 1994), p. 230.
The workload verges on madness at this time of the year - I seldom leave the office before midnight. Never in a hurry, I live up to the (bad) reputation of being a 'my pace' person, existing in the interstices, oblivious to the stringent routines of clock time and of other people.
Walking the deserted streets after the last train has this eerie but strangely appeasing effect. In limbo, when real silence and the nothingness of the world dawn on you and everything falls into place. You fear nothing, can fear nothing, because all the chitter-chatter of the day and its petty concerns weigh nothing, nothing against the immensity of this silence, against this indifference of the stars.
Of the silence that most fear and muffle with all sorts of noise and errands, I have made a home. Between worlds, nor day nor night, nowhere - everywhere. A most uncomfortable place to be, but a home. Where you can hear your own footsteps on the ground, your own small, very small heartbeat - and the earth's. Incommensurable.
It happens more often than you'd like to, especially in places where people have been moulded into a mask of phoneyness that becomes their very face.
Where you'd hope to see candour, feelings, flesh & blood, you quickly realise you're just seeing dried-out, amorphous things through a carefully crafted veil of ice. Translucent, but beyond reach.
What they don't realise is that some keen observers can actually see through the 'mystery' pose - and the sight is seldom pretty.
Nothing, nothing is more disappointing than banality and narrow-mindedness disguised as aloofness.
Has just arrived from the other side of the world (thanks, Papa!), and I can hardly wait to bury myself in it.
An eye-opener, a friend tells me, reminding us how far, far removed from any form of freedom we are - and how sadly repressed. Too high a price for 'civilization'?...
From the blurb (original Portuguese version here):
Men are what they are by their nature. While one might say this is too vague a definition, it actually contains a precise, raw and true meaning. Nature is, as the English term indicates, drive, impulse, compulsion and the omnipotence of desire, what stems from that which is before reflection and judgement, what is and exists as necessity - to breathe, to eat, to have sex, and sometimes to be aggressive. Always, everywhere, all this is necessary as the condition of life, and all this is desired, and it is desired because it is good, because it quenches necessity, and quenching necessity gives pleasure. And what the Bororo teach us is precisely this: the more man is capable of overcoming nature, the more he is capable of recognizing himself as part of it.
Filipe Verde, O Homem Livre: Mito, Moral e Carácter numa Sociedade Ameríndia (Coimbra: Angelus Novus, 2009). [The Free Man: Myth, Morals and Character in an Amerindian Society; my translation]
to all the phoneys, sweet talkers who pamper you when they need you and constantly pester you with requests but deep down don't really give a damn and are never there for you when you need them (and in fact don't even know you) and all of a sudden are full of fake wounded feelings when you tell them to buzz off and have the nerve to call you 'bitchy' and 'difficult' - here's a little song, in dedication - and in response... Enjoy!
Bigmouth Strikes Again
Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking When I said I’d like to smash every tooth In your head
Oh ... sweetness, sweetness, I was only joking When I said by rights you should be Bludgeoned in your bed
And now I know how Joan of Arc felt Now I know how Joan of Arc felt, oh As the flames rose to a Roman nose And her walkman started to melt Oh ...
Bigmouth, la ... bigmouth, la ... Bigmouth strikes again I’ve got no right to take my place In the human race
Oh, bigmouth, ha ha ... bigmouth, la Bigmouth strikes again I’ve got no right to take my place In the human race
And now I know how Joan of Arc felt Now I know how Joan of Arc felt, oh As the flames rose to a Roman nose And her hearing aid started to melt Eek!
Oh, bigmouth, la ... bigmouth, la ... Bigmouth strikes again I’ve got no right to take my place With the human race Oh ...
Bigmouth, oh ... bigmouth, la ... Bigmouth strikes again I’ve got no right to take my place In the human race
And now I know how Joan of Arc felt Now I know how Joan of Arc felt, oh As the flames rose to a Roman nose And her hearing aid started to melt Oh !
Oh, bigmouth, oh ... bigmouth, la ... Bigmouth strikes again I’ve got no right to take my place In the human race Oh ...
Bigmouth, oh ... bigmouth, la ... Bigmouth strikes again I’ve got no right to take my place In the human race Oh ...
This year, with all the hustle and bustle of work, work, work, I've almost criminally lost my beloved momiji at their most beautiful. I still managed to capture them today, flaming crimson in the late afternoon sun, preparing for death. Resplendent, in extremis.
You disappeared in the four lines that preceded this one; or else your smile left, for you always lived in your smile, green rain on the leaves, your smile, a flutter of wings at the wrist, your smile, and that taste, that burning of light on the lips, when the lips are the murmur of sun in the streets, your smile.
Eugénio de Andrade, Close to Speech, trans. Alexis Levitin (Lancaster, CA: Red Dancefloor, 2000).
Another all-time fave, with same implicit dedication. Yes, it's now happening in mine too.
That joke isn't funny anymore
Park the car at the side of the road You should know Time's tide will smother you And I will too... When you laugh about people who feel so Very lonely Their only desire is to die Well, I'm afraid It doesn't make me smile I wish I could laugh...
But that joke isn't funny anymore It's too close to home And it's too near the bone It's too close to home And it's too near the bone More than you'll ever know ...
Kick them when they fall down Kick them when they fall down You kick them when they fall down Kick them when they fall down You kick them when they fall down Kick them when they fall down You kick them when they fall down Kick them when they fall down...
It was dark as I drove the point home And on cold leather seats Well, it suddenly struck me I just might die with a smile on my Face after all
I've seen this happen in other people's Lives And now it's happening in mine...
I've seen this happen in other people's Lives And now it's happening in mine...
I've seen this happen in other people's Lives And now it's happening in mine...
I've seen this happen in other people's Lives And now it's happening in mine
I've seen this happen in other people's Lives And now it's happening in mine... Happening in mine Happening in mine Happening in mine Happening in mine...
I've seen this happen in other people's Lives And now, now, now it's happening in mine (I've seen this happen) Happening in mine Now, now...
Call me an anachronism - and I certainly am one, more and more - but the Smiths are still one of those bands whose songs still say '[something] to me about my life', to parapharase another great song of theirs.
Here goes an eternal fave, with implicit dedication.
HOW SOON IS NOW?
I am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar I am the son and heir of nothing in particular
You shut your mouth how can you say I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved just like everybody else does
I am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar I am the son and the heir Of nothing in particular
You shut your mouth how can you say I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved just like everybody else does
There's a club, if you'd like to go you could meet somebody who really loves you so you go, and you stand on your own and you leave on your own and you go home and you cry and you want to die
When you say it's gonna happen 'now', well, when exactly do you mean? See, I've already waited too long and all my hope is gone
I am human and I need to be loved just like everybody else does
...And what did I dream of? What did I dream of?... And did it matter?...
Rain mixed with snow was falling outside and in my dream too. All the sharp edges, all the boundaries you are forced to impose on life were softened - day and night, light and shadow, pain and pleasure, dream and vigil. I walked effortlessly through them while rain & snow were falling everywhere.
I woke up at dawn under a red light. My hand stretched out to the blurred silhouettes of the trees outside and I noticed it too was blurred. The trees precarious fingers, the hands small trees extending their baby branches. Sisters. All struggling for life - all slowly, painfully growing.
I reached for a branch to write a line, but the rain & the snow were no longer falling outside, nor in my dream. Nor did it matter.
Only ice was slowly melting outside. Dripping, dripping.
Marina Abramovic, Dream House Matsunoyama, Niigata 21-22 November 2009
Kagamiike, Togakushi
