The magic of the big city

Why do New York, Paris, or Tokyo
sound so much better than Aberdeen?

Maybe because they are easier to pronounce
since they have two syllables
as opposed to three in the latter.

Or perhaps I’m just an insecure snob straight from the boonies
who can’t appreciate the cosiness of Granite City.
But I actually like the greyness of granite—it’s soothing—so it can’t be that.
And Aberdeen is still quite big compared to Stonehaven,
let alone Cookney.

Then what is so special about the first three?

First of all, they are not places—they’re ideas,
each with its own altar and apostles,
not to mention extensive iconography.

The power of large numbers could also play a role here.
After all, there are just way more opportunities over there.
You can’t argue with that.

And there is also a desire to belong
that is inherently at odds with that selfish individualism of ours.
What’s simpler than convincing ourselves
that, in such a magical place, we will be part of something bigger
while still minding our own business?

The happiest person

You are allowed to be happy.
I got this from a film, since, strangely enough, no one ever told me that.
I guess everyone assumes it’s a given, like being infatuated with actresses
(I’m somewhere between the Tilda Swinton and Charlotte Gainsbourg phases).
But this whole idea seems a bit sketchy—bedridden, if I may say so.
I have long suspected that of all the things that make up
our meticulous, hand-woven everyday lives, nothing matters more to us
than the pursuit of happiness, and yet all we get are bus tickets,
bank statements, cartes du jour, bills supposedly paid on time, detailed itineraries,
and the like. Is that why the happiest person I’ve ever known
was a diener?

One last reflection before the shower

If I were to play a word association game,
the first thing that comes to mind
when love is mentioned would be films.

I don’t know how well it describes love,
but it certainly says quite a bit about me,
especially since I’m writing this at 1 a.m.,
after a day spent in my pyjamas
watching ‘Une nouvelle amie’ and ‘A Single Man’

on loop.

The morning glory

They call it the morning glory, but what’s glorious about it?
If anything, it’s just an inconvenience, like phantom pain
after you left. I guess, as with everything in life, that too
will go away with time, and, whilst drear, it might even feel
cathartic to finally find something beyond this dangling
personal pronoun of mine.

The beaten play as much

I live a simple life. If I’m hungry, I eat; if I smell, I take a shower.
I sleep for six hours and work for seven and a half, plus an hour for lunch.
Once a week, I masturbate or write a poem, and I still can’t believe I lost
my better half to the bus driver—unless it was a blessing, then I’m the winner,
or perhaps we both are. Maybe that’s why I can still look forward to losing
a game of chess to my little niece.

A basic guide to vinyl record playing

Sometimes I wonder. If it had been a little less improvised,
with a slightly more suitable soundtrack, would it have gone better?
Our last day, I mean, or maybe the first—I’m not so sure anymore.
I guess it all came down to the fact that, somewhere between
a jar of grated horseradish and a jar of honey, we forgot
that turning on the turntable makes absolutely no sense
if we never place a record on the platter.

The screech of chalk

If we mourned our birth, would we smile
at our funeral?

Look at us
standing in front of the blackboard,
diligently noting all the knick-knacks
that make up our daily routine.
Nothing but chalk dust.

We can’t even order ourselves some rain,
let alone find someone really nice
to listen to La Vie en Rose—no wonder
the soufflé is too soggy tonight.

If we mourned our birth, would we break
through the shrill screech of chalk?