Spiced with a pinch of Rabelais,
Mr Honk felt somewhat humanised—
despite his lack of a moral compass
and the residual heat in the bedding—
as long as there was an abundance
of a certain tincture and a cushion
of the seething mass.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
My French is only slightly better than my Latin,
I’m afraid, which means—though I’m perfectly capable
of informing a passer-by on the Rue Saint-Jacques
that je ne parle pas français—I can’t indulge in
Mélange Adultère de Tout, unfortunately.
Besides, I’d rather see Longhaven Cliffs
than your cenotaph.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
There is nothing better than romantic love
if you make a living selling tickets to Paris and Venice
or intend to do some fine coin on Audrey Hepburn films.
And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Think of the more sinister players,
like the diamond cartel feeding us with the myth of the symbol of love
—the engagement ring. Or have you ever contemplated the absurdity
of Valentine’s Day? After all, th’ uncertain sickly appetite needs nothing
of the sort. Elderflowers and an Epsom salt bath are Granny’s best
remedies for fever.
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?
I guess it would be nice to hear that I’m funny for a change. The last time I heard anything
about myself was that I’m boring—that date ended rather quickly. But what can I say? I am
who I am. I doubt pubs, restaurants, or parties will ever interest me. I’m a born homebody
who would watch Wings of Desire rather than travel to Berlin, wander around Dublin
in Ulysses, or see Paris in Toulouse-Lautrec reproductions on the walls of my apartment.
You see, the crude reality of place and time is like raw food—it gives me indigestion.
When I look at the clock face, it strikes me
that there is not a minute in twenty-four hours
where it is the same day everywhere in the world.
What is more, the twenty-four hours themselves
happen only four times a year, and even that depends
on latitude. But if I were you, I would not worry
about it—unless you are an astronomer, of course.
Four seconds, give or take, make no difference
when you wait two hours to see the Mona Lisa,
just for a moment.
hidden pilcrow 