If you turn to big names like Shakespeare, da Vinci, or, Godwin’s law notwithstanding,
Hitler—the ultimate evil—to define a point of reference from which to move the absolute
blandness underlying our tedious yet convenient inadequacy, there is a risk of throwing
yourself at Newton’s flaming laser sword of a sort. But even if you abandon the trenches
to be content with the contemplation of the Bavarian gentians, your obliging neighbour
will get his hands on you eventually.
We used to celebrate this day, the seventeenth, and then I cursed it passionately
for a long time. Perhaps now it is what it is supposed to be—just another day
that sometimes reminds me of something, although I am not sure what exactly.
But even if I were a function of memory, the body that bears it is no ordinary
blackboard that has lost its only piece of chalk.
For the future me
As a creature of symbol, bored with the steady pace of every day life, he craved
gestures and milestones marking the progress of his tedious little insignificance
full of wishes of small importance and efforts that did not matter in the slightest.
After many a year, he learned how to pretend so well that he convinced himself
that he was about to be happy. Maybe another step or two, an extra drop of sweat,
or one more bitter bite to swallow—but felicity was there, or so he told himself.
The irony is that in his futile attempt at scoring big once, he actually missed all
the trifles that ultimately each day is made of.
My dentist told me that I grind my teeth while sleeping,
and I am not entirely sure if I should be upset or relieved.
I know my endless craving for affection has been tiring
for quite some time now, and if you ask me if I am dead
inside, then I may well be, but that one random remark
could make all the difference. You see, I thought I had
to grit my teeth to keep from giving her the satisfaction.
It turned out that, while she enjoys the Riviera, the one
who gives a damn is the quiet man with a handpiece.
Armed and determined, I prowl the interiors of my humble dwelling.
My weapon? A tightly folded premium kitchen towel. My prey? A fat,
buzzing housefly. But damn if I don’t feel like a real seasoned hunter.
And everything would be just fine if only I knew where the unsettling
sense of misplaced anger came from.
There was a time when I thought that there was a real possibility that life could be an act
of intentional cruelty, but now all I can say is that I no longer believe in the whole idea
of intentionality.
Any self-respecting hostage of life, slowly forgetting human words,
would stick to reflexes: dinner, long-dead Yeats, masturbation, sleep,
and so on and so forth, for if the French are to be believed, l’appétit
vient en mangeant.
Taking a flight to New York—does that not sound great? Yeah,
but no thanks; I would rather not. Reality never matches a dream
anyway, and it was not even my dream in the first place.
Also, departures at Heathrow Airport, unlike the arrivals gate,
are not all about love, although I am sure Hugh Grant’s voice
would sugar something up if you asked. But if I ever do fly there,
it better be with you. I am sure you will find some room
in your baggage for a pocket book of poetry
and an urn.
As the big words settle at the bottom of Crawford Lake, I wonder
if that sediment might one day do more than just spoil the flavour
of the hazelnuts my distant heir will be snacking on while reading
tracks on a pack hunt.
hidden pilcrow 