“And in the end you will see that the lightest things are the only ones
That the wind could not take away
An old refrain
A caress at the right time
Turning the pages of a book of poems
The scent the wind itself once had…
– which the wind did not take away”
– Mario Quintana, 1989; translation liberally my own.
So I broke up, out and away to what I thought was greener grass on the singlehood side. Well, this famed other side is fenced off for good reason: it is overflowing with manure. Fresh out-of-school manure, old and crusty but-still-musty manure, it’s not you it’s me manure, manure for every weather and preference.
I’d grabbed at the pretty packaging (kids are so often content with the box alone), only to find that there was nothing inside for me. That was my name on the tag, they’d written it, but once unwrapped oops! (a mere formality of a) sorry, the contents were actually not meant for the giving, would you mind please returning…oh sod it, ownership had never transferred anyway nor was it remotely meant to.
Words and outings are nothing more than fuel: let’s see how much mileage we can get with one compliment here, one soulful insight there. Well, petroleum consists essentially of decayed fossils. The feats grown men (so you’d think, if the first few white hairs have appeared) will undertake to appease a few cm2 of (inadequate, moreover) flesh will always be bewildering – like the degree of absolute mediocrity some people can be content with.
Isn’t it funny how something can seem SO PRESSING AND CRUCIAL ABSOLUTELY A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH one day, and be nothing but a distant echo of a memory, somehow archived in the backwater storage of your mind the next?
How something can twist your innards into cold knots, sit heavy on your lungs and send static all through your brain every waking minute, and then all of a sudden be unable to do any better than act as a “consideration”, not even emerging itself as an image but sending another, tangential, one in its place, dusty and faded?