From Stationary to Levitating

Ces jours, mes pieds ne touchent pas le terre. Est-ce que tu m'as vu en lévitation?

These days, my feet don't touch the ground. Have you seen me hovering about the city? An effervescent spark, a bubbling gas, I hiss, I burst forth energetically. And all the while, God sings to me in Italian.

Hope. I might be silly, delusional, naïve, *insert more synonyms* but it lives in me, this stupid, dumb, blind hope. It's the small things that fuel me, that keep me hovering over gazing affectionately at the mounds of white dust the elves left all around our house, the cloud droppings, fluff white powder that melts in the heat of my palm.

Stationary

It's reached a point of obsession. What am I doing? I'm surrounded by this ongoing drama. Picture this - I'm in the middle, stationary spectator, constantly turning clockwise in slow motion. Around me, all that can be seen is a flash of colour. It passes by so quickly that it can't be intercepted, it blurs into a continuous streaming of passing colour that gushes forth like water from a waterfall.

I look closer and I am able to discern a few things. There's a pregnancy resulting in twins, a trip to South-east Asia and India, a wedding, a sex change, a 19year/old madly in love, a house in ruins, a reconstituted family that functions very well, construction, a stroll in the cold night leading to a cozy intimate setting where likeminded people gather, a foosball tournament, introductions to two, a dying hope - in sadness, a lunch, Italian laughter, drumbeats, an eccentric gathering, dragons and mermaids, feet freezing, menacing faces, old faces, the surreal, birds, mushrooms, Thai. I stand in the middle, unwavering, unmoving, unchanging, stationary.

La Festival des Lumières de la Marché Kensington

It certainly wasn't an event many muggles would attend. And you could spot all the ones that did in the crowd, scowling, incredulous, embarrassed as if something completely ludicrous were occurring or just plain sullen. But there were faces aplenty exhibiting energy, excitement, magick. That's the word I was looking for - magick.

Winter solstice. Imagine what Diagon Alley must have looked like: abuzz, astir, alive! There are people, there are musical instruments, there are lanterns. A sea of people, an orchestra of instruments, and millions of little lamps, colourful and original. There are also many animals, they have worn a human on stilts for the occasion. They gather in a circle where an old man tells the tale of the fight of death against the dragon. It is a tale of survival, good and evil. I can't see much, I wish I could fly, I wish I had wings.

The themes in the story make me think how simplified childrens' stories generally are. I recently picked up a book titled "Wicked" in the Indigo which had an interesting premise. It tells the story of Dorothy and the wonderful wizard of Oz from the eyes of the wicked witch of the West. Things usually aren't so black and white yet even we as adults sometimes over-simplify.

The circle breaks up. The animals start walking down the street followed by a jazz orchestra, percussionists, lanterns, regular people, strollers, more animals, clowns, people with painted faces. Wow, they've put a lot of effort into this. I see a mermaid on top of a shoppe, a groupe of singers who sing divine tunes in god-knows-which-language and finally, an Italian family that laughs maniacally.

All of a sudden, I'm out of the fantasy land, no longer in Diagon Alley. I've woken up thinking what a strange dream I'd had.

La vieillesse et la jeunesse

Le ciel gris ouvert de la Turquie me fait signe.... viens... viens ici, je t'attends. Je possède des merveilles, de la beauté naturelle, de la culture. Un vieil homme sage m'a dit... écoute, mon garçon, tout ce que j'ai appris dans ma vie, je vais le partager avec toi. C'est la vieillesse qui parle à la jeunesse et elle la dit... pour trouver le bonheur, pour savourer la vie, pour profiter au maximum de la vie, vit lentement. Regarde, écoute, sens, touche, pense... mais lentement. Il y a beaucoup de choses qui sont à l'extérieur de toi. Fais attention, mon gars, mon petit ange. N'oublie pas d'ou es-tu venu. N'oublie pas les petites choses, la gentillesse, l'humilité, la passion, la fidélité. Tu peux amasser toute la richesse du monde mais le bonheur, ah, le bonheur, c'est au-dedans de toi et c'est là que tu le trouveras finalement. N'oublie jamais ce que je t'ai dit et vit. Comme dit une très bonne chanteuse, "If this is all you've got to fight for, rage my darling rage."

Another one? =P

Amore mio, the fading sun, the glaring night lights. A symphony I hear, a flurry of voices that rise and fall, the bug kingdom astir, an orchestra of crickets, a ballet of mosquitos. We stroll in symphony, we breathe in harmony, I whisper in thine ears, you croon in mine ears. I clutch on to your hot sweaty palm, you hold on to my cold clammy hand, the stars they twinkle, the moon it smiles. Don't let go, mein liebling, or I might lose you in the darkness of the night.

Enter: a raging storm, with lightning and thunder, we're torn asunder. I grope in the darkness to salvage any trace of you but you're nowhere to be found, mon amour est disparu. Enveloped by the lascivious dark, fondled by its treacherous claws, violated by its lustful jaws. I stumble.

Thus pass days, months and years, darkness lifting, the winds shifting, light penetrating, my view slowly clearing, a lovely fawn who scurries away at the lifting of dawn. Oh amore, donde estas?

The Retreat of Sanity

It was a moonlit night but there was nothing calm about it. Stormy winds were gusting, my heart was lusting, for your embrace. My shadow in pursuit, I ran in the direction of the lighthouse, footsteps light as a mouse, sand clinging to my feet. And then a wave came in, covering mes pieds, then retreating, my heart strongly beating. Continue I did, and then I slid, in sand got covered, in tiny particles was smothered. I tasted the salt of the sea, then it dawned on me, it was an quite late in the night, la lune it shone so bright. There was a gentle pitter-patter of feet, I looked up to see, a dark shadow looming, my heartbeats now booming in my chest. It was my Expectation, her sombre disposition made me uneasy. She extended her hand, mine was caught in the sand where it withered. My scared eyes they gazed, with an expression dazed. It's not me you love, said she, said she, but the idea of me you fool, you fool. The romance within, within, within, reeks of idealism, quelle -ism, quelle -ism. And then she disapparated, yes disapparated, my future in her cruel books already fated. Then I heard a voice... bacio bacio, the world is fading from your eyes my dear, oh jaanoo don't you understand, the idea of love so queer, settle down, give in, choose a path and run, because spending your life at the crossroads mi amor, mon amour, that just is no fun.

Festivities

It's Christmas-time... with the volley of shoppers - yes, volley! - who bump/smash/slam into me every day when I leave work, with the office becoming empty at 4pm, with me getting swamped with work (why do I care again when clearly noone else does?), with that music - the lovely, festive, lively, energetic music - that greets me every morning, with the spirit and energy that surrounds me, with all its goods and bads.

The only thing missing is an event I usually organize... something gay such as Secret Santa... or I don't know a tea party... fine, not a tea party... a book club. It's been replaced instead by loud, snap smash slam ra-ra-ra-ra, testosterone-driven competitive sport - a foosball tournament. And I wish I'd signed up for it! If only my partner hadn't ditched me. I suck at it... I beyond-suck at it. And that's what made me decide not to sign up. But now there's several team-sucks and I'm the only one not participating. I feel like such a scrooge! Bah!

Perdono signore, scuza

Wow... que c'est bizarre! Quand on souhaite que quelque chose se passe... et elle se passe. C'est un miracle, non? C'est peut-être une indication que vraiment il y a un dieu et que le dieu m'aime. Et moi, j'ai honte de mes actions... il m'a demandé qqch. Il m'a demandé mon opinion. Il m'a demandé qqch à laquelle j'aurais dû pouvoir répondre et qu'est-ce que j'ai fait? J'ai honte. J'ai vraiment honte de ce que j'ai fait... que le dieu me pardonne... qu'il me pardonne!

Lolita, what are you doing to me!

Every morning, I trudge along in the line that is piling onto the white and green trains, plop onto my regular seat, eyes droopy, stifling a yawn, hearing unabashed snores emanate from the nasal depths of other riders. Truly depressing setting! The foursome gathered around merrily discussing interesting things such as an absent co-worker's romance problems and other such topics of gossip are not any more pleasant. Where are my gossip buddies, where's my pillow?

Out comes the hardcover edition of Lolita, page 205. The ribbon goes from page 205 to 225. I'm being overly optimistic today. I begin. Humbert Humbert and his obsession with 13y/o nymphet Lolita. Wonderfully written, this book is so delectable. I gobble up every word. I can't put it down. But deep down, I'm crying. You're destroying this little girl for your own sick pleasure... you've destroyed her, you've ruined her life. I stop reading. I take a deep breath. I continue. No I can't! I stop again. I pull the ribbon from 225 and insert it between 214 and 215. That's as far as I can get today...

"At the hotel we had separate rooms, but in the middle of the night she came sobbing into mine, and we made it up very gently. You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go."