kulturbrille:amanuensis

All over the map, there are tiny flashes of light, signifying nothing but possibility and potential. What I could not believe before, now seems clearer and doubly so; we are after all, entirely discrete, fallible, never to be trusted, and always obeying the imperatives of fear, desire, etc. Few, if any, wander beyond the boundaries of our own solipsistic existence. Ah, yes, now I almost see.

The universe expands; here the warmth, heat and humidity presses down, but in the distance, peeking over the canopy, part of the LKYSPP, ISAS, to be rear a half-familiar gazebo, children doing endless cartwheels, lurid frisbees, the late afternoon sun beyond discomfort, splattered and thrown across my own self, and the vast expanse of the here and now. A moment ago I was blinking slowly, labouriously marking my day; errands and miniscule projects as a substitute for the passage of time. A clean, vaulted, bold cafe, men, women and families, having escaped, like I, waiting only to be pulled back into the current. R’s marvellous gift; Cartier-Bresson as muse, the half otherworldly life of a defiant dilettante and dreamer, the years marked with an inexorable rhythm, converging on his fate, until I can almost discern that distant, insistent leitmotif, that measure of a life, that arrow of time, universal, yet forever hidden, an infinitude of parallel lives invisible to each other. I whisper to myself, I understand a little of what I want to share with R, later, not this and that machination, not the enabling of possible, causal futures, but the location and presence of, circumstances, the pinpointing of this self and soul, marking the spot, declaring one’s existence, a priori, I, I, I. In Assouline’s biography of Bresson, he methodically peels back the years, while disawoving the dates, years, numbers, but in reality he has called on our very own chronology as the ruler by which Cartier-Bresson’s life has been sketched. In this year, I went here, where I fell in love, inseparable from, in the other, I was ill, oblivious to the events outside my window. In Paris artists came and went, here there are overweight men struggling through the park. In each moment, in each element, the struggle falls away; there is no sense of time, only being. Fears fall away; tomorrow will answer for itself, yesterday is a line in a text, which will change lives, but. And inevitably, as I measure my own, I whisper to strangers, telling them as I glide past, that I am lost, not of this present. In that year, I gave up all pretences of normalcy, and conformity, and never looked back. I went, and took the plunge.

Wandering through a bookshop on a Friday – a rarity, given my job, age, and inclination to melodrama and extravagance, I find myself wistfully gazing at shelves and displays. But make no mistake; I am not attempting to locate the physical manifestation of words, dreams, ideas, narratives in my experience, rather, it is the signified which I am attempting to locate. The notion of freedom – to spend hours browsing, to be able to disengage from the effervescent, smothering reality that we will forever struggle to be free from – that is what I am seeking. And in that search I will find, of course, somehow, a way to feed and clothe myself, companions and people that will equally burden and enrich me, define me, and the somewhat disappointing product of all that productivity, efficiency and inspiration, always insipid and peculiarly familiar, half-plagiarised, un-original. But that’s the way we are. Then we think, no, there is more to this, and plunge back into the fray, once again. No, yes, no, no. Not yet.

One week through my first ICT; determined to change my job scope, and to find a way to contribute that is both meaningful and fulfilling, and emerging every other day to find myself increasingly detached from all that I left behind, somewhat. A new PSP, books on Bresson, and more, and not a moment in camp to read them, nor sit down, except to catch some sleep when the clientele leave.It is remarkable how much a little confidence and presence of mind can bring you; if there’s anything that I’ve learnt in the last week, it is how I am still neither young or old, and that I shouldn’t sit still where I have landed, and pretend that there is a promising future, because days of half-baked tedium and labourious orchestrating are really very much secondary. Where is the light, where is the flame? So, looking around, I find that I am, peculiarly, standing still.But it is good, considering the years of wandering in the wilderness. Somewhere to go, and someone wonderful to travel with, to be with. Hold that chalk; I might not need it. 

As the obligation taking up all of my time starts to take shape, it is depressingly familiar; almost 2 weeks of the same endless shifts and maintenance, the flurry of activity in increasingly monotonous spurts, and the yearning for an end to the numbing drudgery.

What did I expect?

I learnt about humility today; to watch with open eyes, to withhold judgement, to be clear about why and wherefores, the objectives, the destination, the purpose, and to roam far, and wide, and with wild abandon.

I’m amazed that I’m back in the army - for both wrong and right reasons. It’s a time of flux, of change and of that slow, languorous thrum of an engine pulling me into a shimmering, unattainable, distant sunset, and there are anecdotes and lives to revel in, in camp, away from everything else that presses in. It has given me a voice, reason to speak, pause to consolidate, even if there is a price to pay.

R has been startling, wonderful, lovely. I have learnt more, been through so much more, here with her, than I have ever experienced anywhere else; in a year, I have had my life turned inside out, with all the right questions, all the things I should have done, and a reason and impetus to straighten myself out. How could I ask for more?

Today, then, the stillness of a morning spent at home, for once, as I wait for the bustle to begin, again, somewhere out there, where men come and go. This is joy; a knowledge of being on the right path, going somewhere, and loving, and full of hope and faith, even if I can hear too many echoes, of, of shades, shadows, fallible man. Psychedelic, iridescent, coruscant, evanescent sunset, I come.

Months since I’ve last posted, but now there is every reason to do so. Hello, you, if you can read this, understand it, perhaps there’s hope, after all. I wander over the face of the earth, holding on to a balloon, counting seconds, scarcely knowing.