Inner Ides
~
2004.03.01 19:27 KST (EST + 14 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
A time away. Five months to the day. So much time between walls and spaces spent thinking, watching, waiting for the thought patterns to gel into a colourful mosaic. One benefits from an abundance of perspective when removed from everything previously known: physical realms, emotional cues, visual truths. And the conch never has to be shared. Only when you get away from the crutches, the shelters and the apron strings does clarity start to flake and unfold the reality of your life like crumbling baklava or mille feuilles. And it's a hard thing to take, to accept or contend with because it rolls as a predestined marble towards a big gaping hole, and the questions all come at once making it that much harder to organize or answer them. There is a real and honest purity to solitude. Watching trees swaying on climbing hillsides backlit with amber dusk, they fall to and fro, to and fro, given orders by no one but knowing perfectly well what has to do be done, questioning nothing, knowing whatever it is on the inside that comes after eons of introspective existence, birth, growth and death.
Waves of emotion come like sunrises lately and I'd be dishonest to say that they're unprecedented, and even though they don new masks and costumes, I recognize them as peckish ghosts in search of exorcism. Books to be read, songs to be heard, feelings to be surgically excised, tears to topple and towers to fell. This life is a such a blindingly esoteric and beautiful thing: undecipherable and stealthy as it writhes and courses through the veins of our knowing, conscious and not.
I'll be twenty-seven in two weeks and gaze in the rearview mirror of my life and wonder, ashamed and awestruck, at where the minutes and weeks and footsteps have sauntered off to...? Où sont passées les belles journeés ensoleilées, assis sur les pelouse et les terraces de ma vie? Dove sono andato? ¿Adónde fueron? Have I failed to amass anything substantial or sellable or worthwile? Why don't I know six languages? Why can't I run faster? Talk about more interesting things? Play an instrument? Keep a better beat? Write better? Why can't I remember and piece together the sketchy visuals and muttered sound bytes of my youth? An odd multifaceted dichotomy that no one else seems to be asking. At least not out loud.
But, even by my own standards, this note has become far more hellish and whining than I'd anticipated, so as I mellow with every new steeping thought I'll streamline it down to these questions: Who has the twenty-seventh road map? And will it ship to Korea by the Ides of March?
Stay well, all. Je m'ennuie de vous tous. Mais plus important, je vous aime. Czech it, from here to there.
S*
Fave current track(s): "Happy Valentine's Day" - Outkast, "Lover's Spit" - Broken Social Scene
Current read(s) in progress: "Fury" - Salman Rushdie, "Paris Match" magazine
2004.03.01 19:27 KST (EST + 14 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
A time away. Five months to the day. So much time between walls and spaces spent thinking, watching, waiting for the thought patterns to gel into a colourful mosaic. One benefits from an abundance of perspective when removed from everything previously known: physical realms, emotional cues, visual truths. And the conch never has to be shared. Only when you get away from the crutches, the shelters and the apron strings does clarity start to flake and unfold the reality of your life like crumbling baklava or mille feuilles. And it's a hard thing to take, to accept or contend with because it rolls as a predestined marble towards a big gaping hole, and the questions all come at once making it that much harder to organize or answer them. There is a real and honest purity to solitude. Watching trees swaying on climbing hillsides backlit with amber dusk, they fall to and fro, to and fro, given orders by no one but knowing perfectly well what has to do be done, questioning nothing, knowing whatever it is on the inside that comes after eons of introspective existence, birth, growth and death.
Waves of emotion come like sunrises lately and I'd be dishonest to say that they're unprecedented, and even though they don new masks and costumes, I recognize them as peckish ghosts in search of exorcism. Books to be read, songs to be heard, feelings to be surgically excised, tears to topple and towers to fell. This life is a such a blindingly esoteric and beautiful thing: undecipherable and stealthy as it writhes and courses through the veins of our knowing, conscious and not.
I'll be twenty-seven in two weeks and gaze in the rearview mirror of my life and wonder, ashamed and awestruck, at where the minutes and weeks and footsteps have sauntered off to...? Où sont passées les belles journeés ensoleilées, assis sur les pelouse et les terraces de ma vie? Dove sono andato? ¿Adónde fueron? Have I failed to amass anything substantial or sellable or worthwile? Why don't I know six languages? Why can't I run faster? Talk about more interesting things? Play an instrument? Keep a better beat? Write better? Why can't I remember and piece together the sketchy visuals and muttered sound bytes of my youth? An odd multifaceted dichotomy that no one else seems to be asking. At least not out loud.
But, even by my own standards, this note has become far more hellish and whining than I'd anticipated, so as I mellow with every new steeping thought I'll streamline it down to these questions: Who has the twenty-seventh road map? And will it ship to Korea by the Ides of March?
Stay well, all. Je m'ennuie de vous tous. Mais plus important, je vous aime. Czech it, from here to there.
S*
Fave current track(s): "Happy Valentine's Day" - Outkast, "Lover's Spit" - Broken Social Scene
Current read(s) in progress: "Fury" - Salman Rushdie, "Paris Match" magazine
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