I am standing on a thin, translucid glass plate. When I look down, I can see a reflection looking back. It is not me. It is the child. Its look mirrors mine: it is puzzled to see me. Of course, it is always surprising to realise that the body you have been using is not yours. And it is always surprising to realise that your thoughts are not yours. We recognise each other every time we meet in this floating place, yet we are always surprised.
There is a crack in the glass. It is a tiny little crack, a very pretty little crack, without which it could be impossible to perceive the reflecting material.
Recently the crack has been growing. Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, invisible to the irrelevant eyes. I do not fear it. It does not fear it either. We do not have the resin.
If freedom is, to be born from the sky, untouched by earthly connections to progenitors, without the burden of their past on your innocent shoulders, then why, why can I not resist searching for the place our elders come from?
© asd – 2008
5 December 2008
29 November 2008
Where Our Elders Come From - Part 1
The other day I was having lunch with my father and my Godfather.
For a few moments the child in me quenched its hunger for life, over scallops and ile flottante (these were the very prerequisite for a ghostly foetus to awake to the taste of the blood from which it draws its nebulous form).
A constant flow of words had created a reassuring atmosphere and, after a little while, I stopped listening. The river of my thoughts suspended its course. But the child was awake, and it recorded everything. Its avid eyes had overpowered mine, and they were filtering life straight down to the core of my body. For the child does not have a body of its own, and it has no choice but to steal mine.
Yet, it was able to feel the reality of the present, an experience which I have never been able to live; as soon as I try to be, I already have been.
The eyes were looking at the window. It bore a white and red checked curtain. The fabric was vibrating with the words: "you are here now! you are here now!". Suddenly it came off the rail and struck my face: I regained consciousness at once and the curtain's chanting instantly ceased, only to be replaced by a frenetic round of question marks dancing before my eyes. My... my...
For a few moments the child in me quenched its hunger for life, over scallops and ile flottante (these were the very prerequisite for a ghostly foetus to awake to the taste of the blood from which it draws its nebulous form).
A constant flow of words had created a reassuring atmosphere and, after a little while, I stopped listening. The river of my thoughts suspended its course. But the child was awake, and it recorded everything. Its avid eyes had overpowered mine, and they were filtering life straight down to the core of my body. For the child does not have a body of its own, and it has no choice but to steal mine.
Yet, it was able to feel the reality of the present, an experience which I have never been able to live; as soon as I try to be, I already have been.
The eyes were looking at the window. It bore a white and red checked curtain. The fabric was vibrating with the words: "you are here now! you are here now!". Suddenly it came off the rail and struck my face: I regained consciousness at once and the curtain's chanting instantly ceased, only to be replaced by a frenetic round of question marks dancing before my eyes. My... my...
"My God! You wouldn't believe how much they took! You don't inherit money, you inherit debts! Uhm...!"
© asd – 2008
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