harja-waldaz

O London, faithless whore...

Never fall in love with it! That would only make you sad afterwards, for one can only be in the realm of freedom for a moment, no longer.
---Walser.

The last station, at the end of the line, facing all that wilderness, the long suburban hours of stillness, of dreary  Sundays and re-runs on the television. The papers lying in a jumble, the words half remembered, the smudge of ink, roast beef and potatoes and mint sauce, the long windows looking out into Vere Street, your collection of football badges, medieval heraldic badges of silver & gold. Tribal affiliations and genealogies fascinate the rootless, but to the true exiles they are only signs of loss, not of love.

Sort the prescriptions out on the carpet. Read the names and form a pile. Jones is a common name in the dark country.

~~~

North by north-west and I'm out of here.

~~~

There are no distinct lines, no one moment when it "happens". Where do we start and which line will we catch (or is it: which line will catch us)?  The way back, which you know blindly. The way back to the heart: not so easy. How you travel, then, and not just where.

There is more confusion and indistinction in life than theorists will lead you to believe. This incredible mixture, of fire and glass, mirror and bronze, sight, touch, speech. We were once the same, kid, you and me. The Greeks have got a name for it. The beauty of the equation, the humanity of the line curving inwards, the equivalences, the mutual exchanges, the gifts we bring one another and that are bestowed upon us.

There is a time for turning our face away, and a time to see: face-to-face. Ah, tears. The tears. Yes, a time for those as well.