Neither East nor West; neither Greek nor Jew...
You never thought you'd make it out of the heat and bright, all-encompassing light. You followed a shadow (in your heart).
You stand back and observe the distances...observe that you're not really here either (and maybe never were). Still, when you walk along the familiar streets you do have the sense that all this is a dream, a profoundly familiar dream...
The seasons roll by. All the rolling of the die. The gods' warm hands in the clouds, yours in your pockets, dumbfounded, dazzled by the strangeness of your feelings, your lack of orientation (something beyond the jet lag).
There are moments when you feel truly blessed, surrounded by so many kids. Most of the time you're just trying to catch your breath, find a small place of silence and shade in which to be alone with yourself. I suppose there's always been this notion of thought only being possible when one separates oneself. To think is to die a little. The little is important...
On the 275 you observe an oldish man with terrible skin and a crooked leg limps and hobbles his way to a seat near mine. He carries an open black bag. He crouches over a book, James Patterson's Cat and Mouse and puts on some burgundy spectacles, transforming himself into a latter-day monk. He is utterly absorbed by the book, chapter 28. Alone, a survivor of the times, secluding himself from the harshness of the light, or having to answer any questions. He places his forehead down on the back of his hand (in which he carries a walking stick). It's all gone wrong but he can't tell where or why.This is it. Keep your breath pure. He wears stylish black Nike trainers ("daps"..a bit of South Wales there, for you). On second thoughts, this man is not what he first appears to be. In this second space of hesitation one sees that he carries some nobility with him-despite his awful choice in literature-which you think might be a ruse anyway. He speaks in a muffled way, chin down, his voice broken, words stumbling out of his mouth. On both sides of the bridge human beings remain incomprehensible...
At Barking a thin and short old Indian man looks deeply, intently into a freezer containing Diamond Seafood Shrimps. For a moment I think he's going to dive in. A bargain, perhaps. Or perhaps he remembers a moment from his childhood, when his Bengali father would take him to the sea and they would peer over the boat, looking together in the same direction as wave after wave broke, splintered and re-formed-as they've always done from time out of mind.
The East European women are all very thin. there's a glint of attractiveness behind the harshness of their lives. London is like some great resting place for travelers of all sorts. Only the Paks who came here in what seems an age ago still harbour secret thoughts of going back, of being unsettled. In many ways Muslims continue to be 'edge people', the non-jew non-jews.
~~~
Tony Judt's Memory Chalet is a wonderful gem of a book. As if to say: write down all the small things in your life which go up to make up a life.
You never thought you'd make it out of the heat and bright, all-encompassing light. You followed a shadow (in your heart).
You stand back and observe the distances...observe that you're not really here either (and maybe never were). Still, when you walk along the familiar streets you do have the sense that all this is a dream, a profoundly familiar dream...
The seasons roll by. All the rolling of the die. The gods' warm hands in the clouds, yours in your pockets, dumbfounded, dazzled by the strangeness of your feelings, your lack of orientation (something beyond the jet lag).
There are moments when you feel truly blessed, surrounded by so many kids. Most of the time you're just trying to catch your breath, find a small place of silence and shade in which to be alone with yourself. I suppose there's always been this notion of thought only being possible when one separates oneself. To think is to die a little. The little is important...
On the 275 you observe an oldish man with terrible skin and a crooked leg limps and hobbles his way to a seat near mine. He carries an open black bag. He crouches over a book, James Patterson's Cat and Mouse and puts on some burgundy spectacles, transforming himself into a latter-day monk. He is utterly absorbed by the book, chapter 28. Alone, a survivor of the times, secluding himself from the harshness of the light, or having to answer any questions. He places his forehead down on the back of his hand (in which he carries a walking stick). It's all gone wrong but he can't tell where or why.This is it. Keep your breath pure. He wears stylish black Nike trainers ("daps"..a bit of South Wales there, for you). On second thoughts, this man is not what he first appears to be. In this second space of hesitation one sees that he carries some nobility with him-despite his awful choice in literature-which you think might be a ruse anyway. He speaks in a muffled way, chin down, his voice broken, words stumbling out of his mouth. On both sides of the bridge human beings remain incomprehensible...
At Barking a thin and short old Indian man looks deeply, intently into a freezer containing Diamond Seafood Shrimps. For a moment I think he's going to dive in. A bargain, perhaps. Or perhaps he remembers a moment from his childhood, when his Bengali father would take him to the sea and they would peer over the boat, looking together in the same direction as wave after wave broke, splintered and re-formed-as they've always done from time out of mind.
The East European women are all very thin. there's a glint of attractiveness behind the harshness of their lives. London is like some great resting place for travelers of all sorts. Only the Paks who came here in what seems an age ago still harbour secret thoughts of going back, of being unsettled. In many ways Muslims continue to be 'edge people', the non-jew non-jews.
~~~
Tony Judt's Memory Chalet is a wonderful gem of a book. As if to say: write down all the small things in your life which go up to make up a life.
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