There are four buildings sitting outside my window. They are aligned along the railway in the direction of Station RAI. They must be at least 8 storeys high with probably 4 flats on each floor. That makes it 128 flats in total. 128 families living on top of each other, compressed into 4 rectangular shapes.
The green of the trees between here and the 4 blocks of flats drives a dense edge between us. Between the trees a canal further keeps them at a distance. I don't know whether at night they try to crawl any closer. If they only moved one or two inches per night I would probably not notice it. Until when it's too late and they're really close.
Each flat is so compressed, pushed in a geometrical form. Drawing a line beyond which it's private. At the same time a defense from the outside and a cage which does not allow us outside.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Everybody sits down
Everybody sits down. I often wondered why people sit down at meetings. 'We've got to sit down and discuss this!', you hear often. What's wrong with 'stand up and discuss this' or 'take a stroll and discuss this'? One reason or another you always end up sitting at a big table. There was a time when at the far end of the table there was a chair bigger than all the others. It's many years now that I don't see that. Now the CEO sits not at the head of the table but often on the side. It's probably a tactic. Personally I preferred the days when the CEO was sitting on the throne. That way it was easier to aim at him.
Somebody's being mum. The choice is coffee or tea. Sugar. Milk. You would expect it that after more of a decade of starbuck you could ask for a large soya latte single shot with cinnamon when you're about to start such an important meeting. Stoicism reigns when it comes to meeting room drinks. I accept a coffee with milk no sugar thank you and start sipping it preciously although I know that the milk will inevitably make me run to the toilet in 90 minutes. Nothing wrong with flushing it all out once in a while.
Somebody's being mum. The choice is coffee or tea. Sugar. Milk. You would expect it that after more of a decade of starbuck you could ask for a large soya latte single shot with cinnamon when you're about to start such an important meeting. Stoicism reigns when it comes to meeting room drinks. I accept a coffee with milk no sugar thank you and start sipping it preciously although I know that the milk will inevitably make me run to the toilet in 90 minutes. Nothing wrong with flushing it all out once in a while.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Chapter One
Whenever I try to write a word, or should I say type a word, there is a little man who's cowardly pulling me back. The word may not be exact, it may not sound good, it may fall flat, it may reveal too much. It may be black and white.
Have you ever tried to choose a font for what you're writing? The font which would reflect what you're saying, who you are. Apart from the fact that what you're saying and what you are may be two different things, or in fact maybe not a thing at all, is there in fact a one font which is worthy of carrying our words?
Finally I faced once again the old "Courier". The words appear in front of me as if I had just typed them on an old typing machine. When I get at the end of the line I almost expect to hear a bell warning me to start a new line.
The two mice are facing the window looking away from me. I suppose they need they room too.
By keeping the typing going it is much more difficult for the little man to stop me. I suppose it's the speed at which I type.
Finally the evening is staring at me. The day has not accomplished enough. I have not accomplished enough. Once again generations of disappointed parents stare at me disapprovingly.
My mind tries to pull a few last tricks. What can I do to quickly prove my worth? What can I do to pull out once again some smoke to throw at people's eyes and show them that my living another day was not futile.
To accept the futility of the day. The ultimate challenge. To accept the futility of life. The inevitability and obligation of life and the un-necessity and pointlessness of life. One other day filled with activities. One other pointless day.
Creepy evening. It arrives before I expected. And then again I can't wait for the evening to arrive. Because only in the evening I find I can do something without expecting anything.
Have you ever tried to choose a font for what you're writing? The font which would reflect what you're saying, who you are. Apart from the fact that what you're saying and what you are may be two different things, or in fact maybe not a thing at all, is there in fact a one font which is worthy of carrying our words?
Finally I faced once again the old "Courier". The words appear in front of me as if I had just typed them on an old typing machine. When I get at the end of the line I almost expect to hear a bell warning me to start a new line.
The two mice are facing the window looking away from me. I suppose they need they room too.
By keeping the typing going it is much more difficult for the little man to stop me. I suppose it's the speed at which I type.
Finally the evening is staring at me. The day has not accomplished enough. I have not accomplished enough. Once again generations of disappointed parents stare at me disapprovingly.
My mind tries to pull a few last tricks. What can I do to quickly prove my worth? What can I do to pull out once again some smoke to throw at people's eyes and show them that my living another day was not futile.
To accept the futility of the day. The ultimate challenge. To accept the futility of life. The inevitability and obligation of life and the un-necessity and pointlessness of life. One other day filled with activities. One other pointless day.
Creepy evening. It arrives before I expected. And then again I can't wait for the evening to arrive. Because only in the evening I find I can do something without expecting anything.
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