Fin de l'Année
Went for a walk today, in the arcade, to watch the shops wind down for the year. Of all the days in the year, Dec 30 is the saddest -- not the 31st, the evening of which would be spent in an atmosphere of conviviality with friends and television. The 30th does not hold the special distinction of being the last day of the year, does not evoke the adrenaline rush and euphoria of counting down to a new epoch, to the reincarnation of resolutions and directions. But the year is as good as over. This day is the deepest into the fall, is of the darkest of shades, before the fanfare of the eve sets in. People slowly turn off the lights of their consciousness, one by one, in preparation for the cyclical regeneration, but when the lights are switched on again, one perceives that what comes into view is no longer the same.
And so the 30th is the day of gloom -- not of wabi-sabi, the zen philosophy of the placid acceptance of passing time, but that of helplessness, of hate, and a desire to linger. Today I was observing the winding down of the world in the underground mall, and I spotted this shop where, so many years ago, towards the end of December, I had bought D_sm_nd a card for his birthday. It was a little establishment at the side of the arcade, with softly-lit wooden walls and parquet flooring, and delightfully filled with paper cards of all colours.
I understood that that was what I had been looking for for so long -- in all my weekend sojourns and aimless wanderings around the city, the thing which I wanted so, the picture in my subconscious mind, was that of an intimate, forgotten little corner in the midst of the metropolis, somewhere like a shelf I could climb onto and hide, and fill my immediate little universe with the plenitudes of childhood imagination.
As I walked into the cozy, colourful world of cards I felt as if drawn into a finality, a place in which the entirety of the year, its spaces and its humanity, gets funnelled into droplets of dreams, dreams of condensed murmurs and delirious notions, where the Now is forgotten and sensations become timeless. Sensations, not of falling into the bottom of a pit, but that of diving into soup, into foam and nebula, taking a bite at the piece of carrot that comes floating along; of slipping into a soft konnyaku cocoon, tender on the inside but crisp on the outside, and adorned with feathers, much like one of those pastries you would eat, as you would be eating yourself eating yourself eating yourself, timelessly never-endingly eat eat eat eat eat
...
After much browsing I settled on a blue card, pretty and minimalistic as the other designs were. They also sell postcards. At this juncture the bossa nova playing changed into a sad song; I watched as I slowly melted into the parquet floor.
Another year is ending; what have I done with my life thus far?
And so the 30th is the day of gloom -- not of wabi-sabi, the zen philosophy of the placid acceptance of passing time, but that of helplessness, of hate, and a desire to linger. Today I was observing the winding down of the world in the underground mall, and I spotted this shop where, so many years ago, towards the end of December, I had bought D_sm_nd a card for his birthday. It was a little establishment at the side of the arcade, with softly-lit wooden walls and parquet flooring, and delightfully filled with paper cards of all colours.
I understood that that was what I had been looking for for so long -- in all my weekend sojourns and aimless wanderings around the city, the thing which I wanted so, the picture in my subconscious mind, was that of an intimate, forgotten little corner in the midst of the metropolis, somewhere like a shelf I could climb onto and hide, and fill my immediate little universe with the plenitudes of childhood imagination.
As I walked into the cozy, colourful world of cards I felt as if drawn into a finality, a place in which the entirety of the year, its spaces and its humanity, gets funnelled into droplets of dreams, dreams of condensed murmurs and delirious notions, where the Now is forgotten and sensations become timeless. Sensations, not of falling into the bottom of a pit, but that of diving into soup, into foam and nebula, taking a bite at the piece of carrot that comes floating along; of slipping into a soft konnyaku cocoon, tender on the inside but crisp on the outside, and adorned with feathers, much like one of those pastries you would eat, as you would be eating yourself eating yourself eating yourself, timelessly never-endingly eat eat eat eat eat
...
After much browsing I settled on a blue card, pretty and minimalistic as the other designs were. They also sell postcards. At this juncture the bossa nova playing changed into a sad song; I watched as I slowly melted into the parquet floor.
Another year is ending; what have I done with my life thus far?