|
listen  jim guthrie read  the little prince laugh  ryan belleville
random © design and text by near-sighted 2001-2002 |
1562 Ornamental bottles line the windowsill and dim Ikea lights shine upwards, highlighting the mustards, the cocoas, the olives of the meticulously painted walls. Walls, furniture and complements of the department store window display. Simple, warm hues, sticks of bamboo propped up against the fireplace. Bookcases lined with crisp new hardcovers, no recognizable creases in the binding from this distance. Likely no recognizable creases at all. This is what I read, they say. This bookcase represents who I am, they say. A coffee table book of Basquiat prints. A CD collection boasting titles not too mainstream to appear somewhat culturally sophisticated, yet not too obscure so as to hinder the advancement of conversation by the normal people. 1564 Glazed eyes and sombre faces, mouth gaping on the barely functional carcasses upholstering the couch. Blue light flickers in and out. In that brief black screen between 30 second bumpers, eyes synchronize for a collective blink and widen again, as if feeding their carcasses with electric candy. We are insatiable, their eyes plead in a non-emotive sort of way... remain unemotional until a finger crushes the joy by depressing the "off" button. Near trauma ensues. Someone gets their act together and the blue light snaps back into the picture. Everyone is safe. 1566 A girl locks her vehicle. No acknowledgement is proffered, only a swift turn of her heel as she pulls out a large bag from Jacob, filled with high-end casual garments purchased to boost confidence, allowing yet a repeat turn on her heels tomorrow, consequently making another passerby feel petty and insecure about their own presentation. She nervously fumbles with her keys and runs in to immediately get on the cordless phone to talk about something that pains her. Something that even a bag of glittery denim and knee-length cardigans cannot remedy. Cypress Street My cheeks are so tight with tension they bleed. I continue to 1568, 1570, 1572, alleyway, 1580, 1582... walkman creating the soundtrack to these little moments that I am making mine. I walk for myself. Not to escape or to prove something as I have done in the past. Just walking to observe. Walking to enjoy. Down 2nd I buy a couple of batteries to sustain the walkman for the remainder of my evening stroll. A man says hello to me as he passes, walking his dog. I smile and say hello in return but decide to find a quieter street so I can be away from people for a while, just have my music and swish my feet through the piles of crisp oak leaves lining the bitumen. I choose my residential streets wisely: streets with arches of trees, sufficient lighting and that je ne sais quoi one requires of all late evening walks. It is romantically crisp. I am wearing my scarf and my autumn jacket, pockets enveloping my hands. There is something about the typical autumn wardrobe; somehow it feels like a neverending hug. I start at X and end up on a chaotic zig-zag course through the suburb to Y, looking left and looking right to decide whether heading to Z or W or back to X will consummate the walk, make it more special. I conquer all, and all points inbetween. I am confused yet certainly certain about a lot of things. Too many possibilities. I have the freedom to do fucking anything and become anything I want. I nod at the street sign and take a galloping leap into a pile of oak leaves near a hedge. This is fucking home. You hear me? This is home.
And I feel fine....... - 2004-02-23 |