The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Tonight was one of those sublime nights, a night where you sit there as the sun goes down over the meadows and the only word that you can summon between reluctant lips is ‘Wow,’ only you’ve burned your tongue on a freshly poured cup of tea and so you simply sit there in stunned silence and contemplate what a majestic universe it is, even though you’re only familiar with one planet sized portion of it, and ascertain that if the rest has even a fraction of the beauty inherent within the world that you yourself know, well then you should at least conclude this sentence. And then you wonder why you came inside to write this all down, instead of remaining to watch the sun sink into the rolling storm clouds and exhaust itself with the coming of night. And you decide that the answer, beyond the superficial coldness of my being, is that now a moment has been captured forever. Picture postcard for the world to remember. Weather’s lovely, wish you were here, and damn it, don’t blink.

You’ll miss it.

Through the Looking Glass

She closed her eyes
And said 'I'll tell you,
What I see on the other side.
What I see, on the other side...'

'It's too late to live forever'
She whispered to me
While we were sleeping with the enemy
'It's too late to live forever'
She whispered softly through the night

She closed her eyes
And took three steps back
Said 'From here, I could see the whole world.
But I fear, to be a part of that world.'

So I let her cry on my shoulder
For I'm the only one who knows her
I'm the only one who knows...

She closed her eyes
And waited,
For the sky to burn.
You live, you learn...

Here Comes the Sun

Dreary English rain, for the last week solid. And who knows before that, for before that I was in Morocco. And, because life’s like that, I was there wishing for rain. Well here you are, your dreams have come true and now you’re desperate for a bit of sunshine. We always want what we can’t have, and then, when we get it, it’s never enough… Contentment is the secret to happiness in life, but then, the moment you’re content you’re complacent and the beauty in life is replaced by… by what? By the commonplace? But then if you’re content with the commonplace, it becomes the beautiful. Right? So what am I trying to say? That I’m not content? But I am. For now. It’s just I know that somewhere along the line this won’t be enough. And who knows if anything will ever be enough? Maybe we just drift forever, hoping to reach that place where we say ‘Here, here life is good.’ And then we drink to the health of the world. And maybe I’ll find that. Maybe here in Oxford on the banks of the river, or in a chalet in the French Alps, or somewhere, anywhere, on the ocean. Some place where the cold, refreshing water crashes over you in waves, and the wind whips the salt spray in your face… For that’s always been my heaven. Wherever it is. Cali, Cornwall, Hawaii, Morocco… or the South Pacific, when I finally make it there and marry my Tahitian princess. And maybe then I’ll be truly content, for I’ll live no longer in this world, but in my dreams. Shyah. Like they’re always telling me: ‘In your dreams Davey, in your dreams.’

It’s stopped raining.

For in That Sleep of Death

So I just woke from a dream. And a frightening dream at that. I dreamt I was a soldier fighting in World War One. And don’t ask me to explain any anomalies of time that might crop up. But I fought in one battle, just one, three weeks after having been recruited. And, mercifully, the battle wasn’t part of the dream, but the before and after were. And the strongest thing within this dream was the fear. The fear of the first battle, from which I and my faceless friend were among the 3 percent who made it. But more than that, the desperate fear that I would have to go back, for after the battle we made our way to a youth hostel in Morocco where we were waiting for our next assignment. Don’t know where this dream came from, but I have always wondered how those men did it. How did they conquer that fear? Although I s’pose in my dream I conquered it, even as we were building our own coffins before the battle. But in reality, I have nothing with which to relate it. The closest I can come maybe, and it’s not very close at all, is playing rugby. Where before it starts you might have butterflies, but as soon as it kicks off you forget everything, and you do whatever the hell you need to so as not to let down the other fourteen. But the greatest fear there is the fear of injury; not of death. Our generation is blessedly lucky to not have an experience like that. For it’s the age we are now that would feel it most strongly. But anyway, in my dream I sat around for days waiting, and began to wonder if Army Headquarters had the wrong phone number for the hostel. And so like anyone would do, I began a project; one which my high school soccer team, bunch of pricks that they happened to be, were rather disapproving of. But then, they didn’t understand it.

I invented electricity.

Paint Me a Wish on a Velvet Sky

One day, you'll look, to see I've gone. But tomorrow may rain, so I'll follow the sun. Follow it all the way out the Marston Ferry Road and down a dirt path beside the river to the Victoria Arms for a drink on the lawn overlooking the Cherwell. And I could have sworn I'd never left Oxford. My final night here last year was spent with Dave, from the office, drinking shandies on the lawn and watching a troop of Morris Men dancing on the terrace behind us. And so it was again. Same company, same view, same view, and same cultural oddity on the pub lawn. Morris Men, to the unenlightened, are some bizarre cross of middle-aged men and fairies, dressed all in white with bells tied to their legs and prancing around waving handkerchiefs. Very peculiar custom. The accordian ensemble was jolly good though. And so it's back to Oxford, the city that hasn't changed in a thousand years. Except the neighboring children are a little bit taller, and a little more freckled, and the windows on the flat are a bit easier to open. The little things that make us so happy right?

All I wanna do is live by the sea.

Hey Fish and Chips!

Welcome to Marrakesch. You'll find here the best escargots, the finest orange juices, the most wondeful spices in all of the world. Take no notice of Mustafa's cart right next to mine, selling the exact same things. I give you bargain price. He say 3 dirhams? I give you 2. He say 2? I give you one. One dirham. You buy three, I make four a gift for you. Here take. No good for me. You take. Gratuit. Free. This is Morocco. I am your friend. No? Still no good? I undercut Mustafa not enough? Gift not enough? I make you best offer. You stay here. Watch cart, serve snails. I go home get money for pay you. I pay one dirham each, you take my gift. Best offer yet. But only for you. Only for my friend.

Only for this is Morocco.

Yay Catholicism

Says the American tourist with a fine sense of irony. Footnote to a more involved conversation that meant nothing. So why mention it? Because it happened. And I forget my life, even in the moment that it passes me by. So what else happened? Close your eyes, take a breath, remember this moment orever. And remember the next moment, the one that'll take all of the hopes we have now, and either dash them to the floor, or give us glory forever. And thent ry to remember the subject you began with. The remembrance of my life. So I said the other night, 'I don't know why I'm here, for in a week's time I'll have forgotten it all.' Which is partially true. I'll remember the general story, but not the details, and then have simply a sketchbook and some photos I didn't want to take to remind me. So if life really about the stories you can tell? Or is it more the summary of everything you've ever done that makes you 'you'?

And why do I care so much?