I took this journey because I felt powerless. I discovered that
beginning a journey is easy when you feel hopeless or desperate
or insane or groggy or unmotivated or unaccomplished or
whatever a reason you can come up with, really.
I think a lot of it has to do with forgiveness – you either
can’t forgive someone or yourself and you hope
your journey will make forgiveness fall into place along with those
tiny scraps of wisdom you will inevitably steal from
wiser people than you. And your ambition is a tad over the top now, yes, believe me, everyone can see it, the fire finds its way out. It is so easy to leave
when you had enough of embarras de richesse, it is so much harder to
follow the rules of minimalism at home, but it was never easier to come back
when you realise you were a genius all way through.
I started in LA. Above me are the coffered ceilings of the apartment du jour
in Old Hollywood, brave victorious undefeated old Hollywood;
The real estate agents get excited because Marilyn used to wash her teeth here a while ago. Old fashioned dandies and haughty wrinkled women walk their daily walk,
talk their fashion talk; Rodeo Drive, Valentino, Boob jobs, labiaplasty, Jimmy Choo,
juice cleanses and the like, all of them wearing death masques made from vehement frivolousness and resurrected vitality. I walk into a seedy pub full of drunk ghosts;
James Dean chatting with Errol Flynn over a few good ones. Someone howls my infamous name, now I am a star at a party for one in an empty bar, where they say the best whiskey is served, I bet this whiskey is infamous like me. I bet Errol Flynn would disapprove. I bet
it is all unimportant in the first place. The bartender asks me to give him a blowjob
– I tell him it would ruin the atmosphere and
irreversibly spoil the taste of my Johnnie Walker.
Corruption is my hero in Peru; corruption and wine, corruption and wine.
I’m eating two hundred kinds of potatoes and consuming their meet, the hearts of their children, the arduous plantation doesn’t grow that quick, no, you have to wait, in fact they will beg you to wait. The steaks are tender like memories of a child, it’s like diluted heaven served on a charred toast with jam and some butter, I eat greedily, I eat hastily,
it is never enough, minimalism abolished and dumped.
Marching through streets of Firenze, I pass sylphlike bodies, weightless merchants and invisible gypsies. This Italian vogue is like forbidden candy floss, you ain’t gonna give it to kids too soon – desert it, forget it and then eat it for breakfast as it is the sweetest lover you ever had. I am cooking forgiveness al dente – one must be careful about forgiving and being forgiven too quickly or too late, too late is never vogue, unless it is vintage.
Dandelions and wine, dandelions and wine.
I have fallen out of a window in Paris (do not pronounce the ‘s’) while eating pink macaroons in a pink apartment. I think I have mispronounced ‘Paris’ and got punished, a glorious death by flying. What an ordinary ending indeed in a city that never forgives. I was gluttonous for some romance and I decided the macaroons were The One. Now I am smarter and I know
it’s better to starve than love or crave for love (both of them are the same).
I took a nap in Amsterdam, casually, so sleeplessly, leading the eye and legs on the surface of the shameless waters. It’s dawn, it’s this feeling again, perverse dreams breaking like enchanted mirrors and you can hear the window being opened by an old whore with a cigarette in her chapped lips. She looks straight ahead, refusing to follow the cycle of our gazes and right now, just like the flutter of a trapped butterfly, she extends her arms, maybe she thinks she is dreaming and maybe she dreams indeed, but anyhow, it looks as if she is daydreaming above the array of tenement houses with similar disillusioned broken souls shooting for the stars. The scenery resembles a powdered acid drop bought during a carnival; Amsterdam’s children wearing colours of naivety, guilt, infidelity, heralds of loss, it all reeks of secularism invented by a Darwinian braggadocio. Here, a golden, citrus-like curl submerges in the sunrise’s spark, a blurry silhouette of new impatient ripples on the water,
an ended eternity, sharp and undefined,
I was blind until today.