Now that I actually abandoned the thought of swapping London for a life in Bermuda, I am very much loved up with St. Lucia. Don't get me wrong, I don't have a particular interest for the Caribbean, but there is something impossibly attractive about these small places, surrounded by water, forgotten by the grey cosmopolitism. Places you can't even see on the map if you don't zoom in. Places where you are the other and the otherness takes your identity and you are one and the same thing with all that is unknown in the world. And the beauty of your disappearance is undeniable. Speaking Kweyol.
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I think beauty of one’s disappearance lies in his freedom to follow his split identity - the pieces are like those small places on the map.
So you can swap English for Kweyol, if you feel like speaking.
Somehow, this reminds me of my beloved poems, Pessoa's Escaped One
I am the escaped one,
After I was born
They locked me up inside me
But I left.
My soul seeks me,
Through hills and valley,
I hope my soul
Never finds me.
I like to say: I don't seek my soul, but sometimes he meets me through hills and valley.
Gathering my soul from my flights.
We have birds inside us.
If I summed up I would say I am now mainly interested in effortless outer spreading, but the sort of fireworks created by inner extravaganza.
And what I mean here by extravaganza is the predictable ocean-size ego developed in accordance with some unwritten laws of artistic behavior.
To love art up to the point where you lose your faith in it. To reach that space where the word art doesn't mean anything anymore because it never meant anything in the first place.
The no-memory country. The no-clock-ticking country. The no-identity country.
I just read a paragraph in an article by a British journalist who writes for The Times:
"I believe that Shakespeare, along with Milton, Donne and Chaucer, has a place in modern Britain. And that place is deep in the bowels of the British Library, where he can be studied by hardcore language students."
Maybe it seems irrelevant, but it made me laugh great time.
Cynical and delicious.
Fireworks created by inner extravaganza. This image burns with a silver flame - a hell of a sparkling self.
Well, I get it. The ocean-size ego developed in accordance with your defying behaviour, "defying" means to hear the sound of your waves as the only ocean you’ve ever heard.
You don’t believe in art, you just live-being there.
The no-memory country, the no-identity country is finding No Land where nobody fears for the tick-tock crocodile which in fact, is a harmless creature, he’s mute and blue, the green colour is just a memory of his stomach.
I’d rather say that the article is witty, for the combination of modern-bowels-hardcore-library in describing of the plied. And, of course, "witty" is a dear term to the language students, allowing them a nice convenience: to lose in translation.
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