Oh the flow of banality inherent to any human heart

[inspired by two hours this morning ]

Yesterday evening me and my mom went shopping at the semi-artificial riverside mall in Strasbourg which reminded me of last summer and reading Dan Clowes and Spiderman on the top floor of the Mediatheque, eyes over the quiet city and then on that afternoon I had also drunk a very tall German beer and everything was quiet until classical music starting blaring out from somewhere and suffused the whole strange tranquillity of a July afternoon in a deserted commercial area with grotesque joy and I had felt some sort of nonchalent bliss - the passer-bys eyeing me accusatory, for my three PM alcohol consumption (frowned upon on the female sort in these parts) or maybe for my tattoos but these had become invisible, to me, by then, just little post-its of who I wanted to be, postcards of a state of mind aching to be inked on skin.

Then we got home and it was late and bright, and laid the table nice, if only for the two of us, and I had chosen wine eruditely, good price, fantastic quality, which is one of my habits now when I return from good old Londontown as French wines still posess an air of exclusivity there, and a price tag to match, so we sipped away, me red, her a white from a Hungarian abbey we had visited the week before, and had enjoyed again a sumptuous bottle on Good Friday, on a deserted terrace in this rectangle of post-modernism with laughably good value vino, and again, the peace of quiet intoxication and time suspended conversation on that day, although we came to realize that the new born restaurant had been built on the location of the old fashionned csàrda we had organized Grandpa's funeral wake in five years ago but that only made it more relevant in its essential cyclicality, just like when he was burried and it was my 20th birthday and I didn't care about anything else but the image that one is sent off, one is received but both are celebrated equally. And me and Grandpa both agreed on the merit of returning to the ground instead of being incinerated, and I sat on his bench last week smoking strong rolled tobacco which he fancied and understood that sitting there was all but boring and maybe in my nostalgia I felt the trees develop their own character.

And yesterday mother and I, we dined good in our neurotic ways of carrot, beetroot, expensive ham and connoisseur cheese and I pondered upon frugality when I savoured my simple bread and wondrous wine meal. Then I wept a bit as we opened the wounds of family history, and tried to refrain from being mean, and succeeded, only by directing all the pain towards myself, as I do, because that seems to be de rigueur for the youngest of the family, always observe, and if in doubt, turn to masochism, or maybe it's just a trait that I inherited from one of them, possibly her, until I realized that there's a thin line between narcissistic self crucifiction and altruistic self sacrifice. Then I let her regain her position as my progenitor and she quietenned me down and I had no pride that would hold her back from doing it, which is an adult thing, I believe.

So we talked about inanities and it never felt so good to speak and say nothing then I turned on the TV but decided rather to read my book in bed, about some seedy crime in L.A. and a broken male detective as a lead, and it took some lamp adjustments and minor cable acrobatics to reach comfort but I did, and upon smoking my last fag of the day I decided that the next day I would have a breezy day, to not allow my head to get overwhelmed by its own duty dictationning, so I awoke in the morning a bit stiff from all the wine but glad for the promise of coffee and I did my push-ups, now a routine past the semblance of military style, and then undertook a light choreography of dusting, cleaning, folding clothes and singing to the nurture of aleatory tunes, which for once didn't make me sink into childhood reverie but they were just instantaneous melodies with no reverberation. I made a fruit salad with the colours of Hungary as an anecdote or just a coincidence, and read some fashion magazine but it being French it also had some pretence of intellectuallity. The sun came out intermittently so I sat on the terrace and smoked, and read, and had a white beer which brought summer back and prompted the penning of this, directly onto the keyboard and not hand scribbled into the black book in which we usually contain all these meaningless musings, but an interesting exercise nonetheless to have hammered all this here and not questionned why so I shan't do so now-

only the past brings back sentiment, the present is beyond its notice I'm bored of the torment but today my head was somewhat quiet, obedient to my request, but now I shall return to my second beer as I intend to get gently tipsy in order to face the abomination that is my father's girlfriend but for saying this I feel bad because I guess he does too, my dad who sometimes looks sad, although that might again just be my overthinking projections, me the benjamin, the once prodigal child, fallen into ordinariness only because I don't want to matter as much as I want to survive.

And by the way, someone should ressuscitate Ruksak.

[perhapds the childlike tone offends, as well as the hysteria of mass description but then again, this is only a pen, without structure, nor rhyme, nor rhythm - the utensils which are the required shield to elevate reality from sordid mundanity]