Quinten Surrepetitive

The   passing of time, do you even want to feel it. Not sure we are built that way. perhaps we have no choice but to be bruised by the hard grip. And anyway, it does not ask. We should be humbled. We should bow our heads and relent. but we usually don’t. and the bruising will get worse. suddenly you are five again. maybe thats in our makeup too. the mountains do not ask our permission, so, we seem to think, why should we? In those instances when our woes are man made, we would have a point. But in all other instances, we should relent. It is not the same as giving in.

  You must be obsessed to gain entry here. You must break the rules, disregard your safety, ignore the door, quench your thirst. In short, you have to give it up. Then you might gain entry. But there are no guarantees. It might not be what you had in mind. This is not for everyone. and know this, once you are obsessed there is no turning back. Of course you can back off, but you cannot become clean again. This is the price. There is no shortage of candidates in spite of this. Each morning the floor needs to be swiped. They come in all forms and shapes. They persist. As this has gone on for some time, they shrink into background chatter, part of the fabric. In short, they invisibilise. Only by their silent intermittent sighs do you know they are there at all. So you adapt, and workaround it. For him, this became routine. Sharpening of the pen, cleaning the pad. (He liked his pad clean.) Some short minutes of looking at the poplar tree outside the window, all...

Jakob wasn’t there. He never was. He was the classic example of the absent father. He could nevertheless not be accused of not being present. His gaze could penetrate the thickest walls. Somehow, he just knew. This made people shy away from him. Noone likes to be subjected to such piercing blue eyes. Slightly blank, like water blurred the edges of those irises, just added to the discomfort you would unfailingly experience. In the gaze was a good measure of judgement. Not so much with words, what can they convey anyway? So he trudged on, unperturbed by the commotion in his wake. He had had to develop a rather thick skin over the years. Most things seemed to bounce off him, and you could be excused for thinking that nothing got to him. This was not true. A lot of things got to him.

you can take it with you. Beams are secured, old but working construction. will stand the test of time. The atmosphere is unmistakable.

Please, he said. don’t kill me like this. Take me to 13. I dont care about protocol, and if after 13 i am to go, i will not lift a finger. Forget about the flowers. Just go to 13. slowly the sun moved that day. How is it that time can stretch so? what is the mechanism by which this is ticking? Slowly, some would say lazily. Like the odd drops falling over Budapest that time, so long ago. hitting the large umbrellas with resounding plops. All was possible then. Only the word was missing. The word was not yet even formulated.

He ascended the stairs to reach fresh air. Fresh air and a new start. Crispy croissants and cafe con leche in a new setting. He could make a go of this. It didn’t matter the earlier times. He had free will, and wanted to execute it. He knew all about luck, and paid no heed to coincidence. He wouldn’t be bullied. But in himself he had to admit it wasn’t going well. He was honest enough to face up to the facts, at least in front of the mirror. It was something about luggage, no matter how he hated excuses. There are excuses that cover the real reasons, and there are excuses that are so well crafted that they fool the messenger. But in his heart of hearts he knew there were excuses that were actually true. He just didn’t really accept them. He had this childish notion since childhood, that his approach to dealing with things like this could affect their final outcome. And so he stubbornly resisted. No matter the weight of evidence tipping the scale against him. Becaus...

It was the thought of caresses that made him sick. Sick to the stomach. Sick to the soul. This is the question. Are you there or are you not? He looked in the mirror. The room was all sweaty and dense with depletives, unsorted and in a mess.

There’s the rhythm. Catch it. Can you catch it? Caressing your spine. Just love me. You know i am there. In the tap tap. Now i said it. I let it out. I thought i couldn’t. I was alone with my sandwich, and my glass of warm milk (tinged with honey). Building up the courage. Smiling to myself. Yes, scared. It’s a cold feeling, don’t you think? I let it go. Tap tap. Heavy sleep descending in its place. Moving in slo-mo, struggling. The all low level hitting the system hard. Not promising relief, just clawing at the edge of thought. A daily battle, it must be said. Oooo. The Green butchers. No, i didn’t I think the world is made of jazz. Jazz and concrete. It wasn’t always so.

To him the rhythm was the same, and he could sink in those rooms. White of light, and well used. The library was in three floors, plus a basement full of music. He used to go to the first floor, where the largest rooms were. His eyes would lose focus then. That was another way of relaxing. Of letting go. Slouched in the semi-comfortable chairs. Sometimes reading, sometimes not. The thick windows would mute the buzz of the city outside, the constant toing and froing of cars, like the flowing of blood in the veins of the huge city organism delivering little packages of the story, one at a time. It was also a safe haven. He would later come to call it graffiti literature. Not in any demeaning sense. It’s just that he didn’t fancy lying dead in the apartment for weeks. It’s nothing special about his fear. I heard of this actor who was so terrified of being buried alive that he always carried a hand written note in his pockets. Please check that i am dead before bu...

He said we were all bouncing balls, going to fall. He said it suddenly with conviction, as if he knew. And as if we listened. I didn’t. I doubt the others did. Flecks of plaster stuck to my hair, made me wanna sneeze, slightly colored if you squinted, as if she was still lingering there, you know? Now, of course, i wish i had. Listened. It would have spared me the wild cheep chase. Running after and running toward. He said hearts cannot be broken. Only scarred. But that was worse. HE said we all had it coming. He had seen it, and it wasn’t pretty. I have to admit it had me rattled for a while. Once i remembered his words, or trying to, grasping for air inside the gates. I could afford myself some introspection, now that i had made it here. What are you aiming at? Apart from the immediate, i am not so sure. He would agree it wasn’t bad. But he would ask for more texture. More to grind. Less space. He carried himself that way. I saw him on the way to the libra...

it’s not what it looks like. it’s much much worse. i found out the other day. The champagne was sweet, we had it opened and it was sweet. I wanted to take it for a spin so i tried to explain. About the lies. The small common misunderstandings we require to function. The looks in your eyes. They should be bottled and sold. They are a rare commodity. Take charge. Never mind the propaganda. Feel the silken soft touch. But beware the beautiful people. They are not to be trusted. What can i say? Corrosion. Corroded. Shifting shape. becoming familiar.

They defy assessment, if you let them, she said. I had no choice. That is totally wild, Ifigenia. I think you are brave, clear as the liquid of truth. But it is night. Shall we? Come look, and then say. I just happened to pass by. You know how it is. The will to impose. Crumbs of crackers collecting in your shirt. Bells ringing. The Dome echo. A giant music box. Calling in mist. Calling in cold. Calling. Life on the rails. Ears throbbing. From tiredness. From too many politely empty observations. From too much waiting.

Do you usually look people in the eye? What do you see? I don’t believe they are the mirror entrance to the soul. I think we are defenseless, but the eyes, that’s something else too. something about power, and animal. and that power, don’t underestimate it. it plays tricks with your mind. like it has a mind of its own. it makes you drunk, it does. It made me. Like a hot rod of energy. Flush ride. Then you need the rhythm. The tap tap keeps you sane. And it clicks with the tricks, fooling the mind to overcome any resistance, smooth operator. The looks burning, reddening skin. Furtive glances. Shows how powerful the look is. It’s physical. Slicing you in two, splitsecond dissolvment, followed by a slow countermovement in a spiraling move, rising up like smoke from the river, untethered by words anchoring the here and the now. Coming on for the landing flapping, focused on getting it right. The landings are hard, and they don’t get easier. The face, on the other hand. Why don’t ...

Sinking into silence. Tidying up by tying stones to unsaid thoughts, letting them go. Water sweet and dark, whirling slowly and creekily, playing around the stones. Already cold. The glue of connection hard to pry free. The level of grey can be cranked up, if desired. Just like that. Just do it. To top it off, as it were. And for a moment you think it will go unnoticed. You tell yourself it will be fine. Looking out those demented windows, past the flimsy excuse of a curtain. Looking at the trees, not moving. Looking at the road, not arriving. A thing of beauty, rusted. The wind is not here now.