Quinten Surrepetitive

So you see it will have to be like this now. Living is a dance, where your moves decide your future position. But this is not to be confused with the misconceived conception that order rules. We create this sensation to keep panic at bay. We will do many things to avoid looking this in the eyes. We might not like what we will find. As usual the path of least resistance beams ahead, inviting as the quick fix we long for. There are times when the dancing commands our full attention. These are times of relaxation, as they block out the sun. The sun is a disk of unfathomable energy piercing most defenses. We will yield in its presence, and that is in order. Fortunately for us we are seldom called upon to commit ourselves to this degree. This is what the story of Abraham is all about. And this is something we have known, but either forgotten or denied. For we will take another step forward. The movement creates its own moment. And in the end we will die, obviously. This might not b...

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...