Posts tagged diary

12 June 2011: Forgetting

I forgot my toothbrush. But I brought two shavers: I knew I had forgotten something and
now I know what it is. But I didn’t know I had something extra that I didn’t need. But now
I know, and the strange feeling of knowing I had forgotten something has ended. Like a
watermelon with a heavy and sharp knife! Kaaaaaaa! With the beautiful sound I jump out
from the orbicular unknown. The sound is abstracted from the chaos: there was not even
darkness . . . what a sweet chaos . . . and now the watermelon has lost one of its possibilities.
You can never cut into it as a whole and make this heavenly sound again.

That’s what I feel myself now: I was thinking and checking a lot to make sure I had
everything in my luggage. Have you seen an electron? I felt like it: moving my mind from
one point to another. Moving my body from the bedroom to living room . . .

Ok, you haven’t seen an electron. Me neither.

Anyway, now I’m like a core of the atom. Let the electron run. I don’t care. I’m enjoying my
wine under the blue sky. And I have so many options for my dear teeth.

I watch the street: this is a colourful country.

A colourful man is passing by. His honey face, green t-shirt, blue pants and grey hat.
I realise that I forget something else: a hat! It’s cold, right? A different forgetting, right? A
mellow watermelon break itself with a faint aka . . . It looks sweeter.

Many Dutch people look strong, simple and healthy. Their skin is honey-coloured, as if
made up of ocean wind, sunshine and clean air . . . warm and beefy people. Can I say they
look delicious?

Man! What are you saying? There are some people who think the muscle guys on magazine
covers are good for cooking bouillon. Are you one of them?

Yes, I am. I’m sorry. I will never cook a human being. I promise.

I’m sorry about this dark mind that also escaped from the crack in the watermelon. I have
been a human for about 40 years and I think I have already forgotten it . . . What jetlag! It’s
pulling my leg. And my legs are still weak after 10 hours’ flight . . .

Was I a tiger? Or worse: am I a lizard man?

The two shavers: what should I do with them?
My hat: made of animal skin.
A watermelon: once I invited people to eat watermelon together with the rule that there was
to be no talking so we could listen to its last possibility: to be eaten.
A flight: from one half to another half of the globe.
Something happened on the way.

© Andrew F. Jones


© Yan Jun

I write a poem on my laptop. Leave it on the bed. Then go eat breakfast: go downstairs, past the cleaning lady, tiny yellow flowers and dandelions, grit and dust and garbage on the small path between two communities, wind on my face and the sunshine too, with dust and insects; of one of them ends its life in my right eye . . .

And the poem is continuously dragging me back: I haven’t finished it yet. I’m going out of its margin.

“Give me a frame before your stupid breakfast!” the world shouts to me, in the impolite sunshine.

I’m trying to describe. The margin of a day. In my diary.

Why not start from yesterday afternoon 4 pm and end it now? Who needs the stupid 24-hour-separated day? I’m not sure what happened at my last 4 pm. I guess something must have happened. But who needs to know?

Some moments of yesterday afternoon I was sitting in a taxi with three friends from Switzerland and Japan. The right hand of the driver  was moving up and down, genteelly, with its white glove, dirty, to the rhythm of the music: a waltz!

And a huge, soft, almost still American guy riding his petite electric bike just to the right of the taxi. A waltz for people who drink too much Coca Cola. A waltz for a silent taxi driver. And for four black T-shirt guys going to a noise concert. Oh glorious adenomas and final climaxes sound in the cowed cabin one after another . . .

Wait, sorry: this was in the afternoon of the day before yesterday.

So hard to frame anything.

But actually, I saw the same American guy from another taxi again, yesterday afternoon!

He might be a Swiss guy. Or German. But from the ocean of possibilities he rises up with an American reflection. A body framed immediately! A still body on a tiny moving electric bike: extracted from hundred of cars, bikes and everything in a city of noise.

Sure, I’m trying to cut my diary away from its margin. And I don’t know where that is. The way I’m trying to escape my poem that’s dragging me back.

After breakfast I go to a pet shop to buy food for my cat. My friends are still sleeping when I return. My laptop is still on the bed. I evoke the aftertaste of the concert last night: the sounds were so weak that they could barely be heard. So many sounds emerging with them from the environment.

Actually, one of my friends is already awake. He sits on the rocking chair with his laptop, entirely still. He did not exist when I opened the door of this still room.

And the room is no longer still.

Read more about Yan Jun on PIW.