Tonight is all about having nothing to write, but writing anyway - in the vague hope that forcing words into the keyboard will somehow cause them to self-organise into something either insightful, thoughtful, or perhaps at least relatable.
Saturday becomes Sunday in half an hour. I’m wondering where the day went - or the week for that matter. Work and home have pretty much consumed me recently; hence the relative lack of verbiage pouring forth across the internet from my keyboard.
I’m sitting in the dark of the junk room listening to a playlist called “Paris Café”. I’m wondering if the combination of piano, acoustic guitar, saxophone and accordion are a caricatured stereotype or a real “thing” that pervades every live music venue in Paris.
I chose the playlist because it’s mostly instrumental - or if there are words I won’t understand them - so they won’t break my train of thought. My knowledge of the French language is somewhat limited; I can ask for an ice-cream, tell you how old I am, or buy a ticket on the train. At a stretch I can combine simple phrases to tell you how much I love my red pencil case, or that my trousers are very long.
In the same way that American jazz ensembles conjure Charlie Brown, French trios seem to recall Woody Allen movies. Oh to spend an evening as Gil Pender did in “Midnight in Paris” - walking through an unseen portal to a place, time, and people you’ve only heard or read about. I wonder where, when, and who each of us might visit?
It’s the classic time-machine question, isn’t it - if you could travel in time, where and when would you go? Who might you like to meet, if only for a moment or two? What changes might you make, and what differences might unfold as a result?
I suppose in a strange sort of way we’re making choices all the time that influence what happens next. Is it better to look forwards and wonder what might be, than what might have been? Probably. We get to choose the future - or at least our part in it. Both a privilege and a burden at the same time.
John Keating’s monologue to his students in “Dead Poets Society” comes to mind once again;
To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
What will your verse be?