Have you seen a Jackson Pollock painting? A mesmerizing world of lines, incomprehensible shapes, crude brush strokes of violence, but most of all freedom of expression.
This week’s piece is based on a stroll I had in Fall. Do you ever go on walks without knowing where you’re going? You have a sudden and unexplained urge to run out and get away from yourself. When you’re far away enough and calm down, you begin to stumble upon imagery that seems off. Nonetheless, the obscurity fascinates you so much that you can’t help yourself but capture it.
The city suffers from schizophrenia. No doctor in sight. The twitching heads of unknown pedestrians vandalized his sight. Women turned and yelled at air. The intoxicated British jocks filled the city with their cocky banter. The wannabe local boys were joking around. They had no place to go. They felt overwhelmed by the seemingly vast choice of gay bars.
The alleys never smelled differently. No season could slight their throats and replace their flow with an incompatible smell. Fall made an impression like never before.
People were tripping on the cobbled path when walking towards the city’s bridges. Even on the ground they continued with their non-climax stories.
The yet-to-be brides of yet-to-be bankrupt entrepreneurs were enjoying a crab dinner. The gentleman from the adjacent table ordered a complimentary bottle of Champagne for the lady. It was left untouched. They disappeared without paying. The evening waiter jumped from one of the overpasses that night. He swore he’d do that if anyone ever leaves without paying on his shift.
The cats were still following him. Rubbing corners of the city’s skyline. His loud sigh was countered by autumn’s gale. It happened every time he started thinking about his past, reminiscing to the point of exhaustion. He would fall asleep entering a dream with no resolution.
Homme fait des rêves.