Jodhpurs & Jujyfruits

There are blocks everyday.

People die everyday.

There is gothic organ music swelling and ebbing in the ether.

There is someone muttering “bummer” nearby and the smell of acrid pot wafting on an eddy of warm wind blowing irrationally from the right. There are ochres and yellows on the walls—an overall orange mood to the large room. You are seated at a long white rectangular table, light filters from a window to the right, unseen. And someone else repeating: “people die everyday, die everyday.”

There is something important here, but you can’t decipher it, not yet, but you feel you will. It’s comfortably warm here and a woman is moving about beyond your sight line with pleasant food on a white tray—you sense it but you can’t see her. This is an inviting place, you feel comfortable here.

But you can’t reconcile why it’s a bummer and why someone continues to repeat: “people die everyday, die everyday…”

“All of humanity is made up of nothing but bad poets … It’s precisely because I write such bad poems that one day I’ll be established as a great poet.”

— Milan Kundera / Jacques and His Master