So you’re turning me into a
prison cell without bars, a
gun without bullets, a body
without a skeleton.
I say, this is that you do
to me, my love.
You take the parts of me
you like and turn them into
a girl you could love and I am
standing here with trembling
hands and a heart too big
for me but perfect for a writer
and I am standing here with
all the parts of me that you
never wanted and I am
standing here with the me
you do not want to see.
And so you’re taking my bars
and my bullets and my skeleton
and pulling my bones apart
with your bare hands and look
you’ve left me spilling out all
over the floor, the me that is
too messy for you to handle.
You take what you like and
turn me into someone easier to
love - but darling, what do I do
with the parts that are left?
The sound of a train running along swiftly, like a floating dandelion, clang-tap, clang-tap, tip-tap, tang-tap, tip-tap, tang-tap sounds on the iron metal tracks.
It is a beat that is technically unstoppable.
A rhythm that I reckon even McCandless would be mightily proud of.
We dream of better traveling days, always without fail.
Like giants walking in our midst, we must stand on their shoulders, and take the first walk, and first learn how to navigate around our heart machine.
Living like swans on a Cluny Park Lake, paddling around a wild lake, like a private journey on a sunny day meant for taking photographs, synchronized for you and me.
Maps, maps, maps, coming as essential as they are to an objectified traveler, they are still folded paper. And folded papers were really paper planes when we were four years old.
And when at seven years old, you fuck around it with a rubber band, you will inflict bravado pain on the girl seated three seats ahead of you. That is love at primary mischief.
The altimeter becomes fickle, white the speedometer is on a maniac street revolution.
Preacher, preacher, don’t be hasty! Mama told me not to come but who could resist the jingling and jangling of walking aimlessly around with you.
We dot necessarily need to commandeer a van or plane. But we will need a good pair of shoes.
And taking pictures out from a plane’s window is just cliche, it will be like askin your pastor, “have you ever seen the rain? Amen.”
Let us just sing of transport, motorways and tram lines with a smile drawn on our face, covering it with a handmade
notebook, and we will smile with only our eyes.
Look at the grass that says when the wind picks it up, a flirt ever so slightly, until the fiddler grasshopper, always on a journey, springs in and gate crashes the moonlit party.
We will travel like Perec did.
We will travel like Proust did, with his mind in the crux of a Madeleine..
We will travel like Marco Polo, and the first time we ever heard his last name, was when Mother bought us a roll of mints to quell our childish desires at the mamastore. Till this day, that desire rears its super-size head at French fries.
If we can play it dangerously, the year of living it all dangerously, we will not purchase that air-ticke to Reykavijk. It is all 101 methods from start to stop, taking off and landings, the best we can do is to ignore the pull of Iceland, and quick-say our Hallelujahs in my powdered-floor room. We should throw in a victory dance too.
But you know I will travel with you one of these days.
And this time I promise we won’t get stranded.
Because I am planning to grow wigs just for our trip(s).
Casual Days is an almost-quarterly bilingual print magazine about meaningful everyday experiences. Each issue invites artists, designers, writers, photographers, idea-makers, style-setters, store-owners, friends and so on to share their thoughts about a specific issue related to everyday life. Their first issue is on Travelers and is printed in A4 size and about 70 pages long.