From Lisbon with Love

I dislike categorisations of any kind, as they are lazy: the only thing they do all the time is categorise. Simplify. Make their lives easier. Divide, box, package wrap, ship away and quickly move to the next topic.  My weakness is that I don’t like getting rid of things which are covered with words. Even throwing away an old newspaper can be a painful task. I tend to get tenderly  attached to anything that potentially carries a message.

Now you’ll understand why I have problems parting with people. They are a perpetual source of inspiration, they carry letters, words and punctuation marks in languages I often don’t understand. Who would like to have their inspiration boxed and shipped thousands of kilometers away? I’d like to put them in my pockets, or hang as a penchant on my neck and never to have to rid of them again.  

Now I’m a bit angry that it’s not possible, although I do understand, yes, of course I do. You can’t live your life without departures and separations. Understanding doesn’t stop me from being angry though. And as I’ve just been forced to get rid of a few incredible people I met, I’ll now try and get rid of my anger, voluntarily.

I’ll box those unique individuals. Wrap them and ship them, away from me. So that I can forget how real they were, so that I don’t feel the sorrow, the pain, the distress of missing them, the vital ingredients of my life.

I’m going to the warehouse now where I’ll  start sorting them right away. I’ve found two suitable boxes already. A few more minutes, and off they go.

The first category is people who are like prose. They talk a lot, they instantly establish contact with strangers. You like them instantly, too. They are cheerful, they tell you their stories which you believe.  They try to expulse all their meaning to the outside within the shortest possible time. After an hour with them, you feel you’ve known them for long.  They are like prose, as they seem to carry little hidden meaning in themselves.

The second category is people who are like poetry. These can be difficult to decipher, and their text is subject to interpretation. Their meaning fluctuates, depending on the recipient.  They can be moody, grumpy or plain sad, content,  exhilarated or mad. They are not the same to everyone. They require more effort, and you can’t possibly feel you know them even after a week together. They are like in Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of grass”: they contradict themselves as they contain multitudes.

Now, I’m sure the “prose” people contain multitudes, too. The thing is: they choose one of those multitudes -  the one they feel represents them the most. This is what they expulse to the surface. Like a volcano ejects its ashes.

The “poetry” kind doesn’t feel that need. Those are much more subtle, they don't usually impose their presence. I suppose they themselves don’t know too well who they are, which for me is fair enough. I like them, because they leave room for imagination. And mine needs a lot of space.

As those two boxes with some dear ones have been prepared for shipment, I proceed to deal with the remaining portion of my people-stock. The problem is – I can’t find the right box. They are neither poetry, nor prose. When I met them, I tried deciphering them as if they belonged into a known category. And this is where I stumbled.

They don’t expulse anything, they don’t invite you to read between the lines. They don’t even have lines. They are no books of poetry or prose –  they aren’t books at all. There’s no way you can possibly open them. Don’t even try – your paper knife will cut your skin, leaving no scratch on theirs. The only safe guess about them is that they are, I guess. That’s it.

I stopped here. I shipped my books of poetry and prose to their destinations, hoping to see them again in a year or two. What I’m left with are those who simply are, unboxed, unlabeled, here in front of me on the conveyor belt. I look at them, and I’m both mad and happy.  I don’t know what to do with them, because I neither know which box they belong in, nor which address I should put on the label. Therefore, I can’t possibly ship them anywhere. They’ll stay here with me,  populating the pockets of my brain, growing there like yeast.  But I know whatever I'll make of them isn’t true, it's only a product of my mind.

But the source – the true “them” remains unopened, uncut, unread and unresolved. The only thing I know about them is that they exist. So deliciously consistent in their being. They just are, all the time. My tower of Babel, my Big Bang and my Higg’s field. Mine and never mine - never mind. They are.