Charles

John Fowles sent me into the realms and the spring of sadness yesterday.
i was a medium, saw everything behind those stones, saw how the cigarette
smoke curls, saw how empty the looks looked, heard not the words spoken,
saw the shadow there, the emptiness just sitting there.

and then i saw the image.
of this giant, humongous wheel, and on that wheels are humans,
you and me, and everyone else, antlike.
and we are pushing, i am pushing your back and you are pushing my back
millions being trampled on, millions being dragged, thousands being lifted on the shoulders.
and there are newborns, not yet accustomed with breathing but must move along with the
stream, dragged, pushed, lifted, whatever.
and he told me, in that moment, i am already an outsider, at that moment,
i am on the wheel and not. i was glad to hear that.
didnt buddha manage to be freed of this wheel?
you cannot stop you know, you can't afford it, or do you?

oh, and John Fowles wrote this:
You will see that Charles set his sights high. Intelligent idlers always have, in order to justify their idleness to their intelligence. unquote.
thats pretty sad stuff, but he wrote:
it was an unforgettable face, and a tragic face. Its sorrow welled out of it as purely, naturally and unstoppably as water out of a woodland spring. There was no artifice there, no hypocrisy, no hysteria, no mask; and above all, no sing of madness. The madness was in the empty sea, the empty horizon, the lack of reason for such sorrow; as if spring was natural in itself, but unnatural in welling from a desert. unquote
i thought i have found the perfect description to my camille claude postcard.

have a nice day.