Tuesday evening, Port Mahon, Oxford

-

Reading Alain de Botton still, The Art of Travel. I’m intrigued by his chapter on Wordsworth (what a beautiful family name for a poet!) how he claims that nature makes us better, that we are no longer competitive etc etc Alain describes leaving a meeting in London when he was taken by the usual human bullshit (is he/she more successful, more intelligent, more whatever better than me?)

Before going to a concert in East Oxford, I had some time so I went walking in the near nature of the city. My bus stopped at the bottom of St Aldate’s, near the Court, and I decided to sneak into the path leading to Christ Church garden, then instead of turning right into the meadow (I did not have so much time) I went towards Dead’s Man walk (don’t know why it’s called like that? Check it on Wikipedia!)

Obviously there is nature, or a semblance of it, that didn’t stop many rather disagreeable characters to be walking as if they were in the city of New York after a bad day in the office.

I saw this beautifully dressed man (didn’t check if himself was beautiful or not) on the pathway alongside Merton College leading to Dead’s Man walk. It has wearing a nice suit and shoes, oh the shoes! English surely but with very thin soles, walking fast, stressed out and the path had to be his, solemnly his, so I stepped aside -not that I got a thank you – and nothing around him: the flowers blooming in Merton College garden, the old and thin trees alongside Corpus Christi College, stuck together showing some delightful roots carved over the years, easily one century maybe two, nothing indeed saved him from being miserable and a bit selfish.

Having said that, we’ve all been there, so taken by work politics and stress that we forget everything else.

But some are taking nature as a tool for competitiveness, there’s the climbing of the Everest of course, or perhaps not but you must be seen wearing one of them puffer jackets, there’s the social obligation of going places if you are of a certain social class: the posh French must go to Rome on a weekend for example, and the posh English to the Lake District. Hopefully the beauty of place (the Lake district) and people in that place (Rome) changes us for the better?

I very much hope I will think of looking at the sky or anything coming from nature (a flower escaping from the concrete, a spider lost in the office, a fallen leaf or petal) when I am upset because of stupid reasons.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

on the death of one's colleague

-
very very strange thing, the death of one's colleague, and at their disappearance we only then realise their greatness and kindness somehow... Gudrun was a colleague of mine and I chatted with her on Monday (or some time last week I am not sure) about her holidays, the great time she had driving in the States visiting so many places there, and me telling her about one mistake I had made (forgot to order one of the textbooks for German) and her being so kind about this, almost humourous, me commenting about how neat and nice her working space was... then I believe it was the day after, I saw her in the restaurant while I was having lunch with other colleagues, and then that was it, next time I heard something about her, she was dead. And we went to lunch at the same restaurant, and I sat, without noticing I have to say, at the place where she was sitting when I had last saw her. Very very strange indeed, the accidental death of once's colleague, too young to die really. And I ha...
Read more

First poem in Spanish (avé les corrections)

-
Paris en los años 80 Mi corazón era como una nueva canción Como un tango nunca bailado Amigos y yo todos los tiempos bailábamos como la música estúpida de América que no comprendíamos pero bailábamos y la nueva vida socialista era bella nosotros íbamos a colegios ricos donde los chicos estaban asustados no hablaban, no jugaban como nosotros pero bailábamos en mi barrio con amigos y después la universidad y bailábamos bailábamos todavía el muerte y el amor bailaban la última danza se llamaba sida y bailaban bailaban bailaban El agua corría en el Sena siempre Y ahora también corre, Y yo, A veces bailo, a veces cantando Mis canciones mil tiempo cantando mis tangos mil tiempo bailado pero soy. 80 in Francia François Mitterrand Presidente La musica de Madonna, Police, Michel Jackson Sida epidemia
Read more

Hav-Oxford

-
Image
 Sometimes you hear about a book and you want to read it and it's pretty much like a date, and you really have a crush on them, looking forward everything they will reveal to you, their charm, their wit, their beauty, their kindness, and you may be disappointed once you're there, it turns out you have been imagining things in advance, projecting too much, forgetting reality. And your date is tired, or upset, or distracted by the ex who's suddently appeared in the restaurant next to us or whatever. You date is alive but not necessarily well. But books are not like that, or at least books by authors you like, there will always be some bits you like: the appreciation of one's style, a certain turn of phrase here and there that deviates from it because the author was too young, too old, pissed off that day and so many other things like their ex sitting near them in the cafe where they're working who knows?, but you're rarely disappointed  - or I sincerely hope so. I...
Read more