Beyond the Tanhauser' Gate - a fragment
In this world, where antennae and sodium lights dim the midnight sky, where rain pours down the vast canyons built of steel and glass, where people run like ants, we exist. There is a precious few of us; disregarded, unwanted, almost disembodied, we live covered in plastic sheets of provisional raincoats. You don’t see us; you may pass us on the street a thousand times, look into our faces and forget it the next instant. We all look the same for you, somebody once said; you, on the other hand, you all look the same to us. How can you think you are any different one from another, boast about variety of hair colours and eye shades while you don’t see the difference between the Corean and the Japanese? They don’t look remotely alike. At least not to us. To us, it’s you who all look the same.
You despise us for invading your precious countries, claiming the jobs none of you wanted to take, even the Eastern Europeans whom you seem to despise only a bit less than us. You seem always to hate people you depend upon; your economy would fall to pieces without us, the faceless army of dark-haired peaceful ants, sweeping stores, selling goods, feeding you.
And amongst this army, we exist. And you hate us even more; I guess we are the ones whom you’d love to eradicate if only you had a chance. For we possess the knowledge of this precious secret you gave up years ago, traded it for easiness of pictures and recorded voices.
The writing.
We never liked your pictogrames; they seemed so trivial, so one dimensional, with no more than one meaning. How could any of us, delighting in the art of kanji at five and creating one letter haikus at ten, be even remotely interested in the symbols of the Western world, the red and white letters, the shells, golden arches, stars and spangles? None of it appealed to us. And yet some of us found refuge in those places you visit so rarely. We discovered that words of the West, though always printed in one way, could carry many meanings. And although you needed five words to explain something we would encompass in a single sign, we started to like the complexity of your sentences. The old ways you gave up. The books that will cease to exist forever when their pages are covered in mould, dry up and crack, get burned. Sometimes we wish we could memorize them all, but to what purpose? Nobody would listen to us, although I can imagine people walking in the fog on the riverbank, reciting words of the odas that exist solely in their memories.
We are despised even by our own kin, seen as secluded weirdos, as those who did not put up with the modernity, could not embrace progress. Progress would be standing on the pavement, transfixed by the gigantic face of an idoru appearing on the screen as big as the skyscraper. Her lips move but I can’t hear what she’s saying. There is a temporary lack of sound; probably the wires got wet again or a hacker tampered with the Internet connection. You get it happened all the time now.
Dublin, October 2004
You despise us for invading your precious countries, claiming the jobs none of you wanted to take, even the Eastern Europeans whom you seem to despise only a bit less than us. You seem always to hate people you depend upon; your economy would fall to pieces without us, the faceless army of dark-haired peaceful ants, sweeping stores, selling goods, feeding you.
And amongst this army, we exist. And you hate us even more; I guess we are the ones whom you’d love to eradicate if only you had a chance. For we possess the knowledge of this precious secret you gave up years ago, traded it for easiness of pictures and recorded voices.
The writing.
We never liked your pictogrames; they seemed so trivial, so one dimensional, with no more than one meaning. How could any of us, delighting in the art of kanji at five and creating one letter haikus at ten, be even remotely interested in the symbols of the Western world, the red and white letters, the shells, golden arches, stars and spangles? None of it appealed to us. And yet some of us found refuge in those places you visit so rarely. We discovered that words of the West, though always printed in one way, could carry many meanings. And although you needed five words to explain something we would encompass in a single sign, we started to like the complexity of your sentences. The old ways you gave up. The books that will cease to exist forever when their pages are covered in mould, dry up and crack, get burned. Sometimes we wish we could memorize them all, but to what purpose? Nobody would listen to us, although I can imagine people walking in the fog on the riverbank, reciting words of the odas that exist solely in their memories.
We are despised even by our own kin, seen as secluded weirdos, as those who did not put up with the modernity, could not embrace progress. Progress would be standing on the pavement, transfixed by the gigantic face of an idoru appearing on the screen as big as the skyscraper. Her lips move but I can’t hear what she’s saying. There is a temporary lack of sound; probably the wires got wet again or a hacker tampered with the Internet connection. You get it happened all the time now.
Dublin, October 2004
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