I am in Brno for the first time in a series of practically infinite moments. The trail that led me away from here and then eventually led me back is complex and not necessarily coherent. And, after all, that is life. We only desperately place together meaning in retrospect where, really, there is none to be had, only our yearning for something more than the twisting, looping, crooked and staggered path we trace through our existence. Here, then gone, briefly making scribbles already beginning to fade on the parchment of our age. Fuck um, I say. Obey no others’ rules but one’s own. Be slaves to duty and cultural pressure on longer. Discard your useless upbriging and peer directly into the only future you have with no baggage from childhood dreams, adolescent fantasies or a young man’s cunning but ultimately useless ambition.
I am in Brno for the first time in a series of practically unnoticebale moments. Memory is a jokester. Though I understand that many years have passed, what I recognize is minimal so far. Moravské Náměstí remains mostly intact after the weathered years. It was there I met the Smaller One after she performed an obscene alteration to her heady folicles. I suspose that memory is mostly intact. It was night, but the trams crissed and crossed the same as they still do today. The bookstore I used to spend days sitting at and reading Bukowski and McEwen is still there. When I say days, I mean during the day whilst the Smaller One was occupied by schooling or somesuch. It was a weird time. I was caught between by loniliness, an alcholism festering beneath, my desire to be with someone who at least partially respected me for who I was, and a suppressed creativity that threatened at any moment to burst through and swallow both me and everything in my vicinity both physically and emotionally. Perhaps it eventually did.
At the flat in Židenice that I refuse to let nostalgia lure me back to, I mused over the first versions of portions of Seven Draperies - the so-called Magnum Opus I’ve been waiting to finish since my first lyrical sketches in 1999 overlooking the Danube and waiting to board a ferry where now there is a bridge, obliterating again another “purity” of memory. Sometimes I get it when these old conservative assholes bitch and whine about how things used to be and how progress has erased everything “sacred” in the near multiverse. Humans long for anchors. Living life adrift is difficult. I well know because I did it for thousands of epochs and inbetween each of those epochs puttered about with temporary anchors whose tethers to my bone and hide eventually frayed setting me loose again. Ah, Sweet Entropy. I belive it is appropriate to lay that term to rest. It’s truly sad when you find yourself locking in conversation with those who hold on to anchors that are now in a mystical past which only is accessible by the motheaten cloth of memory.
So, for me, possibly my point is that Brno was the birth of the melodies that will result in my so-called Magnum Opus -> Seven Draperies. I’ll get to work on it sometime this decade, you can be sure, honeybuničko. The pseudo-indian dude who just asked me how my Dal was agrees with my assessment. Speaking of nostalgia and memory, I believe this Indian Restaurant, dubbed The Light of India, was once a restaurant called something akin to Aura. My tattered memory, however, could well be mistaken and I am not disturbed in the least by that “fact”. The Smaller One and I used to come to Aura “often”, or more like “občas”, but the only remaning possibly quite false memory that lingers is of a badly baked stuffed lilek. Since that time, the only baked lilky I eat are the ones I prepare myself. Fucking up baked liliek will furthermore be punished by amnesia. I believe it will create a troop of simply better people, not to mention better baking fiends. No anchors to remember. No ropes or twine or tethers, frayed or not. Move forward. No more baggage from childhood dreams, adolescent fantasies or a young man’s cunning but ultimately useless ambition.
