Human Like A House

A trip was made to the bookshop tonight despite the apparently hasty and hectic nature of previous trips that made the once very much enjoyable past time almost routinely tedious.

Deeply inspired and touched by a recent gold find (Ismail Kadare's Palace of Dreams) the day before, I ventured out to the once heavily populated patch of shophouses now converted into a hive of bars and small western diners in a desperate attempt to withdraw the self from my electronic companion. The plot revolves around a fictional Turkish/Albanian state in the Balkans whose governments has ordered the contents of every individual's dreams to be recorded and processed by it's dream interpretation facility to sieve out possible 'threats' and 'forewarnings' to the state and the life of a protagonist who is linked to a powerful family with immense political influence. Unfortunately, the book was never completed during my stay at the cosy shops (old and new) due to a couple of almost dream-like preoccupations.


i. The lingering presence of a girl in the mind.

The opportunity that led to more than a chance encounter presented itself in the form of a portable media player - complete with photos, videos and songs. Perhaps it is due to semblance of musical taste, the love of books ... seemingly common interests - but where do they end? Peaking into the life of another, yet ascertaining an unbelievable sort of familiarity.

Could it be love at first sight?

It is a question that I'm afraid to answer on grounds of uncertainty. It brings to mind Alain de Botton's Essays in Love and the ever familiar issues are once more brought back onto contemplation grounds. It is the feeling you get when you discover a like-minded individual amidst a sea of strangers - is it possible that another 'you' exists in this world? Intrigue and curiosity.

Though it was only for a short span of vaguely a quarter of an hour before she left for town, uncertain if it was made on the basis of personal commitment or that of friends, it delighted me in a way I can't quite grapple with in words.



ii. The seemingly maudlin career of a struggling couple.

It has been a long time since I've spent time in private with Mr & Ms. Booksellers due to their growing business and it was only during an atypical Monday night that old times were re-lived once more. Approaching closing hours meant the start of loose chat and their freed feline love child who was free to roam the prohibited grounds of the shop during the day. Cake, the cat is much better behaved compared to its kitten days when bites were dished out like tears from a Korean soap opera. The premises were cordoned off to the public momentarily, providing some form of safe-house relief from the outside world as I peered out of the glass door, silently observing the activities of alcohol consumption and smoke while couples and individuals attempt at shrugging off blues from a hectic day of work.

Not unlike them, I arrive at the same surreal environment of the old ways from a maudlin career albeit partaking in a fundamentally different form of anxiety for dreams no longer seem to work for a thoroughly exhausted mind as the night slips by.


iii. Every book a sacred relic.

It is a strange feeling of awe and entitlement as one holds a book in hand - especially one of great personal interest for it sums up the cumulative intellective effort of an individual. Pure brilliance or genius depending on what you would like to call it being given a physical form. To treasure such instances of human brilliance as the mind hums away at ideas and thoughts that re-examine life in a myriad of unending facades; providing emotional relief and triggering sensory receptors.

As the girl and I got set to unpacking the carton of desirably old runs of Penguin/Pelikan titles together, the other thing that crossed my mind other than a tinge of pleasantness was how these books have been imbued with an almost epic struggle of an individual before it turns up on a bookshelf.


The night ended with the security alarm of the local office of my favourite news publication (International Herald Tribune) going off into an obtrusive whine while a police car arrived some time later as the bookseller couple and I made our respective ways to some food and eventually home.

Waltzing away into the night. That is how I would like such a quiet night of quiet stars to be remembered as I peered out of the window into an array of urban lighting that look like frozen fireflies as the late evening breeze brushes by a face tired from dealing with an all too dismal reality.

There might still be hope in this world.
Some left for humanity I suppose.
But is it really enough to make me change my mind?

Strange as it is, a dream is a good metaphor for fleeting moments which do not last.
We forget all about them as the next moment arrives.

I suppose this could pass off as an authentic dream if I were to really submit it as a narrative to the Palace of Dreams.