Impressions from the sideline

At this time in the night, tired as I am, and with a belated headache as a background, I won't find the proper words, nor even the topic. For the last days, my Self is departed from the main course and runs along a parallel; I am lucky enough to get it back in the house around midnight... Bertie, the cat, does the same. Tonight I waited on him for an hour to lock the trapdoor... Call me crazy! That's me, just me.

And now that I came back from the sideline to the center of my routines, shall I drop my impressions?

Not much really. I keep listening over an over to Johnny Cash's That Lucky Old Sun, in a version for piano. Simple, too simple, but hypnotizing. That song is marvellous; the lyrics, pure humanity. Magnificent interpretations: Aretha and Louis Armstrong, Jerry Lee and Elvis, Ray Charles and Willie Nelson.

Talking about hard-working people, little Dorothy's uncle was one of them, from dawn to sunset, did not know joy. Grey is his color, as the eyes of his wife, though were not like that at the beginning. The first two paragraphs from The Wizard of Oz surprised me today for their directness. Indeed, it looks like a story for children, plainly, but for pundits and the savvy lettered, a meaning must always being stuck somewhere, conscious or unconsciously... There is also a trapdoor ready to spin with the cyclone, a larger trapdoor than that Bertie creeps out through.

And all through Highgate Wood, as I walked this evening in a whirlpool of thoughts, I reflected for a couple of minutes -and, again, I was swept away within the vortex- how big a pity is to recall Peter Pan as well as probably The Wizard of Oz from their endless movies and musicals. I will read the latter and see how I feel about, but the former is a master piece of literature, a tremendous arsenal of creativeness; its writing is sensational.

**

Why is that the "Human Zoo" of London loves EastEnders and Coronation Street?
Why is that I have not watched a single minute of any of them?

Is it, perhaps, I spend too much time swirling inconclusive thoughts and talking, talking, talking...?

Why is that the UK loves Cheryl Cole? Is she leaving ITV for American TV? The Fox?... I would understand: better pay. "Cheryl, come back!", I read in the tube somewhere, last week, and did not know who, what, why, where or when.
Is her from Newcastle, isn't she? Kind of like her accent... .

**

Silence is dense and speaks loudly in tube trains and lifts. Thirty-four people, varied and colorful, in just a few enclosed yards, packed randomly, ears clogged, heads pointing astray, away from each other, and Silence, majestatic, like the Ether watching fearfully upon the Space.

In silence, people read the same free-of-charge newspapers, in shear uniformism. The routine is itself uniform.

Eddies of uniformism in the tidal of a cosmopolitan city... Cosmopolitan city: true or mirage?

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