Beneath the bridge

” In a field by the river my love and i did stand ,

and on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow white hand

she bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs ,

but i was young and foolish and now am full of tears.”

– “Down by the Salley gardens” W.B. Yeats

Domino is sitting , half swinging by the bar  and proceeds to recite almost word by words the exact soliloquy

i have heard before spoken by a man of similar age but other nationality in another place and time.

The speech was rather tedious and spoke of the topic of attracting the opposite gender praising his

ability to do so while lamenting his inability to start the process and wondering how it happens to occur

without any logic or comprehension on his part..

The first night i had landed at the establishment by the Budapest bridge had been a time of much joy

attention, and a show of feathers, much like birds and other animals must dance around a new visitor

to their territory but the following night a great change had occured and Domino had taken to speaking

to the barman criticising a woman who was interested in the barman passing cruel judgement of her

physical attributes with the full confidence of an intoxicated or depressed being.

Travel is in many ways a great school of life without substitute in the academic circles but one can not

but notice patterns, repetitions of certain types of talks and certain types of people who tend to inflate

their life stories and speak of a life that is most probobly fictional in an interesting similar way;

there will be claims to a glamorous career in writing and always in a prestigious media channel

and so Carol whom i met in the Jewish area was no exception to the role, claiming a career in the media

and  how easy is it to make up facts and create a reality that is attractive and so easy to report,

who is going to check the facts? who is going to ask for an ID or a card proving the made up persona?

Writing , film making, photography are all prestigious careers claimed by those travellers , strangers you meet

in some pretty place by a bridge who abuse the innocence of a stranger and pretend to be someone they are not;

someone with a potential of fame , in sharp contrast to their true identity, a grey mouse living beneath a bridge

claiming its moment of fame from a trusting stranger listening to a fictional life story.

What i find though more odd than making up a persona and life story is the strangers you meet who actually

have a prestigious career but somehow end up throwing away their potential  rather than riding the wave

sinking beneath it , close to the bottom of the sea,  sharks who could have been at the top of the evalutionary ladder find themselves amongst the seashells , no different than a common crab, not ready to be more than what they are ,

feeling the waves rather than riding, finding the persona of a common crab a more comfortable home and the company

of common crabs more soothing than to ride the waves with the sharks and to have more influence on their ocean home.

Travelling is a school with no report cards or certificates of graduation but the one great benefit to having been through the school that is not school of travel is the authenticity of the stories one can retell and claim as one own’s making the stress and bother involved in travel worthwhile, the stories will be real even when the theme is those who are untrue.

About seagullsea

a seagull flying over the great ocean of life observing.
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