Monday, April 18, 2011

Broken pencil poetry. Clay

I used to live in a small, quiet town with my parents. Wherever you needed to go, it would take you about 10-15 minutes to get there. The streets were clean, there were chestnut trees on the sidewalk on the main street and you could really feel at home. The centre of the town was a long street, only for pedestrians. The forest was within walking distance and I used to go there every week for karate lessons.

Most people would say it isn't paradise city, nor extremely fun. It is my home town though.

Three and a half years ago, I moved to the big city to go to university. The place is a huge shock compared to what I was used to. Before, coming here for just one day exhausted me. The neighbourhood I live in isn't too great either, since it's right next to a big marketplace. It's dirty, crowded and loud. Public transportation is often ruled by the law of the jungle during rush hour.

The worst part about a big city is that you get lost in the crowd. You lose meaning, you have less chances of bumping into friends in the street. I used to be one of the "favourite" students because of all my school achievements. Nothing like that mattered anymore in university.
When I was still new in town and also still very homesick, I wrote a little poem about all my frustration at being in such a crowded place. One thing led to another and I found myself wallowing in it. I still miss home, but now my family isn't there anymore. It's easier to be away.

December 5th, 2007

I live here.
In this old domestication,
I live here.
And feel like I'm collecting dust,
Day by day,
Night by night,
With each passing second.

We are a mass,
We are a substance -
When all our dust gathers,
It moulds together
Until there is no individual.

There is no backspace,
No hidden illusion,
Everything is there, another part of us,
We are like molecules,
We are sticky, sweet and hard to swallow.

We go to this place or that
By tram, bus, tube, plane,
In masses, one huge wonderful army
Marching to its destiny,
To die for a common noble cause,
To be decorated and then forgotten
To rot,
To rot together...

Behold! There, in the corner,
With hidden eyes and gloved hands
Stands Procust with his tools,
Ready to pluck you from your soil
And throw you into a great pot
Of primordial soup.
We are the salt and the pepper,
That he whispers,
But when tasted
We still have no flavour...

We are all food for the worms though,
Why need we be so tasty?


  1. You were clearly exceedingly homesick/depressed when you wrote this, Lavi...that much is abundantly clear! I know that you have moved on to a happier state of being since you wrote this, even though I know your heart will always be attached to the place where you grew up.

    Cities can be horribly impersonal, noisy, dirty and even frightening, especially for anyone having grown up in a quieter, gentler, more caring and rural setting, which BTW I think is the ideal place to raise children. I'm guessing your 'cute little doggie' had a lot of influence in helping you to feel happier and more settled...and, of course, Scorpio ;)

  2. Quote about home from the movie Garden State:

    "You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore. All of the sudden, even though you have some place to put your shit, that idea of home is gone. Or maybe it's like this rite of passage. You will never have that feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, for your kids, for the family you start. It's like a cycle or something. Maybe that's all family really is: a group of people that miss the same imaginary place."

  3. You both are so right! I had just moved out, but even if I went back home to my parents' house, I still felt a lot like a stranger. However, I can't quite fit into this new place either.

    Desiree, I think the same way, when I have children one day, I don't want to raise them in this city.


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