Monday, November 29, 2004

The light in the middle of the tunnel

Everyday I get a taxi to work. It’s cheap in Seoul. About two quid. The drive takes me through Namsan mountain, through the Samil tunnel.
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Leaving our flat, I forgot to pick up my digi-camera yesterday. Seoul’s trees and buildings are caked in fairy lights and it makes me stop swearing for a few hours and want to eat chestnuts, in warm paper bags, on the street and see all the family wearing scarves, fixing smiles. I wanted to take pictures of these things. Then send them home.
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In the taxi, under Namsan, with all the concrete and horizontal yellow lights I wanted to take photo of what I see everyday, but realised I’d forgotten my camera. I swore, quietly, just a little:
‘Shit!’
I explained to Natasha why I’d done so, and she replied:
‘You plonker.’
Fair.
‘Anyway, do you know what this tunnel reminds me of?’
‘No, how would I know that, dipstick?’
‘It reminds me of Princess Di. Things must’ve looked pretty similar to her at the last moments.’
‘That’s a bloody awful thought.’
‘I know, but don’t you think so?’
‘Maybe.’

After this I put my camera, the tunnel, lights, my blog and the Princess Di’s fatal crash into the blender.
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I’ve already got a tunnel photo. Whacked up on a wide aperture and ten seconds exposure. Way beyond what the human eye can do.

I thought, maybe I’ve got a photo of something like Princess Di saw at the last moments. You hear, and probably believe, stories of the ‘bright light’ guiding you on the moment of death. I figured:
‘Maybe it’s not that. Maybe the human eye, with the mind recognising death is here, performs what it never could. Maybe it sucks in all the brightness possible at the last moment – screeching for more light, more life, snatching all the vision possible, because it’s the last. The result is a glowing blast, a foreign explosion of illumination. Our last image a gigantic blur of light, a scream for more.’

I told Natasha and she said:
‘Write this on your blog. I’m tired of all the arse and swearing. You should be posting something more intelligent.’
I didn’t mention that I believe writing about my arse is the most intelligent thing I think I can do. I just said:
‘Nah. It’s way too pretentious and I don’t even believe it. It’s just a daft idea.’
‘Who bloody cares? It’s beautiful.’

Okay, posted.

What the Princess saw.

RuKsaK posted at 7:35 AM
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 Big Dog

Ruksak..

As you know, I went to Paris last New Year. We were there for a few days looking at a bunch of things french. We saw underground skulls, old churches, big towers and many frenchman. By far the most exciting thing, though, was driving up and down the seine looking for the infamous tunnel. We found it and drove through it. Sorry to say that none of the etheral light emitted for the passing of Di has hung about. It's a stark reminder that photocalls outside hotels are always worth considering.

I'm reminded of a joke I heard. It's in poor taste, so you'll like it.

What do Pricess Di and Arafat have in common?

They're both dead and they were both fucking arabs in Paris.

!