This is my second consistent diary entry. I ought to be praised for it. The apple sign popped up on the screen of the phone connected to this laptop. Two women, looking perplexed, walked passed me. The duty-free sign is obscuring the reflection of people on the window. Some planes are visible; they land with such speed – one does not feel it inside the plane. The apple sign’s appearance implies a charging phone – this implies “internet”. But – how mean, low and “under” is it to leave you, my beloved vocation – writing – (to write) so hastily, for an airport’s tumult, no less, for the mere internet. I lied. The airport is not chaotic or busy, and passengers are only visible sporadically. A little cutie pie, a girl, is raising hell – running in circles with her tiny suitcase. The workers are weird. Airport workers seem ostracized, in the periphery of life. It is the only place where all kinds of people are welcomed into drudgery: Perhaps the rejects from each category end up pouring their life, surrendered to an existential crisis, into these wretched places. I refuse to, thus, be an airport employee. “If only that girl was culture,” I say, only her nape visible, as she walks past me with an air of alluring sexuality. Her body refined, slithers into a well-kept face. She walks like Rosa Luxemburg – if Rosa, literally Corbyn murdered her, lived today. I wish such women were theorists and revolutionaries. This post-left, post-structuralist world has cooked our minds away from actual inquiry to image intensive posturing: It is cool to be pedantic, to reiterate facts about Scott Fitzgerald’s sex life. We miss Emma Goldman, Rosa Luxemburg; the factory girls remain a cutesy – zany imagination. Where is Simone de Behaviour?
In midnight in Paris, Mr. W. Allen takes on the notion that the past was somehow “better”. The protagonist is writing a novel about a “nostalgia shop owner”; the author believes ‘another era was better’. The world, in Woody Allen’s surrealist form, shifts to accommodate our protagonist, the author, in the 1920s: He awaits a car every night; as the clock strikes 24:00, he is taken on a ride back in time. Scott Fitzgerald and his lover become the vehicle for his convergence with Ernest Hemmingway, Picasso – and, finally, a girl that makes him pessimistic about his fiancé. After various occurrences that I do not want to enumerate not to ruin the movie for future viewers; it turns out the girl loves another era that passed before her birth. Everyone feels the past was more magical. Our transient and short-lives, even, manage to accommodate what ought to remain evanescent ideas; the world was admirable when we were 15, but at 40 – “young people these days”. Romanticising an era embroiders all “golden” occurrences, images, ideas, thoughts into one denote. The sticky, rough, grimy realities of that era effaced, we adore only that portrait – sieved, wrong, misconceived. The past seldom passes through my mind as golden, neither my heart palpitates for an image or moment exemplifying that era. One thing has sufficed to be uncanny within our generation though: Our young say “young people these days”; “my generation – good lord – the past was better.” Are we the only generation that can honestly assume sometime in the past was better? We are the only generation that constructs such opinions about its own generation: Elders opined about the young they did not understand. We understand ourselves, our fellow travellers in this world: are we this enigma that can be annexed from any correlative imaginations and misconceptions of the past? Bring back Rosa Luxembourg.