Mr Mascellani's Musings

I'm going to take this to mean: what is something that I most can't

dispense with, get rid of, do without.



I can't think of a single 'most dispensable' thing. The only things that

I can think of, off the top of my head, are my townhouse (which is

half my sisters and is actually still, technically, owned by the lending

/mortgage company ) and my record collection.



But even these two things (house and records) are not, strictly

speaking, indispensable. When it comes to the house, I much

prefer to live in a house that I (will) own, even if its a part

ownership- than to pay rent. And I quite like my house.

However, no matter how much I like, how much I love it, how

much I consider it home. I could (and probably would) dispense

with it for a better house in a better locale (something cozy and

comfortable and beautiful in a tropical paradise, for example.)



As for my records, I could probably find most of the music

on them on CD or the internet. But the actual records

would would be much harder to replace; some of them would be

irreplaceable.



I started buying records when I was 12 years old and stopped round

about the time CD's came out. I buy CD/s now but nowhere

near the frequency I used to buy records. I used to buy at least

one record a week from the ages of 15 to 22. So, there's a lot of

memories and sentimentality behind my records AND I love the sound

of stylus over vinyl - especially when it comes to punk and jazz-and,

again, there's the 'irreplaceability aspect- but, no, they are

dispensable- under certain circumstances and for the right price ,

I would dispense with any and all of them. Yep.



Self-Portrait -Adam Zagajewski
Translated by Clare Cavanagh

Between the computer, a pencil, and a typewriter
half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.
I live in strange cities and sometimes talk
with strangers about matters strange to me.
I listen to music a lot: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich.
I see three elements in music: weakness, power, and pain.
The fourth has no name.
I read poets, living and dead, who teach me
tenacity, faith, and pride. I try to understand
the great philosophers--but usually catch just
scraps of their precious thoughts.
I like to take long walks on Paris streets
and watch my fellow creatures, quickened by envy,
anger, desire; to trace a silver coin
passing from hand to hand as it slowly
loses its round shape (the emperor's profile is erased).
Beside me trees expressing nothing
but a green, indifferent perfection.
Black birds pace the fields,
waiting patiently like Spanish widows.
I'm no longer young, but someone else is always older.
I like deep sleep, when I cease to exist,
and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses
dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.
Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me
and irony suddenly vanishes.
I love gazing at my wife's face.
Every Sunday I call my father.
Every other week I meet with friends,
thus proving my fidelity.
My country freed itself from one evil. I wish
another liberation would follow.
Could I help in this? I don't know.
I'm truly not a child of the ocean,
as Antonio Machado wrote about himself,
but a child of air, mint and cello
and not all the ways of the high world
cross paths with the life that--so far--
belongs to me.

Next Writing Prompt 12: What is the meaning of "He laughs best who laughs last"?