Ballard. I believe in the story of my feet.

Soon after posting about my shoes I visited the exhibit about Ballard at CCCB in Barcelona, open until November 2nd, . Among many fascinating things there is the text “I believe” published in 1984 in the “Interzone” magazine. While reading it, I realized that I coincided with many items. When I reached “I believe in the story of my feet” I was about to shout “Me too!”. Somehow we are the story of where our feet have lead us.

If you go to see the exhibition, don’t miss the video installation ofAnn Lislegaard, just before leaving at right.

Here some excerpts; the highlights are mine.

I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.
I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.
I believe in nothing.
I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Duerer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, the Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis Bacon, and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the planet.
I believe in the impossibility of existence, in the humor of mountains, in the absurdity of electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic.
I believe in the non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of the present.
I believe in the derangement of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.
I believe in the next five minutes.
I believe in the history of my feet.
I believe in migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of clocks.
I believe in anxiety, psychosis and despair.
I believe in Tokyo, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza.
I believe in alcoholism, venereal disease, fever and exhaustion. I believe in pain. I believe in despair. I believe in all children.
I believe all mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions.
I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of light.

New runners

I’ve bought a pair of new runners. The old ones, although they look ok, have the sole broken. I think about all the steps they have run, often along Poblenou beaches, in Barcelona, but also in London, Paris, Stockholm, Prague, Washington, Vienna. I’ve been very happy jogging with them.
I wonder which new runs are waiting for me with those brand new.

I think also in all the steps my feet have done since I was born.

First without shoes, or just bed socks, when I couldn’t stand up alone and depended on my parents or grandfathers arms to kick on a table or a stroller..
But soon I started walking and exploring the world around! I still have a great deal of that curiosity. With “Can Segarra” boots I went to school. Sometimes I would climb over the fence of a uninhabited garden trying to find insects.
And I grew up. Other pairs of shoes took me to the university, marriage, the first trips, becoming father of two daughters and assisting them to their first steps also.
Now, if I do an inventory of my shoes, I realize they draw a portrait of the life I lead.  Those worn out at the left take me every day at work, riding a bike. Back home, a pair of Chinese slippers from Beijing welcome me.
Dear mountain boots! 12 years old, their first time was at Pica d’Estats. They have walked countless treks; done the Tour of Montblanc and climbed the Kilimanjaro. On the right, newer and just 4 years old, my companions in travels, from Japan to Neckar valley.
Those are supposed to be my elegant shoes and they have done just a few km. They have been on opera house carpets; on the right for more informal  occasions.
In summer, “abarques” for promenades and sandals for walking.
Those have never been very far away from home, just to the sea to paddle with my kayak; dry shoes in winter, flip flops in summer.
The merriest: on the left the ones I use when dancing lindy hop; on the right the noisiest. When I wear them I know that I’m going to feel happy.
My collection shoes! Real “chiruques” still in use and coloured “espardenyes”.
I wonder how many more shoes I’m going to wear in the years to come and where they are going to take me. What if I would buy them now and put all them in a row? I would look at the end of the row and think that when I would put on that pair, death will be near, although my shoes usually last for some years. What if when we were born we would have already prepared all the shoes we were going to wear in all our life? Strange feeling.  I’d rather think that my last steps would be naked feet on the sand on soon erased by a wave.