Something is missing, always.

[TIL #11] Slices of lives, moments gone instantly, a few things from an ordinary day. Oh, and there's a small gift, too.

Hi there, before the story of this week, a quick note to let you know that i'll be sending these emails on Thursday from now on, as it makes more sense in my weekly planning. But that's just me: please feel free to read the Tales whenever you wish :-)

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Something is missing

There will be elections. On the radio, experts are debating: well-educated people explaining what the future will be if the people vote for this person and that person. Like fortune-tellers really, except they show no concern for the satisfaction of the audience — the horizon is gloomy, they argue, times are hard, and in essence what you take away from the show is that you have every reason to be afraid.

The old woman walks barefoot in the park. She appears to be absent, at least to some degree: it seems that her mind is sharp-focussed on something different from her immediate surroundings. Yet, she pays enough attention to approach passers-by and ask for some money. Between two attempts, she bites into a half-eaten bun she holds in her left hand. On a bench, a hipster reads a novel from the past century. It is winter, benches are mostly left unoccupied, but he has decided that he would elegantly exist there, preoccupied only with great literature and ignoring the cold. He also ignores the small woman. She reminds me of another beggar i had seen in another country, her feet bare on the cold winter road. I love walking barefoot in the grass or in the sand but i hate the cold. At night, under the heavy layers of duvet, i'll wear heavy wool socks — they might be an ugly bright orange but who cares: i hate the cold. Do beggars still feel the cold?

In the café, high-school students skipping class, making plans for the evening and sharing loud tribal laughs. A woman in her 60s brings her iPad ten centimetres to her face to read, she reluctantly moves her bag to allow a couple of tourists to sit on the chairs next to hers and returns to her reading. There are laptops on almost every table. A girl and a boy are watching YouTube livestream of a UN meeting without earphones and the sound spills out in the room while they are living their nerdy boy-meet-girl story. Others are making business appointments over the phone and promising quick results to their clients. The business conversation i listen to for a while sounds like a poor camouflage, it is obvious that the man was simply feeling lonely and needed to speak to someone, he called a business contact and now repeatedly discusses the same details over and over gain. At least he is not alone any more, but is that all they could speak about? In a flash of mental clarity, i become aware that the soul gets smothered under too many layers.

An old fellow with a cane slowly crosses the road at the red light, cars stop but do not honk while the grandkids wait for the green light, impatiently waving at their rebellious ancestor. As i pass by a closed historical building, i am reminded of the high-pitched voice of that acquaintance who once explained that the renovation works had been suspended in promises for more than 10 years. It sure is a sad story of public money that mysteriously vanished, but what an annoying voice he had. The supermarket branch where i get my oat milk is closing, the cashier’s tone is bitter — she’s going to another store on Monday but is not happy about the involuntary change. My sympathy for her troubles is short-lived, i am more annoyed that i have no clue where i'll get my oat milk next week.

Thin slices of lives, moments that are gone instantly. Is that all we have really? Surely something is missing, right?

Something is always

missing.

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When i saw these photos on my screen, i was reminded of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, a book by Richard Bach published in 1970. There was a copy on my parents' bookshelves, i read it as a child while listening to the movie score by Neil Diamond. The book had black and white pictures of birds on the beach. And as i write this, i now think of a beautiful exhibition i saw at Hangar in Brussels: des Oiseaux presented works from photographers who are part of the collection ‘on birds’ by the Atelier EXB publishing house.

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Would you accept a small gift from me? Rooted in a childhood memory, trees is a photographic tribute to the mysterious majesty of leafy beings. For a few more days, the ebook trees is just a couple of clicks away from your inbox: just head to https://www.pierrefdocquir.com/trees, add the ebook to the cart and use the discount code TIL+TREES at checkout. You will receive an email with your download link.

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Thank you for your interest in my work. May i invite you to write back if you'd like? I'm curious to hear what you think, who you are and how you got here.

I wish you a joyful and peaceful year. The world needs peace; joy is a good guide to follow.

P.-S.: If you enjoy reading, you can buy me a coffee, but sharing the Tales with your friends and family is also a very effective way to support my work.