Small Worlds (pt II)
Small Worlds (pt II)
[TIL #3] Markets are places where all segments of society briefly meet before they return to the small worlds inhabited only by their own kind.
Tales of Ink and Light are short stories and poems told with words (the ink) and photographs (the light). I’m sending these emails twice a month ; every other week, I’m sharing a photograph and a few words on the story behind it.
I see the Tales of Ink and Light as a place of freedom, of imagination, of rebellion, of meaning-making. I hope that they will serve as a portal to the possibility of an escape, even if temporary, and that they will offer an instant of beauty, a moment of peace — or a good laugh.
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Small Worlds (pt II)
I’ve told you, the city is nothing more than a cluster of small worlds that exist almost entirely independently from each other. Except maybe at the markets, which are places of confluence where people from all the different small worlds can gather. Some come out of necessity, others for distraction, and they meet around things like an old lamp with a coloured glass — what a fair bargain. On the table, there is a unique artefact that opens a tunnel through time, kindly waving at us from ancient times when the world was so elegant and simple and painted in a muted palette. But the boxes under the table are full of the same stuff — what a fair bargain indeed.
I remember that time when we went together. I browsed the stalls with a disdainful gaze, thinking that in this unlimited offer of trinkets surely everyone could find something to conceal the void, but then I came to a halt in front of that place with all the vinyl records. On markets, i heard you say, it is all about movement and dynamics and flows. I remember wanting to ask you about those who cannot partake in the movement, but i did not know how and silence took over when you were done talking. As i sipped my iced soya milk latte, i remained unconvinced by your tales of an invisible hand. I recall that I thought that on the market, all hands were visible: some wrinkled by daily toil or bearing scars from cuts that only the sun took care of, others with long fingers that are white and clean and manicured. And all these hands flew in the air for a quick little dance, almost touching but not.
That day at the market, I remember seeing in a distance the manager who had not hired me the month before, and i felt the sting once again of the looks from the interviewing committee, all fine suits politely nodding at my answers while it was somehow secretly obvious that they would only give the position to someone of their circle and that i was no such person. I remember knowing with confidence that i was much smarter than the person who had got the job, and i could not believe that all that brain was of no use to me.
I had taken a turn to avoid passing closer to the manager and ended up buying a loaf of organic bread from a lad who had been in my class at some point, but only for a little less than a year, as it was a good school and it was somehow secretly obvious that it was not the best option for his particular capabilities. He had said hi with a beautiful smile but there had been no conversation due to the long queue before the stall. Then, that teacher who used to make the class laugh at my accent had paused to say hello and what are you up to these days, and i thought that he was only safe to ask because it was somehow secretly obvious that i could not deliver a solid punch to his old face right there on the lanes of the market, even though it felt like the right thing to do.
A few merchants whose day had started before dawn were drinking beer before the end of the morning, their voices loud and their laughter heavy as thunder. There was a small concert by a regional choir. It was somehow obvious that some in the audience were proud of their relatives while others found the traditional costumes ridiculous. I did not like the outfits but i was moved by the vocal energy — years after, on the basis of that memory, i bought a record but i never played it much.
At the market, i did not learn the lesson in economics that you imposed upon me as yet another layer of your relentless efforts to mould me to your resemblance. I remember thinking that masking my refusal to acquire the knowledge was a manner to show you respect. I feel the need to show respect much less nowadays. What i observed, that day, was that the market was where all segments of society could meet and mingle for a short while, before everybody returned to the small worlds inhabited by their own kind — small worlds that were less easy to navigate than the lanes of the market, small worlds with their own language, their own range of acceptable conversations and appropriate tones of voice. It was somehow secretly obvious that one would be a fool to venture into a small world where they did not belong.
That was the day when i decided that i would cross the borders between the universes. Surely, i began telling myself, somebody with a talent so rare would hold the power to access some extraordinary sort of hidden wealth. I had no idea yet of what the real treasure would be.
If we haven’t met, my name’s Pierre François Docquir. I’m a writer and a photographer based in Lisbon, Portugal. Would you like to know why I made Lisboa my home?
Thank you for reading the Tale of Ink and Light.
P.S. The Tales of Ink and Light are free to read. If they work on you — that is, if these tales make you smile, dream or think — would you do me a huge favour and share them with the people around you who you think would love them too?