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Tag Archives: Paris
There is a moment of sheer horror when truth is open for all to see.
When eyes that are closed are scared of the night time, and strangers that smile become the immortal.
If it t’were done, said the man, then get the f*** on with it.
Success is a virtue for those that don’t have it.
Speed is a problem for people in slow-mo.
Taste is a matter of feeling and substance.
Heat is a moment with wonderful distance.
If it t’were done, said the man, then get the f*** on with it.
So why this, why now? It’s because of a deal. The past and the future. Escape is always a negotiation between the two. A deal starts with what is, and moves to what should be.
He was in Paris on business this past week. Now, on other days, a trip to Paris is always an adventure. There are things to see, and people to observe. There are new tastes to acquire, and thrills to seek.
The adventure is still there, but there is something a little numbing about the Eurostar routine. It’s a comfortable way to travel of course, and the blackness of the tunnel marks a helpful moment in time. But the routine of a bus is not the same as a road trip. Ask the Beats. The crazy, DeLorean effect of time shift means that it’s just another taxi, just another office, just another meeting.
You are spoilt, the voice says. Others would love to be doing this. Maybe so, your quiet voice says. But your loud voice knows otherwise. That voice knows the pain, the hard work. It’s a job and that’s that.
Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 7
If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
Let’s hope that there is a difference between plunging a dagger into the back of a King, and making a business trip. Well, at least we read that there is. Macbeth’s problem was, of course, his wife, everyone agrees. Yes, he did the dirty dead. But was it his own choice, or did his Lady spur him on? Isn’t that all a bit ridiculous? People inspire others, to do all manner of things. But at the end of the day each of us decides what to do.
Macbeth killed. Fact. Can’t blame the Lady for the dagger.
Was success a virtue in its own right?
Did Macbeth’s success lead to an inevitable dénouement? Fate is at work. When a deal is done, do we recognise that moment of delicious unveiling? You know it’s for real. Yet you worry that there will there be a twist that blows everything apart.
There are too many questions.
The train speeds on. Missing stations. Hurtling into the fog with no chance of stopping in time. How the driver must trust. Signals. Radio. Putting instinct to one side and keeping steady as you go. Is it true that there is a Dead Man’s Handle? Is Macbeth nearby?
The passengers in the cabin pay attention to their tablets, and dismiss the quality of the air. No one notices the Tunnel. It’s a tube, which starts at one end and finishes at the other. It’s all over almost before it starts.
Always a schedule, always a plan. Speed.
The staff were friendly, they even joked. Was it really a stew? Road kill a fellow traveller offered. Taste in food. It begs the question, is there taste in a deal?
“I am a reformed lawyer – but not quite, as I still like to taste the blood.”
Could have been Lady Macbeth, washing her hands to get rid of the mortal stain. The Lady had style. She had taste. Occupying seat 43 another lady had style. Had taste. And she still hated the road kill. What deal had she been doing in Paris?
There’s something aesthetic about a deal, taking a view, connecting the dots. It’s a dance – sometimes a dance macabre, sometimes it rocks, and sometimes it’s just a jig, backwards and forwards. But it has its own rhythm, its own style. A deal is tasteful.
Or, as Macbeth discovered, it’s not when it has no taste. No style. No right.
Taste. The flavour of the deal.
Open the window, please; it’s hot in here. It’s always a game, negotiation. What would good look like? What are our asks? What are our gives? Who’s the good cop?
It gets warm. Ever had a “cold deal’? If you think you have, then to be honest you don’t know what a deal is. It’s always hot. It has pressure. There is a tiny volcano just beneath your seat.
Hold on, don’t move. Hold on.
You want to escape the heat.
You want to calm things down and slow events. You want to escape the volcano.
Macbeth tried. It was a deal that he thought was menacing and cold. But then there were ghosts testifying to the deed. He couldn’t escape. The past showed through, the prophecy foretold when the trees moved.
Escape the past – not possible.
There’s the heat.
Escape to the future.