Monday, March 22, 2010
leaf, chess, transparency
It's my belief, says the leaf that I have become a fish. I would swim away if I could.
Engraved in my thoughts is a particular scene in Episode 3 of the the first series of Wired. The leader of a drugs gang explains the game of chess in words belonging to a remorselessly violent, street culture. Even if you don't know the patois, and if you didn't know the rules of chess, you would effortlessly learn how the game works from the scene. And, more important, thanks to the triumphantly achieved dramatic device, you grasp in a new light the relationships within the narcotics squad and among the members of the gang that peddles narcotics . It is at this point, after two episodes, where I admit to having been confused by its take on reality, that I realize how Wired has earned a reputation as a great, perhaps the greatest tv series ever.
After the hard Winter almost all the leaves have dropped from the privet hedge. The result is that from the window of my study, I can see and identify people passing in the street. The transparency, which must go both ways, will not last for ever. As a rule I feel cut off from the world by the opaqueness of the hedge, but for a while, as I do today, I enjoy watching passers-by, never too frequent, but frequent enough to be interesting.