I was home early last night so I thought that watching a new show would be a great slow-down. I came across Chef’s Table and watched the first episode of the first season. It opened with a scene where Massimo Bottura of Osteria Francescana talked about how an earthquake almost damaged the parmigiano industry of Modena and how he, through his utter genius, saved it.
Massimo’s wife Lara once brought him to an art exhibit. She recalled how Massimo was always in great disbelief for not getting any of these art. Then he saw pigeons. These pigeons were literally pooping on some of the artworks. They found out that these pigeons were actually taxidermy pigeons and that the artist painted on them and as well as the pigeon shit on the artworks. It was a great Aha! Moment for Massimo.
Since then contemporary art had a lot to do with his recipes and plating. Recreating heirloom recipes with a bit of a post-modern spunk. The Modenese were insulted by it. Food critics thought his work was empty and was trying to be edgy so much that it fails to deliver. To them, all Massimo does is disrespect Italian tradition. But the man did not stop. Now he owns the world’s third best restaurant.
His story reminded me so much of the defense of Socrates. Thorough resistance for the promise of truth. Livid hard work for the pursuit of authenticity. We all can take different sorts of inspiration. Unless you work, inspiration will just be inspiration.
Massimo poured himself an espresso from a moka pot. I was deeply inspired by that short clip. Then again inspiration is an empty word so I poured myself a moka pot espresso in the morning.
The levity of art just makes the ordinariness of life bearable. Always phenomenological, however.
Where’s my pigeon shit moment? I shall start seeking for it.
The other night was unthinkable.
I could not grasp everything all at once. But I remember that feeling in my heart. That feeling that you get before you cry. I was standing very close to Explosions in the Sky and it was just too much to take in. I never even imagined that a day would come when I can finally tell myself that they are actual people. When the yellow light hit my eyes, they all looked lined with strokes of neon purple. Think Tron. For every unexpected silence in between loud guitar sounds, I felt happy I am alive. I thanked God I am alive. I believed in God. All this while holding back tears. I believe tears make me very human when I hold them back. I do not want to free them because I simply want to keep all the joy in my heart. To feel all my emotions. To let my emotions engulf this vessel I often criticize and ridicule, my body, with warmth. Like hugging myself from the inside.
I stood there in the middle of a crowd attached to their other lives, phones up. As if all the radiation caused by the electricness of musical genius was not enough.
The Temper Trap played at almost two in the morning. All the bodies were tired and aching. My body was asserting its limitations. I was hungry, exhausted, gassy, and sleepy. I could cry. But the first incomprehensible chords reeking through the sound system set me so free. It felt like the beginning of a reckoning point, the end of a learning curve that somehow went on and on.
They were in front of me. Doing their art like how they do it for themselves. Dancing to the beat of their own songs. I was so happy to be alive. I held Dougy’s hand before they finished the night.
I lost my phone. I left it in the plane and I figured someone else took it. All of my demos are there. So I guess I’ll just rely on my memory when Alvin and I finally come into terms with our laziness. I can’t wait to fuck things up. One day I would dance to the beat of my own songs. The dream is to move others to dance to the beat of their own songs, too.
Freedom is free. We should all pay it forward.