on Europe

When I was younger, I dreamt of Europe: a land of leisure where quadrilles of thin people of perfect iridescent complexions sat huddled around parasoled-tables at cafés along cobbled streets. They occupied themselves with endless prattling and laughing, drinking a plethora of dark beverages from Coke to espressos while exquisite, sublime cigarette smoke slothfully arose into the air already heavy with it. Of course this was before I knew of the harmful effects of smoking and worse, the eternal pandemic that afflicts the whole of humanity: mundaneness. If there is a so called human nature, it is this along with an equally eternal proclivity for suffering. Only by supporting suffering and unbearable tedium, does man predicate his humanity.

What I have seen of Europe (what is ‘Europe’?) is limited, I admit as much, but I can predicate without compunction that Europe is like anywhere else. Yes, perhaps there are: more gray-haired people; an unexplainable affinity for black sweat-suits and blinding white shoes; an unfathomable use of brick; continuous parades of young girls with protruding pudge that naturally has coalesced like a fanny-pack around their abdomen; cute shoes; and cigarettes. But here too there is that prevalent taste for what is tacky and kitsch. Here man is man and naturally: imperfect; petty; and yes, insipid.