The Basement Studio
Postcards of Memory (2) March
"He is bloody rich" my young friend Tibor (with the indispensable headphones, connected to a CD walkman, around his neck) said, poking the sweet potato guy. It was early afternoon on a Sunday, we were waiting for some friends to come and play soccer. "He's just here for the company and to enjoy sunshine; but he doesn't make his living on potatoes at all. Do you know where he's really in his element? At home, in the basement of his villa. He's set up the most luxurious hi-fi sound studio for himself. He steps in, wipes off two specks of dust. Peak-technologies are humming in a solemn stillness. And then, heavy-metal roars up. He turns the volume to the extreme, leans back: he is listening to Nirvana. The ground resounds and rumbles. Moles, panic-stricken, emigrate to faraway gardens."
"Sweet-potatoes loosen out of the ground."
"You fools" - laughs Miyuki, the local resident, waving her hands in resignation. "He is so expensive! And what a hot-head! An angry little red devil, he is."
"That's true", I admit, "he chased me away once when I wanted to take his photo."
But then I say to myself: it is just right, he should be serious. A guard on duty shouldn't give himself away too cheaply. He should keep the fire and smoke and warmth for us. The flame of nostalgia. Even today, I cannot look at the old man without my thoughts flying to Tibor, who moved to Europe years ago; without pricking up my ears to an imaginary sound studio; and without seeing a tradition-protecting soul who is striving after nirvana.
"He is bloody rich" my young friend Tibor (with the indispensable headphones, connected to a CD walkman, around his neck) said, poking the sweet potato guy. It was early afternoon on a Sunday, we were waiting for some friends to come and play soccer. "He's just here for the company and to enjoy sunshine; but he doesn't make his living on potatoes at all. Do you know where he's really in his element? At home, in the basement of his villa. He's set up the most luxurious hi-fi sound studio for himself. He steps in, wipes off two specks of dust. Peak-technologies are humming in a solemn stillness. And then, heavy-metal roars up. He turns the volume to the extreme, leans back: he is listening to Nirvana. The ground resounds and rumbles. Moles, panic-stricken, emigrate to faraway gardens."
"Sweet-potatoes loosen out of the ground."
"You fools" - laughs Miyuki, the local resident, waving her hands in resignation. "He is so expensive! And what a hot-head! An angry little red devil, he is."
"That's true", I admit, "he chased me away once when I wanted to take his photo."
But then I say to myself: it is just right, he should be serious. A guard on duty shouldn't give himself away too cheaply. He should keep the fire and smoke and warmth for us. The flame of nostalgia. Even today, I cannot look at the old man without my thoughts flying to Tibor, who moved to Europe years ago; without pricking up my ears to an imaginary sound studio; and without seeing a tradition-protecting soul who is striving after nirvana.
posted by bm at 10:11 AM
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