Shimps are Short-Impression-Stories. The term came to me in Cafe Mitte in Bale, Switzerland, a couple of years ago. I guess it's just another way of saying 'stream of consciousness babbling' or so.
This is the shimp of today:
Cafe Etc. At Selma and Cahuenga, Hollywood.
I'm sitting here, waiting for seconds to stop stretching like Kate in Yoga and pass by, like the people in front of the Cafe I am at. Amazement gathers at the bottom of the pool as I watch emotions and thoughts run in circles and spirals, chasing their own tales, trying to find a way out of my body: human nature, so rich and so disturbingly multi-facetted. These are the ills of a society, I find myself thinking, in which people have nothing better to do than worry and over-analyze their own little petty lives in the big schemata of rolling thunders in history. Memories pile up and sometimes a fresh wind blows the dust off them and you catch a whiff of what was when and how but why you never really know. Mingeling with dreams they seem soloful like rainbows but ever so often they soften into a stark grey wall that crumbles and falls in the mids of overstretched seconds, raining heavy, fat, blue-greyish shimmering tears onto your soul.
The writer - an ordinarily crazy amateur, lunatic, in her early twenties. Switiching the old-fashioned pen from one hand to the other, trying to still and satisfy both, needs and wants, while remaining flexible. It's about time to move on she thinks and the bitter sweet taste of underlying sadness mixes with her saliva as she thinks of her older brother Trey and his fiancee Dre and the concerns she feels with regards to their future marriage. I hope, she mumbles into her two-shot-for-here Latte, that they all stay together! It's that we pray for their love for the sake of working out a proof that it is - possible...
You can only hope so much.
Now is the next morning and after a hefty, surprising rain that poured her heart into the hovering solitude of her refuge she claims that this morning is supposed to be cleansed, fresh, agreeable enjoyable and clear, in the now. Somehow.
Clarity is supposed to sink in and settle into my mind she hopes but all that she feels is the beat of Brazilian Bossa Nova coming out of the speaker bozes in rippling waves. Pleasurable; all that - but still confused.
A single page shall be enough. She thinks of David Levine and her buried passions for Simone Weil's writing and life and and old-fashioned type-writer in the middle of Berlin or somewhere, somewhen, else.
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