The moon lits up the whole terrace. There’s something magical about waking up at night, stepping out into the winter cold, listening to the city silence, growing a tobacco cigarette and thinking of that same old same old piece of writing wrapped up in your wollen jacket pocket. You look at the ink on the paper, and the sharp-edged words it shows. By the moonshine you glow in the dark. It’s amazing how much light the moon gives off. Seven simple words light up by it and pierce deep into your brain. Suddenly you’re reminded of distant memories, the kind that never really fade. It’s frosting. Your hands tremble around the wrapper. Your fingers clench it strongly, try to hold on tight. Kinda like your brain holds onto this one memory, thought not quite. Whereas the rugged paper tries to flee from your dry touch, encouraged by the night wind, the memory voluntarily gravitates towards your brain, like it doesn’t want to leave. However much you try to get rid of it, to not think of it, it simply refuses to dim. Come dance with me. That’s what that memory says; begging you to recall it, to relive it, to dance with it in your brain. You look at the words again. You read them. Reread them in your head. You hear your own voice silently talking, uttering those words, inside. Words that were once yours. At the time out loud. Now a memory of something you once said, when you thought you were too wise for anyone to, really, understand.
It’s strange how people just fade out of your life. And not just any kind of people. Important people. The kind you think of in the nightlife sky, there on that wooden armchair with only one arm left, there in that grayish kind of light that only the moonshine can bring you.
This short story was inspired by one of my favourite live performances: “Moonshine” by Oscar and the Wolf Live @Pias Nites (Belgium) in 2012.
Director of the video: A Jerry’s Joint
Short story inspired by the music video of The Blaze for the song “Territory”.
This is what a real traveller feels like: Homeless. Without home. Not the place where you were born, not the place where you are now. And the sound of music that you float on exists of a million different cultural pieces from now on.
Travelling as a word has become a trend these days. But there are different kinds of travel. Travelling away, far from home, but knowing you’ve got one, is for example very different from actual travelling: Travelling as done by the lone wolves in the movies, travelling as done by the human species centuries ago. When there is not a place on earth you actually belong, when you have become a Nowhere Man, meeting people but never really being understood, then you are a real traveller.
Your home isn’t anywhere. Not where you were born. Not where you are now. Not all the different places in between. Not the airports, not the stations, not the cities you’ve been passing by. It is simply non-existent. It is simply … You.
Flowing lost and alone is how to recognise a true traveller. The one who travels around, reluctantly, with an open mind. The one who carries his shell on his back, while moving slowly towards the one true path: The path of belonging. But all humans are fundamentally alone (no matter how big the pack is), and any real traveller knows: There isn’t any territory, any region, any people in which I’ll ever fully belong.
In truth, the real traveller is a reluctant one. It is the one floating ball that actually doesn’t like travelling at all.
Director of music video: Jonathan and Guillaume Alric (The Blaze)
It’s a jungle out there, man. New school, new job, new … something. It’s all the same, isn’t it? Smiles, and promises. Every cave you enter, they love you, they welcome you and then, all of a sudden, you find yourself left out. Here’s the thing. They don’t want you, they wonder what you’ve got. Have you got true moral values, great skills and a kick-ass attitude, but no proof to show for it? Join the club! I wonder what you can add to the pile. We’re happy to have you. Look, there’s Thomas, he’s the joker of the club, always in for a joke or two, and there’s Jay, the silent rebel. Don’t mind her too much, she’s kind of a weirdo. But curious, though. Curious indeed. I see you’re a natural leader. Come here so you can get this chaotic bunch of self-righteous kids united. I am so excited you’re here. Now, let’s do this thang! Oh … Oh, I see you’ve found your way around Jay, the silent rebel. What’s that she’s saying? It may taste sweet, but, love, it’s not. What may taste sweet? The sense of power of being in charge? The sense of belonging to a group of like-minded people? Belonging to, yes, the most enthusiastic team ever made?! What, what is it? Seriously, I didn’t quite get that. It might taste sweet, but that’s not love. Ah, … Ah, so now you’re leaving, huh? Well, I don’t care. I couldn’t care less. We don’t need you. We’ve got Thomas, the joker. You can forget about being a cave leader now. Have fun in your stupid little, … curious, … rebelly, forest thingy.
Director of MV: Sam Bathrick
So we went to the mountains, right, all three of us. I love that place. Quiet and alone. We brought the red whigs as usual, made us look like we were the same kind. But we felt different though. That’s how it is with stimuli, right, no one feels the way you feel. I can feel cold, while you can feel warm. But so we get up on the mountains and we start jumping, right. As usual. And while I’m jumping I see Sarah next to me and she’s all like, dude, why are you jumping like that? I mean I can hear her thinking. Look, how I do it, is way cooler, she thinks. I don’t understand. This is how I always do my jumps. I look over to Anna, who’s doing her weird thing as usual. Definitely not a jump as cool as mine. But while I’m in the air, I feel this other feeling, right. This feeling of belonging, you know, like there’s a connection, but still feeling different. Feeling perfectly fine … And then, another comment. Feeling upset now. Stop messing with my head, you guys. Those two, I’m tired of how they always have to comment on my jumps. I’m tired of how they make me feel. I’m tired of this feeling they give me. I’m tired, I don’t want it. I’m fine with this pose, thank you. Silence. I feel they finally understand. Understand the way I jump. Which is cool. I mean, a good jump lasts a lifetime. I feel like I belong here. Here, in this particular jump. My own slow motion jump. Not some shlohmo-jump as they do.
Director of MV: Dugan O’ Neal
Let’s do some tap dancing and mix it up with modern Canadian architecture. Let’s do a René Magritte-scenery. In my secret life. That’s a house filled with dark corners and Kubrick-like staircases. I cheat and I lie, I do what I have to do to get by. Ah yes, getting by obviously requires cheating and lying. And cleaning too. How else to survive myself? But I know what is wrong, and I know what is right. It’s just that sometimes your mind can feel split. Sometimes it behaves in “unsexy myriad petty little ways” as David Foster Wallace would say. Ah yes. My split mind has got a mind of its own. Moving across the borders of my secret life. Doesn’t matter how cool a car you have. Or how complexly beautiful the bricks of your brain are. The complexity of split personalities. Them egg-head creatures. Lost souls trying to get by, or move up. Trying to find a sense of belonging, and love, and Self. But no can do… I’m always alone and my heart is like ice. Or when your heart is shut out, and your brain takes full control of your actions. And no other egg-head can crack you. And it’s crowded and cold. In your secret life.
Director of MV: Floria Sigismondi