A historic airport closes.
The greatest shopping centre in Europe opens.
Do you see a correlation between these two events?
I do.
(But that may be because I am particularly angry at the shortsightedness of the world today.)
(Although I suspect it wouldn't if they hadn't read it in some clever-sounding editorial or something.)
I don't think very many people really associate it with the Cold War or anything like that.
But presumably all of us do associate, naturally so, airports with the open sky of the world – because there IS just one sky over the world.
With the mystery of the unknown- called »future« - awaiting us.
With »freedom«, perhaps (because such an elusive concept is bound to have many »symbols«, all imperfect and not-quite-there).
And it certainly does more than symbolise the outward MOVEMENT of openness, of the will to transgress frontiers, to go further (and now we're wading into the morass of symbolism again ;))
Closing an airport means closing a gate, a door, an escape – symbolically, yes, but then again, man IS a creature who lives and dies by symbols.
What does a shopping centre – or »mall«, as the Americans call it – symbolise?
Convenience. Consumption (not, not tuberculosis).
Contentment - of sorts.
All of the above, of course, may translate into the ninth circle of Dante's hell, or a nightmare at the very least. (As it does for me.)
Or it may represent the gates of heaven. (As it does for an aunt of mine.)
You don't have to go far to unearth the gist of shopping centres' function - it is served to you on every step, often implicit or explicit in the advertisements – or even in their names - that beckon you to come and enjoy parting with your money.
Every self-respecting shopping centre aspires to be, and presents itself as, a »mini town«. A »town within a town«. A »city within a city«. (See what I mean? This implicit concentric movement really is eerily reminiscent of the circles of hell... :)
The ideal implicit in shopping centres is that you don't have to go anywhere else to get whatever you »want«.
Self-enclosure.
Forget the »world«: all you »need« is right here.
Except that, in opposition to Maeterlinck's Blue Bird, the »here« does not signify your home sweet home – it signifies the place where you can spend the money for which you work and purchase a semblance of happiness. Not even that: a simulacrum of contentment. No, not even that: a precious lapse of time of not-thinking.
Is that good enough for us?
I remember when I first visited the desert and climbed out of a tent, at night (I had fallen asleep during the day, my first day there), I gasped so loudly that somebody thought I had been bitten by a cobra or something.
I had looked at the sky above me – and I had seen the desert stars. They were so HUGE, and there were so many of them, that – I swear to you, this is true – they looked like a large fleet of extraterrestrial UFO hovering overhead.
That's because I had never seen stars like that: so many, so bright.
And yet, there are out there, all the time.
It's just that I don't see them.
I don't even know why I remembered this incident; but it may have something to do with the pale neon lights that are so characteristic of urban life and, especially, of shopping malls – so far removed from nature, from genuine, God-given beauty.
The skies are closing above our heads.
That's how it feels. It's irrational – in opposition to everything that contemporary technology and the apparent brotherhood of man via the internet indicates – but that's how it feels.
How will the angels find us?
(You don't believe in them?
I don't, either.
Which is all the more reason why we need to be found by them.)
I'll have to rewrite this.
Just not today.
Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to think more clearly.
Or maybe I'll wake up content. Un-thinking.
Un-happy.
