i will be chasing a starlight.
The rewrite. It came out so similar to the other one, just with (slightly) less references to Madrid; redundant, but I'm posting it because it took time. I loathe it now, but I feel as though now that it's been written... well, there you go. (Reposted - slightly edited.)
This here is my perfection. This photograph. And I treat it as more than just eleven men running about in little white kits after a little white ball. It is far, far more than that - traces of colour, and my ever shallow heartbeat. It is simpler, even. This is not your perfection, but it is mine, and what do I care of your idea of perfection? The religious should accept the beliefs that differ from theirs, but there is no law that they must believe, or find them valid. You find mine invalid, if you love as I do, and I find yours invalid, because this is what it is; I adore this photograph and all of the following, and it does not bother me in the slightest if you find it dull or stupid or repulsive. Those are minor details. All I ask is mutual appreciation for passion, and if you are indeed passionate, you will know. (After all, this first was taken in a European Cup final where he scored four goals. Di Stéfano scored three. And Sir Alex Ferguson was there in the crowd.)
There is something decidedly pagan about this cult, this addiction, this drug, this whatever-it-is. Holy relics, idols, prayers, hymns, rites, pilgrimages, sacrifices. There is a distinct bias we all develop, there is rapture, there is the pitfalls of sorrow and despair imaginable. It inspires rage and hope and pride, and such close-mindedness that i wonder if it isn't really a religion, really, because it must be (it is). There are the sins we all define for ourselves, there is a questioning of fidelity. There is blind love, there are twists of fate against the odds, and there is an impossibly deep tie (a relation to be made) between real life and this magnum opus known as football (fußball, fútbol, calcio, le foot, футбол, voetbal, futebol, サッカー, and religion has its words in every language too, being the football-like global phenomenon it is...) just as religion fastens itself tightly to the everyday and the ordinary and the plain. And this is why we obsess.
True, there are varying degrees of devoutness, and that cannot be denied. But passion is passion when it is true (and when it is passionate), is suffering and impatience mingled with a willingness to wait forever to fill the hallowed reliquaries: whether a closet at a fourth division team or Chelsea FC or the trophy room at the likes of Anfield, these things are collected with the singing of songs and the heart (corazón), qualities also so closely tied with religion as a whole. Graham Poll is a fuckin' arsehole hardly has the pleasant ring of kyrie eleison or in excelsis Deo, but there you have it. It is what it is, a passion deeper than mere interest.
But if you know what I mean, you know it better than anything else. Your instant reaction to these words is a springing yes (sí, نعم, ja, oui, da, tak, jo, hai, já, ae, ya...) and you of course know that one bad season makes you think, 'Something must be done. Something isn't right, but I will stay.' If you know what I mean, you cling faster and your knuckles whiten and you tuck yourself in for the ride. Each blow to your heroes and your raison d'être transfigures into a strengthened determination to watch the boys (Your Boys, which I respect no matter how much I might hate them) flit on to victory, no matter how long it takes. When faced with a crisis of faith, the devout and the real will think, 'Something must be done! But I will stay,' and they will persevere. Jump ship? Who would dare do such a thing! Who? The weak and the callow - the mercurial and flash-in-the-pan fair-weather supporter, of course and not the fanatic. The casually interested and not the truly seduced. Those interested in a few players, or the biggest and nicest-looking club they can find that looks like it might just win, so why not pick that one (the minor benefits of religion, for personal benefit) - and not glory for the sake of love (not appearing to be a 'fan' of something successful just because they are successful) and a club for the shade of its crest and the ardency in the blood of the honest-meaning. It is almost corrupt, that oh well, I'll give up attitude, and sickening to me. I am easily nauseated, of course, but then, when I see that, I really have every right.
Religion at its deepest is free. It costs nothing to kneel and pray, or to think and challenge one's beliefs. So, you say, a ticket is unbearably expensive. The plane trip is your life savings. The hotel. The train. The food. The flag you must buy. You pay for the special channels on television if you can't go, for the shirts if you choose, your scarves and the little trinkets that remind you of it all. These items are like rosaries; they help, but to grasp your faith, they are far from necessary. I say to you - it costs nothing to be in awe. It costs nothing to experience it thousands of miles away; it costs money to make your way to Mecca or Jerusalem or Vatican City, but when you are there, the most base and pure and perfect feeling of satisfaction and love - that, to be utterly cliché, is an emotion with no price. You can experience it there, or you can experience it at the pub, or you can experience it at home alone in front of the television, even. There is no cost to lay awake at night and stare at the stars and wonder when the next will be sewn upon that shirt you love to see. There is no cost for dreaming, for establishing that connection and for knowing its validity as easily as you know the back of your hand or the contents of the cluttered space at your desk, for they become as simple as that aforementioned yes. When there is a will, there is a way; my grandfather (may he rest in peace) made his two pilgrimages from a third-world country with five children to support, as well as cousins and his parents. How? Faith knows no bounds, you know; the Bernabéu and Mecca were his destinations and he made it. It made no difference in the outcome of the match, his presence, and his trip to Mecca was personal; but it is the rapture we seek that makes this compulsive. We, as fans, cannot change results so easily, especially not from the comfort of our home or the madness of a pub halfway across the world, but the quality to be spoken of in all of these situations is the universal accessibility of the emotion itself (the one in so many words: immortal, immeasurable, fanatic) and the things it makes you do. If you cannot watch a match? You must try. If you still cannot, do you not hope and wish for a favourable result? Do you not follow as best you can? If you are thousands of miles from your church and your compatriots and fellow worshippers (and I mean the religion and the football now), you can still feel that effusive pride and the commitment and when you close your eyes, if it is truly real, your isolation will mean nothing. To your club you think, as Pablo Neruda wrote-
te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera
-because you must, because not to do so would be blasphemy (the most powerful guilt trip imaginable, a reversal of what you are), because it is natural and easy as letting your heart beat of its own accord. (And while the panic of this adoration might place a stress upon that organ - as I have all too frequently experienced - it is easy and worth the price, the only price there is.) You question when you fail, when answers are not found. but if you have loved in the first place you will return and for that questioning, 'What does not kill me...' - and again I quote and fall into a rapturous cliché. But it is a cliché, all of this. Rapture & undying passion & obsession & fixation. It just is. And again, that is why we return. Because it is expected and it mirrors life in the most beautiful(ly foul) ways.
And so what if it's close-minded. So what. So fucking what. A few bad signings? Somebody you love moves away? A nasty injury? Too many coaches in too few years? Who cares. If you believe then you still know: your team is the greatest to have ever walked the earth. They are world-beaters, or at least that potential is dormant within them. This I know: Real Madrid are better than your team, even if your team wins. Why is that, you ask? How can you, Anissa, defy logic so flagrantly and not care? Because I love them, and because that makes my difference. That sets them apart in my estimation, even when they are crushed 0-3, because their shoulders slump just like mine do, and they are as upset as I am because I am upset because I love them (I am them) and they love football and they love this club like I do. If you do not know this and these words seem false to you, then I doubt you. I doubt your capacity to approach football in the most wonderfully biased way there is. Of course we should all take a step back once in a while, But if there is nothing stirring in your heart except revulsion and boredom and superfluous fatigue when you hear of the ever-changing news and the challenges to the foundations of faith that you only pretend to have - then I pity you. It's close-minded like so much else I say, but my team are the greatest. For you, Your Boys are the same. World champions (de votre cœur) without setting foot on the pitch. You know without a doubt I am wrong, and I know as I know 2 + 2 = 4 that you have made some grave error. I'll let you alone, however, if you know that as firmly as I do, because there is nothing so lovely as love.
But there is something so stark between these two: religion and football, though they are the same. In football, there is victory. In religion, the stories of victories are moral triumphs and the tales in religious texts. in football, there are trophies and ribbons and medals and kisses. For the religious, victory is achieved through salvation, or nirvana, or enlightenment. Perhaps the same can be said about football. Our victory is our belief. But it is validated (or perhaps only highlighted?) in the colours of silver and gold. And like I said, when these things are lost at the last moment, we hold fast if we are quite serious about it.
The figures in this canon, the footballers themselves with their bad haircuts and charming smiles, litter countless tomes (films) but our most lasting memories are in the spoken word. They are our idols and we speak of them as one might speak of saints. There are names universally revered, written on awards and spray-painted onto the crumbly walls in the backstreets of my grandfather's beloved Algiers, even, and all around the world (his beloved Cannes), and then there are the ones we revile as we fall into our little sects, shutting ourselves off from the rest. Our way of doing things, our denomination and our colour, are infinitely perfect for all of their flaws and perhaps because of them; we have our idols and heroes and legends and gods. Pagan, because there are splashes of colour and wildness and flags and so much to admire. We do not consign ourselves to one god; though we might pick one above the rest (Zidane, te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera), he has his pantheon. They change, there are more created in a flash of green and white, but at the very centre, the belief is the same. The fidelity - the same. We take them as role models; their opponents become our devils.
It is not a simile, but a pure metaphor, this comparison. Football is religion as football is life, because religion is life and because it becomes so deeply engrained that we can never extricate ourselves from its grasp, as we do not part from life so easily without great tragedy. Besides, we just don't want to. We'd rather suffer and believe than run away. We; not just Real Madrid, but any club. I see in shades of white, and I'll be damned if I let it slip away, just as the devout knows he is damned if he lets his god(s) fade from his mind. I do this because I want (la Coupe des Clubs Champions Européens) just as the others who said yes want something, & to (our) Real Madrid, te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera; because ultimately the only price for this love is the object of our lives and too often our happiness, and that? Is just pennies to us.
(Really this is just waffling about being a fan, because there isn't much actual, sweat&blood football to write about until the regular season starts. Expect full match-related articles, not just 'omgaskjdfalksdfj!'ing for once, when things happen. The Supercopa should be wonderful, and a good way to start, though; I want nothing more than to beat Sevilla into a bloody pulp on both the home and away leg. Put those small-club bastards in their place. [...bastards!!!]
...have a nice day. ♥)
oh p.s. - Bernd Schuster is a pompous bastard and I can't get enough of it. I like him talking about how he's ruthless and made of pwn and how everything will be perfect because he has a fantastic squad that will only improve because he is a great manager. Plus I'm glad that in this and others he talks about how Raúl is one of the most important players on the team, and will finally be played in the proper position. Thank you.
And apparently we bought an 18-year-old German defender from Hertha BSC, I assume for Castilla. The Drenthe and Robben sagas, however, are driving me mad, and need to be resolved one way or another before I hyperventilate. And I like how Íker has been mouthing off about how Barcelona are the new galácticos and how HILARIOUS it is.
"Barcelona reminds me of our Real Madrid of four years ago, it is inevitable," said Casillas. "They have many players, all of quality and international reputation: Messi, Eto'o, Ronaldinho, Deco, Xavi, Iniesta, Henry? Names that would always play, but in the end you only can play eleven.
"And, in addition, none of them can play in defence."
WIN.
This here is my perfection. This photograph. And I treat it as more than just eleven men running about in little white kits after a little white ball. It is far, far more than that - traces of colour, and my ever shallow heartbeat. It is simpler, even. This is not your perfection, but it is mine, and what do I care of your idea of perfection? The religious should accept the beliefs that differ from theirs, but there is no law that they must believe, or find them valid. You find mine invalid, if you love as I do, and I find yours invalid, because this is what it is; I adore this photograph and all of the following, and it does not bother me in the slightest if you find it dull or stupid or repulsive. Those are minor details. All I ask is mutual appreciation for passion, and if you are indeed passionate, you will know. (After all, this first was taken in a European Cup final where he scored four goals. Di Stéfano scored three. And Sir Alex Ferguson was there in the crowd.)
There is something decidedly pagan about this cult, this addiction, this drug, this whatever-it-is. Holy relics, idols, prayers, hymns, rites, pilgrimages, sacrifices. There is a distinct bias we all develop, there is rapture, there is the pitfalls of sorrow and despair imaginable. It inspires rage and hope and pride, and such close-mindedness that i wonder if it isn't really a religion, really, because it must be (it is). There are the sins we all define for ourselves, there is a questioning of fidelity. There is blind love, there are twists of fate against the odds, and there is an impossibly deep tie (a relation to be made) between real life and this magnum opus known as football (fußball, fútbol, calcio, le foot, футбол, voetbal, futebol, サッカー, and religion has its words in every language too, being the football-like global phenomenon it is...) just as religion fastens itself tightly to the everyday and the ordinary and the plain. And this is why we obsess.
True, there are varying degrees of devoutness, and that cannot be denied. But passion is passion when it is true (and when it is passionate), is suffering and impatience mingled with a willingness to wait forever to fill the hallowed reliquaries: whether a closet at a fourth division team or Chelsea FC or the trophy room at the likes of Anfield, these things are collected with the singing of songs and the heart (corazón), qualities also so closely tied with religion as a whole. Graham Poll is a fuckin' arsehole hardly has the pleasant ring of kyrie eleison or in excelsis Deo, but there you have it. It is what it is, a passion deeper than mere interest.
But if you know what I mean, you know it better than anything else. Your instant reaction to these words is a springing yes (sí, نعم, ja, oui, da, tak, jo, hai, já, ae, ya...) and you of course know that one bad season makes you think, 'Something must be done. Something isn't right, but I will stay.' If you know what I mean, you cling faster and your knuckles whiten and you tuck yourself in for the ride. Each blow to your heroes and your raison d'être transfigures into a strengthened determination to watch the boys (Your Boys, which I respect no matter how much I might hate them) flit on to victory, no matter how long it takes. When faced with a crisis of faith, the devout and the real will think, 'Something must be done! But I will stay,' and they will persevere. Jump ship? Who would dare do such a thing! Who? The weak and the callow - the mercurial and flash-in-the-pan fair-weather supporter, of course and not the fanatic. The casually interested and not the truly seduced. Those interested in a few players, or the biggest and nicest-looking club they can find that looks like it might just win, so why not pick that one (the minor benefits of religion, for personal benefit) - and not glory for the sake of love (not appearing to be a 'fan' of something successful just because they are successful) and a club for the shade of its crest and the ardency in the blood of the honest-meaning. It is almost corrupt, that oh well, I'll give up attitude, and sickening to me. I am easily nauseated, of course, but then, when I see that, I really have every right.
Religion at its deepest is free. It costs nothing to kneel and pray, or to think and challenge one's beliefs. So, you say, a ticket is unbearably expensive. The plane trip is your life savings. The hotel. The train. The food. The flag you must buy. You pay for the special channels on television if you can't go, for the shirts if you choose, your scarves and the little trinkets that remind you of it all. These items are like rosaries; they help, but to grasp your faith, they are far from necessary. I say to you - it costs nothing to be in awe. It costs nothing to experience it thousands of miles away; it costs money to make your way to Mecca or Jerusalem or Vatican City, but when you are there, the most base and pure and perfect feeling of satisfaction and love - that, to be utterly cliché, is an emotion with no price. You can experience it there, or you can experience it at the pub, or you can experience it at home alone in front of the television, even. There is no cost to lay awake at night and stare at the stars and wonder when the next will be sewn upon that shirt you love to see. There is no cost for dreaming, for establishing that connection and for knowing its validity as easily as you know the back of your hand or the contents of the cluttered space at your desk, for they become as simple as that aforementioned yes. When there is a will, there is a way; my grandfather (may he rest in peace) made his two pilgrimages from a third-world country with five children to support, as well as cousins and his parents. How? Faith knows no bounds, you know; the Bernabéu and Mecca were his destinations and he made it. It made no difference in the outcome of the match, his presence, and his trip to Mecca was personal; but it is the rapture we seek that makes this compulsive. We, as fans, cannot change results so easily, especially not from the comfort of our home or the madness of a pub halfway across the world, but the quality to be spoken of in all of these situations is the universal accessibility of the emotion itself (the one in so many words: immortal, immeasurable, fanatic) and the things it makes you do. If you cannot watch a match? You must try. If you still cannot, do you not hope and wish for a favourable result? Do you not follow as best you can? If you are thousands of miles from your church and your compatriots and fellow worshippers (and I mean the religion and the football now), you can still feel that effusive pride and the commitment and when you close your eyes, if it is truly real, your isolation will mean nothing. To your club you think, as Pablo Neruda wrote-
te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera
-because you must, because not to do so would be blasphemy (the most powerful guilt trip imaginable, a reversal of what you are), because it is natural and easy as letting your heart beat of its own accord. (And while the panic of this adoration might place a stress upon that organ - as I have all too frequently experienced - it is easy and worth the price, the only price there is.) You question when you fail, when answers are not found. but if you have loved in the first place you will return and for that questioning, 'What does not kill me...' - and again I quote and fall into a rapturous cliché. But it is a cliché, all of this. Rapture & undying passion & obsession & fixation. It just is. And again, that is why we return. Because it is expected and it mirrors life in the most beautiful(ly foul) ways.
And so what if it's close-minded. So what. So fucking what. A few bad signings? Somebody you love moves away? A nasty injury? Too many coaches in too few years? Who cares. If you believe then you still know: your team is the greatest to have ever walked the earth. They are world-beaters, or at least that potential is dormant within them. This I know: Real Madrid are better than your team, even if your team wins. Why is that, you ask? How can you, Anissa, defy logic so flagrantly and not care? Because I love them, and because that makes my difference. That sets them apart in my estimation, even when they are crushed 0-3, because their shoulders slump just like mine do, and they are as upset as I am because I am upset because I love them (I am them) and they love football and they love this club like I do. If you do not know this and these words seem false to you, then I doubt you. I doubt your capacity to approach football in the most wonderfully biased way there is. Of course we should all take a step back once in a while, But if there is nothing stirring in your heart except revulsion and boredom and superfluous fatigue when you hear of the ever-changing news and the challenges to the foundations of faith that you only pretend to have - then I pity you. It's close-minded like so much else I say, but my team are the greatest. For you, Your Boys are the same. World champions (de votre cœur) without setting foot on the pitch. You know without a doubt I am wrong, and I know as I know 2 + 2 = 4 that you have made some grave error. I'll let you alone, however, if you know that as firmly as I do, because there is nothing so lovely as love.
But there is something so stark between these two: religion and football, though they are the same. In football, there is victory. In religion, the stories of victories are moral triumphs and the tales in religious texts. in football, there are trophies and ribbons and medals and kisses. For the religious, victory is achieved through salvation, or nirvana, or enlightenment. Perhaps the same can be said about football. Our victory is our belief. But it is validated (or perhaps only highlighted?) in the colours of silver and gold. And like I said, when these things are lost at the last moment, we hold fast if we are quite serious about it.
The figures in this canon, the footballers themselves with their bad haircuts and charming smiles, litter countless tomes (films) but our most lasting memories are in the spoken word. They are our idols and we speak of them as one might speak of saints. There are names universally revered, written on awards and spray-painted onto the crumbly walls in the backstreets of my grandfather's beloved Algiers, even, and all around the world (his beloved Cannes), and then there are the ones we revile as we fall into our little sects, shutting ourselves off from the rest. Our way of doing things, our denomination and our colour, are infinitely perfect for all of their flaws and perhaps because of them; we have our idols and heroes and legends and gods. Pagan, because there are splashes of colour and wildness and flags and so much to admire. We do not consign ourselves to one god; though we might pick one above the rest (Zidane, te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera), he has his pantheon. They change, there are more created in a flash of green and white, but at the very centre, the belief is the same. The fidelity - the same. We take them as role models; their opponents become our devils.
It is not a simile, but a pure metaphor, this comparison. Football is religion as football is life, because religion is life and because it becomes so deeply engrained that we can never extricate ourselves from its grasp, as we do not part from life so easily without great tragedy. Besides, we just don't want to. We'd rather suffer and believe than run away. We; not just Real Madrid, but any club. I see in shades of white, and I'll be damned if I let it slip away, just as the devout knows he is damned if he lets his god(s) fade from his mind. I do this because I want (la Coupe des Clubs Champions Européens) just as the others who said yes want something, & to (our) Real Madrid, te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera; because ultimately the only price for this love is the object of our lives and too often our happiness, and that? Is just pennies to us.
(Really this is just waffling about being a fan, because there isn't much actual, sweat&blood football to write about until the regular season starts. Expect full match-related articles, not just 'omgaskjdfalksdfj!'ing for once, when things happen. The Supercopa should be wonderful, and a good way to start, though; I want nothing more than to beat Sevilla into a bloody pulp on both the home and away leg. Put those small-club bastards in their place. [...bastards!!!]
...have a nice day. ♥)
oh p.s. - Bernd Schuster is a pompous bastard and I can't get enough of it. I like him talking about how he's ruthless and made of pwn and how everything will be perfect because he has a fantastic squad that will only improve because he is a great manager. Plus I'm glad that in this and others he talks about how Raúl is one of the most important players on the team, and will finally be played in the proper position. Thank you.
And apparently we bought an 18-year-old German defender from Hertha BSC, I assume for Castilla. The Drenthe and Robben sagas, however, are driving me mad, and need to be resolved one way or another before I hyperventilate. And I like how Íker has been mouthing off about how Barcelona are the new galácticos and how HILARIOUS it is.
"Barcelona reminds me of our Real Madrid of four years ago, it is inevitable," said Casillas. "They have many players, all of quality and international reputation: Messi, Eto'o, Ronaldinho, Deco, Xavi, Iniesta, Henry? Names that would always play, but in the end you only can play eleven.
"And, in addition, none of them can play in defence."
WIN.