Papa Shanghai´s Takeout

A sandwich so beautiful, I don’t even eat it.

A slice of sourdough toast, soft and yet so comforting. Not even the toasting sun of the Atlantic coast is able to burn it. Instead, tiny freckles on its surface arise.

A layer of romaine lettuce, crispy and refreshing. A pleasure for the eye and the soul. Not an excuse to have some vegetables with a seemingly (so people say) unhealthy meal, but a true and necessary edition to foreshadow the underlying depth.

Some cheese, for comfort. The form and consistency don’t even matter, the only important bit is the maturity. For maturity cannot be learned, it is only achieved. Some never succeed in reaching that level.

A bit of sauce. In this case, slight spicyness to reflect the character of its origin, a warm and cultured coastal town in northern Portugal. From here, explorers with good and bad intentions have ventured onto the sea. They brought back a new world of spice and sensation. The sauce smells gorgeous.

Another slice of bread, as all good things must have a beginning and an end.

As I look at the beauty I get nervous. A perfectly complex representation of what I long for.

I have another look and decide to let the moment pass. It will haunt me, but oh so sweetly.

The wiggle of a dog’s tail. The smell of incoming rain after a hot day. The moment of finishing a good book. Creating something, creating art. Being truthful and open. Caring.

The smell of a favourite drink. A comfortable chair. Friday.

The goosebumps from a new song. Laughter in a group. Laughter with yourself, about yourself, alone. Wind on a hot day. Having brought sunglasses when you need them.

Stillness. A surprising pleasure. Thoughtfulness. Cooking something. Serving food to friends. Preparing someone’s favourite meal. Petting a dog.

Practicing everything and nothing in particular. Practicing nonchalance. Practicing good living.

I am sitting on a rail trolley and someone is pulling me towards the sun.

The blinding light is burning my eyes and all senses are numbed. Logic is lost when the only thing you worry about is where you are being pulled.

The henchman in the gold Trenchcoat glitters in the sun. Will he bring me to the promised land or eternal doom? What does the promised land even look like?

The wheels are squeaking and slowly we are making our way, somewhere, I guess…

I have accepted my fate. I could stand up and walk, but in which direction? Should I run ahead of the henchman or go the other way? Maybe the henchman knows better? Maybe there is a bigger plan, or is he just trotting along the rails? I mean, rails go somewhere.

I lie down on the rail trolley and rest my head on the wooden planks.

“Hey Mr Golden Henchman, what’s your name”

“I am you, Papa Shanghai”

I don’t know which state I am in or what the time is, all I know is that I must write.

It is never really clear what is missing when you’re forcing yourself. Whenever you THINK you NEED to sleep, sleep will retaliate by blessing everyone but you. Whenever you KNOW that you MUST sleep, both sleep and your body will unite to give you the power of your 16-year old self to pull an all-nighter.

So what am I deprived of? Is it really sleep or is it something else?

It was winter for a while, the lack of sun. Sometimes it is monotony that kills a drive, suffocating noble spirits. Deprivation can slow you down, if you let it.

So here I stand against the odds, sending another obscure message your way. Beloved community of the void that is Papa Shanghai, this is an effort. An attempt to fight all that we think is lacking, without giving it any power, completely ignoring it.

Sleep is a cruel mistress, even worse: a flaky little fairy.

I am not trying to catch you. Peter Pan knew very well that Tinkerbell was sassy. (Go watch the movie again if you don’t trust me). I am getting off track.

I’ll continue, in my mind, trying not to look at what is lacking. It will come, surely…

…. just like Tinkerbell…

… fairy dust and all.