Clorets, Magic Theatre and Bitches Brew

These days, I chew gum a lot.
Clorets—grapefruit flavor.
I used to prefer the thin, paper-like gum you cram into your mouth all at once,
rather than these small, chewy Clorets.
Maybe even gum preferences change over time—along with everything else.

The good thing about chewing gum is, first of all, it supplies the sugar I need.
It keeps me awake and lets me write,
keeps long flights from turning shapeless,
and it works as a temporary fix for hunger.
It softens the desire to smoke,
makes me aware of the hinge of my jaw,
and sometimes brings back ideas I thought I had already forgotten—
as if the rhythm of chewing could grind memory loose.

Anything grapefruit-flavored is good.
Grapefruit juice,
grapefruit gum,
grapefruit sorbet,
black tea with grapefruit,
grapefruit syrup,
and so on…

With orange or strawberry,
I can’t stand the difference between the real fruit and the processed taste.
But grapefruit is strange: the artificial grapefruit taste is often better than the real fruit.
Sometimes a good counterfeit industrial product is better than a 100% freshly-squeezed original.

Maybe the best way to break free from that ingrained imperative
that “pure” things are inherently superior
is to chew a grapefruit-flavored Clorets,
or spray on a synthetic fragrance with cardamom notes—
or, on a very worn-out Friday night,
make yourself a strong cup of instant coffee with crema.

Today, on the plane, I finished Steppenwolf,
and the ending was so bizarre that I loved it instantly—almost helplessly.
Oh, Hermine.
To say that the novel contains no eroticism
was simply the rash judgment of an ignorant reader
who couldn’t finish the book—
who knew nothing of what was to come.

The depiction of the Magic Theatre, where Harry is invited,
felt a bit like Eyes Wide Shut,
but also reminiscent of Blue Velvet.
I began to wonder whether Kubrick and Lynch ever read Steppenwolf.
And Pablo, as a character, was as chilling
as Robert Blake in Lost Highway.
He’s my favorite character after Hermine.
From the midpoint onward, he holds the story’s tension with an uncanny steadiness—
quiet yet unmistakably present.

As I chew Clorets, grinding away while I read,
I feel as if I’ve acquired a kind of rhythm,
and yet I’m also anxious—
would chewing gum be permitted inside the Magic Theatre?
Jaw moving, gum softening, thought loosening.
The combination of classic and gum.

What does it mean for something to become “classic”?
The power to grow more radiant with time—
to age with elegance?
The influence to give birth to other works?
If so, then the “classical music” we love is simply Western European art music of the late 18th to early 19th century—
a throne occupied without anyone’s signature of consent.

On the way to the airport I listened to Bitches Brew.
I didn’t like it four or five years ago.
But now—my God.
How can it be this good.

A true classic.
Not because it is pure,
but because it keeps changing shape—
the way gum softens the longer you chew,
the way something once hard to swallow becomes irresistible with time.