Letter to J.

Rata-da-da-dat...Rata-ta-tad...Rat-ta-te-ed.
The gift of mechanical jingles being bestowed upon me .....Unable to shun this power, I accept it with grace. Hour after hour I spend immerssed in the dusty songs that emerged from Pan's box,I question the vallue of words.I want a jingle so pure it breaks the silance into pieces.I wish for no more music except what was heard during the making of this world.I miss that silance so deep ,you could feel it in yourself when the phone was about to ring.My childhood has no soundtrack.For reasons unknhown,I do not remember the sound of ny own voice.I am tired now and shall write no more of it.I shall leave this undone,words never spoken suspended in mid-air...


I spent most of the weekend sleeping and I feel more tired than ever.Three more weeks of working in retail.For now,I'm slaving away and counting the days.

I feel so alone tonight, I have to tell the world about it.

That is all, c'est ne pas grave.

I keep thinking of some blue glass beads I'll buy from an old Iroquese woman , one uncertain day,on my way from east to west across America. I would wear them under my faded tees , just to feel them pulsate in the rythm of my heart. I would wake up half choked by them,stranded in my hair .In murky motels I would reluctantly take them of for a moment or two and place them in a sink filled with ice cold water ;once their purity restored, they would absorb dessert smoke and highway lights,lines from songs their name I know not of and all the beauty that lies in front of me ,mile by mile, vanishing as I approach it and coming to life again and again and again.

"We'll never be young again" -Noblesse Oblige ,I will pretend I'm innocent and life's just starting .I will take pleasure in learning to forget and forgetting to learn again.I will act sixteen, like a willowy sixteen year old girl , who slept through today in order to dream of tomorrow. I will do that, each waking moment of each day - except the times I let my beads cool down. Those times, I shall pretend are dead times, milisecconds lost as I calibrate my life. Once I put them on again I shall be careless and expect that life would provide me with fast moving scenery and endless love. "We'll never be young again" ,I'll say to myself as I camp unde red skies and grey skies and skies covered in roaring thunders and light. I can only hope my beads may capture it all -a token for the day I shall wake up old and stiffened anf never be sixteen again.The road will end there. At seventeen,I would simply be too old.

I'm officially catching a cold , tomorrow is my first day of work in ages and all the Paracetamol in the world isn't really helping.I want to listen to some music and dare not to, afraid it would hurt if I break the silance. What exactly:my body, my soul, my memories ..I don't really know and don't intend to find out.

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My orange blossom tea has a bitter taste tonight.I drink it without pleasure, finding comfort in the childhood belief that the more bitter the medicine, the better it is for you. I am tired and aching and somewhat content.My eyes- tired and inexpressive, my skin -not glowing , my always red lips not so red right now. I look ill. People notice this, unlike all other days when I am stuck in limbo smiling and contemplating eternity. I am not lonely tonight, I will curl in my bed with a novel and my tea and know I will get better.I wish I could be that certain about other things in my life.

I stil keep the shape of your lips with me- an involuntary token, healing slowly, perhaps because I keep reminiscing how it was brought to me. My name on your lips,your lips pressing mine, my thoughts racing as I try to discern the shades and colours mixing in your eyes. Standing side by side, I count the lines surrounding your eyes , reminding me that a man of twenty five was either born twenty years too early or is twenty years too old.You've got childhood tangled in your curly hair and you like to say your eyes are blue though they're a kind of sallow green. I like the cobwebs in the corner of your room , your uncomfortable bed and the immaculate pillows in contrast with the shabby ,worn blankets.You're the typical artist who doesn't write or paint or sing, who doesn't talk about art except when drunk.You like that my lips are always red and my hair long enough to become a tempting courtain. We're both addicted to beauty, young and shallow, pretending we're deep-those places we go to and people we talk to not because we like them or care for them , we're just attracted by their unbearable charm. The grey mornings following white nights , we spend in front of the bathroom mirror -our gaunt faces a prelude of our coming of age. We're not that terrible, really -we play pretend and pretend to play- play with the world around us and in the end we become the fools jest. Maybe we're not even shallow, it's just another game as not to tell eachother how we really feel. I think of you each night, living again a string of conversations and aimless wondering and real intimacy , beginning and ending with a kiss. That is all, c'est ne pas grave. No drugs and no debaucherie. Your lips pressing mine into voluntary submission. Newspaper stands receiving their first batch. Waiting for the first bus to take us home, yoiu'll go one way, I'll go another -except that night I slept in your uncomfortable bed then spent the morning counting the lines around your eyes while you were sleeping.

Saying Goodbye to the Future and Holding on to the past

I feel like closing the shades and staying in my opium den forever and beyond that. I shouldn't be here right now.I'm locked in my flat , my keys having vanished to some strange dimension of unfufilled birthday wishes and lost socks.It's the first time in days I do not feel alone, I do not wish for an escape. I am locked.I am alone.I feel fine. I pretend I'm drinking wine instead of water and ponder that I always spoke to God, not once to Jesus. I'm giving it all away, the clothes so frilly and the books unopened, those gifts and blessings I never wished for and would never be of any help. I pretend I am in love with nothingness and open spaces. "If you want to remember you'll remember" ..so I'm giving away my childhood dolls and teen ilussions ,my student textbooks and quiet dreams. Goodbye to the past , that's just hello to forever..You'll always remember what you thought you had forgotten...

Hello to sunshine/ Goodbye to winter