i am discovering this world, not unlike a newborn: scent by scent, piece by piece. and aren’t we all?
no questions plague me, no worries weigh me down and nothing seems to matter very much at all. estoy contento.
it’s all about times like this in life: when air grows warm and shallow and eyelids flutter, cascading downwards to close in a sort of tired midnight bliss.
it’s times like this. times where you sit by the radiator, mid-october, and listen to life happen outside your window, noise by noise, laugh by laugh, the voices merging with the wind and night.
and all you feel is warmth, a yearning for a hibernation.
as nights grow longer – a pressing need to forget all and sleep in; to snuggle up for that one moment more, underneath the covers vividly coloured with summer – oranges and fuscia pinks – and dream of snow.
i want the frigid maiden winter and all her hidden joys: falling flat on your face iceskating, hot chocolate held in cupped frozen hands, reading old classics under the covers, red noses, father christmas and the constant sparkle of magic in the air.
i want it all and yet estoy contento with all i have right now, right here: the oranges and reds, the windy mornings drizzling with rain of new beginnings.
i have it all, your fingers in my hair.
you cushion my falls
like a pillow
of finely ground murano glass,
with the voice of rustling leaves in october
crackling and shimmying underfoot.
your glass is my sand of world’s beaches,
where coloured lights we make break the dark,
warmth engulfing the contours of your body,
nectar flowing freely from the cup.
so know
it is for you,
i ride the moon and back,
hair flowing on the rising morning tide;
for all the nights you let me cry in the pillow
made from the ground pieces of your heart.
Posted in excerpts
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it’s funny, this. i started a post on the 19th of october and never finished it. sometimes i do that. sometimes the words are jumbled in all sorts of ways and i just can’t them to make sense.
19th of october: viktor’s birthday. i always wrote a story on that day; my form of celebration. but this one went untold.
sometimes i still think about him and wonder if he made me. sometimes i think he did. victor frankenstein created a monster. but that is no more than a parallel.
“consecration.
when you look back to your childhood and remember the way the priest broke the bread during mass, is there not something in it you cherish? the moment of peace, the silence as the bread is broken. for you and me. for us.
i didn’t know you then. you still don’t know me now. but lets plow on – you reap what you sew.”
i remember my thoughts that day. of S and how not too long ago you were him: longing to stand by my side, waiting forever for the imaginary day where i was yours.
and i reminisced on the act of consecration, the way one would when breaking bread and pouring wine. only not of christ. of S.
and that was that.
and this is no more than a parallel.
Posted in chapters of my life
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your life is blistered
by the setting sun
and dreams we dreamt
as if we were living
for one life only
the jokes we told
today: the ironies of life,
the laughs we laughed
callused by bitter strangeness
adieu
to you
is but a foreign language
to me it’s broken glow stick lighting up the sky
i’ll say goodbye
but not in english
i’ll say goodbye
and it will be forever new.
————————————————–
last weekend i was away with friends. trekking. miles walked under the coldness of october sun with you, with Y and others. according to Y it is over a year since he began life anew with his blonde. i know it isn’t. the day he professes their anniversary is the day i spent crying in his arms. it was the day when i almost begged him for a platonic kiss. it was the day he said “how can it be platonic if we are in love?”
Posted in excerpts
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i only stop when i know i’ve had enough.
i guess i haven’t had my fill just yet.
you’ve gone to france, as you always do. your second life, i call it, but i dont blame you: that’s what a lifetime of living with parents who are teachers does to you. four weeks this time; it’ll be five the next or six, or whatever. but i’ve stopped counting the days. i learnt to live without salting my wounds.
Y went camping with his blonde, though she’s not blonde now but rather a seductive red. they’ve been together months now. it’ll be a year soon. october, i think.
he was meant to come back yesterday, but his phone was off. i called him twice. twice is always my limit.
i know i’ll call him again.
X is just an ex. we speak sporadically on msn and i’ve not been on the computer for days. i just couldn’t face the lonely screen staring in my face. i wanted physical contact, the sound of someone’s, anyone’s voice reverbrating in my eardrums.
and i read books. sartre, “streetcar named desire” and anais nin with her erotica. that put me down, but then, i wanted to be put down. sometimes there comes a point in our lives when we can no longer continue to believe in what we are believing until we see what else there is to see.
then there was Z. another reunion. he called me just now. for no reason. he didn’t say so, but then he rarely says a lot. he’s coming back from wales today. he was away for a week, but what more is there to it? it was another failed lesson in love for him, but i know i’m not the one to teach him.
in the end of all ends, i love you.
and i met your ex too on the days. that was fun. hurt me like crazy but it had to be done.
somewhere in between “the spy in the house of love” and “the age of reason”, i’d lost my wits. literature has a way of doing that to you.
i needed to see her.
i needed to feel the arterial spray of your past on my face.
let her do her worst i thought and damn, she tried her best.
Posted in chapters of my life
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glittering soot on her eyelashes 