how vain i should be to reread my own posts, but sometimes, late at night or early in the morning, i find myself scrolling through the past on the computer, mouthing the words or simply caressing them with my eyes. because within me there is something i have not yet understood. an undercurrent of a river lost in my old, unpracticed tongue.
rio de la plata maybe. or river of the sun.
even the sun has sunspots, darker on the background of virginal white; and so i have the blind spots: i always find them when i try. no light is enough to banish the spot of darkess on my sleeve: the drop of blood refusing to wash off in hot water. it would wash off in the cold, i know, but it’ll never get the chance.
chances are far and in between, don’t you know?
and i find myself every time, unexpected, like red peonies on a rose bush in may.
находжу себе кожен раз в шматку чорного хліба.
but what is there to find, other than the poems i had learnt by heart in years three and five. and seven. wordsworth’s daffodils.
the yellow vibrancy of life.
Posted in chapters of my life
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‘excuse me. can you tell me where the station is?’
i stop. it’s early, sunday morning, i have four dozen newspapers on my back and then, a change of route. i pause. ‘err- the station? just walk down this road. you’ll see it in 200 meters on errr- that side’. then i look up. the guy’s about my age. i can’t remember his face, just his hair. it was straight, dark brown. and his gaze was so direct.
i heard the mumbling ‘you’re pretty’, gaze seemed unrelentless.
i smiled. how long ago have i heard that from someone? it’s always you’re beautiful from you. you’re so extravagant, my darling, you are!
‘thank you’ came out of my upturned lips, but i felt a nervous jittery feeling. he seemed so lost. could i have helped him? could i have cured the hunger for company eradiating in his eyes? no, i told myself, no.
so i said ‘you’ll find the station alright? just keep walking straight, you’ll see it‘ and i walked away. without long goodbyes, without any sense of pleasure in deprature.
‘excuse me, excuse me!‘. almost desperate, he was there again, a hundred meters on, in the wrong direction, next to me. ‘do you know the time?‘ i did. it was twenty past seven. gloomy morning.
he didn’t want to leave. he stood there gazing, telling me his friend ‘got beat up‘ and it as a ‘rough night but seeing a pretty girl…‘ and then, ‘can i whisper something into your ear?‘ i wasn’t keen – one never knows a thief. ‘if you must‘.
he saw my reluctant reaction.
so he said it out loud.
the street was empty.
there was noone who would hear.
and yet it was all so real.
‘i want to suck you out‘
and it took him so much to say it.
what was it, desire? impulse? lust?
so here i am. muneca brava. at last!
Posted in chapters of my life
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