falling

i fall in love with each and every one of my characters and stories. i walk around seeing through a character's eyes, feeling through his, hers, or its biography. i mold my thoughts through the idiosyncrasies of my characters. i meet one or another that fits my unadulterated description of the character and i start exploring the real to construct the virtual. adulteration begins, fantasy and imagination do their magic, and i disappear. it is the only prayer and blessing that i know. it is escape.

it is time to cut the strings loose. it is time to let go of it all. it is time.

i like whores and adulterers.

i am falling. i am falling in love all over again. once more. it is not even for old time' sake.

 

expressions

i lied to you. i did. i was not working hard to forget you, i was working hard to forget me. months later i get on a jet needing distance. at the door to my flat am reminded of what i keep leaving behind. i keep forgetting me, and then i forget that i forgot, and work even harder to just forget: me.

it is a mad cat. i wanted a horse and ended up with a cat. i pick it up, and we go to the balcony. i squint and can not see. i feel it purring snug in my arms.

it was night. the freaking cat does not forget me. each and every time, i leave it behind. i stay away for months on end. the cat does not forget and each and every time, it is a ritual. it loves the warmth, any warmth, even my warmth; it purrs and purrs. i watch across the city at my feet. it is just the cat that does not forget me. high above the crowds, in the night, on a balcony, the cat and me, we forget.

you reminded me of existence. you reminded me of being human. you reminded me that i had left the cat. the cat has not been left alone. the cat does not care about my presence in the flat. the cat does not care, it purrs.

misplaced

misplaced a girl. picked her up, and tossed her away. am just a kid, a little kid. i am still that little kid who can not write, but writes. am still that little kid who learned to live alone, was told that that was wrong, and grew old to rediscover that being a kid and alone is just the kid's life.

the girl is now misplaced. born and orphaned, she grew. humiliated, she stood. wronged, she smiled. now the kid remembers the girl misplaced.

put a stone on it, she did. the misplaced girl put a stone on it.

 

farewell fair one

wished you had been a man, strong and potent in will

wished you had had what i imagined that you had

wished you had known what i knew all along

wished you had had the courage

wished you had been stronger than this one.

wished,

and then wished again.

did not want to accept what i knew.

you search,

may you be fortunate, and find.

farewell fair one.

mended

It has been a while since we last sat by the fire and had a good chat. It has been a while since I wondered along the river Thames and felt nothing at all besides the emptiness of the street and the coldness of the blood in my veins. It has been a while since I confessed my perversions without saying a word. It has been a while since I wrote while thinking of you. It has been a while since I wrote you a letter. It has been a while since we have caressed each others egos. It has been a while since I felt the thirst that your presence inspires.

i think. sometimes. maybe. all i need is the smallest of all gestures, and then i am calm again. you show up in the remotest corner of my horizon, you are peace. oh, i do not understand this, and i am delighted in my lack of understanding. would we be able to access solitude and silence in the nurturing arms of each other's respect?

Now i remember the cold blood in my veins. it's summer, it rains. I walk barefoot out on the bare stones and the Thames is far away. You continue to be my muse. I continue to be the autistic being. I am wrapped by that other public persona who embraced solitude. We are in each other's arms. We never left each other's cradle.

Illusion, delusion and denial return and I tell myself that I am mended. I tell myself all the lies in the world, and on rare occasions I  believe one or the other. Those lies that I tell myself and believe in, they are opium. They make me feel good in the oblivion of no memories and no past. I am in love with no memories. I am tormented by the recollection of the gems and their sparkle that blinds my eyes.

I hear thunder out over our village. I listen to the rain splattering on the roof. I hear the water murmuring all over the yard. The stones are wet. I walk on the stones. I walk under the rain and dance. Just dance. Just forget. My autism has me locked inside, unexplained, unrestrained, preordained, self-contained. Not broken.

 

change

change is good

i return to the past

it is stale

it is dusty

 

about you and me

we have no past

we have no future

 

change; no future

 

you go figure

today

 

 

drunk

after all of it, i am just drunk. i never told you that there was another. i ran from his arms into yours. i told you sweet little lies. i schemed drama and acted in tragedy. i never told you that i could not be with what the other offered. i never told you about the other's nobility.

i never told you.

i never told you about the origins of the story that i wrote. i told you fabulous little stories, fables. my imagination runs unbound, and my perversion cannot be grasped. you fell into all of it, and i almost fell with it all.

damn!

there are days when i want to beat you. not that i want to annihilate you, not that i want to hurt you, but because i want to take over your mind, soul and body. i want all of you, and i want to give nothing of me.

i want to absorb all of you. i want to breathe the air that you breathe. i want to devour you.

those are the bad days. those are the days of reason.

then there are the other days, most of the days, when i am just happy that i caught a glimpse of you and our mysteries.

those are the days of normal madness.

i do not understand

it is strange to me that you would come back in the middle of the night when i had just returned home. i was not expecting you. i was working hard to forget you.
you returned last night. you returned when i had given up on you. you were there and you did not dare speaking the words. i saw your face and wondered if that person could be you. i did not want it to be you, but you were not it, you were there, you were present, and you had returned.
i am not sure that i know how to accept you in my life.
this time, now that you have returned, all that i know is that it is not important to me. it seems important to you. i do not want promises. i do not want apologies. i do not even want you. i accept. i do not understand. i accept that i do not understand. and i do not understand you.

amante et amant

yes. woke up remembering dreaming of you discussing law and literature. it was a grey day, we were on a grey couch, and i had my legs on your lap and the head on the arm rest. you are real, and you have rarely entered my dreams; you have entered me and my reality, not the dreams.

i was wondering if this was a wake up call. wake up to reality, it is better than the dreams!

i have to conclude that reality is far better. the dreams are the leftovers from the slavery to the present. dreams find no place in the unfurling of the universe and get caught in the imaginary world of the virtual delusions.

it occurs to me that you do not know, and that you do not care, and that it does not matter that there is another one.

it is nothing

she walked in the rain. she did. she keeps telling herself that it is nothing. she wonders if she even believes the lies that she tells herself. nothing. it is nothing. nothing.

it is nothing.

nothing.

reflection

you are the fantastic adventure. i am the fantastic adventure. we were born restless. you and i. you and i were born in a state of entanglement. i know your fear, i know your pain. we touched, we felt it.

there is a next chapter in our book. the pages are turning. change. we both know it.

not a dream

i have not been dreaming. reality is as the dream seems. language. you spoke of Napoli, i listened. i listened. i listened!

you make me think of laying in my death bed holding your hand. i want to die holding your hand. this is not a dream, but i forget. when i forget, i think it is a dream. not a dream.

cycles 2

i return to the scene of the crime. emotion. pure emotion. exhaustion settles in. exhaustion. it is time that you know that i fell in love yesterday with a dead man who was impotent when alive, and with another dead man who was homosexual. by now you know that the sex lives of dead men interest me more than the sex lives of living men. men, just men. it's a men's world, and i have never known another world. women are an invention for the weak, the coward and the spineless. women, like god, are dead from too much veneration and too much oppression. god, like women, is dead. it does not take a professed philosopher to make such a statement, it takes an ignoble ego concocted from frustration and repression to declare the death of all identity.

then there was last night, and again you flirted with that tormented and ignoble ego that i carry around. you make me feel that i am standing on the edge of that abyss of intimacy that you are promising me. you make me want to go again at the break of dawn for a walk along the river, to listen to the crows and smell the moon's whispers.

the warrior returns to details. the ego denies all.

cycles

dear friend and fellow monk, dear departed, dear you. you wanted to know how it is going, and what it is that i have to tell, and what it is that i will tell. i have seen you at the distance, and i have avoided you when i could. the trouble is, you have been right, and you have been wrong, and i am damn tired of the judgements over right and wrong.

i know what i feel now, and i know i have felt it before, and i know that i have repressed it before. repressed feelings, the scholars would say. i say, it is not repressed feelings, it is the just glory of the mechanism of repression. repression comes out of need. to contain the tumult of the vortex of emergence, there are times that if the frame is not going to fall apart, you must repress what wants to emerge. you keep yourself pregnant, and you put that strong emotional hyper-energy in hibernation. some die without ever giving it expression, others, the warriors, they leave a trail burnt by that energy that emerges out of the sensory gut of your psyche. it is seldom a pretty picture, and on occasions it is a glorious and magnificent display of all that is noble. humanly noble! what a strange concept, this one is!

there are words that i refuse to use. there are sentiments that i can not express. there are needs that i can not represent. i live within the crevices of the unrepresentable, yet i live. i exist. on the best of days i amuse myself with the desperation of the struggle to just exist. on most days, existence is nothing that i care about.

this is the point where i go back to my armored cocoon. watch what tunnels on the other side of a reality that i have hidden from you, but can not hide from my self. the warrior returned.

grounded in the city

last week i returned to the city that harbours memories of rough and unadulterated rawness. radical changes follow my visits to the city. there is an after, after this city. it is the one for wine, music, horses and theatre. did i mention sugar and coffee? it is a city first explored with a mystery on tow, and where i started to remember what i had forgotten while distracted. this time...

it all started with not making compromises. then the roughness of a morning that torpedoed all good intentions of bravery, and for a few days i lost track of time and academic preoccupations. a long standing relationship from the early sunny days of graduate school was transformed beyond recognition. back then, in that summer when the plug was pulled on the illusion, i got the physical taste of what i rarely experience: the roughness and the power. force, the abandon to force and the surrender to the air that we breathe. after that, once more i chose the monk's life; it was not easy to understand. it goes on. another time it was work and the city hall kind of thing, the usual, as routine as my usual is, but nothing to write about. then it all crashed, and like a few weeks back, once more i pulled a few more plugs from their sockets.

now. different circumstances, different people, different restaurants, different beds. it all changes. it does. i am thinking of that morning and the rawness of it.

noise...

just noise. i had my doubts. i asked. how is it really. i asked. it is tough, he said. he said it, it is tough. then he asked, he really asked. he asked the right question. he asked, what would i do if i found him. i think that he wants to be found, he thought that the other wants to be found. i think he is afraid. but what would i do. what would i do if i found him? i was stumped, totally stumped. what would i do?

i have no wrath. i have seen the pretty pictures. the pictures are pretty. i am not impressed by pretty pictures. i had a dream last night again, again the man's face shows up. the crystal wall is still there.

there is a picture hanging on the wall. i met the painter of that picture today at lunch. i overheard some conversations. i sat in the office of my buddy. i walked across the hall with determination. i thought of her face. i thought of her contained face, the smooth skin. i saw the vibrancy that contained emotion renders. i thought of the last line in his poem. i thought of my last line.

doing nothing is action.

not man, not even the man

one day you wake up and discover that it is in you. it is not even yours. it also did not come from the outside. it is nothing that you picked up along the way either. you were born for it to exist. your own life has no other purpose. you are not important. it is what is in you that is not yours, and you were born to give it expression. that is the sense that there is to the whole of the comedy. there is no life, just comedy. that ordered state of matter that brainless and spineless invertebrate intellectuals call life does not exist. the abstract is absolute, deal with it.

questions

where are you, she asked.

he was silent. he is always silent.

she insisted, he insisted, they stayed.

what are you, he asked

she was silent, she is always silent.

he insisted, she insisted, they remained.

silver, marble and water.

not now

no.

that is all: no.

it is a block of stone

chisel away

incomplete.