today i remembered

that i like the grey, in versailles

that i like our distance, at home

that i like life, in its disarray

that i like music, for its essence

today i remembered that we spoke for an hour yesterday, and again we laughed.

magic

the other day you called and you began thanking me. thanks and more thanks, you laughed, you were busy, you had no time, you called. i will always blindly take in the thanks and laugh with you. then i asked you what was it that you were thanking me for, and then we really laughed. to loose one's mind is a good thing, and those are the moments when we loose our minds, when we laugh there is no mind!

just the other night and exhausted i argued with another. he is right and i am right, and we argued! for all he knows, you exist only in my imagination, and there is nothing concrete or real about you. i understood his concern, and then i realised how slanted this storyteller is: a trickster, a magician. one omission, one fact untold, a gesture unseen and the story turns from the serenity of existence to drama.

how could the magician have forgotten?

nights and days...

then there are taboos...

nights.

days.

taboos.

then there are the interstitials of god.

right now is all there is:

no god

no interstitial

no taboo

no day

no night

all, nothing.

maybe.

rarity

no, it is not a rarity that i sign life in blood!

constancy is the rarity, every thing else changes!

i see you differently these days, and it is not that the rare specimen of your being has changed, it is my seeing that has changed. not that i look at things and you any differently, just my perception has changed, evolved and been re-filtered through wonders of what i can possibly only call unknowledge.

so, it is not every day that Immanuel appears in my life and that i take him for a spin. he bores me!

you, it is different. but given a chance, even you would bore me... would you?

see, i just do not have a mind for this now. i do not have a mind for you now. i have no mind and no feelings and have wondered if it is because they are married or because they have divorced.

last week i sat with her around a cup of tea. she had a belly ache, i was frustrated and bored at the same time. i was impatient. she is strong, and we are the two ethereal beings of vulnerability and imperfection and our wrath may differ in expression, it is much too similar in its effect. our wrath destroys.

will i sign my next story in blood?

will you read it?

that smile was all that i needed.

laughter

it is a grey day, we complained!

it is good to laugh together.

it is that simple.

between the lines there is a whole world without words. was it that we spoke of the fear of intimate contact, or was it that we spoke of ecstasy?

fear

on any day, on any night, you are mine. you have always been mine. i embrace you like the fool that i made myself to be. you are so mine that you can not even imagine it!

last week it was one malignant brain tumour and i wondered what would be like if it had been mine. this week another calamity strikes next door, and once more i remain untouched. it goes from blunt to sharp, and which ever way you present yourself, i do embrace you. you make me feel close to the other side, you make me want to follow her in her own embrace.

the blind, sees
the deaf, listens
the fool, conquers

fight and surrender!

the truth... ah the truth!
she is a chimera, he is a whore

pray!

when you are mine, where do you hide?

it is late...

yes, it is late. a while ago i seemed to know it all, now i seem to know nothing. perhaps i am just tired after a long day and a few distractions. i fear getting distracted. tell me, what is this thing with fear? why does it keep on returning?

i am tired of remembering, and i am tired of so much that seems remote, foreign and about to be forgotten! i am tired!

i am even tired of you and all that we have gone through. i am tired of your wisdom, and i am even more tired of mine. i am tired!

i watched myself today being bored, curious, patient, indifferent, amused, and jealous. i thought that jealousy was something that i would never know... yet today your words was what i was jealous of. i want your words, i want your mind, i want your understanding. i do wonder if i am all that interested in the carcass that carries your body?

i was even charming and bold, i miss the stage. i miss the acting, and i miss the playwright! if it is not when i write that i exist, then it is when i act. why is it that i only exist when i write, when i speak or when i move? what happens when i sleep?

this

this anxiety is fear.

i did not know that it could feel this way.

fear...

fear!

how very foreign you are to me!

but why do i fear my wishes?

why do i fear my dreams?

why do i fear my desires?

am i any less than any other, so much less that i would have no right to my own insanity?

being with you

last night, miles apart, together.

i wished you here, i wished myself there, i wished nothing at all.

i have missed this place, really have.

i am miles apart from myself, how could i think that i am close to you?

have missed being here with me, really have.

i have noticed my attention fragment at the slightest whisper and i have noticed myself waiver and vacillate. i forget easily, i forget the struggle much too easily, i am so drunk with it all, i am. drunk and here, that i am.

i forget the hardship, i forget the pain. i forget it all so damn quickly, how can i forget so easily? will you tell me?

but why can i not forget you? each time that i meet you, i think that you will be different this time, and then i meet you again and again through time, through space, through fiction, and there you are, always here and always so far!

i did not want a love affair, i didn't. i told you so, didn't i? perhaps i forgot, i always do forget. i even forget the love affairs. i forget all. i forget all of you. all of you.

last night, right here, miles apart, together.

i really do not know.

sleeping with demons

my mind is too cluttered for poetry. i have been sleeping with my demons, going to bed with the devil, and copulating with insecurity. thus my prose... riddled in muddle, ambiguity, and utter incredulity.

that is about the shape of things in the place that i find myself right now. i love it. it is like standing on the edge of the grand canyon and loosing all sight of perspective and distance. how far are those ridges, how far are those abysses? near of close?

yesterday i cried of sadness, and i was happy. i can still see in my minds eye how it felt to sit there curled in that designer chair near the university, and just feeling the warmth that sadness embraced brings, i called it happiness. it was awfully delightful, and it made me think of nothing in particular, i just felt surrender.

once, not too long ago

you asked out loud what would it be like if you had what you wished for...

you asked... i listened. i asked myself, what if...

then, just a few days ago it was my own ego that lay shattered on the floor and i was much too busy consoling its disgrace to notice that i had been acknowledged. i am who i am and that that is just grand. it is ecstasy, and somehow it met me unprepared, somehow like the rest of my life.

damn you! how did you know?

pain, addiction and the generality of nothing

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?

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embrace

fragility, insecurity, doubt, and the whole of what makes us imperfect, makes you and i so alive and real.

the ideal, the dream, the utopia, and all the wonderful constructs of abstraction and fiction, those too are real.

i just do not want to confuse the physical reality with the abstract reality.

we talked and i smiled my mask, i talked a lot, and what i want most is to share silence with you. i love the words, i live with the words, and with you, why would i need words?

there is no argument, no reason, and no wisdom that will make you cross that bridge between us. silence is the bridge, and it needs no argument, no reason and no wisdom.

my invitation is sincere, you embracing it is more than i have expected. i expect nothing, i am ready for all.

between the muses and the angels, i am already in paradise.

off the grid

yesterday i checked out, logged off the internet and the gsm grid and went off for a run. my run turned into a leisurely walk along the river with a few spurts of a sprint. it was a very grey and cloudy day, it invited contemplation. the dull lighting made me more aware of nature's subtle beauty as i looked at the slow flowing river, the trees, and the bridges. life is short, they say. what a fallacy! there are moments that seem eternal and forever engrave themselves into memories. in the solitude of my walk yesterday, you were with me. i wondered what it is that inspires me, and i felt a certain tiredness of this human affliction that keeps humans prisoners of their minds. why would i need inspiration? why would i need you? i recall about one year ago having one of those moments of desperation and frustration, and thinking that if i am a writer, i might as well act like one. strange, i seldom act like one. it is often as though i was afraid of the very power of these little an insignificant words that flow one character after another onto the screen or onto the page. then on wednesday i found myself acting like a writer. it is a matter of survival, but frankly i have no other means to earn a living than as a writer, and i do not always have the luxury on the choice of topics or genre that i am to write about. but what is choice really? while in my run turned contemplative walk yesterday i descended to the river bed looking for a water polished stone to add to the stone garden. i wanted something to remember that day, if ever i would forget, then the stone would remember. the river is a good metre lower than usual, and certainly far from jumping the banks and flooding. it is an eerie feeling to walk on the stone lined river bed and look for that special stone. the one, the magic one, the perfect one. it made me think of how we chose lovers from an overbounding field of indistinguishable and yet unique beings, we want one special one. shall it have a red hue, or will it have white spots, or will it be a particularly flat one? what will strike our fancy? then after walking about for a while and not being able to decide on the special stone, i bent down and reached for the next one. it will do, it is the right one, i have made it the right one. there is nothing special about that stone, and today it is another special stone in my garden that lays just a few steps away from another very special stone that i picked on the shores of scotland. then i thought of you, there is nothing special about you. yet i have chosen to make you special, and to harbour you in the stone garden of my affection. this is the nature of my love, it is impersonal. i love that stone from yesterday, just like i love you. both inspire me.

i thought that i had forgotten

i thought, and i did. how very silly and unresponsive i feel now after absolutely not knowing how to tell you that that i feel is total nonsense. sometimes i wonder if it is just madness. i thought that i had written it all before, and maybe i have... sometimes i just want your world into my silence, other times i just want you. then i get distracted, and i imagine that i had forgotten you. we sit next to each other and it all stops. i want more of that.

remember to forget

remember to forget and forget to remember, or how i forgot that i had remembered. archived. finished and over: complete. that is indeed one tall order of pure nonsense! between the lines of random poetry and pseudo rhyme, i find absolutely no good reason to any of this. not now anyhow. fluage remains my open letters to you only to say that there is nothing to say, and to let you know that all is alright although you have known that for quite a while now. thank you for being there, and for the experience of it all.

home

home. if only i could tell you what home means to me!

often i have been asked about home and even more often i have not know where home is. i keep on looking for home, and sometimes when i look into your eyes, it is for home that i am searching.

home? home.

returning home to angels. writing pregnant sentences. regretting kierkegaard's regret. wishing to not wish. experiencing all of it. i was born there, and then got kidnaped by that illusion that we do not call the capital reality. yet, we ough to call the grand illusion, the capital reality. i am tired of marx and engels, i am tired of hegel and kant, i am tired of them all. i am even tired of chomsky and eco. i am drilling into bateson and varela. i am particular tired of abusing the scientific method: academia needs a new context. i am also tired of hyperlinks and hypertext that is not automatic, and i am tired. tired. tired and empty. i feel empty. empty and scrubbing the walls of my being with the tenacious remnants of that nasty piece of experience which was my childhood. while my life is good, childhood left the walls of this being scarred, tarnished and in a confusion as to what home might ever be.

 

it was another day of me, myself, and i still struggling with the other side, or this side of emptiness. it is the other side of something that i do not know, or at least of something that i do not recognize. is it freedom or is it an endless abyss?

i feel your teaching embracing me, and then the call to do what i want to do is stronger than ever. today, yesterday and for months now, i feel paralyzed and uncapable of sensible action. why the paralysis? why the impotence? knowledge seems so damned useless! i want to be able to look into your eyes again and see home, that home that allows me to purge my mind of the nightmares and the horrors. i want to look at you again and be able to once more know that my world is intact, and nobody, not even you will ever rob me of this world of mine.

i think of the nightmare that i had at your house. that is home, your house. under that leaky roof of yours, i feel nurtured and embraced in your love; it is a place where i can have a nightmare and feel safe. home is a state of conscientiousness. but what am i doing here burying my head in the sand and feeling invertebrate, powerless, meek, without a conscience and not conscient? impotent!

it rains, it pours, and life goes on. humans die and are born. the cat plays with the dead mouse and i drown snails in beer traps. i am starting to wish for the conscience of the cat and its freedom from judgement just tossing that carcass of a once cute living rodent. i feel bad about a few drowned snails! why do i care? why do i want to care? is the cat less of or more a being than i am?

the difference between the cat and i is that it does not know your teaching, and it does not appear unperturbed by his natural predator instincts. why is being human such a repressed anomaly? is this a collective psychosis of our times?

home is the place where i untangle my fears of that abyss that i call delusion, hypocrisy, megalomania and phoniness. this is the place where i am now, home.

you knew

today i needed you, you were there.

when i need you, you are there ready, when i fall.

i fell

i fall time and again you are there catching my tears caressing my ego

in silence you knew

seeing and not looking

falling

secrets. our secrets. desires, none. all.

goethe was there, rilke missed it. it is just a place: rocks and water

i was talking about you, you were the one with whom i was talking.

we do fall in love with our own delusions.

in hallucinations, we see perfection in insanity we disconnect and call it reality

waking up

waking up and knowing. knowing to be loved. loved.

i shall never forget that day of a summer past when i first felt this feeling of being loved and not knowing what it was. i had to test every dimension of your being before just last spring i saw that love of yours as impersonal, infinite and precious beyond reason. yes, you are beyond reason. you are human and as such full of weakness, desire, lust, frustration and power.

my name is... my name is... my name is...

last night we talked about names and you were not the one with whom i was talking. it did not matter. somehow i fail to see human beings as disconnected; i hold one long conversation with the universe and my partner in this conversation keeps on changing, most keep on returning. once he has blue eyes, other times they are green or brown. each individual is unique and distinct, yet connected, there is only one conversation in life, and that is the conversation of sharing life now.