Why am I here – that’s a good question, well because
I remember that morning like it was yesterday you slept for two hours maybe then I came into your room I was looking for that hug again longing for it craving it knowing its all wrong but knowing its the only thing I need maybe you touched my left arm then you left for work and I knew I had to leave too
I remember that morning like it was yesterday because of the rain and the silence of its drops on the rooftops and the park was all green and fresh mixing up our breaths in the air going back to our homes with a strange question mark above our heads
will I ever see that room again
two weeks later I was back I remember that day asking myself wtf is love after all it’s like going back to school; the hibbie jibbies feeling; the under the covers when it’s dark and raining outside and there are homeless people out there for fuck’s sake and it’s like colouring a book outside the lines and from time to time thinking of how lucky you are but still the only thing that makes me feel like que ça colle it’s writing
Also looking for the best X-rays of dreams in all formats, color and black-and-white. Successfully photographed memories, to be considered for airing on TV networks, paid extra. (Milorad Pavic, Landscape painted with tea)
no one said anything, it was just a step dance underground; and as we flew towards the day, our shadows were fading.
there was coffee all over the floor, broken glass, broken china and I was all scratched.
Some fingers were pointing at my dirty-smelly-coffee stained-dress and I knew that there was dust all over me and I had a red face.
Grab it with your hands said the sand therapist
then write your poems with your toes at the sea side and hope for the best. You have yet to finish all those books you started to read years ago and give those voices to the characters you’ve been thinking about in your dreams
I wish I could use my camera when dreaming, I’m sure I would remember everything easier.
time flowed from the end to the beginning of life (Dictionary of the Khazars, M. Pavic)
there are only the ghosts of spiders from that corner in our balcony, that corner where we used to listen to the town’s urban dogs and cats and where we smoked our evenings out before going to sleep.
There’s only the smell of the neighbourhood’s smokehouses and of our spoken, sometimes written words; the smell of paper.
The blackness of our garden and our silence, fear digging up the ground; the earth, our roots digging themselves up amongst bunches of poppy flowers and spring onions, fresh garlic waking up its leaves with a sound so strange (like a howling), this green werewolf.
Our roots, our insectariums, our herbarium – a systematically arranged collection of dried plants.
And then a song to deeply fall asleep.
Back into my glory age 15 and its phantasma stories
all that itchy feeling from when I used to wear a watch earrings bracelets necklaces platforms leather skirts lace tops like already being this 30 years old woman
15 years later going straight back there with a Noah’s ark
(few months later)
watching the winter go down from the front seats of a double decker I had this beautiful autumn like feeling at the end of the day: development implies continuity
two guys talking about vegan oyster sauce and vegan chicken pieces (???)
you were talking in your sleep come back with megan fox
and who the hell is meganfox and what are they saying
one bag of mixed mushrooms, they weren’t magic at all but what’s this flavour?
what IS this flavour?
later that day I decided I wanted to write about you and I had a plan I was building my plan like a map
in theory – imperfectly
but when I got to hold a pen I couldn’t do it – so I opened books to find the simplest possible harmonic sequence
It must be exhausting to travel without music / are you playing something in your mind?
I couldn’t find anything so I wondered between libraries
the first one was women’s library (but I’m still on the train – Highbury&Islington such a posh name – high maintenance you once said that you were
but still things aren’t making any sense)
At the library – there was no library
there was this big scaffolding sign on which I could read: sometimes you act like an uncomfortable pair of chopsticks when trying to slurp some noodles but your fingers are butter
my fingers cannot hold you, my hands cannot hold you
sometimes I think I know how to use chopsticks (like when I’m eating the crispy tofu at our favourite restaurant in china town) but then sometimes
my fingers are butter
I’m taking the train back
there’s a familiar scent in the room when I keep the window open, but it’s not as familiar as it should be; wind is a bit salty like butter and leaves are crisp
leaves back home at this stage of the autumn are soft and velvety, inviting you to go for a coffee in the park just so you can mix the smoke of your cigarette with the smoke of stubble burning.
I’ve been harvested.
Dog&duck they said stands for fuck
londoners and their funny way of talking
like apples&pears stands for
and even if George Orwell did go to dog&duck
for drinks with his mates
every single inch of london says something
I am all over london and london is all over me
and somehow it’s as like I didn’t mind the gap
that’s what actually happened
and he took me in his palms with lines crossing them
upstairs we go
apples and pears for starters
haven’t been so close to anyone in ages
dog and duck to nicely end the evening
trembling and shivering
this is familiar I’m thinking where and when did I –
I didn’t mind the gap me neither
My grandma used to say it’s forbidden to sew on a Sunday. She didn’t know exactly what would happen if, but she always reminded me of her nightmare
my eyes and mouth were stitched, there was an old lady with a giant needle and red thread sewing my mouth and eyes she was 100 years old
so I don’t sew on Sundays, just in case the old lady would visit my dreams.
The loose ends
once upon a time in an air plane I read this picture in a book:
strings of yarn
a few hundred strings stretching across the water
passengers leaving for the inside world
they held balls of yarn
the others on the pier held the loose ends, a few hundred strings
every ten seconds slowly flying
as I was shouting farewells waiving furiously
the balls of yarn began to spin – I began to spin
my fingers were part of her dreams now
my footsteps were part of his imaginary home now
my hair and eyes were part of their hopes
I was gone.