Untitled, Unfinished, Unending…

Losing interesting people was always a hard thing  for me. There is  a hint in front of every lie. If you teach your ear how to listen carefully than you can almost hear  the roaring of every heart stroke through the walls  and the lungs and the pin-pointed rapture of the lingering blood vessels. I never imagined anything  like it before , but I can see it now between my aching eyes, trembling and whispering words about prophecies and hunting for a spark of soul. 
Words that become poems, boys that become men, long lasting phone-calls, the grey pavement and every step taking us nowhere , to a land neither seen or heard of.  Playing games with madness, letting her touch me once in a while, to explore the meaning of pain and to discover the two edged blade of adventure. Hidden in the sand, practicing  a  ritual of love and rage, nowhere in sight, trembling odors, mirrors, light binding the waves to shore, and shadows sending them back, ever hungry, ever restless.
If I were different, I would be a seagull and I would play with the waves sometimes and sing when the storm comes. Playful and vengeful, like a wave, unmatched, unchallenged, I would circle above the humans, joyful yet dis-charming, like a new born hope, impossible to reach.
All my life, I’ve lived among ruins. Broken side-walks, empty theaters, disenchanted patios. It always seemed like I had arrived just after a storm and while I picked up the empty chairs from the lawn  I couldn’t keep from wandering what was there before? Spilled goblets, party cups and wine sprayed across the grass in some sort of joyous gesture. I’ve never wanted to be a reporter of life, or the one that keeps track of my youth, but somehow there it is, right in front of me: no choice. It seemed like people had more fun before, the halls were full of light at night and cosmic designs were not yet in motion. Sometimes time stood still, when laughing at a table, or touching somebody’s hand by accident, it took more than a moment to realize that nothing is eternal and that was enough for me. Some form of convalescence, even if only for a second, it helped me recover and cure my superstitions and neurasthenia.  Lying in bed at night I would dream about it over and over again until I couldn’t keep myself from wondering back into  the  cradled bars, a place for hunted youths, such as myself.
The dark alleys and gangs, held evidence of a long fought battle, between rust, pain and dust. You couldn’t tell the difference from a dignified cemetery and the spray painted walls . Echoing in disgust, fear and plagued absence, the words didn’t really mean much to me:  Alcohol and pills, Playing with fire, Romance, Trains for the dead, No hope in sight and name of bands I never heard of before. But it was a familiar sight, I passed those alleys every-day and they were like a childhood home. While  at night, they were completely transfigured – no more than a few shadows kept the distance between this world and another one full of mystery - where the boys and girls had blue eyes, and blue spirals in the sky, marching like an army battalion, chanting and enchanting the stars and everything in sight until it faded away.

Noaptea

   Două felii de portocală neatinse, pe masa din lemn de nuc și un baston vechi sprijinit de ea. Farfuriile sunt încâ nespălate în bucătărie, iar pe fereastra din dormitor se vede o siluetă feminină privind în întunericul de nepătruns. Lumina felinarului îi conturează formele zvelte și dezvăluie trăsături palide, triste ce au fost vesele cândva. Ochii se aseamână unor scântei, de parcâ însăși noaptea și Hefaistos au complotat în făurirea lor, două pulbere de flăcări, o implozie de lumină.

   Nicicând nu am văzut ochi care să mă farmece precum ai ei. Iar eu mă îndrept spre ușa de la balcon cu mișcări molcome, stângace, amețit de vin. Nu știm ce ne așteaptă. Nici n-am știut vreodată. O! Voi suflete deșarte, ce priviți în noapte... Nu vă mai chinuiți atât să discerneți ceva din somnul luminii, altfel această toropeală lină s-ar putea răsfrânge în voi, și apoi... Dar apoi?  Încă nu știm ce e apoi. Siluetele se contopesc. Felinarul răspândește o lumină caldă, aurie, pe fețele lor se citește tristețea, o tristețe însuflețită de bucurie și veninul deșertăciunii. În aer se răsfiră colbul. Copacii sunt treziți la viață de vânt și parcă o orchestră întreagă se naște din vuietul naturii.

   E un spectacol pentru cer și luna și stelele-și coboară razele, dănțuind laolaltă cu frunzele din desișul nesfârșit. E un dans nebun, ce se-ntinde pe tot pământul, în depărtare codrii vuiesc iar ielele încep să cânte la vioară. Dar nimic nu mai are farmec fără privirea ei. Doi aștri coborîți din genuni, două licăriri de speranță. Iubirea merge mână-n mână cu moartea...

   Îmi țin iubita de mână. Și poate că ne și sărutăm, dar nu se mai vede nimic bine, pentru că vântul scutură perdelele , iar pe masă zac douâ felii de portocală neatinse.



(scrisă cu ceva timp în urmă...)

LIFE IS FOR NOTHING

“Life is for nothing you imbecile!” I heard her scream.

“You crook, you villan, pest of a human-being. Away from me!”

I loved this girl, crazy about Schopenhauer, maddened by life and grief and forever alone in her apartment, at room 209.

“What happened?” I asked her.

This seemed to infuriate her even more, and with a shriek, she took out the scissors from the cabinet and approached me. There were tears in her eyes, she was like a possessed animal, hunting its prey.

“Helena, put those down, dear, you don’t have to be so angry!” I cautioned her.

She put them down on the counter table and her gaze brushed the carpet. And for a split second, I could sense indecision in her eyes. Then swiftly, she lurched at me with the scissors and I didn’t have enough time to stop it, she sliced one close to my face and cut my cheek.

I caught her by the arm and there she was lying on the floor.

 

“You owe me nothing! Not your love, not your freedom, you’re a sick man, full of lies, a thief, a merchant of poor futile goods! You mean nothing to me. As I lay here each and every day, waiting for an unspeakable hero to rescue me from my wrath. The ill fates have chosen you to be part of my systematic failure. No wonder I grieve, no wonder I’m full of hatred…”

Then she was crying. I didn’t  know what to feel: contempt or repulsion. Then I remembered her gaze as we walked through the forest three summers ago. Her hauntingly beautiful smile and the way she sneered at me when I made bird noises. “Careful, they might try to mate with you, those crows.” Then I left her by the path, pretending to be unhappy, when I returned hours later, I didn’t even expect to see Helen. But there she was, standing in the same place, looking over or through the dark green bushes. She lifted her chin and started saying words I could never forget:”Here you are, my darling! But what about me? What about the fairy you left behind? Am I not just a shadow of the trees? Perhaps my place is there, within the hummingbirds. I have been dreaming a blissful dream, I don’t remember anything about it, except for the emeralds, those everlasting and conquering forces of nature, thay defended me from myself.” I didn’t know what to make of it.

 

Then there were the moments at the seaside, when we were taking long walks at night and she would gasp my arm and fiercely shriek. I didn’t even have time to ask her what was wrong, because there she went, running on the sea front and never looking back. Then she would peer at the waves through the pilasters. “I am not a dark queen, I am neither friend or foe to the absence of luminosity, I am the wind, in the winter, or in the summer, or in May and I never look back for sunshine. And I take care of my children, for my children are the waves, blissfully enchanting me with their smiles, my kin, my prophets!

Oh how I linger, just a drop of your water and I will remember it all.”

This was the moment when I had to catch her from behind or she would do something stupid. Nevertheless, it got me thinking: what was so peculiar about her? Why did she say those things? I knew she only did them around me, but sometimes I wondered if she did them when she was alone too.

 

Now she was trembling at my feet, soaking my shoes in tears, I knew she was so sorry about her scissors incident that it made it futile for me to even think about getting mad at her. Somehow, it always felt to me, like Helena was suffering more, even when she made me suffer.  This got me to the conclusions that I should hide her books at once, she never protested, because there were so many of them around, but I knew that if I took Schopenhauer away, she’d get me in my sleep.

“Do you love life?” I heard her say.

“Yes, I said.”

“You fool! Only a suicidal loves life…only a suicidal…”

And then she went to sleep in my arms, there on the living room floor, until I wrapped her in a blanket and took her away to her bedroom and put her in bed. She had the nicest look, sleeping with her mouth open just a little bit and her right hand gently pressed upon her cheek.