A Meeting At A Hotel Lounge (feat. Blanchot and Cummings)

Monsieur Blanchot and Mr Cummings were waiting for me. M Blanchot was staring out of the hotel window at the lush and green garden and Mr Cummings was reading a magazine behind a puff of smoke. I apologised for my tardiness and took a seat in front of them. M Blanchot nodded, his suit seemed as stiff as his chin, but his smile was friendly. Mr Cummings flashed me a tiny smirk and flicked his cigarette. The corner of his eyes crinkled.

“I did have the naive plan of arguing with Aristotle, and Montaigne, regarding their conception of friendship. But why bother?” (Blanchot, “For Friendship”34)

I thanked them for having inspired me to write my theses. I explained to them how much I admired them. They gave no response, but they appeared to be listening. And after some silence Mr Cummings chuckled. M Blanchot cleared his throat.

Image result for e e cummings

“”Good” and “bad” are simple things. You bomb me = “bad.” I bomb you = “good.”” (“Foreword to an Exhibit: I”, 1944)

I politely asked them to begin their conversation together and requested that they pretend that I was not there. And they did just that. Because I was not really there anyway, and they did not see me.

I whipped out my notebook and I listened intently to everything that they were saying among themselves. They were not talking to each other. They were not even in the same room together, as was I. But still I listened, and still I paid attention.

M Blanchot had an angular smooth face with a soft but piercing eyes. He talked to me about his reading on Hegel that he often quoted in his writing. He talked to me about silence, space, author, literature, and death. He talked to me about his friendship with Dionys Mascolo. His admiration of camaraderie.

I looked at Mr Cummings, and for me he was oozing masculinity as much as he was reeking of tobacco. His voice was melodious and he might as well be a swing singer or a newscaster to some extent, maybe. He did not look bathed or washed, and he was probably in his 40s, but he has this irrefutable charm that made me could not stop staring and listening. I scribbled on my notebook, dividing my attention between the two. M Blanchot kept talking without pause, but Mr Cummings liked to light a fresh cigarette between each pause. Mr Cummings’ vocabulary was mesmerizing, like a labyrinth of mind game I would be willing to get myself lost in.

I could listen to them all day long, although sometimes I could not help my mind to wander. But the day was ending soon, and the sky was getting dark, so I packed up my notebook. I sometimes still wonder how these men can manage to inspire me this much. I thanked them. They were there and then they weren’t. But their words resounded inside my notebook and inside my head, and I carry them everywhere with me.

Overflow

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I knew that since the first moment I met you, I didn’t want to let you go.

On the rooftops, I see you. I touch you. I listen to your voice I the wind. I see your tears in the waves. Your hair is the ocean I sink myself into.

The road I travel is the breath that you take. I taste, your blood, I walk, in your smile, your pain, my agony.

I hold you and you disappear.

I remember the music inside you, when we make love to the melody of the moon. I remember the stars when I sleep in your whispers. The air, our air, the dream, our dreams.

I never want to let you go. You fly away.

I catch a glimpse of you in the crowd. I don’t want to get lost in your lullaby. You are the one who first makes me. Creates me.

There is that river peeking in the corner of the street. You are the hill I surrender myself to. I surrender myself to you.

I will hold you again. Someday. Everyday.

 

The Clearing

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In the clearing he stumbles on a tree trunk, but he does not fall. He sees a spring, crystal, quenching, not unlike the brunette girl bending over it. She drinks, and sees him. She runs. He tries to go after her, but the only thing he catches is her shadow and the fragrant whiff of her figure.

The next day he comes back, and the girl is there too. But this time he tries to talk to her. She wants to know about her. The girl looks disconcerted, anxious, but she answers him anyway. He asks her name. “Drucille.” She looks as lovely as the first flower that blooms in the spring. He asks about her age, and she looks right at his eye, smiling sadly. “Follow me.”

He is captivated. He does as he is told. She walks really fast, he almost can’t keep up so he jogs. He remembers his mother and little sister down at the hillside, fire blaring, pot boiling, waiting for a fat deer or juicy sluggish rabbit he hunts for supper. Then he smells the air around her hair. The day is old and the branches of the trees are long sharp fingers of the Devil himself. The moon peeks from its hiding. He follows her deeper to the calm darkness.

She takes his hand in hers. He shivers. “Welcome to my home,” she breathes.

Inside of the shack is warm and balmy. Her father, mother, and two little brothers sit around an empty table. They all smile, he smiles back. “Welcome to our home.”

Drucille must be an angel. She comes from a family of angels. The shack is so warm and comfortable, and the warm chocolate drink her mother gives him makes him all giddy. The aches on his muscles disappear. He even forgets about the bleeding cut on his right forearm caused by the thorny plants he passes on the way to her house. It throbs, but his head is too light and his insides are too warm. The pillow on the table would look out of place if he was sober, but it just seems so nice to rest his head there. So he does. He doesn’t see the glint of the knife on his side, or the glint in the little brothers’ eyes, but he does notice Drucille’s sad smile. Why are you so sad and so beautiful, angel?

Lotus Blooms

Antithèse, by Victor Brauner (1937)

Antithèse, by Victor Brauner (1937)

Lotus, your name is written in the language of the stars. You painted the sky with the colour of your smile; it was blood red. I am breathing the ground suffocating in your aura,

the rainbow in the sand, the shorelines of the broken shells, bubblehead bubbling jaunting
gargling amazing sharp shreds jagged edge tangy scent copper tongue
escaping curls touching fingertips. I am so artificial, aren’t I?

“exquisite corpse”

Petal modelling—unrelenting, releasing, immigrating. Electricity when our gaze met.

Lotus, your name is written inside my wrist, I carved it yesterday, using shrapnel of our past.

-Auckland, 22 October 2015

Insoluble Yearn

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I’d like to sink myself in every rough detail of your face

I’d like to bathe myself in your sandpaper voice

I’d like to immerse myself in your scent and your breath

I’d like you to swallow me, swallow me whole, digest me, make me a part of you

I’d like to circulate inside your body and be within you

I’d like you to think that of me too.

Memento Mori

grief

He already knew that things wouldn’t be easy, but he had never thought it would be this hard.

Sighing, he leaned his weary back against the decrepit bench, probably as old as he was. Hand on top of his walking stick: black cedar wood with a polished handle because he didn’t like those grubby metal-type that made a loud clang whenever he bumped into something. The wind is silent, the afternoon was falling, the babes on the playground were dispersing one by one to the arms of their loving parents only to come back the next day and wreak another havoc on the sandbox or the jungle gym. He paid little to no attention to any of them, as his mind was too preoccupied with the same feeling, same smell, same touch, same everything that was no longer there ever since she was gone forever.

Half of his heart, part of his breath. He watched the life diminishing from her beautiful eyes before they were closed, forever, he watched his tears dropping on her hand, grasping his own tightly, the tears dropping and then sliding down to the sparkly gleam of their wedding ring on her brittle finger. “Goodbye, my love,” she said, barely a whisper, before his life shattered into a million tiny pieces.

This playground, where he was now, sitting there but not really there, is where she said yes. What felt like an eternity ago. They danced under the streetlamp after, laughing merrily, she couldn’t hold back her ugly cry (that’s what she called it, but for him she never had an ugly cry, never even had a single ugly moment). Not even when she said her farewell, a skeletal figure on the hospital bed, with countless tubes over the sinister beeps of the machine. She was beautiful. Every day. Every moment. Even now, when he closed his eyes, and opened it again, he could see her dance, smell her hair, feel her soft fingertips caressing his face.

The night has arrived and the same streetlamp where they once danced and laughed and were infinitely happy gave out a feeble light to the bench where he sat, while the montage of her smile flickered across the opposite wall like a neverending loop of silent movies.

love | hate

mask

 

You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.”
Julie de Lespinasse

oh god how she hates him, and she knows that he knows, and she’s glad that he does. and he’s there, he’s always there, in her dreams in her mind in her every fucking breath he’s there. she hates him with all her might, she wants him dead, she wants him away, oh how she wishes him to care.

yes she wishes him to care, but he doesn’t, and he won’t, and she hates him for that. for all he is. she hates him to death when she knows hate is only love wearing its carnival mask.

and she knows he knows that too.

(she wishes he could only care, though, so she wouldn’t hate him this much)

– June 1, 2009