beauty is in the details
It was the best for the both of us. I’m sorry that I had to be so raw, so crude and direct, but you needed a clean cut. A clean start will help you carry on. Your pride will do the rest, and we’ll be fine, in these separate lives.
I’ll be here, licking my wounds and convincing myself I’ll be fine, while slowly growing out of these adventure, one that I know would have lasted forever…
Or so I thought.
corte frío, de escalpelo diré. corte frío, de una. no con cien cortes, no con cien tajos, sino de uno, preciso, fatal. corte frío para que no duela. ya se sabía, ya se sentía que gangrenaría. no se puede hacer nada, se intentó todo lo que se pudo, y aún más. así que se requirió, se tomó, se hizo una incisión, más, un corte frío, de escalpelo. no ha habido sangre, no ha dolido aún. ¿dije aún, no? quise decir que no se sabrá hasta que se sepa. el corte fue preciso, donde debía cortarse. y no ha dolido aún. si, dije aún, de nuevo, porque espero que no duela. de verdad, espero que no duela…
porque si duele el dolor será inmenso, borracho, mamarracho, vergatario, bestial; de vuelco de trenes, de choque de aviones, de cortada de machete, de brazo colgante, de úlcera rota, qué digo, de apéndice perforado, de corazón roto. de se nos volvió la vida una mierda, de y ya que hacer, de no vale nada, de nos vamos todos al infierno. dolor del que ya no se puede escapar, porque se lleva dentro, y si se intenta escapar, se viene con nosotros, el muy hijoputa.
pero no pasará así. no. todo saldrá bien, porque lo hemos intentado, lo hemos pensado, bien… con calma… bien. hemos hecho todo lo posible, todo. todo lo posible. no ha quedado piedra por remover. o así nos parece. aunque siempre queda por culpar la conveniencia, pero eso, hoy, no es conveniente, no vale la pena, porque ha sido casi un año. perdón, no un año, menos, dice ella; reitera.
siempre la misma voz, dentro de mi, ahora, más tarde, luego, siempre… replica: no dolerá. un corte frío, de escalpelo. no dolerá.
y yo le creo…
the night is clear, the air is crisp.
i hear the sound of the sweet music, of guitars and sincere voices. my guitar stays put and mellows under my fingers, playing like a good friend that forgets all your errors and laughs at your jokes. she knows i’m not used to this, that being with her is casuistically improbable, but steadily possible, and she knows is one of those nights, have i became that predictable.
while i thank her for being always there, i see that i’m predictable, that i don’t mind her knowing so, and that i appreciate her enthusiasm and flair to let me play gallantly under such circumstances, while the flirting becomes the song and the sounds.
she knows me in a way you don’t. she has seen me through thick and thin, not this black beauty i hold under my arms and caress gently while struggling to remember the next chord, but all the guitars that have been there with me, on those lonely moments of mine, so feminine i needed them, so flagrantly intimate i couldn’t share but with my many loyal guitars and my many treacherous wine bottles.
both of them, wine and guitar, know they will share these moments with me. only the guitar knows what they mean to me, as il vino plays so many roles, while chords are steadily one and only response to one and only need, one that cannot be satisfied but by being part of the music, being one with it.
the moon is high in the ceiling of the world, reminding me these days have been and they will also pass, like others came and went. those days painted of black and blue, those days when memories haunt me, where a memento of something suddenly unattainable beaks on my bowels and pricks on my soul, leaving me open and vulnerable, ecstatic and unsatisfied, longing for that one thing my whole identity craves with the energy of tides, typhoons and sea winds.
today, you have became the tides and the winds, today that by not having you i desire you with a strength that could shatter me into pieces, that could torn me into shreds. you have became the sword from which i’ll die, the hammer of thor, the thunder and the lightning, the erinyes and the nymphs, hermes and apollo, the sun and the moon, the alpha and the omega.
i sit here, among my wine and my guitar, singing to athenea and drinking to loki, conjuring the valkyries and the muses, silently asking to hermes and to selene, incarnated in that splendid moon you’ll see every night your lovely eyes go up in the sky, to bring you home soon, to me, again.
it is so difficult to let go of someone, a person that’s part of you, that feels so entrenched in your body, like a new strange organ you don’t know what’s for but you know it connects with other organs, like skin, like hair, like the stomach, the heart, like an arm, a leg, a vein or a toe, that toe you know once you lose you’ll fall to the ground and smash your face to the pavement and will lose a couple of teeth, the front ones, and you’ll bleed and your blood will always remain in that little spot in the road like a mark, a sign of that day you tried to take away, detach, amputate something that felt part of your body, like an organ, an arm or a toe.
it is so fucking difficult, why did you have to let go…
Marco Polo imagined answering (or Kublai Khan imagined his answer) that the more one was lost in unfamiliar quarters of distant cities, the more one understood the other cities he had crossed to arrive there; and he retraced the stages of his journey, and he came to know the port from which he had set sail, and the familiar places of his youth, and the surroundings of home, and a little square of Venice where he gamboled as a child.— Italo Calvino, The Invisible Cities
Once back to the land of those who are like me, I sit and reassemble the views and mementoes that conform the land of my travels, that unknown land that my travels have crossed and perused in distant and then close contact. Those places come together in a topography of relations and connections, becoming a path, mountains and valleys, cities and jungles of what my eyes have seen, my ears have heard, my heart has felt.
Just as Marco Polo did, I now need the help of the knowledge of a higher conscience. I too go back to other men’s unfinished, incomplete cartography in search for the routes my story knows as hers. I too go back to the books and theory of others that have been there before, whether in person or in dreams, in levitating dreams of others or themselves, in long lonely or accompanied trips of theirs, in caravans, in excursions and in tours of completely craze and lost.
I am the cartographer of a new land, unknown and familiar only to me, in the midsts of others’ lands, others’ paths, others’ stories and worlds. I am the new one in this orb, the tamer of the unnamed tiger of Borges and the unnamed rose of Coleridge, and like Borges and Coleridge, by drawing it, every inch and every colour and every stripe, I too make it my world and I too hope to find the writing of the god.
To find my unrepeated cartography, my unique world. My story, my life, and my divinity. My own invisible cities.
Il pleut, il pleut,
Je pleure, je pleure,Il pleut, il pleut,
Je pleure, je pleure,J’ai peur que je vais roullier ce soir
Il pleut, il pleut,
Je pleure, je pleure,Il pleut, il pleut,
Je pleure, je pleure,J’ai peur que mon temps soit expiree,
J’espere que vous viendrez me secher
J’espere que vous pouvez me reperer
J’ai peur que je vais roullier ce soir
Mon coeur,
Changera de l’acier a la poussiereTranslation:
It rains, it rains
I cry, I cryIt rains, it rains
I cry, I cryI’m afraid that I’m going to rust tonight
It rains, it rains
I cry, I cryIt rains, it rains
I cry, I cryI’m afraid that my time has expired,
I hope that you will come dry me,
I hope that you can repair me,
I’m afraid that I’m going to rust tonight
My heart,
Will change from steel to dust
for the first time in a long while i feel i’m about to cry, but i just won’t. i just won’t.
i really like your picture. it seems it is trying to say something. it seems taken from a movie, or better, from an album cover. i’m listening to a song that actually goes pretty well with your picture: come pick me up by ryan adams. i bet you can be the girl of that song.
guess i’m discovering the best thing about this sites is all the weird clumsy pretty stories one can create from a couple of lines written in an un-quotidian pace and those photos saved from the bins of such different past moments, where we casually appear in poses and manners that can be shown to utter strangers, and, perhaps, even impress them.
so i’ll keep this little image of you, and the sardonically enticing picture those direct words paint, and that’ll be enough for now, i guess.
work is great. friends are ok. money is nice. weather is fine.
then why i feel miserable every now and then?
i miss you so much, so much. it is becoming part of life now, it is becoming routine. it’ll be gone one day. it has happened before. even though never like this, i know it’ll be gone, eventually. perhaps not for now, as i seem to see you everywhere. funnily. every smile is your smile. every laugh is your laugh. every sorrow is my sorrow though.
work is great. friends are ok. my life will be fine, eventually.
why did you have to give up on me? why not the wait, why not the options? why not a different future, a present together? why did you have to give up on that, on me?