Für Elys

Farewell

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 18:52:00 +0000

This blog has reached its end. Its death if you will. Now it's merely a casket of memories. I bid you farewell...

A new, and final, blog can be found in the Steppenkatze

Amo, Ergo Sum

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 01:24:00 +0000

It lay on a mnemonic shelf, gathering the dust of pained experience, whose unwholesome radiance had already started to corrode the edges of the symbols. As I held the phrase within my hands - cautiously, lest the letters lost cohesion and fell onto the ground - I pondered if these words held power still. I swept the sooty grime off their bare scalps and regarded the fleshy meaning beneath:

"Amo, Ergo Sum," my olden, aged motto. "I love, therefore I am." Unconditional love. One that once given, is ours no longer, but something that is simply part of us. The uncanny flame that e'en boundless sea cannot quench. A love that is quietly crazy, tenderly mad, whose solemn stare slips out of straight-jackets and squeezes past the doors of perception, while the body stays bound...

...until passion seizes this coil and tears the ties, splinters the gates in a blind frenzy. The blunt fire that burns all or burns out, its very own funeral pyre. The love that's never released from Pandora's box, lest it destroy us, lest we lose hold of its wild reins, lest it be ours no longer. The erotic love of the "Odi et Amo, Ergo Sum," the Taoist half-brother of the Buddhist "Amo, Ergo Sum," son of hatred as well as love. The bittersweet Eros of Anne Carson.

Lily in the mist

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Mon, 04 May 2009 22:16:00 +0000

"¿Quién me ha robado el mes de Abril?
Lo guardaba en el cajón
donde guardo el corazón."
Joaquin Sabina

Draped in dew, befogged yet shrill,
night regards two strangers stride,
arms entwined, with cadenced glide,
dampened steps in mist hushed still.

Inside hearts, caged fireflies steer
sinews strong revealed finespun.
Lips unfastened, masks undone,
petals rustle in the clear.

Nightingales their tongues do twist,
mock the creole of the kiss,
while their twilit pupils miss
Lily melt into the mist.

The last strand

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 00:33:00 +0000

"Si alguna vez amé,
si algún día
después de amar, amé,
fue por tu amor..."
from "Lucia" by Joan Manuel Serrat

'T was your Birthnight...

A crimson notebook in hand contained a single remnant hair from the lock I once helped cut. A lighter, clasped in my left, bode the time when it would join the ranks of eternal flames within the dark mausoleum I now well knew.

I stepped slowly, almost mournfully towards my Mecca, a bearer of many things, a Magus, a Lucifer... As if the nightly dome above had substance, the footfalls reverberated through its fabric, carrying their weight in waves to distant deserts where storms would muffle and render them senseless to the pilgrims passing by.

My strides carried me into the particular darkness of Firefly Street and found the faintest of lanterns. Opening the book with utmost care, I extracted the last strand left therein and struck the wheel, yet Helios never left his chariot to consume the lifeline I offered it. Countless times my thumb bowed before his altar to no avail. A breeze passed. Finally, He emerged, illuming my fingers and the void 'tween them.

Somewhere that last strand exists. Unburnt. Unbroken. Knot tied between your heart and mine. Now we are but pendants suspended by fateful chords. Finally "hang as the stars do..."

Good eve. Evermore.

El uno, el dos, el tres

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 01:42:00 +0000

This simple, free verse is dedicated to yestereve, three years ere, when all the leaves were shed, and the trees stood bare and shameless beside... to the woman of fire, bailando a su aire... to unconditional love - may it be borne lightly!

Mujer!

No apagues la llama de tu falda,
que los hilos no son cenizas aún;
temblando de frío sobre la alfombra.

Y no dejes de bailar, que los callos
no han aún silenciado tus dos pies,
ni ha dejado la rosa tu pelo.

No pares tu corazón, ni lo muevas;
déjalo pasar, que él haga camino
y también te lleve del monte al mar...

Kind thanks to Alicia Murcia for her permission to display her art.

Hablemos de la lluvia

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 04:13:00 +0000

It falls upon woven shawl, failed yet faithful turban. Your vine knots about mine, ice wine brews itself in smiles but knows not lips. Gentile Autumn winds, collected leaves fallen and pressed between leaves, where we write innocent secrets shared:

The tangos we're not meant to take, the fox-trots of our Steppenwolves, and the imperative of silence, night and song. The countless Spanish words begging to measure the distance between our beats and steps, never making ends meet.

My doré miss of penchants, Nefertiti, queen of spades masquerading as nails, pressing into my wrist, drawing forth sweat of shyness. Countless strands of silky force betwixt the growing palms outstretched of honest hombre y hembra. Let our shared skin speak, let our sighs linger dancing in the air, life pass through the labyrinth of our fingertips, fly on waxy wings as high as the heat of hearts allows.

“Mignon”, ton paraplu carmin disparaît dans la distance...

Mark of Love

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 13:20:00 +0000

I feel in search of Firefly Street. One never finds it but to bring another soul to fuel its lanterns. I mean to take your last strand there, unbraid us and cast light on Love...

A spartan army of days ago, each waging intimate war, we walked the Costa da Morte, watching the funeral pyre adrift towards the border of the world, where ocean cascades into eternity, sinking slowly into the waves, their water tainted by ancient, primal blood. Walking as one, our footfalls have been the burial service, the mourning flagellation of the earth, the pulse, stopping where steps take nowhere further.

We inhumed there that staff we shared and slowly killed, whose skin we shed, flesh drained, bones broke in twain and flung into a tomb of cold blue flame. Not far enough. We stretched upon two boulders, separated by stony crevices and crowds of thought. I observed you, out of reach, and felt foolish, useless and romantic, as a merchant by the sea, selling shells; like a lighthouse at the end of the Earth.

You returned me all this when you left a Mark of Love upon the vermilion covers of my book. That trace reverberated on the face of your irises, two amber fleurs-de-lys, sword lilies reflecting on their edge torn pages, parting as you approached, just as doors swooped open to close our rendezvous.

...to sight from its ashes gleam a spark of life.

in search of Midnight

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 03:05:00 +0000

You took me by surprise, let me surrender without siege, my citadel fallen to you feet... nay! at your cheeks, pedestals to your own forts, their countless black centurions guarding you from me, their spears blinding my sight. But my hand turned your hostage before my pupils knew the prison of yours. Your hand lifted my iron curtain, thawed our frontiers, unravelled my fabric and fashioned of it a candlewick alight, illuminating us and nothing else.

We clung as crabs, our steps sinking languid into foamed sand, our legs clasped in concert, pincers enfolding, our tender carapaces hidden in each other. Our fingers suspended, pointing not down but within, into skin, curled as your ivory smile, sinking into me, twisting and swirling as we did, uncorking passion, pressing ice wine onto our palates and fast swooning souls. Yet I shall not let you fall. Only myself... as we move far and near again, our tips brushing, then the rest of us entwining, sprouting in fire those frosted, inebriating grapes. Cerca, we almost share masks in this private carnival. I blind myself a moment, breathe your rouge, open myself and mouth a question:

"Antes de partir, déjame ser ese roto trozo de tarta en tu pañuelo."

Now, we stand outside, in the garden I did not take you to, along the path we did not walk. Let us shatter sound once more, construct silence by mistake, or forget both, and share mere space between us. Again. Close your lids, I pledge not to glance your lips, nor press them. Instead, my mouth embraces each eye, reddening my lips with life, as your faithful pikemen pierce me. Llévate estos dos besos al Sur...

Amapola Loca

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 07:03:00 +0000

Mujer! I awaited you by the Amapola Loca, laid and lain beside it on the sod. Virid man, I merged with the turf, just as your stilettoes penetrated the sward, as rigid fingers carving a place in the malleable hearts of men. Harsh digits bearing no sign of their ophidian moulting, no scales of iron to protect their lines, traced, or rather forged upon an anvil greater than that upon which we lay, or wish to. Speak to me in smoke, say what you'd fashion into shape from hair of Bronze, hammer it into the lace of that your aery, nay misty, dress, or twist it, ornament it with live pearls to hang about our necks? The humid fumes we breathed together talk of our wish cast, then quenched in the dew, cool, bittersweet.

And so were we, from the heat of dance to the frigidity of the grass between your toes, to duet encore, to smile anew and breathe the draft passing between the keyholes of our eyes. Slowly sculpting each other's bodies, a distracted touch each time, eroding a path into the heart, just as the fingerprints of pilgrims carve their way into the rock, to reach the Passion of St. James, the ruby rivers where lives the stone boat that carried his bod to the end of the Earth, where I have stepped.

"Can I..."

speak? Lovesmith, let's forge true love between our lips.

Chains and ghosts of living souls

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 23:41:00 +0000

My chain knows no end nor start, each link is its own end, its own birth. This one, I feel, so silvery on the surface, rots and rusts within. Or is there nothing within, is surface and reflection its life entire?

I saw your ghost today. Through the window of dance, of rhythm, your soul passed and stood. It gazed through the lattice of glass, the swirling flesh, the mossy eyes staring back; it linked them all to an instant of time, extending like the chain, over enough distance to bind me once again, play hangman with my heart. But not enough to drown me, dear, before you cycled off on your Flying Dutchman, our shipwreck.

My chain knows no end nor start until it is opened and its amber prize falls into the water. Yet this bounty, always open, is always locked. A lock of hair through you, still burning, so fast, yet never ending. But at last, I've separated your infinity from my infinities, my possibilities, my cat-lives. You live within the enamel box, ruled by the knight who you thought warlock, where I keep that old watch that does not count time. I'll release you when it strikes 25. Good night.

the Kitty, the Rainbow and the Flowers

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 00:39:00 +0000

This little story was at first outlined by me in a morning of the senses, many months ago, at the request of making three words into a story that children could listen to. After I told my story, Lys wrote it down in her artful way, and hence I left unchanged what is a vast improvement on my words. I hope you enjoy it:

"There was a little Kitty and he lived on the topmost arc of a rainbow. As on many days, he sat one day and looked down at the fields of flowers beneath him, and wondered, as ever, what could be inside the flowers? This day, he decided to travel down to the land of the flowers below to see what they held inside them, and so he set out down the steep left-hand curve of the arc.

The way was fraught with many a slippery turn, and at these moments, as he pawed the hue beneath him, he truly believed that he would fall. Part way through his tentative path, he came upon a thick cloud that skirted the girth of the whole rainbow: he paused and looked. How would he pass through it, and what would become of him if he managed to enter its hazy domain? He pawed gingerly onward, thinking only of the promise of the fields he believed would await him beyond.

His whiskers sank one by one into the mist, like slim footprints into snow; his face bathed inward; whiter than snow he became and all and only cloud was his very self. A slow and avalanching surprise came to him: the realm of the cloud he had so feared was only a deep, drifting calm, and he felt himself flooded with peace.

Pale silhouettes of happy flowers traced themselves about him as he passed deeper into whiteness, as he relinquished all else, and as he came, like a long breath, to the end of the cloud. The ground blinked before him; then opened flat and wide into a vast, billowing canopy of flowers. Returning to himself, he mewed. A flower! And as he found himself within the soft flanks of the white tulip, he came to understand that it is Kitties that are inside the flowers."

Aun

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 00:40:00 +0000

Aun te quiero, adoro, codicio... Mi amor cambia, pero es constante, como el barro, tomado de la tierra, amasado, acariciado, inscrito por nosotros, y al siguiente instante, siente las garras del fuego, pero no se quema, sino se hace duro, firme y sólido. El recipiente de la pasión tierna.
El tiempo pasa y el tiempo lo erogue, y ese cariño que abrazó lo penetra y lo hace húmedo de nuevo, prende la llama que el fuego no pudo ni encender ni apagar. Regresa a su estado natural.

Es verdad, 'hay llamas que ni con el mar'. Te querré siempre, Lys. Я люблю тебя сейчас.

Сон

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 11:03:00 +0000

It was almost early, more than late, when sleep finally took me. I had been feverishly thinking, thinking and writing a letter I may end up regretting, whose four main sentences had risen from the cardinal points of my anguish. These thoughts stretched me by the arms and legs, binding me while a jealous bird pecked at my liver.

And yet I fell asleep and dreamed of Elys and me. The details are lost, obscured by the sand of dreams, but I remember initial sadness, struggle, and then a vestige of the deep joy we have known together, evolving, growing. Slowly.

I awoke with a feeling of peace, which now slowly fades again as the last patch of blue sky outside my window is invaded by cloud. I will look inward then, I'll search for that patch of crimson sky Elys has sown into me and check the seams, lest I pour out...

Слёзы

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sun, 16 Dec 2007 00:20:00 +0000

It's strange how tears only come now, not through the pain experienced, but through the happiness remembered. Pain brings out anger, frustration and despair; but when this has been your bread and butter, there is little reason to shed tears. Yes, it is only remembrance of a different state that summons the acute feelings of sadness and conflict that find no other way out of our soul but through its windows.

This is why infants cry so often, as in the bright beginnings of their lives moments of piercing bliss mingle with those of stabbing desolation. As we grow, the scintillating quality of our being fades - thus ecstasy fades to contentment and sorrow dulls to a numb, empty feeling.

Thus, weeks past our anniversary, our separation, only now, as I have looked upon an elder ikon of our happiness - Us, laughing together as we hold a wineglass, our fingers touching - that I have erupted, my cheeks a fleshy model of Pompei were I to cry the blood out of my heart, but I have not yet remembered our happiest moment yet.

Осень

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 01:02:00 +0000

Autumn falls out of my hands, drawing a rasping sound as they twirl onto the ground. The leaves flow as my blood does, slow and melancholy, moved by my heart no more. I see one among them - fleshy, a piece of heart at the apex of the whirlwind, immotile, still.

"I did not mean to let you fall," I tell it.

I reach to caress it, but it squirms out of my hand.

"I won't grasp you," I say, this time uncertain of the truth.

I try anew, embracing it with my fingers and feel it burn me. Open flames escape through the gaps of my fingers and crawl as caterpillars about my hand, aging it with each pass, searing openings into my flesh, drinking the life out of my vessels. And as they drink, I am renewed, as my blood flows onto the floor, carrying curdled scabs with it.

We live through death, change and pain.

I open my hand and you fall to the ground, leaving behind only the pure water borne out of fire, your Life Water. Worry not, Love, the cold numbness of the next season approaches: it will quieten the pain, quench my wounds and congeal my scars... I'm only ever proud to wear them.

Bear

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sun, 30 Jul 2006 21:52:00 +0000

We did not expect such a spectacle.

We knew St. Petersburg was a haven for stray dogs, where one could witness now and again the cruel sight of "photograph macaques" held onto a chain to their abusive, young masters; but to behold an infant bear strapped captive next to the very doors of the Hermitage was beyond our endurance.

A sinewy man, barely dressed, sat on the low wall that delineated the division between the path around the Hermitage and the small park next to it. Next to him, a large can stood, with the painted words "For Honey", but was evidently meant to fund the sustenance of this man. He held in his hand a long black leash, which he used again and again to pull the bear away from the grass each time it tried to scale its curb. The little bear would not desist, the paved path was not its home; life was.

We observed this scene for what seemed a long time. Pain always lasts long. Lizzy's sadness soon broke free and flowed. I could console neither her nor myself. I felt, and was, impotent.

Though they hid his eyes, the man's sunglasses failed to conceal his shame: he no longer dared to face in our direction. His patience soon ended and he asked the woman sitting near him to take the bear for a walk. We saw her take him and forcefully lead the creature around the park. She was blind to the unease of the bear - the leash repeatedly tangled about its legs and made it tumble - as well as deaf to its panting induced by the endless blaze of the Sun.

"What more cruel way to torture a creature than to steal its freedom?" I should have said, as I rose and approached the man. Instead, all that came out of my mouth were three questions, almost drowned by vile words that I care not to recount. Here is a rough translation:

"What are you doing with that bear? Why do you not let it touch the grass? Where did you get it from?"

My first question remained unanswered as he proceeded to shout out the answer to the second one. He recounted that if he allowed the bear to take a step on the lawn, he would be in big trouble. I repeated my third question, in slightly milder form, to which he said: "From a Circus."

I did not protest further, I felt even more impotent, for I had failed to help the bear and to say what I felt I needed to say. But as Lizzy and I walked away, an idea occurred to us.

We soon returned to the place where we had seen the bear. With us we brought the wish to help this bear somehow, without having to contribute to the man's vices. Thus, we also brought a jar of honey, hoping to drown the sea of metal and paper within the tin and thus to satisfy its request.

We approached the man and the bear, who now were surrounded by a crowd of Russian women and girls who smiled gleefully and carelessly fed the creature with cream topped cakes, several times sullying the bear's fur. We dove into the crowd and I called out "man!", whereupon the captor turned to face us.

"This is for the bear," I translated from Lizzy's words. She tried to hand him the jar, which he refused.

"The bear does not like honey," he replied. "It is not good for him either, at his age. They eat it to hibernate."

As he spoke, the young creature moved near to Lizzy and tried to stand up to reach for the honey. He gently sank its claws into Lizzy's waist and bit at the plastic enclosing the container. We became the reluctant protagonists of the very show we condemned. I looked into the man's eyes with intent. He could not say 'no'.

He took the lid off the jar and gave it to the bear to lick, who at first looked at it with suspicion, but then accepted the gift. He toyed with it, anointing his fur with the sweetness in the process. The inquisitive joy of the creature seemed to us the first outlet for instinct we had seen; its purity, for a moment, broke the bonds of captivity.

Meeting

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sun, 09 Jul 2006 16:28:00 +0000

It was November the 25th.

Lizzy

I entered the pandemonic hall of noise. Deeper within it I faced her sitting in an armchair. In darkness her features were veiled: dark eyes hid a living mosaic of colours, black hair was burning earth, ebony cloth covered white skin and her voice revealed merely a hint of her true melody and fiery lips. Our names were lost.

I sat nearby, and pretended to look elsewhere. She spoke with a friend, but her eyes did not abandon me. We had to speak.

She came and faced me. We exchanged names again, this time their threads remained unbroken. By them we held onto each other as we went towards the bar. She offered me a drink, but I already had paid. She looked sad for a moment, as did I.

Finding ourselves together in a couch, we spoke of writing and other arts. She promised to show me her paintings. Our voices were still drowned by the racket of the hall. Soon she rose to dance.

I waited. Her dark figure caressed me from afar. Hypnotised, I joined her.

When we sat down again I saw she could not bear the place and said "Let us go outside."

Outside, upon the stairs we both spoke one same thing: What it is to discover the other's voice! Our sounds were free, but we were not; she had to return into the bedlam. Thrice I asked her to stay a moment longer. Then she stayed, I can't say more. We danced again, round and round, her feet off the ground. She left and came again.

So, we took our leave into the quiet of the night. Since then we have never been apart.

I'm waiting...

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Thu, 27 Oct 2005 22:26:00 +0000

People sometimes seem to forget that to wait for someone is not to stop moving, breathing, beating. To wait, is not to die. To wait is to know that someone is approaching, and prepare for her arrival, make yourself fit for a meeting, for when the chance arrives, you must make sure that the one you are waiting for can recognize you. To wait is to live. To see each moment in life as a golden coin, and take each one at a time, don't let them fall, or all you will have left is their sound, clinging upon the pavement. If you decay, then what use of waiting? When the one you were waiting for arrives, what is she to do with your bones and rags?

Therefore, the best use of this time waiting is to truly feel each pulse running through your body, to feel each breath entering your lungs and each of your muscles contracting and relaxing, and every tissue in your body living. Now.

This moment will become a memory, and this memory will fade and even your soul may melt into infinity, therefore, all you have is this precise and present moment. You must choose to make the best use of each moment.

Shed your old addictions and find new ones. Alcohol or smoking can't dream of giving you the kick that dancing gives you. Or painting. Or composing. Or even writing, truly writing, not when you need to, or are supposed to, but when you can take your time.

Life, just as Yoga, cannot simply be practiced, it must be lived. Forgive my insistence.

I'm waiting for Gloria, yet... There is no I. There is no waiting.

Presage

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Thu, 16 Jun 2005 02:16:00 +0000

Sometimes, the Universe seems to be desperately trying to tell you something, but you've just failed to pick up its language during the course of the seconds, years, lives, eons. Perhaps it has too rich a vocabulary, or most probably not enough effort has been placed in the learning. When will life place us under exam conditions and ask us a question that we will, most likely, neither understand nor know the answer for?

"But you learnt about this in your dreams and in your waking life, my dear," you'll hear the sand rustle. "And it's one of the easy questions in the paper," you'll hear the tree exhale. "Here's a hint," you'll hear the pebble slide, and point in the right direction. But you'll be too blind to hear the world speaking to you, because you'll be too busy thinking, bathing in your Ego. I know this from personal experience. If you don't believe me, read Carlos Castaneda's excellent "Journey to Ixtlan". What I'm speaking of is in the chapter "Reaffirmations from the world around us".

Yesterday, the day of my last exam, was one of these days when the world has been crying out, rather than simply whispering. Thankfully, my internal dialogue had toned down enough for me to hear at least a fraction of these signs.

The first sign I noticed came while I strode away from college and towards the University Library. The source of the cue came from the branch of a low tree, with which the summit of my head collided as I walked past it. I smiled as I rubbed my head and walked on, deciding to take my attention off the ground and turn my eyes forward, focus them at infinity. Actually, this last phrase should be rephrased, since, if you think about it, your eyes are unable to look any other way than forward; you'll probably agree that our minds should follow their example. Hence, head up and eyes oriented almost parallel to the ground, welcoming the view of the sky, I continued my journey.

Soon after, I noticed the Sun, a mist of light dissolving in the cloudy sky, almost consumed, but resisting. Quite appropriate for the occasion, a dismal dutch sky as overcast as my mind. But the Universe would not wait for the Sun to quit its hiding, and the University would not wait my mind to surface from its foggy thoughts.

Four hours later, I was walking back past the same low tree. Amazingly, I was able to accidentally hit myself yet again, though not as hard as before, yet harder than the third time I collided with it, later that very same day. A definite sign of improvement, "a la tercera va la vencida", as we say in Spain.

The last, and most impacting foretoken came four hours afterwards, as I walked with friends back from the cinema. As we were about to cross the road, something in my mind enthused "I could die happy." A silence. Then, "Though I would rather live happy instead." The thought melted as soon as it had crystallized, so I discarded it. Yet several moments after, when I glanced at my watch, I realised one small detail...

...The watch stopped ticking.

Jest parę złudzeń które warto mieć by żyć

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sun, 05 Jun 2005 02:07:00 +0000

"My pretty Rose Tree

A flower was offer'd to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said, "I've a Pretty Rose-tree,"
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my Rose turn'd away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight."
William Blake

Each time I write, passion leaks from me and takes the shape of these words, and so it stays in the ink, within the tissue of the paper, trapped and caged in earthy matter. And what do you have when you remove lust? You obtain either one of the two components permeating and shaping our Universe: emptiness or love. In the case of Gwiazdka, to my dismay, only emptiness remains now.

So I did not love her in the end, only the image I had created. I failed to see the divergence between that and her. That notion needed to be forceful to reach me, to penetrate my thick skull. Let the account of this be the final tale about Gwiazdka...

The very day after my previous 'outpour' of igneous words, it became obvious that she had taken no heed of my passions, so I became cold as the void.

The next day, I received a card she had sent me soon after she had revealed me there was someone else in her life. Full of sweet words it was, and handmade, with pictures she had drawn. A card, not of the kind that you send a friend to calm his lust, but a card designed to commove it, and thus plunge him into confusion. There is no need to say that it succeeded in doing so.

Before I could stop myself, I decided to egest my last passions onto a letter and find out the one thing that mattered to me. So I spent several hours, moulding a missive, explaining what she had done to move me so, what had created my fire and what my ice. I knew that I would never have the true answers to the questions I raised in it, but I would find out once and for all whether she had ever felt anything for me.

A swift reply came, on the very same day, answering the written questions I had asked, and gave me the answer I needed. It was the way the letter was written that told me the truth that I could not see by other means: A sloppy letter, written in counted moments, filled with banal phrases, and trite words.

There. Simply spelt for me... she never loved. And there I discovered, that belike, neither did I.

Shattering, to live a lie, and see it crumple in front of your eyes, its dust getting in your eyes, bringing out tears and irritation, its pieces ripping your flesh as they fall upon you. The only comfort you have is the knowledge that lies can never change your essence, and that the suffering of the illusions we call body and mind brings spiritual healing.

It was then when I had finally decided for myself to keep her as a friend, and acted upon this decision by changing my conduct accordingly, to talk with her as a friend, rather than as an adorer.

Ironical. Now, she has stopped speaking with me, which is perhaps for the best.

As Lord Byron wrote:
"As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high."

Have you pray'd tonight, Desdemona?

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Mon, 23 May 2005 13:32:00 +0000

“A Divine Image

Cruelty has a Human Heart,
And Jealousy a Human Face;
Terror the Human Form Divine,
And Secrecy the Human Dress.

The Human Dress is forged Iron,
The Human Form a fiery Forge,
The Human Face a Furnace seal'd,
The Human Heart its hungry Gorge.”
William Blake

A new chance has been given to me, to see my weakness and at once to see my strength, and learn to cleanse the first and purify the latter, to learn from my human traits. We learn most in times of emotional outpour, and what an outpour that was, yesterday. I am such a man, that once he hides his emotions in an inner vessel next to his heart, he fills it drop by drop, and when it falls, all of that spirit pours out and flows about him, until he feels as Alice, a tiny thing drowning in his own pool of sadness and fear.

That last drop was an interesting conversation, which did not turn out for me nor for Gwiazdka the way neither of us had planned, I believe. As we bartered greetings, our exchange veered towards the subject of the party she had gone to the day before.

She told me she had slept for two hours only. Hence, I asked for the reason. “Because we had gone to sleep at 5, and at 7 it was so bright that we woke up” she said. “We were having a replay in the morning” she added, with a wink, and something started to feel amiss within me.“It must have been a long party” Was all I could say at the point. “We were having a little replay in the morning...” She insisted.

“Replay?” I inquired.

“The party started once more” She asserted with another smile.

Very awry my mind was. Strange connections formed within my brain. The man close to her hearth; the long, deeply exhausting party, and the replay in the morning all came together in my mind to form the visage of jealousy. And cruel it was, this countenance; I felt it accelerating my heart, strengthening it's beating against my lungs and ribs, for one purpose only, to pump the blood into my temples, to gain energy from it and strengthen itself. But I did not see its purpose then, so I yielded to that veiled force. And I could not help writing all of what followed.

“What started once more?” I implored.

“Nevermind” Quoth she, yet it was me, and not her, whose soul in that one word did outpour.

So I did not stop its flow, and declared her how I still felt about her, how I felt at that precise moment. And I revealed her that I wished I were not jealous, because jealousy is made of cowardice and fear. That I was a fool for falling in love with what she thought 'an illusion', a fool for not being able to stand up.

After recounting her all that, in what seemed an eternity, I apologised profusely and left.

Now, I don't know what to think. Whether she did not count her words carefully, or whether she meant to tease me, or to drive yet another thorn into me. I don't know. May never discover. It's best not to think now, at all, but to learn from this path I have taken, because you know...

“Jest tylko dobra Karma”

Przepraszam, proszę mi pokazać na planie to gdzie moja Gwiazdka

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sun, 15 May 2005 18:17:00 +0000

“He who binds to himself a joy
Doth the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in Eternity's sunrise.”
William Blake

Dear paper, it's me again, attempting to get rid of some of the thoughts that trouble me by burning them into you. Forgive me, but if I don't burn you, I will burn myself:

I had foreseen this situation coming for a long time, or maybe I was just building it with my own hands, constructing it from fear and diffidence. I guess I did not start following my epigraph soon enough, maybe my love was not pure enough, for doubt corroded it.

Some of the people close to me had told me not to build any great hopes, that it would not last, since distance is unassailable. I did not care about distance, and I was blind to the apparent impossibility of it all. “Why should the future of it preoccupy me, I thought, if everything is impermanent anyway?”. I've not changed my mind about this, discussing chances is for gamblers, I live instead.

Yet... I sometimes will wonder what happened between the time past, when she wrote “I regret that my skin isn't bronze and my hair isn't black... and that my name isn't Gloria”, and this time present, which will become past too. To guess at what was the seed contained in those two moments that led to a time future without her. But, as T. S. Eliot wrote “If all time is eternally present, all time is unredeemable”. But there may be some times more ever-present than the rest: the moment that I read the best birthday card I have ever received and the instant that I saw her in motion for the first time, an angel in the snow.

"So what happened, then?" You'll ask me. "What present moment changed all that?"

Some words, spoken by me, about me leaving my shell and finding lodge within her heart. She, then, spoke of rent and money and bankruptcy, and, though I felt that hearts should not be traded, I did not protest. She said thrice that her heart required too much from its tenants, that I should find a better, cheaper lodge.

I felt more than thought, that the meaning of her words was "You are not worth a place within it." I was astounded, she'd never spoken this way before, on the contrary, she always had insisted that I always seemed to surprise her and impress her gladly; not long ago, she'd reminded me that she still could hardly believe that I had translated her poem myself. How can both those things be true at the same instant?

Could it be that she feared too? That she dreaded I would leave her if I knew her better, and so, to avoid the possibility of such pain, she decided to renounce me first, before I had the time to do it myself. Maybe she only mentioned bankruptcy because she worried that her heart would simply need much repair on my part.
But to think that perhaps she meant it, that's the worst of all. I may be insecure, yet I have trouble to imagine what more she'd need, what feat, what knightly quest one'd need to do to satisfy her caprice.

Then. She said that emptiness within her lodge would be required before I could occupy it. That someone near her 'hearth' was standing in the line. A queue. I never heard her speaking in such terms either. Shattering, like a Chinese vase.

Was she saying the truth? She always had dismissed my fears of there being someone else in her life. And now, she was affirming them.

Maybe she lied, maybe she made a mistake. Because I made a mistake. Because I lost the lightness of being, and lost the time I could have loved her worrying about unnecessary things. Lost a thousand moments, all containing a smile, a hefty price to pay, but fair, nevertheless.

At the beginning I did not really know if I should be glad or devastated, as my whole being seemed to race between the two feelings. Somehow my mind seemed to defy the chaos that my heart had pumped into it and brought me a strange sense of confidence, independent of my emotion. Now, the confidence still remains, but the chaos, the passion, and the reluctance of losing her start to take their toll.

Confidence because if a woman like her has found me, then there may be another one who may see through and within me like she still does. Chaos, because I don't want another woman. I resist. I refuse to let her do away with me that easily. If I give up now, I will be giving up the best girl I have ever met, the one I believed could love me. How else can I prove my devotion? By letting her go and allow us to become friends? No. If I become her friend, will I not be betraying myself? Betray her. For I shall have to lie to her, to say I don't love her anymore, not in the same way. How can I stop loving the woman who has mended my heart?

I still wish to meet her, to learn Polish, make her laugh, hold her hand perhaps, but most of all, look into her eclipsed vales and watch her thoughts trail through them. Just enjoy her presence. To see her without any intentions, just to be, free from the grasp of lust and passion, but in the warm bosom of unconditional love, back in the origin of existence. It is desire that loses all the things that are dear to us, and defeats us once and again. When will I learn that we must not fight it, but realise it is an illusion that can be simply dispelled? Then the one thing that is not an illusion will remain, Love.

Some wise Buddhist once said:
“To experience impermanence, pick up a coin. Hold it tightly clutched with your palm facing the ground. Relax your grip and you'll lose what you are clinging to. That’s why you hold on.
Yet if your palm faces the sky, the coin still rests on your open palm. Yet you've stopped grasping.”

I'm trying to follow his advice, and still be aware of the presence of Karmic winds, which may blow the coin off of my hand... Whatever happens, I know the sky still rests on the open hand...

A Path with a Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Fri, 29 Apr 2005 14:19:00 +0000

This summer, I will travel to either Krakow, Sao Miguel, or both. Since I am short of funds, I decided to use my inspiration in a constructive way, in order to try obtain a travel grant. Here is the result:

Past: Navarra

In one man's life there are places that stay imprinted in his memory bright as a polished mirror, reflecting the man himself. In my past, the Navarrian Pyrenees were the first major landmark of my life. There are few places that can evoke such a piercing yet soft melancholy in me, and that is, so far, the only one I know.

Though this trip was more than seven years ago, I still keep a trimmed and stripped branch I collected in the mountains and used as a walking stick. It stands in a corner of my room, ready for the next voyage, ready to return to nature. A piece of wood, you may say, but ultimately not much different to a diamond or a slit of gold.

I cannot really describe what made that trip so special, maybe it was so because it gave me a breathing space at a time of my life when I was drowning; maybe just because it helped me realise that I am not as afraid of falling, of dying, of disappearing, not as afraid as I thought I was; maybe it was the earth I stepped upon, maybe it was because she stepped back upon my foot, and the air, it breathed me, and the forest whispered, as though enchanted, and the leaves would move with purpose, as a man's lip, and the valley, it would answer to my inquisitive shouts. Oh well, when were words good for describing anything at all?

Present: Cambridge

Every special place must have its place, and even though I have been here for over five months, I still cannot get used to the path I take each morning to go to my lectures. Somehow, it won't become 'the same', it changes with each day that passes.

Usually, I'll tell you differently, but when I think about it, maybe the reason I have not acquired a bike after all this time is to be able to walk on Burrell's Walk each day and watch life blossoming, smile and compose a verse along the way, while inspiration lasts; then stop at the bridge at Garret Hostel Lane and watch the river for a while and maybe hope to see a black swan again, as long as my watch and conscience will allow.

A magical city, we all know it, yet we all keep quiet about it, afraid perhaps, that others will think us silly of contemplating simple things at a time when complication is the thing.

Future: Krakow & São Miguel

Just as a one can have his soul split in two and placed in two different bodies, one man can have two destinations, in a way completely unrelated from each other, and in another, being entwined together closer than just four dimensions can achieve. Sometimes your heart cannot be in one single place, because your roots are also divided, yet it does not necessarily mean you are not complete.

Mine are spread somewhat unevenly between Ukraine and Spain, yet roots always seek to expand where spiritual nurture is abundant.

'Why Krakow?' you will ask. As with any important voyage, the reasons are neither simple, nor few.

One of these reasons being that my family was descendent from Poland, so returning to one's origins is a good way of honouring your ancestors, as well as learning their language, which is my present goal. And though their exact origins are forgotten, our name remains - Grabovetsky.

There are few better places to revisit one's past than a centre of knowledge, as is Krakow. And it is vital for a complete education, even for a scientist, to revisit the past of the rest of Europe, as well as its immediate present, since it is necessary to learn from the achievements and mistakes of others so that we may know how to do it better from our very own. Learn from the victories of Nikolaus Copernicus, Maria Curie and John Paul II and learn from the people who did not understand them.

As well, it would be interesting to see one of the most well reputed universities in East Europe and maybe find some parallels with ours, and maybe finally grasp where do the giants that lived and studied here before us draw inspiration, where their ideas spring from. And as the most successful scientists must need a spark of creativity and art in them, it will be revealing to visit places like the Basilica of the Virgin Mary's, the Wawel Cathedral, vital historical sanctuary, the Wawel Royal Castle, and The Czartoryskich Museum.

'Why Săo Miguel then?'.

São Miguel, the island in the Azores, is close to my spanish roots, and should provide me with another language learning experience; Portuguese, a passionate language, one that sounds more as a language for whispering thoughts than voicing them.

This island is quite the reverse to my first destination, and is a centre of Nature more than a centre of Man. There, one can find the polished mirror, made of life itself... water. Lagoa das Sete Cidade, lagoa do Fogo, lagoa das Furnas, these three lagoons reflecting all that surrounds them - the mountains, the valleys, the forests... one island, contained within three pools of water, and the pools contained in this island. A reflection so clear might make you wonder which side of the mirror you truly are at.

The voyages to Krakow and São Miguel should be by train for as long as it is possible, since watching the landscape changing as you advance is a vital part of an adventure, though I will need to fly to reach São Miguel from Lisbon.

I have not made any solid plans on which particular places to visit in each of my two destinations, because usually, such solid plans tend to painfully shatter and leave you with an unacomplished feeling, so I will stick with an elastic plan that may resist the tension of changes and provide a few pleasant surprises along the way. The plan, to visit all that time allows, and trust my feeling when choosing what to see.

Finally, I should state the reason that is most deeply grafted into me, the reason that has inspired me to start to learn Polish, that has revived my lust for poetry and my inspiration to write it, that has given me a defenite goal. The reason that has given breath and life to all the other reasons above. The reason that exists only in the here and now... Only one such reason we all know, Love. Her name, I won't tell, but I name her Gwiazdeczka, meaning little star, in Polish.

I believe that love will not be an obstacle, but an aid in falling in love with the places I visit. It will sharpen my awareness, and make my perception more acuate, more vivid. We can only truly see the world, when we love it.

Desamour en Hollande

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Sat, 22 Jan 2005 22:32:00 +0000

I've not been able to write the last month, it seems inspiration leaves me as soon as it arrives, just as other things, as I will describe in the following six chapters of a short story I have written during my last year in Holland, writing each chapter after a surge of inspiration.
The characters in the story are both real and fictitious, as are their names; the essence of the story is true however. And yes, part of me is still ridiculously romantic.

CHAPTER I

It all began on a cold autumn morning... It was class of Economics, and everyone dozed silently, open eyed, as the (straight) curves of Supply and Demand were drawn.

Yet, a few minutes later, my perception was distracted by a completely new set of curves and lines - It was the figure of a tall thin girl. Her clothing, had it not been so tasteful, would hurt the eye with its marked contrast of colours. A long, light brown ponytail went down to her waist; under two black brows, two light coloured eyes pierced, rather than looked. She would be very attractive if one thing were not missing, her eyes did not smile, but were immersed in an expression of constant sadness. "Just as mine" I thought, mistakenly perhaps.

I approached as she exited the class, and asked her name. She told me without raising her eyes from the floor. I asked her where she was from and heard her briskly answer. I asked something else and, after a similar response, began to understand that it was perhaps not the best time for conversation. I've never been very quick on the taking.

I almost forgot the event, yet fate insisted. After school while going to the station, some 50 yards ahead, I saw a slim figure; but without my glasses I could not discern it, but I felt that it was the girl I had just met. The figure kept turning her head back, ever increasing the pace. I was curious of who the figure was but let it stride out of sight. "If it was indeed her, why would she evade me?" Some things I'll never know.

I arrived my platform, just to see the figure standing, reading a book. Just as I passed by, I saw it had indeed been her...

CHAPTER II

My memory will prove faulty, some details may be mistaken and some chapters misplaced; yet one thing is true, there was something truly mysterious about her. She had caught me in a web of doubt. A spider named Confusion crept along my neurons, connecting my thoughts in untold ways. The image of her green eyes in my mind was so vivid that I felt that she could observe the labyrinth of my mind, yet I was afraid that her sight could reach into my darkest corners, paying no heed to the bright corridors along which she may pass on the way. And if she made her way to the end, to the focus of the labyrinth, the central room, what would she find? A diamond or a piece of charcoal?

A rose probably, for like a soul, it cannot be judged neither for it's petals, nor its thorns.

A couple of days, and a half, later would have been just another grey morning at the station of Amersfoort. And many people were racing to and fro, worrying and, mainly, existing. Yet one of them stood out. It was a figure wearing a purple coat, among grey coats wearing wary figures. She paced confidently, and the way cleared itself in front of her.

I managed to reach her, and pronounce: "Hello Rose"

She turned and looked at me, somewhat surprised. "What did you say?" she replied.

Her face was somewhat tired yet her baggy eyes and frowned brows did not obscure her obvious virtues. She displayed, rather than simply possessed, a rather noble, straight, thin nose. Two lips that rarely smiled to me, but when they did... That smile was unique in its sort, her upper lip folded over itself in the loveliest of ways. And those two emerald eyes that I cannot ever tire of describing; cold yet alive, piercing yet gentle.

I allowed myself to stare into her eyes for an instant. Yes, stare. Not glance, not regard, nor even admire, though there is an element of the latter in it. The way my eyes dipped into hers, obviously, did not belong to the standards of our time. It was too direct, it was too sincere.

I smiled in embarrassment at her question. "I said 'Hello Rose'"

She smiled, and we went on...

CHAPTER III

And so, weeks went by, and my live started revolving around the rare occasions when I saw Rose. It sometimes appears as though reality is a collection of fields and auras; and so, my reality was an immensely beautiful, yet unreachable 'aurora boreal' named Rose as its axis, for all memories where she did not appear have become now cold and hazy.

You will probably agree with me if I tell you that fond memories are best remembered. But the problem is that I won't.

Let me explain...

You should be familiar with the indescribable sensation you experience when you are falling in love with someone, yet know that there is no time nor place for the two of you in this life.

Could it be that the mixed feelings of pleasure and pain are like the pen and the ink? One without the other cannot leave a mark in the spirit.

***

But forgive me yet again, my mind keeps drifting away from the subject.

As the weeks went by, we happened to meet several times at the train station. In our brief chats I learnt that she was Dutch, yet had lived in Africa, from Zambia to Zimbabwe. I discovered that she was also quite intelligent and shared with me an interest in psychology and philosophy. Also...

...I regret, that due to technical difficulties, we will have to interrupt the fairy tale.

Yes, the fairy tale was short lived. After those few golden weeks passed, all changed. Every time we met, it seemed she would have liked to part, her eyes did not meet mine but danced around, searching for an escape route.

Usually, the first and last thing she would say to me was:

"Where is Carey?"

"I don't know...", nor did I care much for her presence nor her absence. My respectful indifference in her respect was echoed by what looked like a sour dislike. And that sourness, that acidity, seemed to eventually flow on to Rose.

You will insist that the real cause could have been some big mistake on my part. But, forgive me, I will contradict you once more. It is the small mistakes, those petty little things that we don't pay attention to, which catalyse the creation of whole stereotypes in the mind of someone else.

In Rose's best days, in the rare occasions when she would not take the bus to school, we would chat about nothing, and when the emptiness of our words became tedious, we would say nothing, or she would frown and say:

"It's cold" or "It's too early in the morning to talk about this"

Then I would smile and chuckle tenderly, trying to warm the atmosphere up, yet always failing.

In the end, when we reached school, I'd often say, somewhat monotonously but, ironically, truly meaning it:

"Nice talking with you", I've never been too articulate verbally.

She'd say nothing, and walk along to her clique. I would go to mine, but I did not have one, so I'd just go sit near one.

I've always surprised myself, and especially others. Despite the obviousness with which she evaded me, I chose to stay a blind fool, and enjoy the brief moments that were offered to me. Though, when I would return home, tired, I would spend what seemed eternity removing the black arrows that pierced my soul time and again.

Now I have chosen to keep one of these black arrows as a souvenir, the one that passes through my knee. That arrow has a story of its own, but for you should probably be content with just knowing that it is the way the Universe reminds me that "Life is pain".

But love and pain always come in bundles, which reminds me of Ola...

CHAPTER IV

It was one of the days before I had met Rose that I met Ola. I remember it well, she was the first person to approach me that year, and the first person with whom I flirted that year. She approached me as we entered into math class, and we decided to sit together that time, and so we did again the next day and the next, and soon our seats became nearly sacred. If one watched well, one could see sparks falling from my eyes and upon the ground every time someone desecrated our personal altar. And those who saw them were quick to clear away from my path.

Ola is polish, and polish people are proud and patriotic on the extreme, as I had learnt a couple of years earlier, when I had met a polish girl who would spend her time with a quite unpleasant polish boy who swore at her rather than with a foreigner. Although Ola never displayed such extreme behaviour, it soon became obvious that my not being a pure breed polish was not at my advantage. My numerous comments about some of my grand-grandparents being polish did not achieve much. A pity it was that she refused my every invitation to spend time together.

At that time I would wonder whether my mating ritual was not refined enough, or whether my plumage was not bright enough, but soon enough my questions were answered, however temporally. Several weeks after my first attempts, the beautiful bluebird called Ola started to mention some mysterious boyfriend, or should I say birdfriend. And so she flew away from my reach.

In those days, I used to be a pigeon, figuratively speaking. One of those pigeons that you find at the stations, limping back and forth, looking terrified of your slightest move. But eventually I acquired some characteristics from the falcon and was able to return to my chase. I grew prouder and more confident, and resumed my chase. It was a difficult chase, since she was always reluctant of talking about herself and the things she liked, despite my encouragement. Hence, the few times that we were alone together we would argue about some petty thing that neither of us really cared about, simply because we would not know what to say or do.

Eventually, the end of the year approached and I attempted my final dive to seize the prey: I invited Ola to the school prom, which she eagerly accepted at first. Yet, when she witnessed my smile filled with delight, she decided that a bit of bitter could go with the sweet and told me:

“But remember, we are only going as friends, I already have someone in Poland, so don’t think it’s a date”

My sight dropped to the floor for an instant and then fell upon her face.

“Alright” I said, and smiled again, knowing that at least for one evening she would be mine.

* * *

I was mistaken though, for even for that one evening we would not enjoy of each other’s undivided attention. Not even once in our lifetime we would be able to spend time together in harmony.

When I met her near the bus that would take us to the prom party it could not have been more perfect. Only a fool could forget her beautiful black dress and her shawl. The sensual curves of her body hypnotized me as she approached.

The spell she put on me was broken when we finally sat in the bus and started to talk. She began by speaking of her boyfriend, yet again. I heard her but I did not listen, my eyes looked at the trees moving behind the glass window, but I did not see, I withdrew myself from reality as a turtle withdraws its head into its shell. I knew she just wanted me to suffer a bit for her, she wanted to see jealousy in my eyes, but she’d see nothing at all if she gazed upon my black, dead pupils.

We sat on a table together, although it was obvious that we were distant from one another. She’d smoke a cigarette while I would try to get a word or two of her, the sight would be quite amusing were I not so emotionally involved.

Less than half an hour after our arrival, the situation collapsed. Ola sat on her chair fulfilling the silent role she had given herself. She just sat there, not saying a word to me, not even to talk of her boyfriend in Poland. All my attempts to place a smile upon her face failed, and I grew quite sombre. One instant, when I could not take the gloomy atmosphere any longer, I said a few words to her explaining that I did not feel my presence was needed any longer, or something along those lines; and went away to another table, together with my friends Ineke and David. After eating the main dishes there, I was convinced by the group on the table that I must return to Ola, since she was my date, even if we had come as friends.

Ola said a few words to me when I came back, partly to excuse herself and partly to accuse me of having misinterpreted her attitude. The situation improved a bit, yet the tension remained almost as strong as in the beginning.

In the end I gave up and I turned my focus upon Rose, who went to the prom as a photographer, which surprised me quite a bit, since I though someone would have invited her. She looked even more beautiful than Ola in her improvised dress and with her long dark gauntlets. Having given up on Ola, I could not turn my eyes away from her for very long. Sometimes she would look at me too, and that made me burn deep inside my chest.

Eventually Rose came to our table to make a photo of Ola and me. “How ironic it is, I thought, that the one that is making the photograph is the one that should share my table and vice versa. And how privileged too, to have the women one loves face to face, in silent conflict.” I gave Rose a good self-satisfied, flirtatious smile.

The smile apparently worked, since in the end of the evening she came back to make yet another photo of us, each roughly four breezers later. The second smile I gave her surpassed the first one in the qualities mentioned.

In the meantime, I had achieved the apparently impossible. I had danced a slow, tight dance with Ola, which lifted up my mood up to the clouds, although, I regret, it did not do the same to my date. I still remember her sitting in the bus, puffing and blowing at about the same time as I whispered along some song on the radio. That was when I offered Rose a ride, since a friend of ours would be picking me up and she lived in a town nearby. Almost magically, Ola’s mood seemed to deteriorate a small step further.

I obtained two prizes that night, a hug from Ola; a distant, cold embrace that almost froze the blood running through my skin. Rose’s hug was much more natural, sensual and affectionate, one hug I can still feel if I concentrate long enough.

The sweet embrace of life mixed with death, the embrace of love.

* * *

The next year proved to be busier, and I did not have all that much time for romantic conquests, or rather defeats.

Nevertheless, I had the chance to spend some good time with Ola and our mutual friend Cathy. I also was witness, during my birthday, to the first time that Ola was relaxed in my presence, though unfortunately it also proved to be the last for that year.

I also had the chance to meet a new friend of Ola’s, with which I skilfully used a famous tactic used by many women: I flirted in a last desperate attempt to capture Ola’s attention. Desperate or not, it worked wonders, and ever since, Ola has been treating me with more attention and respect…

CHAPTER V

It took me two whole years to realize completely that I would never truly have Rose's friendship, nor anything more for that matter. It was not my reason that was convinced of the contrary, but something buried deep beneath the trenches that she dug within my heart. That something was a mad soldier, who having suffered shell-shock, kept firing aimless, desperate shots, refusing to acknowledge that his personal battle was lost. But the last barrage of shells was sufficient to silence him too...

That final bombardments occurred in the two weeks from the beginning of Prom night until a night's dream, when she haunted my dreams for what I hope would be a last time.

I arrived to Prom with a good friend of mine called Medina, who was several years older than me. Immediately upon our arrival, all the attention was centred upon her; since I refuse to believe that my unorthodox, embroided, olive green shirt could have caused such effect.

Soon after our arrival, my friends Ola and Cathy asked us whether we wanted to sit beside them. We accepted their invitation and chose a table on the border of the round hall at which the Prom took place. Medina had advised me to sit strategically, overlooking the whole hall, since she was interested in me telling her about the different people I knew, which I did with pleasure. I must admit that, though never being superstitious nor credulous, I believed that, with her benign yet piercing sight, she could see through the image of a person and into her soul, for she rarely was wrong when she gave me her opinion of them or her advice whenever she saw a photo or image of that person.

Rose arrived at the party, strikingly beautiful as ever, in an improvised dress made of a short skirt, a blouse and two black gloves. Beside her walked a young man with an apparently sturdy body and a fat, confident face. He was dressed in a white suit, under which, I knew, must beat a black, black heart. No, it was not even jealousy, but the grimace upon that face of his that told me what kind of man he was.

He and Rose sat upon a table opposite us, some ten metres away. Their backs faced us while they ate, but eventually, they turned sideways and started kissing and touching each other, she offered him her fingers to suck and bite and she herself bit and perhaps even licked his ears. All that I had noticed only by looking in their direction only briefly, and quite rarely, but what truly surprised me was that my feelings were not jealousy but mostly sadness and pity for her. I had wished she had found someone better to love. Not me, not I, but someone else. Someone handsomer than her date, with a soul that was his own still, someone who could love.

Yet, what truly amazed me was that each time that they kissed or indulged in each other, Rose would turn her head sideways towards us and look in our direction. I never knew why she had looked at us, maybe to see if I was jealous, or maybe she was jealous herself, that the attention she wanted was not hers to have; or perhaps I was mistaken, perhaps she never had looked at us.

Having seen what I had seen, and possibly even more, Medina gave me an advice about Rose too, "Stay away from her, she will bring you no good" she said, and I believed her though I was puzzled still. I had shown Medina a photo of Rose, several months ago, and she had spoken very well of her, but now, she talked of her as one would talk about someone diametrically different. Perhaps all the good we contain are balanced by an identical amount of evil, perhaps it is impossible to become a better without becoming worse.

I left the prom with two thorns stuck in me, one was in my hand... "Pretty as it may be, a rose is a rose is a rose", I thought.

The second barrage of gunfire occurred the morning when I decided that I had to say goodbye to Rose. I had wanted to show to myself, more than to her, that I still regarded her as a friend, even if she did not.

A single SMS with a single phrase that some may recognise to have been sung by Jethro Tull: "Each to his own way; I'll go mine / best of luck in what you find" Each word I meant, and hence, I hoped that I would never receive an answer, and so far, I have not.
A week of absence made my heart grow fonder, and her memory became by the minute more legendary. Yet at the same time I begin to comprehend that all was for the better.

And, finally, exactly two weeks after the prom night, I had a dream. I dreamt of Rose a last time.
In the dream she spoke to me, grabbed me and pushed me round and round while I was powerless to resist. She then kissed me, teased me and pushed me away while she said, "Do you think you ever had a chance?", or something that had meant the same. She finally motioned me to see a photo or picture of someone.

"Do you think I'd fall for someone like that?" she said while pointing at the picture
"Who is this?" I asked.

"It is you"

I went on to dream of fights, teleportation, time travel, bicycle races, ghosts and death, but that is nothing extraordinary...

When I woke up, I finally felt that I had understood and that the weight upon my shoulders did not include her anymore. Dreams have helped to close the trenches in my heart, and bury that mad soldier who would not believe that the fight was over.

Yet, I love her still, and that soldier still clutches at a golden medallion that contains her smile and has her name inscribed on its surface. Sleep on, brave soldier.

CHAPTER VI

“The worst thing a woman can do to a man is to forget him”

Nay, she did not forget me, not yet. Whether she had come back to give a final twist to the dagger she placed so neatly between my auricles and ventricles, or whether she truly wished to redeem herself; I did not know.

What I did know, were the circumstances surrounding the events that must have caused this sudden twist of fate.

It all began again roughly two years after we had met, and September the 18th, the day of my graduation, saw a different me and a different her.

Me, I wish I could say I have grown and become more experienced and intelligent, but unfortunately I cannot. No. I was still fragile, it’s just that it is harder to break the pieces of something broken again, than to break the thing in the first place… Only one thing had changed, my credo… “Cognito ergo sum” became “Amo ergo sum”, and the one I have to thank for this is my sister.

She was there too, during my graduation, together my parents and with Medina, the woman I had taken to the Prom. And I believe, it is her I must thank for what happened shortly afterwards. There, sitting in her Maxi Cosy, she did more than I could do in years of trying.

She sweetened the bitter beginning of the ceremony by softly shouting ‘lait’ in French, every once in a while. Where someone else could be embarrassed, I was proud and amused. She lifted my mood from its grave, and resurrected it with her sweet voice.

After Mr. Jones, the one I owe my having risked to apply to Cambridge, had finished telling amusing stories about each one of us, after everyone had obtained their diploma and had clapped their hands off, after having thanked all my teachers and received all my congratulations; after all that, I received an unexpected and perhaps slightly unwanted surprise. Out of the deep blue where I drowned my painful memories she appeared…

Those three kisses we gave each other on the cheeks meant nearly nothing when I compared it with the hug she had given me more than one year ago, at the end of my first prom. Yet there still was much sweetness in her cheek.

She asked whose the girl in the Maxi Cosy was, so I introduced my family to her. She asked me if I’d like to place Mary on a chair, to which I replied that she was not heavy.

“You’ll be very popular wherever you take her”

I’d like to have smiled, but I believe I just looked at the floor when she said that. The rest is blurry, as a sort of dream. Yet somehow, one thing is clear, it was that little creature in the Maxi Cosy who moved the strings that led to our encounter.

Soon after we left, I realised that I had to go to the toilet, yet somehow it wasn’t just that that made me return to the school building. After visiting the restroom, and upon exiting the building, I met Rose’s glance, and answered to it by rising my brows… “Now what?” they asked.

Hers rose in return.

I turned without another word and after giving a dozen steps, started to softly sing:

“Each to his own way, I’ll go mine,

Best of luck with what you find

But for your own sake, remember times

We used to know…”

I did not turn back.

* * *

But she did.

* * *

First I was surprised by an instant messenger conversation with Sofia, a friend from French class, who told me things Mr. Jones had told me before, but which I had never believed, but the second she had said them, I finally started to believe.

She told me that I was respected and liked even by the students themselves, that they thought I had deserved my success.

As if by magic, soon after that switch of state of mind occurred, I received a second surprise. A new window appeared. It had ‘Rosanna’ written on it. She had added me to her list of contact. As I saw the pink letters say ‘i just added you on my msn’ my blood started to burn like lava, making me feel as though I would dissolve into the thin air any second soon.

“ ‘i’m rose’ she continued after a couple of seconds

‘yeah, I remember ya, I do’ I replied

‘hihi, ok’

‘why did you add me now?’ I inquired again.

‘i had you before and im not sure what happened’ ”

'Liar!' I thought and knew. Then I thought again, ‘You did have me, but did not want me’

“ ‘and i figured. i didn’t really give you the time of day, and im not like that. you were always very friendly to me’ she went on.

‘yeah, I believe I was : ) why were you so reserved before?’

‘rapt up in my own things i guess, im actually quite sorry if i was rude. i did enjoy the conversations on the train’

‘so did I, I did’

‘cool. actually had a friend in zimbabwe who you reminded me of’ ”

And so, the conversation continued for some ten more minutes, after which I did not know whether to feel relieved or preoccupied, so I decided to do both. And meanwhile, the question, ‘What does she want?’ ‘Did she really enjoy the conversations on the train?’ ‘Was it really a friend I reminded her of?’

The answers did not come to me, but my father did, seeing my concern spilling from my eyes as a raging rapid. I told him.

His advice was to keep my distance and be wary of her, but still, not to fully discard the possibility that she had changed slim as that chance was.

So I clung to it with arm and with the other, I clung to the hope that I’d find someone who could just love me right away in England.

At least, she did not forget me...

EPILOGUE

Love can be quite painful and pleasurable all at once, especially for the likes of me. Placing my heart high above, beyond mortal reach, allows it to look upon great wonders and experience sensations seldom seen and felt. On the other hand, no other heart has been able to reach it yet and share its visions. Whereas my heart seeks transcendental love, most other hearts it has observed are prisoners of petty desires and illusions, believing that love ‘is’ that bouquet of roses and that box of chocolates.

The physical laws of love have caused my heart great pain too, indeed. “The greater the height, the crueller the fall”, they say. Each time I’ve fallen in love I have had a chance to test that axiom, and I found that it is true. The higher I placed my heart, the bigger the wounds it suffered when it broke, tore or was pierced by the thorns of love when it chanced to fall into it.

And so, I never saw Rose again, which is perhaps the cruelest punishment of all. I did see her but I never saw 'Her' again, at least never in the same tone. Her colors faded and decayed, that's all I can now say.

Ola, on the other hand, lost her appeal soon after I discovered that she had chosen as her companion a man who had tattooed his own name upon his inner lip.

During two years, I loved two women at once, each in a different way, and learnt that perhaps that famous quote by Pushkin "The less we love a woman, the more she likes us in return" has some truth in it. If he is right, then I had deserved pure hatred from Rose and bare hostility from Ola, but I very much doubt that he is...

I think that it is Medina who is right, that perhaps, somewhere along the thinner planes, someone is approaching me, at a pace that just depends upon how much love I give to this world. But I prefer to think she is here now, that all that I have left to do is to find her in this puny sphere we call Earth.

Gloria

noreply@blogger.com (Sasha) — Tue, 30 Nov 2004 21:58:00 +0000

I cling to one image with a dead man's grasp. Her bronze skin blinding me, her black hair caressed by the wind, that crimson dress... But I've already lost her eyes, the features of her face, her fragrance...

A faint memory or a particularly clear premonition - that's what Gloria is, but what she means to me is so much more. Her existence, if just in essence, gives me inspiration, it tells me that I can love, and that the silence I feel within me from time to time is warmed by something that is far more real than what the eyes register.

To see the light and feel the warmth of the North Star, to touch it and not be burnt. That is my guide, my miracle.