Follow-up
There was none to this day. OK. Moving on.
Entries Tagged as 'T'
Difficult texting
Writing was easy, but there I was staring at the sms for a couple of minutes before hitting send. To be continued.
Dear past love
Now that I let all our common friends know we’re not talking anymore, I wish you did the right thing to do and called me. I’d do the right thing, and I’d talk to you. I am ready to let go the grouch.
Cleaning up
I don’t trust a cleaning lady to put order in my life. Because this is how any major cleaning of the house seems to me. There is one event like this every now and then when the seasons change. The latest spring cleaning revealed to me how I owe you the use of stripe socks. Before you my socks were being unicolour, mostly black. I was again tempted to put your things in a box. This time for practical reasons, they are taking up space. But there was no time. Space per time equals momentum, so I guess I am gathering practical momentum. It was also a good time to review my acquisition policy when it comes to music. And books. At least I listen to the music I buy. But that’s a side note. When I am older I’ll probably be better abled to read, although medical statistics contradict me. What else? I made plans to artistically use all these paper scraps I have been piling up. I have also decided to raid my clothes and give away everything I have not worn at least once in the past two years. Problem with this one is my memory is tricky when it comes to parting with once endeared items. I lag and linger. I have also observed I have gathered an impressive amount of dry-cleaners hangers and silver items. I want to buy new roller-blades, these ones are ten year old. Maybe they can go to the roller-blading museum?
Fuck mobile volume
Ve: “…blabla”
me: “By the way, is T there?”
Ve: “Yes”
me: “Does he know that I am talking to you?”
Ve: “Yes”
me: “Then give him my regards”
Ve: “OK”
T, in the background: unintelligible
Ve: “He returns them”
Fuck, it means he’s heard all I have said. And how I have said it. Gonna feel a bit sick now. Life tells there is no use in me hiding. I am so looking forward to the next two years to be over.
Bending-mending
In a time when our love was young and deep, and despite that I had upset and hurt you then, I have taken you to see
a film we both agreed afterwards was good. Now I own the film and you are with someone else.
I hate the cold wet leaves, their sparkling yellow from the distance of my window, all the way down. My spirit is not there yet. Wherever there is… I will admit I am not completely to terms with myself.
Elogy to eulogy
I suck at saying goodbye. That is a fact. I have been sucking at this for almost one year now. I am not done chewing that yet.
Today it was not only the alternator belt that snapped, broke and was fixed en route from Cioranca to Antwerp. It took you four calls to decide there is nothing left to be said. “At ease, soldier! And don’t be a stranger…” I probably need more time. And still, the reverb inside me was like the flat line on the heart monitor: none, no reverb.
It took us ten months to accept what some of the others probably knew the next moment you got on that train. You called now so that we could mutually agree upon the diagnosis: rigor mortis. I concurred.
This end is both a failure and a new beginning. Raising from the turmoil, the question. Will I ever again be able to love as much?
Quite an October last year!
I know you know. You know I know.
And I though you really called to see how I was. And I was glad that finally we can have a nice warm normal conversation.
Then, zbang! I had to re-evaluate.
In a dramatic retrospect, I have always tried to protect you and all I managed was to hurt you. I apologize for that. This is my public apology.
I felt like taking the plane was right, but expensive. Telephone and email did not feel right at all. Face to face, yes. Instead, a letter. But I procrastinated. And finally it all happened. Not the way it should’ve. Now I might put it here, the place you don’t approve of, but where you occasionally read.
Yesterday’s recap
Sometimes I need to scribble my days, like I am loosing an essential little something otherwise. It’s a phobia rather than a feeling. So here goes yesterday: laptop wrestling took all day, I need a laptop tamer, late afternoon I have finally succeeded in to install and dial the damn EDGE connection, I swear I need to switch from Windows, borrowed money in a hurry from M and ran home to pay expenses, then landed in dustland, tried to do a little something, somehow managed to undust the bedroom, the rest of the house is heavily engrossed and awaiting Ms. Ionescu, then had a long discussion that tired me pretty much like fights with T used to, then I ran to the rehearsal, where I was late but not that late, there is always someone “later” than me, it’s a major trick of survival in the urban jungle; it was almost time to turn back into a pumpkin, read midnight, you Cinderella freaks, when return home, admired the badly parked cars in my neighborhood, I so often need to rant about my neighbours’ parking skills and how I have to rove for hours feels like, that I never do it anymore, rant, not rove. Midnight daily chores performed, I decide to take advantage of the running hot water, see the episode early in the morning the same day, and soaked like crazy. Pondered about stardom and being single, as separate issues. At this point I turned on the beast, read laptop, thinking I might post about the return to communist past, read my visit to Chisinau, or about Gramos’ meme, but actually ended sleeping under the warmth of the processor roar with the music and lights on. And that was my day. Forgot to manage the oddity of having naked windows. And about 100 observation posts across at close enough range.
Yesterday
A day that has passed is way sadder than a day still to come. It was his birthday. Her birthday. Another birthday. A funeral cortege was killed by a truck. Ten kids were left without their parents. I saw it on the news. That is why I don’t do funerals. I don’t do weddings either. Unless I am blackmailed.
For the third time I have tried finding Rondo Capricioso at the bookshop. They had three more copies, but were unable to locate them. I am probably the last person here who has not read the book.
I am trying. I have my questions, I have my words. It’s not a sollution. Dismiss poetry.
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