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May 02, 2005
So I can write.( read slowly please, it was written fast)
These days I find myself worrying about, WHAT IFs, what if I wont have any more things to say, any more things to write. They do log in, and come here, expecting, and I have to keep the fires burning, so I drill, on soft and the hard surfaces, go through the tunnels, and passages, find new caves, with writings on the walls, and all these within me, my big head. I look around more intensly, try to obsorb more, siphon in, grab , hold images and make a permanet traces of them, here and there,-My father offering me some oranges, after he skinned them carefully, and I share the prize with my son, and then the next day it becomes a poem in my pages. it is registered, written and it begins to live, that moment, that second, that observation. And many like that, as I fall sleep the images burst to the scene, in convoulted, crooked shapes, some in color , mostly black and white, ignorant to the laws of motions and voices, floating within their own elements, they all come, in bunches, groups, they hurl in, no bang on the door, in front of my closed yes, within my big head, parallel to the bed sheet that covers me they float in the air, with their hands , their arms stretched, --ME, ME, pick me, MY TALE, my story, I want to be forever, I want to be written, to become, to birth, me, I am the one, they scream silently, as their residudes fade away, over run by sleep, and rest, --no, no,they come back in dreams, in fluid colors in majestic shapes. the scents, the texture as my eyes move in rapid motions closed. and then they all leave something for me to remember them, like the girl who kissed me, and her scent was carried in me within me like fumes all day, something for me to get back to, her scent, that brought her image to the empty movie house in my head, and found me once again sitting in the dark waiting.
Or Music, as the notes sip inside my ears, reach my mind and tug at my heart, aching me, or a movie with beautiful long silences between the leads, as the camera closes up on their faces, their eyes, their hands, their desperate longings, their helplessnes, that reaches me, that is how I wrote THE SAND STORM, after watching the -English Patient-, the scene when they are standing face to face, and for the first time he knows that he loves her, he does not say anything, but it is obvious to you that he knows. Or the poem, WALKING IN SEIGON, after watching "The three seasons", the lotus flowers that the girl sold, the rain, the poet, the lepper poet, who needed the flower girl to write for him since he had lost his fingers. The young kids that lived in the streets and how two of them became found of each other and shared their shelters together in the rain.
Why do I worry, I can even see with my bad eye, I even see with my eyes closed, I listen and hear, and the images take shape, so why do I have to worry,-It sustains me, keeps me on my toes, keeps me looking, watching, staying awake, makes me chew more patiently and push the soft flesh with my tongue in my mouth, so every corners of my mouth feels the texture, tastes the essence and takes joy in the delicacy of my morsels. and then I sit at the laptop, and the words jump out, misshapen, deformed, full of oddities and no discipline, they just juump out fast and stick to the screen so feverishly I lose the poassage of time, out somewhere, not here, extended, and taken to be brought back , a quiet rapture, a visit, a gathering. So I can write, to ease my loneliness.
Posted by Idinraha at May 2, 2005 04:06 PM