Friday, February 26, 2010

A Dawn

Things look better in the morning
Sleep, cousin of oblivion,
Has filed the sharp edges
Of all these unnameable sentiments
That have slashed your soul
Relentlessly last evening
And then has blown them away
Into the starry night
Where they now add up to that
Ever-mysterious dark matter
The promise of the sun is there
In the darkest dawn

I think this is quite an interesting picture... A whole different story than this silly little sad poem could be written out of it. Does anyone care for a try? :-)

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

End of February Update

Dear Friends,

I wish I could tell you how much I miss being more present on your blogs and on mine. In a way, it is a vicious circle. For, if I post something and you, in your great kindness, read it and leave your comments, I suffer greatly that I cannot return the gesture as often as I wished to. Therefore, I mostly remain silent…

I’m not doing that great, but I’m not writing this to get consolation from you. No, not at all. On the contrary, I abhor pity. With the risk of offending you, I must ask you not to offer it.

I am not where I would like to be and I’m afraid that I’ll never get there, but I’d rather not think about it. Like Sherlock Holmes in “A Scandal in Bohemia”, I am “alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition”… no, don’t get scared! Just replace “week” with “day” and “cocaine” with “despair” and you’ll know where I am. What is better, despair or cocaine? I sometimes wish I had the latter…

Like Art in “How to Be”, I am trying to answer the question that is the movie’s title and I admit I’m failing. I wish I had the luxury of being twenty years old. I wish I weren’t obsessed with the passing of time. I wish I hadn’t wasted that much time. I wish I were less intense. I wish I were content with a “normal” life. (Well, the last two are not really true.)

So, I’m writing the novel I was mentioning a while ago, and that’s the only good, brilliant, perfect, beautifully painful thing. The rest is chores, chores, and more chores, and existential questions that are mostly rhetorical. Even the writing has to be squeezed in between these mindless chores, with horrendous efforts from me and constant opposition from the “environment”. Think of the thing that you love most in this world, one without which your existence would be nothing, and – if you have one - imagine being constantly deterred from it, being constantly denied it. That is writing for me. Sounds crazy? If it does, maybe it is… Maybe a lobotomy would help…

So, forgive me if the texts I’m posting here are mostly dark. I know that’s highly unattractive, but I just can’t help it at this point. I am what I am. Thank you for reading this. And, yes, I’ll be back…

Friday, February 12, 2010


be still, my love,
and listen
to the melody
my heart sings
in your ears

then smile, my love,
and let my hands ruffle
your sweetest thoughts
and I, in turn,
will let your lips
write their poetry
on the fine vellum
this, my skin

and thus, my love,
with tune and lyrics
we’ll twine our song
so we can dance

Monday, February 08, 2010

Winter Dream

poor dryad
even her tree denies her
there is only the cold now
to embrace her
only a sleep
that murmurs
of an improbable spring
in her frozen ears