I love you more than you can ever imagine…
I am an orphan when you leave for work,
but a One-Dog Welcoming Wagon when you return
And when I see you…
darling: if I had a tail I’d wag it!
I like the part where we meet: so funny and yet so full of romance; although I am not crazy about all the coming and goings until we finally get together – all the little bits that showcase our fierce rivalry and one-upmanship that suddenly evaporates into naught when love comes to ring the bell at our doors.
I also like the part where I save you. Although I cringe a bit thinking about the imminent danger you were put in by my recklessness/my commitment to a cause/our sense of adventure/our life in the wrong side of the law/the bad guy dislike of me-you-us etc…
But I like the most the part where we kiss. You bend your head up and half open your willing lips and I lean over you and just take them in mine – discreetly, gentlemanly… the spotlight centers on us making a ring of light and leaving everything outside it in complete darkness. And we remain frozen this way, kissing forever, outside of the world, time, petty life and entropy.
( read translation in spanish )
Bess, you is my woman. The fan blades absurdly turn, while winter continues outside, the coffee shop’s nutty air following its orders.
This shop has no internet, I found out too late. But for all intents and purposes, I am alone too.
Bess, is not actually my woman, you know? My woman is gone to work, and I cannot touch her. I cannot feel her hair with my lips, or trace her hips with my hands. Or even ask her if she’d like a tea, or a “mate”.
The though that has me pegged to this bench right now, is: transitions. I spent my life wondering about the exact limits of things. When does waking end and sleep begin? Even in the most violent of deaths, is there and actual divide? I am, with Zeno, obsessed by the eternal loop of divisions. Even in the sudden there must be a place that is not before nor after.
This place, like awaking, where you are neither a dead or an alive cat, holds an important degree of freedom. It is a freedom condemned to remain untapped, because of its fleeting nature, but its potential affects me.
The though behind the though is loneliness, of course. All true thoughts are destined to go there. You cannot share your transitions. Freedom, by its essence is cruelly detached and contains within the requirement of loneliness.
Today Camus’ suicide posit doesn’t seem to be the question. Neither does Hamlet’s choice of states.
The question is, at this point in time, with the air rotating clockwise while the coffee roasts in the back, is there any question we could ask, that will yield a satisfactory answer?
“There had been a girl who had laughed with him, the laughter deep inside her throat…” Clifford D. Simak – A Choice of Gods.
Laughing, we are told by Hans Ruesch in his book “Top of the World” (that I knew a long time ago by his Spanish title “El País de las Sombras Largas”; a much more inspired title indeed), is what the Eskimos call making love. Having lived in Canada for 27 years, and having spent some of them in the north, and furthermore having known at least one Eskimo in person (Hey Johnny! I wonder how you are doing these days….) I am no closer to verify that tidbit of information that I was when I read the book all the way back in Buenos Aires, and all those years ago, in my adolescence.
It seems to me that even if it wasn’t true, the concept behind it is good enough to merit adoption. I know, for myself, that of all the passionate moments I shared with my Gabi, those in which we shared a laugh are the most lasting ones. Sharing a poignant, or a dramatic event can tie you to a person – even sharing a traumatic event I imagine can do the same, or so we are told in countless books, movies and TV serials – but sharing a laugh with a person you love gets you closer than anything else ever will. The more you laugh the more you love her, and the more you know her.
Well, it seems to me right and proper to start at the beginning…. The beginning, of course, is an arbitrary point just like any other… but is also the best way to call the idea of immersing oneself in a story at once – and the beginning was…
… most likely it was when Alice dropped by for a cup of coffee – I’d just leaned that the cute bronze pot with the wooden handle was actually called an Ibrik and this awaken a thereto dormant passion for Turkish Coffee – she dropped by, I was saying, bringing the exciting but hopelessly mistaken news: I was dead
Needless to say, I immediately made sure the opposite was actually true and, stirring the foam in and pulling the IBRIK out of the flame for a brief moment to allow the coffee grinds to settle, I begin to wonder what item from my rather scarce wardrobe would be adequate for the extraordinary circumstances… Alice was ecstatic. The black satin dress she bought when his mother died was still unused, courtesy of his cataleptic mother’s revival. Here at last she’d found the awaited occasion to wear it.
Truth be told, I did not stray too far out of my way to convince her I was alive – or that even in the event of my death, our relationship was not of such depth as to require mourning garments. I knew her well enough to know that nothing could dampen her enthusiasm, so the Ibrik returned to the stove and I started seriously considering about the bonanza of happy secondary effects my timely death should entail.