Once upon a time we would whimsically account for a particular moral revolution. Here was no prodigy, no fabulous hero, no trojan horse, no bloody war, but all was acheived by plain means of plain men, working not under a leader, but under a sentiment. Once upon a time it was foolish to make all our ties too spiritual, as if so we could lose any genuine love. Once upon a time posing muse to an inspired culture and her celebrated travesties was seen upon as doing something beautiful. Once upon a time , it is said, London and New York took the nonsense out of a man. Once upon a time when the Gothic nations came into Europe they found it lighted wth the sun and moon of Hebrew and of Greek genius. Then as all good things come to an end, we talked a little less and drank a little more.
At eighteen i was dumbfounded afresh by my ignorance of the simplest things. In the playclothes of still growing, still reclining in the cushioned palanquin, i carelessly toyed with friendship- three of us, four, five, six- time in plenty to test every role. We needed the sea, like migrant eels in november- the form of half empty theatres and pre avant-garde coffee delis. One could draw doggedly on, arresting details until one had the whole scene imprisoned and still not rescue our already lost morning. I wish i was sitting somewhere near scribbling something, drinking off your concentrated quiet in my contemplative calm. Imagine two generations of lovers spawning a lifetime of love songs, whose worship needed no god and whose fervor undid herself. I saw my world again through your eyes as i would see it through your childrens' eyes only this time it was foreign.
The beginning is simple to mark- i never had a porcelain heart, just dolorous hues in evanescence and moderation. Frankly speaking, one could do with melancholy and her humble muse. A time to savour cognac grapes; a time for painting sovereign skies; a time to close your eyes for a toast farewell to vigilante charms. You see, we are free to shovel dust in the wind- and then winter being my overhyped swansong to end it all. Somewhere in between we were brazenly bethrothed child-brides to time, and were expected, not wished, to lay assaugement to the claim. But i am amazingly here and this is amazingly now.
Even the clearest waters can drown. Back then when novelists wrote of vintage cafes with abstract frescos and not about men who mistook their wives for hats, one could honestly tell from the plethora of lovers who he loved most- a simple melancholic gaze of longing. I imagine the wind wearing the scent of strawberries and the far coast with her transient horizons; and he who so fashionably wears the rose by his breast. The eye is the greatest of artists? Pray liberate the mindscape in which we painstalkingly cultivate exclusively for indulgent lucre. Forgive her strange miasmas- strikingly fantastical and verbose, but know that we leave legacies behind, not acounting for the crying people- the crepuscular realm of a writer's reveries under dreams' sobriquet. I wish i had a wishlist for letting go and giving up- tragic differential.
There within life's comedy lie the remnants of something beautiful- and in well-timed instances provided one forsakes sobriety by means of chamomile or a famous Jack Daniels, Thalia tenderly chaperones us into Calliope's abode. Funny how in this punchdrunk/dreamy stupor we manage to bask full lucidity of our state of mind and still retain a figment of recollection should the effects wear off. Escapism is afterall a human and very much heart-hungry luxury; and we never asked to be fishermen in providence's sea. By some or other's law, "we are free to be free," and you would be charmed by its puerile romanticism, even inspired. Then again, you always had simpleton dreams compared to my bourgeois ones.
In the grimy lilac softness of an August evening, I glanced at him for the first time as I passed her because i noticed (I could'nt believe it) what i've been ignoring and that one evanescent pinprick in time made streets and streets of Impressionist paintings- not of leftist liberals but rather radical dreamers wearing their hearts on sleeves. How had it started? You know how it's like in technicolour rain- the near impossibility to tell the tear from the drop.Love could possibly take the following definitons. One. A deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person, such as that arising from kinship, recognition of attractive qualities, or a sense of underlying oneness. The second a feeling of intense desire and attraction toward a person with whom one is disposed to make a pair; the emotion of sex and romance. Last and not in any way least, sexual passion, sexual intercourse or a love affair- courtesy of the dictionary. I must be in love then, for or against popular belief.
In the event of our fanatical marriage to logic, is youth wasted on the young? A beautifully fractured tale infused with luminous imagery, wry wit and butterfly-delicate characters- somewhere the tumbleweed weaves its way around picket fences and end up stunning themselves against clear windowpanes and dying, fatly baffled in the sun; but there is more to life than the willingness to die. Here is the overture: She asked me whether i loved her and i patronisingly said 'yes, i am thus far politically divorced.' Then i pretend to melt in her eyes and she could not tell from the lie. Tomorrow being spring time in my heart, stupid with confidence and with the perculiar impression of you hating Spain, i'll visit Paris instead. " It was not meant to hurt. It had been made for happy remembering by people who were still too young to have learned about memory." - A Short Film.
