le chateau des pourquois

reminiscence no. 5

2007-10-06T04:28:00.000Z

I think you wrong with much of many and too little of some you find yourself claiming for one who's mostly gone while you even wish you had one any.)

octobering

2007-09-26T00:54:00.000Z

October approaches and time still corrodes me with bleaching out memories that make room for santity, but allow for insanity, breaching solutions temporary.. and I feel its arrows drink up my blood, gnaw on my bones, whose poison infects me with dreams, with visions that I don't want, but always make me their own.

So defenseless I am, I feel October's unsated teeth, cold and knifelike, pierce me, and I fear. But not for me. Some say I am illumined. But I'm told so many things.. I'm right-handed, left-footed, and of that I am sure (although I can't be all that much, when I have nobody else to tell me so).

Thinking myself more like a celt than like a goth, even so I feel fear, I do. Not for the future, no. But I fear for the present. For October, always present, who knocks on the door and invites itself in and enters. Step by step. Slow. Inclement.

In the air, the breath of wing-flapping future winds, secretly bearing tidings to the sensitive of hearts of the feasts' eve: the time of miracles comes, when everything must die in order to be reborn. And so everything shall be.

October arrives with my time to be crowned king. King of fools, for the best mask (most bizarre mask ever) that I bear attached to my face.

I hear shouts, acclaims, congrats. Hardly can they be aware that this hideous mask is, by now, the only face I have.

reminiscence no. 4

2007-09-22T04:16:00.000Z

I'm missing you so bad I'm barely sleeping I avoid thinking I avoid living I avoid lying to me like you do.)

another fragment

2007-09-21T00:49:00.001Z

Yet again I recall another fragment
Of a thought or a dream
That I don't know what's supposed to mean
My eyes and the darkness
My ears and the silence
Short waves emmitted from a sea I once thought mine
Somebody else I had always taken for I
Who inadvertedly has lead me here
To wait here
To watch this sea
Promised to a vastness long expected
Never arrived
Beyond a feeble spectre in many more sights
Ingenuously victimised
Intentionally envisaged
But influenced by this accursed light
That hides
When I need it the most
And such as jealousy I see it approach
And reproach me
Whilst I dream of my place in the sky above
Worth of my plain arrogance that shows
Through all for one
One for all
And invites me to play along

O grandness afore untouched
O insecurity of meek souls
O fallen might of the great
Who doubts
Forgets
Ignores
The folly of those who dared to touch it
And survived
Those who walked the world I imagined mine
The places where I had pictured I
Recollections
Correlations
Delusive infatuations
To whom all there is left is but forgetting
Arguing is useless and no good objecting
Silently accepting its decision
However knowing it was mine
I bow my head to the assumption
That half of life is a lie
That we breed
That we feed
And take heed that it be not hurt

I wouldn't bother for the lighter spirits
Or to have just one once more
I would not walk off on my own will
For my demented body
And my diseased mind
And my depleted soul
Who unsuccessfully attempts
And can't
Or won't
Having decided to take the fall
Suffer the winter and build up the wall
And forget so that I don't feel
Write it now so that I don't need
To do it later
Or any better than now
So that I may not be found
By anyone other than me
When I haven't found myself either

I will not stay for words of flatter
From whoever it be it doesn't matter
This is my mind which I've made and I've got
Whether you like it
Or not

reminiscence no. 3

2007-09-19T23:37:00.000Z

― Can't focus, it's too hot.

― You'll never get to heaven if you're scared of getting high..)

the door

2007-09-17T23:28:00.001Z

I walk into the empty room and I see the dim light yielded in by the window in the centre of the locked door. My eye runs through every inch of its wood, fondling all of its most recondite details, each of the scratches it's made of. They tell of touches, of accidents, of smears, of sneakily-carved inscriptions of capital initials inside heart shapes, of all sorts of moments endured and enjoyed which are as much its feature as any of its original cuttings.

I no longer have the key. Maybe no one else does. The translucence of the thick glass of the central window is tenuous, even in the brightest hours, and thus nothing outside will be seen as it is today. Outside, the garden will remain forever as it always was and has been in my memory, a place of smiling discoveries; a nook for innocence sheltered from the disorderly extramural world; the final inattained frontier of wistful profusion in which I indulge. And so much the better.

I approach. I touch the athermic surface of the wood, almost haptically aethereal, were it not so massive and obviously thick, upon which Time seems to come to no effect. I slide my hand down to feel the knob, wide and mighty, motionless as always. It was one of those very old knobs that do not turn, save by the key. I touch it with the greatest respect my hands can express. The coldness of the metal stirs more sensuous imprints and I feel my whole body in relation to the door. And only to it.

I am awakened. In three or four words, I am told that the time has come and they need to do what needs to be done, that my time is over when I couldn't even say goodbye. But, in a certain way, it was this door who most needed to bid me farewell than the other way round. I walk out of the room and prefer not to cast onto anything one last glance.

When I come outside, I hear again the bells that toll for the house, in the form of the hoist that draws near. I shield the world from seeing my eyes with the sunglasses I put on, but there are no tears in them. The door has already given me all the consolations that I needed. In a last analysis, that's what I'll miss the most.

reminiscence no. 2

2007-06-18T23:30:00.000Z

I ask you not to let me let go to you of my heart which does no sound but the turbulent purring of all my viscera upon into you running towards a solstice of midsummer warmth when there will be no more fear.)

day

2007-06-16T22:44:00.001Z

It is day. I don't know what time it is, or how long it's been, or how much it's been. How expensive it's cost. But I know it's been days since it's been costing a lot and it hurts having to pay for it. I can no longer bear your absence in bed and I rise after much rolling from side to side. I haven't slept since it's been day, and it has been day for quite a while, or so it seems. It is day, but it's night. It's night in me and, as I can see, it is night also in you because you are up and haven't made your side of the bed like every morning in which you used to awake me from my heavy sleep with a kiss and the angelical billowing smell of warm coffee that, under the effect of my convalescence from the drowsiness, would be confused with the vision of your face, with your smile, your 'good morning'.

You haven't made your side of the bed. Perhaps you haven't even used it tonight. We haven't truly seen each other for days and I don't even know what time you go to bed. Or whether you do. I sit up and I look around the room while I rub my eyes to get them used to the daylight ― which isn't even that bright ― and to the absence of the coffee smell. It's so dim I can barely see. It's been dim since it's been day, for days, and I can't see you. And you can't see me. Gruelling, I crawl out of bed and shuffle my feet unwillingly towards the living room, where so many other smiles we shared, where we'd sit together without saying a word because nothing was needed to be said in this room, of this room, so plenty with things that are gone, where everything is and could be so familiar to us. And yet it looks like a strange place to me, darker, sadder. Uglier. And you didn't see me because the curtains are shut and you don't tell me where you're leaving to. And yet you are leaving.

I see you are are as made up as your side of the bed is not. I see you've got bags by your side. But I can barely see because of the dimness around us, enveloping us, penetrating us. It's the night. But it's day. And still you won't kiss me, you won't say a thing, in no moment do you glimpse at me. Perhaps because there is nothing else to say, perhaps because you cannot see me. Perhaps you don't want either of those. Perhaps because we already know what must be said in this room, on this day, and perhaps we know what day it is and what time it is, and my drowsiness and your sternness and the lack of coffee won't let us see what there is to be seen or feel what is meant to be felt.

You don't look at me and you don't speak to me. But I know that deep inside your heart you don't want to go; I see your repressed wail under that aspect of serenity you're faking in order to look stronger and convince yourself of that, and I recognise your foreseen missing of what you will leave behind. Still you don't want to stay either, there are too many days, too much night in this house, too many presences, too much absence. I don't know if you want me to go with you and you won't tell me if you do. Perhaps you are fleeing and I may have caught you red-handed, but what are you fleeing from? You're fleeing from me? Fleeing from you? Fleeing from us? Do you expect to find a tomorrow for us, lost inside us or by us, inside this house formerly ours, now so extraneous? The price of changing is expensive and I wasn't up to pay for it.

I stand watching you leave with nothing to say, not I and not you. As soon as you walk out and night lingers on this day of coffeeless dimness, without smiles, without any resemblance of what it was, without perspectives of what to be, I am assured that your silence asked me to follow you. But I stayed and I didn't stay well, and perhaps one day you'll return and everything will return to what was before and so I hope and wait. I have been hoping and waiting for so long. So long days of so much night. I don't know what for, I don't know how much longer.

reminiscence no. 1

2007-02-12T00:29:00.000Z

and tonight our bodies melt certain of a collusion perfect of which if she wants end I will offer mine that she knew how to spare from the evil memories of when my head was mixed up and aching like hell.)

girl

2007-02-11T23:00:00.005Z

I'm distracted by your too-white little teeth, interspersed with gaps where bigger teeth will dwell and I call you

― Girl

rather quietly. Perhaps so quietly that you didn't hear and kept playing. You stand with your arms akimbo the size of my forearm, and pat the tip of your foot the size of my turtle, in the pose of the lady you are not. But will be. I called you quietly to tell you that pose is going to have a body. A body of the woman you already are, even though you don't feel it and I know you don't even know it. I wanted to tell you not to keep that grumpy air ― I know the boys wouldn't let you play ball ― and not to be sad. All the other girls went home and on the break nobody wants to play with the dolls, but tomorrow you'll come back to fill the tiny pans with the muddy food, little sticks, leaves for the scent and a few pebbles for the flavour.

You know, on a further tomorrow, you won't pout when your friends say "don't you want equality?", when you ask them to change a flat tyre or they help you to take dozens of supermarket bags up the stairs of the building. With that pose you already display on the school patio, you'll know how to explain that you don't want equality, because equal is what you are (and you didn't know how to juggle with the ball, but to this day they won't dream what the mud soup recipe is). That you don't want equality, because you will feel your body and you will know it is different: your face doesn't scratch, your skin is silkier, your hands delicate and soft, the shapely curves belong to your shadow, and between your slender neck ― where no apple has been clogged ― and your navel runs a causeway bereft of fur. You won't manage alone to take the box off the higher shelf, or strike the blow your pervert neighbour will deserve whenever you cross him, and such thinking it's of an ultimate masculinity citing catchwords learnt in the midnight hours, watching the channel the slumbering wife wouldn't even dream to be decoded.

Now your little teeth are showing again, as soon as you heard

― Girl

your mother call you, not as quietly as I. I'm distracted by your unbridled dash to snuggle into her arms. She is telling you today she is too tired from the day at work, but as soon as she's come home

― Just for my girl

she's going to make some chocolate mousse. Don't worry, I know at the hour your future neighbour will be sprawled on the couch envisioning new techniques of approach, she will be ironing the butterfly wings for your play on the Tree Day. She won't forget, but before, she has to tidy up the house; to do the laundry, to dry it, to prepare dinner ― she wants to make the stew your father likes so much ― and to set the table, unset the table, do the dishes, change your Carebears sheets, fill your lunch box for tomorrow, make the snacks, defrost some meat for when your father comes home for lunch.. but don't worry, even in the middle of the night she won't forget your butterfly wings.

Before you dash again, out of the colourful gate of the school towards the car, before you shut the door behind you, I want to tell you I did notice your grumpy air filled with the foot-tip patting. I know that you want equality, that you want difference. That it's not even about wanting because sometimes it's just the way it is. That differences sprout and amass on a common base and principle, made of flesh, made of bones, made of thoughts, emotions, made of humanity. When my feet too were the size of my turtle, I wished it were like that. That's why I called you quietly

― Girl

and you didn't hear. You kept playing. I couldn't tell you. But I think that when we have not-so-white teeth interspersed with gaps where other teeth have dwelt, we will still keep patting our foot.