Dear Eve,

It has been a while since our first meeting in winter. I kept thinking about that day, about the promise I made to write to you. Sometimes, the story unfolded naturally in its entire splendor, but not on paper. Until today.

January 28^th was a sunny day that did not resemble its fellow sisters at all. It was a like fugitive spring day, running with its wild bluish green hair to meet you. I was kilometers behind her, in a yellow cab, having a strange small talk with the driver. About kids and parents, about kids’ bad ideas and parents’ obstinate what-I-am-telling-you-is-good, and childish acts of rebellion, and all sort of little things that you’ll experience one day. You know that kind of little stories, which you keep on telling to whoever wants to listen, landmarks of your personal history, bearing the sweet, seldom a bit sour taste, like some old melancholic love songs that sometimes you can hear on the radio.

I entered the church, wearing the joy instead of any gala attire or jewelries. And you were there, cute and sleepy, in a white flounced dress, unaware of the festive uneasiness of the moment. The soft voices of people in the choir were praising lord for his creation, and they sounded all of a sudden like a strange and soothing lullaby. Your mom was wearing a lacy black dress that made her look so young and hippy. Stressed and happy, and anxious and oozing a soft pale glow. So, this is how motherhood looks like, isn’t it ... Your father, a bit anxious, happy to nest you in his arms. All protective, all proud. He was holding gently the little monkey’s head (his words, not mine) on his chest near his heart. That is a subtle love confession, Eve. Subtle and deep.

Your clueless godparents, even more clueless than I thought. Saying the words of Creed all of a tremble, all full of emotions. And the baptism itself that took you totally by surprise and made you cry a bit in confusion. That’s the new version of you, having a name and a god to look over you.

The party was intimate and sweet, with your parents’ friends around in old but fancy house. Garnished with good music and good wine, with colorful macarons piled up on a white shelf in the hallway. With two dogs hidden under a chair waiting for someone to break their shyness and pet them. Having a chic and ancient stove covered in tiles and pots of flowers here and there. Yellow and green cushions and lemonade, so homey, so warm. With lovely small talks and plans over a delicious cheesecake, with coffee and dreams. Watching you, a small little girl with your fuzzy blond hair looking like a dandelion florets, sleeping peacefully in your cottony-like cradle. Making all of us swooning over you, oh my god, she is so sweet.

Dear Eve, what you’ve just read is a primitive form of memory sharing: a bunch textures and tastes and colors, some puzzle pieces bearing all sort of sensations, covered in words whose sense you will feel later on. 

Little earthquakes

She wrote back few weeks later. Totally random, like she used to do all the time. As if she continued some conversations, after kilometers of other off topic subjects, jumping among ideas like a kangaroo on a large chess table.

I guess you are right. It is something he knows, and sometimes I think he is amused. Yeah I guess that’s the word, amused. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of smiles. Milliseconds. That kind of smile full of candor and tease, lost among some other sorts of expressions and emotions that I am not exactly able to identify. This thing makes me sort of uneasy, sensory-deprived, as I feel both blind and deaf. So I am writing as this is the only thing under my control right now. The strangeness of our encounters did not stop. Or maybe it is me who has the strangest of minds, who knows?! So strange and twisted that I keep dreaming about him. And those dreams are like earthquakes, impossible to predict, shaking everything around, and leaving me breathless.

I have constantly assumed that she was telling me just some little parts of the story not the whole truth. Like she was afraid of being judged, afraid of what others may think, of what others may tell.

I keep dreaming about him. I don’t know why. I have no idea. Which make things even weirder cause in real life I keep unconsciously avoiding him. If he comes one step closer I am two steps back. Or one step aside, or simply leaving any proximity. Like his presence causes a quarantine alert, or a fight-or-flight response is automatically activated. Cause every time I have that feeling of trying to set a line, and there is always a push back someway intendedly askew. But in my dreams, everything was gentler. No matter how weird was the environment everything was gentler. I dreamt about an apartment with large windows and a huge dressing, and a parking lot for scooters on the top of the building – I could have seen up there the shiny handlebars of few Vespas each of them differently colored and the pebbled, curvy access ramp - surrounded by a green park. Apparently his apartment. It was not peculiar that I was sitting on the air conditioning in contemplation. Everything was so frightfully domestic. And the first thing that went through my mind was how I would organize the whole dressing on colors. Out of all the clothes hanging there on walls and within the wardrobes with some yellows and greens stood out from the background. Then he entered the room, with a dark beanie on his head and he told me he was going to leave to see his son. Ok, I said. No other questions or doubts. Why was I there, who is your son? The next dream brought us even closer. Which was scary and remarkably blissful. As before in a house, but a different one this time. Neither mine, nor his. But in a bed with fresh white linen - such a recurrent topic apparently. Have not I told you about this?! I will someday. I guess I know now... - that kind of linen always white and fluffy like some sort of floating cotton, and his damn inexplicably persistent tendency to be protective. I omitted to tell you about it either, is it?! Yep.... And he was caressing my hair, while I was barely touching his. I felt the smooth texture of his hair, absolutely aware of the closeness. He was asking about my family, and I guess I was telling him about my mom and dad, but I was focused on my hand and his hair, on the absolute awkwardness of the whole scene. But fully conscious of the sense of peacefulness. That kind of total, absolute zen. Like everything stood still for a moment there with him. And I felt like I was engulfed into deep, complete and utter peace. I woke up baffled asking myself in awe and terror what is gonna happen next?!

I smiled and I was thinking to write her back at that very moment, but I push back the chair and I stood up, as I was combing my hair with my fingers thinking to myself a bit mischievous but curious as hell... he will let you know somehow. 

If you cannot sleep, you can write to me

If you cannot sleep, you can write to me. And so I did, as I imagined sitting on the entrance steps of my block with a notepad on my knees, writing disparate ideas with my impossible handwriting under the pale light of a street lamp, smoking maybe. Or thinking. Maybe.

First entry log, 03.01.2017

This is the first letter to you. Actually, it should have been better for me to learn how to paint. There are colors and actions and images that come through mind when I think about writing to you. Anything, but words. It is hard to convey the sensation of flight, a purple flight as I saw it. You know, the first words that hit me hard on 1^st day of this year were “leap of faith”. I don’t know if you have ever felt a word echoing in your mind for hours. As if, those syllables were reflected over and over by each and every bone in the skull. To go to sleep with that word buzzing in your ears and wake up just to hear it again at different intensity. And the sensation of flight, like a back jump in large twirls with the arms wide open, half human-half bird. Few days later, I saw this picture. And I kept thinking about it. In the end it was part of the answer I might have been looking so far “you have to make quick decisions to optimize your time in the air”.

Second entry log, not dated

She wrote this to me and probably she wrote it to you too: “If you can imagine yourself sitting in an exotic forest, and behind you there is an a old deserted temple, with moss covering the broken walls, with vegetation among the standing ruins, and in front of you is the jungle and you hear all sorts of birds sounds and insects buzz, and you see the light hitting the ground among the trees and you have that blurry impression of smoke or fog....and it’s hot, really hot... well, so it was.” 

And I wish I could say holodeck please reconfigure the scenario according to the description. Change status to permanent. Save. Thank you. Just to enter, barefoot, take a few steps and then take a sit with the legs loosely crossed, close the eyes and turn the palms upwards breathing slowly. And instantaneously another images popped up in my mind in some sort of anime-esque CGI form with two transparent aliens, floating delicately like some aerial jellyfish, conveying telepathically messages to each other: “This is how they connect to the matrix?!” “No, this is how they shine”.

Third entry log: 6^th of the same month

Dear Eve, your mom has just sent me a short message inviting me to your party. Your baptizing party, but I am pretty sure you have no idea what I am talking about. Anyways, you will find out soon. Not in the most pleasant way, I dare to anticipate, but however... I shall come back with a post-party report later on, telling about all the things you may be interested in someday, how was your mom, how she looked like, was her dress pretty, stuff like that, bit gossipy, bit fun. How anxious was your dad, or maybe excited, or nervous. “Is that bloody servant of God aware of what is he doing?! Oh god why do I accept all this creepy show...damn I will kill him if something happens to you. With the candle-holders. No, with my bare hands”. I am thinking what kind of present I should buy to a few months old little girl. Something interesting, meaningful, pretty. I don’t know yet. I cannot ask for directions, because as you might have known by now, it’s supposed to be a surprise gift. There will be a letter for sure “Dear Eve, bla bla bla”, maybe a snapshot of that day, “Dear Eve, on 28 January it snowed a lot and it was pretty cold”, a picture of you “This is you minutes before the event”, of your parents maybe “your parents, sort of livid, bit expressionless, but deep down really happy”, “Your clueless godparents, trying to figure out what they were supposed to do” and a box to hide everything in. Wooden, or metal. With some floral patterns or engravings, where you could hide later on bits of first things you’ll ever experience. 

Hello Moses

British scientists say that December and depression go hand in hand and sometimes exchange long passionate kisses under the mistletoe that naturally end up in suicide attempts. I think that my December and my depression have a conflictual, love-hate relationship, with lots of bickering and sulky silences. And definitely, they do not get intimate so easily. And they do not kiss that much. Probably at all. However, that week towards the end of December was really hard to bear. I was depressed, sad, disgruntled. I refused to see people, to talk; to be nice was completely out of question. And I knew I was pathetic. Totally pathetic but I could not help it. So pathetic that I devoted my time to long stares at the walls and deep procrastination, and I stubbornly refused to do the things that I enjoyed that much. Instead, I was focusing on cleaning the apartment with that kind of obsessive determination. I definitely should do this. And this, too. Oh, and that too. Anyhow, that impassible dust does not give a shit about a depressed white-collar acting like an obsessive-compulsive Hausfrau. 

As a consequence of that antisocial behavior, she was travelling alone to a game where I was supposed to be. Actually, she tried to persuade me. Discretely, with that kind of elegant insistence that someone could rarely refuse. But I could not step out of my bad mood. For a very short time, I was thinking that I could go. But, I would not have been a pleasant companion. Not even a human one. Who am I to spoil her joy?! So I remained at home converting depression into cleaning the house, and obsessively listening to Charlie Puth’s song we don’t talk anymore.

Then she called. I made it. I am on the train. What are you doing? I'm taking down the curtain to wash it up. A real challenge you know for a shorty like me. I can tell my hubbie to come and help you. No way, I’m taking him to concerts only, that’s it. Nothing more. And maybe to mount up the shelves I intend to buy. My hubs?! Well someone has to do it. But, I have no idea when I’ll buy it. And from here, we got lost in the land of philosophical discussions about the sense of life and the greatness of Allah the world most famous entomologist and his team of 72 virgin mole crickets. It was quite unclear the role of mole crickets but it was not the first time when we had pretty long idiotic phone conversations. We agreed that it was kind of a creative training we both need, so that, from time to time we sensually plunged into the realm of crazy talks. Therefore, we concluded that those 72 virgin mole crickets might serve as a healthy desert, all coated in salted caramel, even though not that day, because of the advent. And Allah celebrates Xmas, that’s what you want to tell me. Only when he decides to disguise himself as Jesus. How did we end up here? I have no bloody idea. And we kept derailing on various subjects until I told her. I had an epiphany last night. An epiphany? Exactly. That we end up resolving the conflict we had on 1^st of January this year. Did we have a conflict?! Yeah, remember? Climbing that hill… Ah yeah I remember. I was really furious. I know. You decided to turn back in the middle of the road, the fucking middle of the road. But I resolved it right before the end of the year. I chose not to go with you, and you decided to go without me … and suddenly everything went clear in my head. That somehow that was my lesson for the time being. I can’t stop in the middle of the road. I have to keep going. I have to go back to the things left aside and resume them or finish them. Or pronounce them dead and have them buried and never resurrected. A clean cut. No loose ends.

So, dear tassels, and fringes and tufts it’s gonna be a hard time for you soon. Moses is here to part the seas, and, if you stop bustling for a while, you can hear his bare feet crushing the empty shells on the rock bottom of the sea and hear the familiar sound of GPS telling him it’s time to set the right direction. And get two bottles of tequila.

I thought you may want to know

I opened her email curiously and I started to read.

I always thought that looking deep in someone’s eyes is like throwing a hook to secure a safety landing in that person’s mind. I can even picture that slowly roll on a climbing rope until one’s hand reaches the other’s shoulder. And becomes translucent and hazily attached like some sort of shadow, in a different stage of molecular coherence. “This was a soft landing my friend; I am closer to you now. Or you are closer to me now. Or whatever... makes you feel comfortable”.

But it is not. It is like a door ajar that allows a flow of things to come in. And the conquest was nothing but smooth. An insinuated glide past the unconscious mind, random and erratic... but all of a sudden the conscious mind opposed waking up in the middle of the night quivering. “I do not know what you are doing in my mind...but you’d better get out”. However, those moments when a flow of images suddenly pumped up out of nowhere were just the preamble of other weird things that happened.

I used to know that we lived in the same neighborhood. But, we rarely met. Our time frame overlapping is strict and well regulated, no other contact than exchanging few glances, few words nothing important. But, that time our encounter was completely unexpected. Somehow, both of us seemed taken by surprise. Or at least so it looked and so it sounded. The hesitant small talk, stroked me unexpectedly. “Oh, I have found a backpack I was talking about in the email... I thought you may want to know”. The words remained suspended in the middle of the road, as the talk turned abruptly towards other things totally unrelated. Minutes later, this short happenstance ended curtly and we both left as if nothing ever occurred.

And it was not like I have been thinking for a while earlier that day, is my damn backpack clean or not. Have I washed it or not... it is not polite to lend a dirty thing. However, I am sure everything is going to be all right, without my help, anyway. And those unimportant words caught me off guard “I thought you may want to know”. ”Oh... ok” was everything I was able to say as my mind stopped for a while. What the heck is going on?! Why would you say that and how have you... oh god. I do not want to know how much, or how often...or simply how. I just do not.

I was about to write to her...I think you are overreacting, overthinking, over analyzing some random sequences of events. You give too much importance to details. But I changed my mind. Because I remembered. I remembered how it was to be emotionally synchronized, well too synchronized for your mind to accept others’ feelings running through your veins, making you nauseous, anxious. Likewise, the reversed effect, causing your consciousness to perceive, to the point of no return, that it may happen for your emotions to massively ooze out, and each and every thread of your sheath would be ripped off, leaving your entire being exposed and vulnerable.

And somehow, all the unspoken details of her strange encounter unfolded, skillfully placed here and there within the hidden layers of her story. A phrase remained stack in my head and kept spinning over and over.

But, sometimes I miss being there.

... and sent her back. I guess he knows... that

Photo: Hattie Ellis/Getty Images on http://www.npr.org/2013/06/24/195193839/turning-points

breakthrough

She is my half. The brilliant, shiny, adventurous half that makes me a marvelous and quiet, yet complete lunatic. She has been the code breaker of my strange, dyslectic, amalgamated but visually stunning world in my head. I am the peculiar creator, but inexplicably the inept reader of my own nature. So I need her wits to help me unfold the elliptic world to erase my fears. Yet, that crazy and ambiguous dream realm my mind creates is the escape route during the night that pushes me away in the abyss to save my own hide. As all the unspoken thoughts and desires are, at the same time, guilty and innocent. Beyond all, there was always a residual meaning that keeps floating in my conscious perception putting together what I felt and what my skin remembered. Out of the whole surrealist stage of that dream, what lingered the longest was the sense of comfort in a bed that appeared out of nowhere on a sidewalk, cocooning two strangers in a white downy linen. That man’s arm stretched over me to prevent the fall. Later on, I realized why. I need him to cure my stuttering self, to pat my soul and shoulders, to whisk the dust and paper clips. The hide and seek stopped for a while, her words were the Ariadne’s thread that guided me out of my own maze. She raised her head and looked at me with that expression of an old and tired cryptographer and said “you have to enter a collision course to find the right shape. It’s a matter of choice after all”.  At any moment that there is a choice to be made, make one arbitrarily from those not already marked as failures, and follow it logically as far as possible. Unwittingly, I have already made all the wrong choices.

Photo: http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/video/moving-down-a-digital-data-labyrinth-stock-footage/160670441 - snapshot

Doors

Coincidences are transcendent spices that transfer the savor of a different dimension to a tasteless reality. As if they were opening a pink door shifting among a number of concurrent possible realities. Like some promises coming from another world where any possibilities are slowly ripening, following other rules, beyond comprehension.   

One night I saw you in my dream, standing in front of a locker with a sport bag on your shoulder. In a world full of details the only thing I noticed - besides the distance separating us - was the similar shoes we were wearing, mine light purple, yours vivid green, with the same white sides. That me, was seated on a bench at one end of the hall, and fumbled in a bag to find a T-shirt while peeking at you. Few days later, I got a message from you. By mistake. It was your turn to search and fumble about some things to wear. I should have told you, maybe, that you would look great in something casual-chic, maybe sporty. A bright color to match your dark hair. But I did not.

There is always a game of colors and movements. Small changes of fulcrum, and the plans slowly slide in a strange subduction drift. But, there is no closer. There is always a transparent door cutting with surgical precision even the molecules of air, sealing the worlds apart. However, I wait for a moment when I can approach imperceptibly to paint on that door with words and fingers. This is how your smile and the line of your shoulder is seen from afar.  

Photo: tumblr.com

Excerpts in italics: http://dilemaveche.ro/sectiune/tema-saptamanii/articol/strange-phenomena

Rough

I am still thinking about that shooting, even though, I would never be able to bring it to life. I have the clear image in my head. I can see it. I can see the choreography of the shoot. Black and white. Maybe a bit dark, but soulful. And there is you, your small delicate frame populating an imaginary world, with your tutu skirt, naughty and vaporous, a tight top and black leather jacket. Knee high socks and Converse shoes. Sort of 80s I guess. Smokey eyes, thick mascara, and perfect lipstick contouring. There is something dangerous and endearing in this crazy minimalist mind built scenario, an old shabby building with light coming through dirty windows of hallways. An elevator with ragged and creaking doors. And a white, white and scratched wall to project the poses. And life. And stories, maybe yours or maybe somebody else’s. Your delicate hands and wrists up on the elevator doors like a brutal pinning of shadows and memories. Ghostly hot lips down the neck and sweet lies. I’m gonna call you and they never did. Sensuous line of knee, outsole sliding down on the elevators wall... dark eyes looking down your shoulder. The rough and needy hands, hoarse whispers that coat the cramped cubicle. I want you now and forever. But you know there is just unfocused now, but no forever. Those stories are now lying on a side on the stairs, with smudged mascara and bitten lips. Disheveled hair and cold fingers brushing down the cheeks. These lenses are an exorcising trigger making those memories to come unstrung with a part of heart, leaving behind a raw, vivid wound. And there are long weeps that whisper a chant of forgiveness and salvation, washing away the darkness. There are still deep breathings gasping the fresh air after the rain. Somehow, we both know there is a jump waiting. Back to the life that has been unintentionally ignored so far. 

Demon tamer

You are a demon tamer and you are playing a dangerous game. Stay away or turn back. You are only the tamer that makes peace offerings to allure demons; you slash their throats and pull up all the bitterness. I shall bath myself into the blood of beast and claim my own redemption. Stop coming so close. Stay there.... Your fragrance is so sweet. Like vanilla. And yours enticing and persistent like the red thread fading its color to foggy nothingness. Stop coming so close. Stay there. I just want to say that you are beautiful. That’s it. Your words have woody trail and bergamot touches and heaviness of a whisper in the wind. Your light touch makes me remember that my shoulders levitate up high above the hips. It’s only a half of me here. No wonder, I miss long breaths and erratic heartbeats. And butterfly’s flutters squirming my insides.

But now I know ...it just hit me hard how simple it was. Somehow, I am a singularity point that went wrong. That’s why half of me is transparent and devoid, and clouded. My heart simply slipped somewhere else, between the strings. Soon my left hand will go looking for my heart to get it back or to push it forward. Or rip apart flesh of things that keep you hostage in a different, probably parallel timeline.  

Photo: https://500px.com/photo/129033355/reach-out-by-takashi-yasui 

letters

I entered the book shop with music playing out loud in my headphones. I was craving to sense the smell of typographic ink. And I felt it. Vivid and intense. With a raspy touch, almost palpable. And I was thinking how would it be to lay down in the middle of the book shop and breath slowly the scent of ink and one thousand billion letters in various combinations. How many stories would then be crawling within my cells? None? Just a few? A lot more? Those books either colorful or simply white and small, like a pocket edition, were begging to be touched. So I trace my fingers gently on their tattooed shelf-backs... And then I remembered the story running to and fro in my mind for a while, the image of an old wooden bench on a seashore, and white piece of paper trembling in the wind... and the words all mute, but aloud. Lots of subtle scents wrapped up in the smell of ink. And I knew, all of a sudden all the words the wind swept away off the paper. I knew them well ,and I felt them as if they were mine. As I was breathing them away, I took off my earphones a bit and combed my hair with my fingers. I'm here without you, baby/ But you're still on my lonely mind. Are you kidding me?! I think about you, baby/ And I dream about you all the time... and tonight, I was her, like she was me. And we both smiled and mumbled the song, arts and parts in this strange story. Then I heard her soft voice whispering “I knew you heard me”. After a while I knew it wasn’t over.

doubles

I am two and we both write. Sometimes simultaneously. Sometimes just one of us. We never quarrel upon words, as we never use the same. We are just occasionally confused about what we feel. One of us seems younger, annoyingly curious. Conflictual most of the time. Overly emotional, yet in denial. Incredibly stupid. However, it is that one that I envy. For her vivid dreams with skirts and red stilettos. Because that one can weep for long, laugh at heart, face her fears. Because she can dream of a redheaded alien that was hiding in the cellar. I mean, yeah, in fact it is nothing strange to dream of a redheaded alien wearing a long grey coat, and it is not that strange to hold him in your arms, to hide your hands in his coat’s pockets while placing your chin gently on his shoulder and whisper “you can hide in the loft, if you think it’s safer”. It is neither strange to wake up from your dream and nor is it to fumble in your book shelves looking for the book that may have the answer. Even if you know the cover but not the title, and on the spot you do not remember the author. The poetics of space is everywhere after all in its plain simplicity, unfolding before your eyes in various geometries and reasons. I envy her because she can make her mind dance, because I know she dreams almost every night. And I know she chose to make those images fade away before reaching my sight. I envy her for keeping her dearest dreams floating alive in an image database I cannot exactly access. I am just her dark shadow double, keeping her grounded to my own hell. I do not want to let her go, as long as I do not want to let her live either. She is my captive and I am her tormentor. Because I envy her for all she can be, while I cannot. And, because there’s always someone she can call when she senses the danger, even in her dreams. And there’s someone to answer her call, even in her dreams. And I want to be her too, to the point I crave to intermingle and get dissolved, until there’s no me anymore.

Photo: http://www.jacobsutton.com/index.php?section=exhibition_work&portfolio=underwater_girl

waves

Because of global warming Venice is sinking 1mm per year […] We will have again branchia.

So, we have again branchia. We send letters into air bubbles crossing the no man’s land water fields to their intended recipients. Like some sorts of word-carriers transparent balloons. And the messages are intimate as kisses maybe, undeliverable to the outside world as we take the bubble gently with our lips, swallow it slowly so the words could pour on our mouths. Taste of the words blooms like buds sending the messages up high like long expected echoes. We dance like the seaweeds, hoola hooping with the deep waves. We may go up close to the surface and coil around sunrays in a sensual and provoking pole dance, sending cartographic details of the skin while twirling. The message I got was seven letters long. Let us meet at sunrise in Venice.

We came ashore for a glass of air and a breath of smoke. To live and die simultaneously. We sat crossed-legged with wet hair on the stripped pavement of Piazza San Marco smoking a cigarette with a sweet scent of cherry and vanilla in the crude light of dawn. We may have looked like strange butterflies wearing transparent foggy wings attached our backs. Or, maybe some kind of polymorphic amphibians ready to fly at each blow of breeze in a totally reversed world. I wanted to dance with you in the middle of Grand Canale an old court-like dance wearing early morning sunrays as a carnival mask. We were slowly dissolving into the water with each spin. Breathing each other stories in a closed embrace until sun was all above and we were all gone.   

  

Photo:

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-NEuXCMz16aJGA5GOp1aoDK93D3A0pmjmD7BCpLoaM5g5gTpsd3vL5ZwObBBAqruIpSW9E0goZ6ACwPdVUPNGG4PTrPQ1Ddz_3OUs1yNDPU2_UHotCeTKTRC5SJBsNRwVlP_9KAfocI/s1600/luv,photography,silhouette,underwater,couple,kiss-47f8c295eef05904423a8eaea2e5dae0_h%5B2%5D%5B2%5D.jpg