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Archive for the category “Words of my days”

OUT-OF-TIME LOVES

Don’t say anything! Here and now! You don’t know how the story will unfold. And we, as humans, we’re bond to change and make mistakes.’

I made a mistake, that’s for sure, but what was it? I did it, I – the one who’ll never learn from her mistakes. Is this the moment I should really stop? Stop and promise myself I’ll never make another mistake again? Oh, but I’ve tried this before! Total failure!…

As for him… Oh, so many mistakes… How long am I going to fail with him? And, most importantly, why? Why do I keep failing with him? The eternal, philosophical, (apparently) simple WHY.

Why, I mean really, why? Why I keep doing the same mistake over and over again when it comes to him? What was wrong with our friendship, our complicated relationship, our declarations, our pathetic, teen dramas, weren’t’ they anything else but a huge mistake?

What exactly made me come back to him? Why was it that the first thing which came into my mind in the morning was his name? What kind of a power was he taming me with? And why was I so helplessly tormented by the miseries of this relationship?

Strange muse for an afternoon spent in a food court, while waiting for a friend to finish her trip to the observation deck in Burj Khalifa. I’d done it twice, that’s why I chose to wait for her over a coffee. To the right, a grinning couple were sharing some chicken and fries.

The food court was full of women in black. As if they were all mourning my stupidity and my weakness. So, if they’re in mourning, I must give them a reason to be in mourning, and bury this mistake of loving him. It’s been lasting for too long. My friends were sick and tired of my telling its story. I have to do it now, otherwise I’d be a forever pitiful, pathetic, old-fashioned masochist.

He entered me and I didn’t say anything. As if it was the last time I’d felt something, and by keeping quiet I could hold that feeling within me forever. But I smiled. Cause I had a vague feeling that happiness was real. As real as a bubble in a glass of whiskey. Or a throb in a vagina waiting for a fuck for all eternity.

My heart skipped a beat for a second. A second while epidermis mingle, humors become one, blood passes the sheets, the mattress, the floor, the concrete, to the ground floor, through the underground parking, and even deeper, through the layers of the earth, as far as the other side of the globe. Sour smell, of life pouring backwards, from startle to immobility, hold your breath for a moment… a moment as long as an eternity.

We went to Fujeirah and we spent a beautiful afternoon. It felt we had gone back in time. David and I shared a beer on a terrace, while listening to Modern Talking. And I hadn’t thought of him but once. I remembered him all immobile, after all his blood had left his body and not a single drop had remained to flow from him carotid. That infinitesimal moment when the razor shone and cut…  Playfully! And I didn’t think of him. I was just wondering and hoping he wouldn’t start to stink from the back boot of the car.

It had been a week. One week ago we had made love. For the first and the last time. I had been waiting for that moment for six month, can’t remember how many days and nobody cares how many minutes.

The terrace was close to the sea. And it was so peaceful there, with a chill breeze surrounding me like two loving arms. So quiet…

We finished the beer and we drove back. David drives carefully, some nice music pours from the speakers, it’s warm and electrifying, and I don’t want the drive to end.

At one point, we got tricked by a sign and took a wrong exit. It’s dark, Desert to the right, Desert to the left…

David keeps driving, on the right a sign warns him that the road will end, still he keeps driving, as if he’d want to enter a new dimension, and with all the dark around us this really feels like twilight zone.

We reach the end of the road. David stops the car in the sand, and for a moment I worry we won’t be able to get the car out of the Desert.

‘Come, take the shovel’, speaks David with a black voice.

We dig in turns, and the sand is stubborn, black and quiet. As if it agrees. Who’s asking it, anyway?

His body is heavy. And black. And quiet. To me it’s nothing else but 200 pounds of betrayal and temporal misunderstandings. You loved me when I didn’t love you. You loved me when you loved another woman too. I stopped loving you after I have cut your throat. Details.

I start crying violently. For no reason, if you ask me. I crumble down in the sand, and the sand invades me, it enters my eyes, my soul, my panties…

David is very punctilious, it flattens the sand and it looks as if it has never been a hole there.

He picks me up, he cleans the sand off my clothes and my soul, puts me in the car and he drives back on the twilight road.

It’s warm in the car, my elbow touches David’s and it’s comforting. Stopped by the Desert, other cars with their lights on. Other bodies to be buried in the sand. Other out of time loves…

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LAST TANGO IN PARIS – spoiler alert

Brando is lying on that mattress, with his face bathed in yellow light, and he talks about how his drunk of a mother taught him to love nature.
The scene is been lasting for a couple of minutes, and there’s so much peace on his face while talking…
Jeanne: ‘Why don’t you go back to America?’
Paul: ‘Too many memories… I guess.’
This is a very beautiful scene. I pause the movie a second time because I want to write about the shadows on his face that his hand leaves, and the low tone of his voice, and just a few tens of minutes before he was hitting that door and yelling at his mother in law.
I’m still pausing the movie. This scene is probably the most beautiful one in the whole movie – I don’t know, I still have more than one hour to watch.
Jeanne is telling Paul about her cousin, Paul, the one who was playing the piano with both hands. And now she’s lying on her back, with her left hand raised above her head, and her full left breast is just there, on my laptop screen, like a tomato. Strange comparison, I’m wondering where it’s coming from, I’ve had only cherry tomatoes lately.
She’s changed position now. Still telling stories about her cousin. Now her right breast is visible, totally different angle, definitely not a tomato.
Still, the way this whole scene is shot, the light, the low voices, the reminiscent past, the time stays still, like the image frozen on my laptop screen, let’s stay here forever, don’t play the rest of the movie (I cheated and read the IMDB review, the story doesn’t end well).

Now she’s telling him about the first time she came. And she’s speaking in French, and she’s so sweet with only a black scarf around her neck, and her sexy jeans, and…
Jeanne: ‘Your solitude weighs on me, you know?’
(…)
Marlon Brando crying. Just for a moment, as intense as one inhaling after having hold one’s breath…

And then the controversial scene with the butter. I have to admit I didn’t imagine it in any way. But I didn’t understand why she cried.
Oh, I forgot to mention the encounter with the lover. And the identical bathrobes.
I rewind back to the light scene (can I say ‘rewind’ if I’m watching a digital file on a computer? I just moved the cursor from 1:15:53 to 55:03). This is more powerful than the butter scene. And Brando is so concupiscent in his indifference.
It’s a movie of images. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror, with her pointing nipples. The music rises in a crescendo, while he takes the razor out of his jacket pocket. He’s gonna cut her throat, one might think. Who cares? Her nipples are the only thing one can think of… In spite of the music.
A thought. Maybe people shouldn’t really get to know each other. I mean, they can come together, tell each other stories, bathe in the light, make love – if there’s chemistry there, and part. Why do I need to know how old you are? Would this make me have another orgasm?
I think I’m happy with you’, he tells her. And her face is smiling, her pubic hair is smiling, she’s happy too. See? Without even knowing his name.
Togetherness – Paul and Marcel. They talk about the hair, head massage, exercises for the belly. With the same passion Jeanne was talking about her cousin. There can be passion even in a pointless and boring conversation between a cheated husband and his late wife lover. Bertolucci is good!
Go to the movies to see love!’
That’s the Last Tango – love is only for the movies!

How to confuse a blonde at 3 o’clock in the morning, the Easter Sunday

Fast forward: you make her park her car in a totally stranger neighbourhood, the streets and u-turns are all the same; fill her up with some traditional Easter dishes, 3 of them, two glasses of water, and then let her leave, 3 am, all alone and dreaming to a nice glass of wine….
The blonde leaves very confident, whirling her car keys around her fingers, very confident, walks the first corner and… SUPRISE!!! The car is not there!
Ok! What does a blonde do when she doesn’t find her car in a place it’s never been? She panics, of course! She starts walking around the neighbourhood – please don’t forget it’s 3 am, I’m tired, I wanna lie down on my soffa, enjoying that glass of wine…
Oh, well… It’s not there, it’s not there either… I give up and I call my friends, I hope they will really appreciate the early walk, after all, it’s not healthy to go to bed after such a heavy meal!
“It must be somewhere near the main road, I remember I could see those buildings over there…” Just an attempt to look brown-haired!
“Well, if you know you parked it at the main rod, you should have followed the main road till you find it”, says my friend. Absolutely right!
My little red car is just one block away now, I can see it, so now I can let my friends go to bed, after properly apologizing. It was a long day!
Christ is Risen! Indeed, He is Risen!

Let’s talk about…

She lit a small chocolate cigar and, sipping some whiskey, she thought it would be nice to write about him.
They had virtually met in a mIRC room and talked for hours. He’d told her he was tall, blue-eyed and shy. She hadn’t told him too much about her, what’s to say, anyway? Oh, yeah, she’d said she liked Mozart. Very funny!
Though, there was something there, like some sort of a chemistry between them, thousands of kilometres long chemistry…
S: ‘How was your day?’
M: ‘Not bad… Saw some turtles in the afternoon. They were having coffee in the middle of the highway. Almost knocked them over… What a place to have coffee at! Or in? These prepositions… Quite a headache, don’t you think?’
She kept silent. Actually, she kept her fingers above the keyboard and her skull was full of words, meaningless ideas, colours and regrets, but she didn’t type anything.
S: ‘Have you asked them their names?’
She had to say something… It was not very polite to keep silent for too long. He might have gone away, idle…
He smiled. Typed a smiley… Like this: 🙂 She smiled too, she could almost see his eyes smiling….
M: ‘Oh, no. They were talking about seagulls. Fascinating topic, if you ask me!’
And he talked about seagulls for hours. She read, and read, and read, the guy was an encyclopaedia!! Or, a very good listener, with a good memory!
Then she went to bed, tired and somehow wiser as far as seagulls are concerned.
The pillow was smelling nice, that conditioner they were advertising was really good!
The book was boring, besides, she could not think of anything else but seagulls. And his eyes she’d never seen.
And then she remembered she was sitting on a bench, in a park, with long and misty alleys. Just sitting there, doing nothing, as if she was waiting for someone, or something to happen, or someone to say something…
And then there was no more bench, and no more park, and no more alleys, just mist, warm and silent mist. So silent she could hear him breathing.
And then, out of nowhere, there he was! In front of her! He stayed so close to her she could feel his warm breathing soothing her cheeks. He smelled of something, could not remember precisely of what, maybe a vague cigarette smoke, maybe some nice perfume, she could not say for sure, but no, it was not the smell that made her warm up as if electrified. He did not touch her, he was just breathing in front of her, very close to her, still, she could not see his eyes…
M: ‘When a woman is telling you she’s sleeping, don’t believe her!’
His words were warm. And sweet. They kissed her lips.
M (whispering): ‘She’s just about to wake up!’
And the alarm clock went on! Louder and louder and she was dragged out of the mist, far away from him…
What a stupid dream!!! She did not even kiss him properly!

HAPPY WOMEN’S DAY

Let the words flow, he said…

Little did he know that my words didn’t know how to flow, they’d either swim fast, like professional high speed swimmers, now they’re here, the next moment out in the blue, or they would stumble one upon another, until they would form up a confusing  shape, much like an anthill, you could close your eyes and feel the tunnels, the corridors, the maze one’s thoughts would die trying to find a way out from… Press ‘pause’! Breathe!!

This Tuesday is very different. Sunny and coquette, like a little French poodle taken out for its Sunday walk, elegant and hilarious in the same time, like a sweet cookie tasting salty every now and then… Mesmerizing, tiring… Smelling like Monday sometimes. (look, the words said, we’re here, flowing, see us, use us, no, no, don’t go away, don’t change the idea, we still want to talk about this Tuesday… or is it the poodle?)

This Tuesday is calm, like a young woman doing her manicure. Lots of pedantry. Unnecessary predictability. And silence. Unexpected, blessing silence. Smelling like oranges and spring flowers.

The day ends into a peaceful evening, with red wine and savage music. No, the music is not savage, it’s the wine! Red and alive, like a stubborn blood, flooding the corridors of the anthills, drowning the  thoughts and resurrecting old images on the retinas, when I had long hair and could let the words flow…

Happy Women’s Day!

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