jour

I knew you loved the piano, so I played you my guitar.

Einstein drove a blue Ute on Monday. It wasn't just an ordinary blue, it was a vibrant hue, what my mother would have said was a 'youth colour'. I wonder who he saw that night, just as I saw him. What did he think? Or perhaps he just lived within the constraints of his vibrant blue Ute. Perhaps the outside world did not matter because the outside world, is beyond logic and reason. It has people. And people can only be forgiven.


On Tuesday, we swam in the ocean. The complete submersion into an Artic-like place was no concern at all. There is so much silence, so much calm, so much peace. Sometimes, there are too many thoughts in ones mind. Sometimes we need the water to help us pretend that the world beyond the liquid does not exist. Sometimes we need to think about nothing more than the rhythm of strokes and the science of buoyancy.


Wednesday saw a woman speaking to her student. But they saw no lines of status but rather commonality in experience. Wednesday saw the disowning of a child and the tears of a friend. It saw the haven of a cafe and the honesty of strangers. It saw the defining limits both worlds. The troubled life that haunts our steps, tells us we are nothing, waits for a response then demands we feel pain. And then the other. The life where smiling is okay, where music is law, where kindness is unending and where we all share that we have escaped that other life. Because he has too, as the shopkeeper has, the pianist and the child still is.


We all slept on Thursday. The sun was sleeping too. But it's shades of gray were merely a phase and the warmth came as an embrace in the afternoon. But as the evening approached coming with it was the rain. And ever did the rain fall. Children smiled. Adults were relieved and the anger dissipated into the solvent of life.


Dearest Friday,
A day of news is all you are. You are not the bringer of ill news simply the bearer of that which must be said.
On this day, we lost and we won. There was happiness and sadness. Constantly an aura of both. Friday we played music.


Saturday was triumphant and depressing. We did it! We told the world! She sang, we played, and music spoke. Our universal language. Our language of nods and smiles and eyes and dynamics. Our pausing and lengthening. I am inspired. I am saddened. I lost my kin. I gained my love. The world is too much it is oh so much.


Sunday was calm chaos. We are anything we believe ourselves to be.


This was my week.
Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.


I have concluded that at the end of this week, it is now urging me to find some form of stability and to focus on my work. For today a new week brought sleep, love, promise, happiness and realization that this was madness and that madness must stop.

Désolé pour mes rêves

Gray skies were all we saw today.


I am not fit to decide whether I am fortunate or unfortunate, so much so that I won't even reflect on it for the purpose of this entry.


It's too much for me to decide. It's too much. I used to think I knew, but it seems the more we try, multi facets appear and cause our beliefs to dissipate into mirrors of our lives.


At this moment I with to speak, I need words, music, paint - something - to tell me how I am feeling. I need someone to tell me how I should be feeling. I need someone to reply in the negative.


Today I will not write letters nor sing to myself, because I wouldn't know what I am running from.


I have virtually finished my first composition.


There is so much irony in life.


All we can do is try to have hope for better days.


I will try to amend those things which I have broken.


But truth be told I'm afraid.


I'm not sure what it is that we have left. Is it the future? I'm not sure there is promise in it.


Désolé pour mes rêves - I'm not sorry. Not really.


I am sorry for what everything has become.

Juste un Jour

When I was afraid of 12 meters

When I'm sad or scared there are a few things that I sometimes do.


These are the most common ones: sing and write letters.


I never sing loud. If I do I can't hear if there's something around me. It would be silly to sing too loud. Too loud means as I said, that if there's something there you can't hear it. If you can't hear, you can't know. I'm afraid when I don't know. I'm afraid my whispered words are covering up the sound of something else. Sound is a comfort in this way. It is there for me. Actually. Perhaps it is better to say music. Melodies strung together. There's comfort in it, warm and safe like bread baking on a cold day.


I love the smell of bread. Dough is nice too, but not as nice as bread. Gumnut's house smelt just like this the other night. It was nice. I felt safe. No one was shouting, no one was angry; there was just the sounds of the TV, soft laughter and smell of warm, warm bread baking silently away. If I have a house one day, I'd like to make my own bread. I wouldn't make it now. I'd make too much of a mess and upset everyone. It wouldn't turn out nice. But we have to share and I'd share it anyway. It would turn out a disappointment. Still, just wait! When I have my own house I will bake my own bread and the only one disappointed would be me. I want just once to not be told that everything is wrong. I want to just try again and again, until I get it right so I can say I did it myself, trial and error, slaving away, writing sketches of recipes, sketches of sketches of recipes and finally in the end have a product of warm, safe and kind thoughts. Like music.


I would play the piano now, but my stomach is cramping up. I'm afraid now to be honest. Utterly afraid. It's a little cold too. I feel warm, but even as my brother opened the door I felt the coolness of the world outside. It's as though the piano and I are worlds apart. It sits alone, in the cold, cold place of dreams that are slipping and of a person I used to be. And I, I sit here, warm, my stomach cramping and with a headache that appears to have taken up permanent residence as of at least over a month ago.


I tried to sleep. I was reading a book before too for about an hour and a half. I don't usually have that time, but I figured to myself that I have the right to do something 'intellectual' while still resting. My headache is very persistent today you see, and my eyes are heavy. But now, I'm upset and confused. Not so much confused actually. It's more I'm wishing someone will come and tell me how to feel and think, tell me that everything is okay, that what I did wasn't wrong. But no one will come. Because no one knows. And if they did come anyway, I still wouldn't tell. I couldn't just yet. I feel like I'm lying when I almost tell. I hate that feeling. It makes me feel like I'm rubbish. Trash. That really disgusting type you dread throwing away because you don't want to come within a meter of it yet have no other choice because the small is already starting to slowly swamp around you.


I've been writing letters too. I think that's something else that's 'intellectual'. I've been writing letters to no one in particular this time. Sort of. It's sort of to the whole world at once, just a final few words for everyone to know. I don't write these letters down. They're just in my head. They begin like a stroke of paint. Full of thought and colour, bold and strong but begin to fade as the thought seeps in that these letters will never earth. I used to have a book for that. Writing letters that is. I would write and write and write whenever the mood took me. I didn't really have an obligation, until I started writing letters to God. I would write every Friday and apologise if I was one or two or sometimes even three days late. I'd forget sometimes you see, or be too tired. My Friday letter to God would be like a summary of the week. It was probably one of the first things I really did without fail. But this stopped a long time ago whilst trying to complete a religion assignment. Things went poorly, I blamed God and didn't look back for a while. It wasn't just about the assignment though. It really wasn't. I'm not that petty. It had to do with the entire bubble I was living in. I hate it still sometimes. But I don't hate God. It's not God's fault. Everything is just a lesson.


I used to write letters to Haillia and Lumesia too. Not that you would know who they are. No one knows, except me of course. But even now sometimes I'm still not sure who they are. They seem distant and to think, they used to be with me each and every night. That's a secret by the way. Well actually of these things are secrets. I havn't told people about them, mostly because they are peculiar idiosyncrasies, not quaint, not cute. Idiosyncrasies was a word I learned to use in Extension English class. My idiosyncracies even disturb me at times. I wouldn't put that on someone else. I don't want another look of sympathy, that look someone gives you when you're going slightly mad. Like in the movies. That look that says, there is nothing I can do, poor child, dear child. I don't like it. But sometimes, I want people to be there. Of course, it's not nice to be alone all the time.


But things have happened. I was looking back today and as much as I tried, as much as I reasoned, I could not rightly justify my actions nor find the reason I used to use to justify them. I say 'my actions' because I believe we all have a choice. But in saying that I still think I was quite mad at the time to allow it to happen. And then I think of all the things that have happened after it. The enjoyment it is for others is another reason I wish to die. I've heard this so many times with Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, John Keats and I could not more whole heartedly agree; I'm half in love with death.


Yesterday I met a girl called 'Laura Brown'. Well I didn't really meet her. But I was in the same room as her. I couldn't stop thinking about the novel, The Hours, by Michael Cunningham. It has a character called Laura Brown in it you see. It also has Virginia Woolf. I kept practicing and imagining in my mind how I would approach her. I wanted to ask her if she has read the novel. If she knows who Laura Brown is. But I never did. She might think I was strange, or not appreciate the invasion of privacy.


A plea of insanity I think is my best bet. But like I said before, I think I am responsible for my own actions. So sometimes, times like now actually, I become torn between telling someone and shouting insanity and receiving that 'friend' comfort


(you know the one you can only get from a friend...it's warm and loyal and reminds me of Lassie. I've got a video of Lassie at home. I havn't watched it in a while. But I would, if I had a day. Just a day would be nice. We can't become greedy. That's a test neopets tries all too often at the money tree - but that's another story)


or telling them and sinking into that feeling of rubbish because in my beliefs, I am the only one who can be held accountable.


or another option; I may just continue to hold my tongue.


Sometimes I have bursts of inspiration pushing me to tell someone to speak and be heard and be honest with them if not myself - but - I stop. I start then stop. And they get annoyed at the fact that I did not continue. But I really can't help it. I think maybe part of me is just daring them to ask, so that if I do tell them, it is not my fault - they were the one who wanted to know.


I think I'm half in love with death because ever since I was a young girl, I've thought of it fancily. Death is an idea and it is the final and ultimate means of safety. Some days I will sit for a long time (I don't know how long, it just feels long) and battle with persistent thoughts of death. I think of my dad a lot and how we released his ashes at Stanwell Park. I like the thought of that. I like the thoughts of those cliffs. If I were to die now, that is how I would die. I would fly, not fall into the embracement of the ocean. I would wear the dress that I now have, it's the perfect one. Even though today I was having second thoughts about it. I've been planning it for a long time and I always imagined a dress, a white dress. Simple yet elegant and young. That's why I'm always searching for the right dress. You can only die once. At the moment I feel that there are some ill related thoughts connected to this dress. Because of a boy. Sadly and pathetically time and time again it seems to be about a boy. I still want to look for another dress. Just in case. Something more young - innocent - I want to fool myself. I know I cannot fool God.


There are many who still haunt my thoughts. Two in particular. One I never saw his true face - he was afraid, he hid - I lost myself and all I knew. It was the start. I hesitate to speak on it. But some things, some things I can't ever forgive myself for, no breathe a word to another. Another 'idiosyncrasy' - no - another fault. The second touched me and not my heart. I still remember his hands, his body, his breath and his smell. It disgusts me. It is worse than the rubbish I see myself as being. I'm temporal with this. Sometimes I don't blame him, but today I will. Because today I feel rational and strong and upset and a need to tell everyone else to leave me alone. Today I feel like telling the one who might actually care about me that I know his secret, I know he doesn't care, I know he only wants what everyone else has ever wanted and that I never wish to hear of or see him again. But I won't because I could be wrong. Such a possibility I wonder. But I suppose this is what trust is meant to be. Trusting someone. Something. It's hard.


I don't know why I didn't punch or push or run or even say something when it was happening. I guess I fancied myself in control. In power and dominant and cruel. Like I was the one who knew exactly what this would lead to. Like I was using him and didn't care. But I'm glad for one, that I did say no. I pushed. And I made him go away. It is in this way, that he has not done much to me, and I feel sorry for him. As I was the one who continued it after he started it. He wanted everything after that. I didn't. He made up lies to others. He told me to do things. His voice still ring dissonance in my ears. I hate it when people do that. Say things they shouldn't. Or even when I say things I shouldn't. Then when I hear other people even mention the words that they said, I shudder at the memory. I don't like it when people destroy sound for me. I don't like it when they imprint their words. But I didn't listen. It was not my music.


They probably have forgotten all about it by now. So I'm glad they don't know it bothers me so much. I'm glad they have no clue. It would be embarrassing. I find it too hard to forget things. I want to forget things.


This is a big aspect in my life which troubles me. I feel alone whenever I think about it. I think about my mother's attempts to protect me, I think about how much I love her and how much I could never say and how much I've let things go wrong.


I feel I need to say this finally, 'secrets'. Not secrets now I suppose. That's okay. I'd rather write it here. Because here it is for those who 'happen' to read this. I know not many people do. So that makes it okay. I'm a little afraid of if many people did. That scares me too. I think I'll be okay for now and safe with the thought that if many did know about this, I could always write more letters or sing or even brave the world beyond and play my silent piano. But I want those who read to know, the purpose of this wasn't to tell all of this. This is just what it turned in to what it is.


This is why sometimes I don't like myself, I don't like being in my skin. I hate myself for the mistakes I've made and wish to not make a mistake again, this is why I try. The reason I live, is for the thought that there are better times and days beyond this, that if I work hard now, thing may be okay later. I don't tell others the magnitude of each action, and so I must punish myself at times. I refrain now. Mostly. It's hard it is. And I don't like the stigma people create about people who feel this way.


I guess I'm afraid of what others will think after this point, the aftermath. Right now I don't mind, but later on I will, it's about how they react and what it all implies.


In this moment I know a few things:

I have reason to live.

I have reason to die.

But I have most reason to wait. And hope. And pray God still hears my prayers.

colour on a darkened day

dangerous thoughts

We are no longer immune to time. Definitely not. How did we defy it in our younger years as children?


Life has been very difficult. No. That is unfair. It is only as difficult as you make it.


I have been very fortunate, but also unfortunate in my life. The balance is there, that must be solely what this is.


Another death, another argument worse than a death, making you think and feel like death would be a much better escape. Another failure, false solace from the ones who "love you", vindication, fighting, constantly, continuous - eternal.


And the silence.


A painful science.


In my honesty, I have not played the piano lately, I have played it - I won't deny, but perhaps just twice in a week or less for a few minutes at a time. I want to just sit and play, I'd love to be able to do just that. But I am letting time pass me by. There is so much to do and the critics seem to have high hopes for you.


I want the days to stop. Just stop. I want to sleep and rest, but I cannot. I had my time and I chose to not rest. So now, in this period where I should be working harder than ever, I need a break. I have to remember to forget about those times and focus on "the task at hand".


All I wish is for someone to come and explain the catch phrase, sort out my thoughts and give me a white road strip to follow. For someone to not ask me questions of why or how or want - want want want - like they always do in return. Just simply say "there you go, this was my good deed for the day".


It is utterly incredibly how alone you feel when people create images of you. They believe you are achieving and well and strong and that no one would ever think otherwise of you. They create distance and think it's all just fine. But it's not. It's not. The more you do, the more they expect, the less achievements become noteworthy. And then there are others who just leave. Leave because they do not want you to succeed this time. They will not help. They will not move for you.


I cannot make a mistake. I cannot show signs of being human, why? Because it means I am ungrateful, I am not driven, I am distracted and tainted and no longer who I used to be.


You are not who you once were as a child. I miss that child.


There is no difference. As we grow we learn to adapt according to the world we grew up in.


I try not to make mistakes, and not to miss out, but time, time is something I am unable to fight.


There are days when we plan the music at our funerals, our deaths - preferably before the funeral - others our weddings, our daily routine, dream careers, what we would do if this person left, or "if we won lotto we would.." More and more I find I need to plan and still yet more I find I need to withdraw, drown myself far in the ocean and await a real silence rather than the one that seems to have gripped my life.

Bare-footed children

The period of my life that I think I miss the most, was the time when I was 8.

I remember the sound, the feeling and most of all the laughing.

We were the original barefooted children who had the soles of our feet tough just like our dog. We stayed in the bush a lot with family and friends who may as well been our own flesh and blood. I don't know their names now, but I do remember their voices. I loved waking up with the sun and never feeling tired, hearing the kookaburras as we got our breakfast and not having a care in the world. We used to swim in and of the creeks and rivers in whatever clothing we had. I miss riding horses and having candles instead of electricity. Just all those little things that started to slip away as I got older.

Most of all I guess I miss the freedom of never having to worry about being conscious of myself. Conscious of whether or not these pants were appropriate or if I should be smiling more, or maybe I'm smiling too much. Maybe I should be crying at a time like this, or perhaps that's too melodramatic and they won't believe me that this is real. Because it is. Because it exist, but it's entirely and tirelessly fake. Everyone seems to be drawing invisible lines, around themselves, entrancing some, closing others off and writing messages across starless skies. That's another thing that is easy to forget. How beautiful, and full and bright the sky is when the artificial lights are taken away, and the smog and pollution don't block your view. Believe me, this sky isn't true.

And I miss that honesty of complete innocence. Lies were real, but never so petty. Surprisingly and ironic as it may seem, that's where it all went backwards. The mischievousness of being so young. And I loved it.

Something that always catches me off guard these days, is something I never really took notice of before. The sound of papa's voice. It was rough and as soft as honey. It seems so familiar yet distant and it's that sound that I truly miss. I don't remember ever liking his perfume too much yet when I opened the closet in his room when I was clearing out the room it embraced me and brought back so many memories of different days. They're old days, but far from gone. I don't remember being particularly close to him, but everyone says we were. I remember understanding the passing of time, but never really feeling it. We were immune it seemed, from time itself. I don't remember so many smiles at any other point in my life. I don't remember ever having been so ignorant yet so avidly aware of my surroundings, and what was going on.

But sometimes things happen, and you feel as though your entire life gets thrown off track. Still I believe, that it's my own fault things fell. I let them. Because at the time, I stopped believing in barefooted children and that underwear made the best swim wear and started believing in self pity. It's okay to feel sorry for yourself ever so often, but I became morbidly obsessed with it. I shut down. I hated everything to do with myself. I blamed certain people for the way I was, and refused to get close to anyone else. I wouldn't touch the piano, the shutters were permanently closed and I forgot the feeling of sunlight on my skin. This time stole a few months of my life. Things just get to the point where lying seemed pointless, and the facades of smiles begin to fade. I think things went this way when I lost focus, and found myself entangled within some beautiful lie I had created with a person who I've found to have never been real. I try to think of it as a learning experience. A lesson for my future. But that's just it, I'm left trying because I know that as much as I like to think a lesson learnt means I'll never tread that path again, I'd only be kidding myself. For a while, the basis of everything else, grew from here and not from my roots. That was another mistake I had made. Everything was magnified, I either would push someone away entirely or would never want to let them go. I lost my head for judgment and made assumptions. I had made it past the closed shutters and silence that had gripped everything I'd known, only to bump into people I had confused for my friends. They deserved better, and I ran.

It seems the aftermath of anything - a war, a race, a fire - the aftermath can have an impact almost as great as what gave it birth. My aftermath left me alone from my friends and feeling isolated. But reality teaches us, I was the one utterly confused, and that I was never really alone. I just thought I was. But it was that thought that drove me to push until it became real, because at the time it was all I knew. When all the sweet familiar comfort of old friends began to disappear, I began to measure my friendships as a comparison to every time we had smiled or laughed simply because we had been together that day and someone had done something stupid. This made me sad. I suppose because I was beginning to find that past tense verbs were creeping into my vocabulary and soon anything that was spoken about was short of a reflection of a passing memory they were reluctant to recall. I could see the change my actions had set in motion. Sometimes I wonder about whether or not it was really by my hands that this all happened, but my beliefs are always confirmed when I see that their lives outside of any relation pertaining to myself are moving forward beautifully and flourishing. I try not to wonder about if things could of been different, but rather I think about the future and have a very selective memory of my past. Trying to revive that 8 year old child, the rhythms and sounds, the feelings and thoughts of times when the biggest concern was which destination to embark on the following day.

I miss those days. I really do. I miss having those people who were dubbed as my 'best friends'. I think things will be okay though. Regardless of whether they have changed, there will be new stories and opportunities. I'm sure there has to be. I'll keep trying.

I'm finding more freedom now and more places I want to go. I want to be closer to the family I was distanced from and I want to travel and meet all those people who I would of never met otherwise. I want to find people I can truly rely on and above all I want to be able to tell all those people who I've met, one way or another, I love them.

I think it's like trying to find a song, one that fits perfectly.

Grace

We all have our dreams.


My mother wishes I play piano at her funeral. She said that that is all she wants. For me to play the piano.


My mother asked me if I loved her today.


She asked me in the most peculiar way. I couldn't place her voice.


She's angry at me, I can tell, she doesn't believe I'm anything more than a stranger.


I don't understand.


I've tried so hard, so hard to do well at school, with music, to clean and smile and be happy. I stopped hurting myself, I learned from my mistakes. I don't know what more she wants.


She asks me what I want from her.


A smile.


She says that when I hug her it isn't sincere.


That they're empty.


I don't see this.


God, I'm trying so hard.


I'm trying hard to have myself a reason to live in this.


When music is taken, and science, and english, and all the rest of school.


When your friends don't understand that some days you just feel that the whole world is enough.


That is enough, enough to have reason.


I have had enough, I have tried so hard.


I wonder if papa knows how hard I've tried.


She doesn't want to live.


She's told me so many times.


It hurts.


Now I know.


We're fighting again.


About things that don't exist.


Imaginary.


There's nothing I can do or say to change things.


There's nothing.


I'm making things worse. I always make things worse.


Why can't God take me?


I pray, dear God, please take me.

A loss of words.

Do the worst you can do. There is nothing in this.


It does not matter if we stay, none of this matters.


An image from our past, an image of our future, an image of ourselves - that is all we ever have.

Diminished

The Pianoforte

We're such pretty things.


Delightfully light, sprite-full, M.M. vivace (Mälzel's Metronome)

A small fact:
(Beethoven was one of the first well known composers to add M.M. notations to his music)

We all create the worlds we wish existed. Beethoven flew with his fascination of a rock. A really big rock.

A thought from a childhood 'friend':

"I can't remember every detail. But it's about Siegfried, the hero of the Rhine, and how he saves the maidens from the dragon whose lair is in the rock that stands at the edge of the Rhine. The Drachenfels."

I can picture it so clearly in my mind, a young Beethoven...yes, he is short in a stout way, not in a small boy way. His eyes; he is so much older than his size allows to be perceived.

I'm not too sure why I am writing so much of Beethoven tonight. I suppose my thoughts are just on him. It's nothing serious. In my mind, I am his mother, his mentor, his friend, his admirer and all the while, always his lover. But never, I could never give him that which music so avidly provided. So our love, is not that of young lovers, but it is of the raw truth that we both desire and desire only to feel, touch and hold. In this love we understand; our love is of pure depth, an understanding that we share, that it means nothing at all.

You see, I am also in love with Mozart. Beautiful gifted Mozart. Touched by God! That's what they say. An angel comes down upon him when he plays. Can you see it? A man so beautiful, still a child, yet aged with the passion creating like God, as if he possess God's hand itself, beauty and sound, pure, pure sound. His works are magic, if such a thing exists. But. He is not enough. There is something missing from this classical musician. I do not know what. Our affair is of the short lived, forever lasting kind. His music does not sustain me. We have not slept in the same bed long enough. We have not entangled limb in limb to know well enough each movement. I have this with Beethoven, but not with my dear Mozart. But I do love him, I love him as I love the harpsichord I never play. I love him for the basis he created, for inspiring other, for bringing music to life. I don't know if I could love him with the same passion I love others simply because he is of God, and we musn't touch God's celibate men. Not that he was celibate, he is actually portrayed as one who played more than just the piano. Quite talented is he not?

A Summary to give a better idea:
Classical - Mozart, Beethoven the cusp Classical-Romantic, Chopin - Romantic.

I challenge you to replay your Mozart, replay your Beethoven and replay your Chopin. Listen. Listen. Listen. But don't limit yourself! I am ashamed. Utterly ashamed of myself. I am only mentioning the names. The well known names. Whores. No one has a clue. They throw about the names of the 'greatest', but what do they know of them? Mozart had the creativity and imagination that drew a new level in the template of Classical music especially that of orchestral nature, Beethoven, his music is filled with a frustration, trying to break from the strictness of classical, a transition to romantic, and Chopin, completely free to express (He really loved minors.)

A music note (That's a pun...and not a purposeful one):
All minor keys follow the same 'minor scale pattern', which is T-S-T-T-S-T1/2-S.

A semitone is the closest distance between two notes.

A tone has one note in between.


A note on authenticity (No, this is not a pun. I did not try to think of one after my first incidental one):
I have tried my best to keep all of these 'facts' written here, actually fact. I did them off memory, so I apologise if there are any discrepancies.

Before completing this, I must mention one other name, the name of the man I will marry;

Franz Liszt.

A short biography of Franz Liszt:
1811 - 1886
- Hungarian
- Composer
- Virtuoso Pianist
- Romantic Period
People said he was 'possessed by the devil'. He practiced up to 12 hours a day to improve his technical skills. Possessed by the devil, because as he played he would put on a grand show. Can you see him? Just picture it like you did with Mozart. Imagined someone contorted-ly possessed yet fluid with movement. Brilliance at its best he was. Sinister, dark, so terribly lovely.
He transcribed Paganini's music from the violin to piano and wrote variations on it. He gave up a lot of his time to the teaching of those who did not have any money at all and to helping those in need. I could never give him the justice he deserves. I will say only this; I know without a doubt in my mind that I will die before I ever dream the thought of even expressing at all with piano or with words the sheer genius and dedication of this man.

I love him.

I love him, not solely in admiration, but in a kind of love that makes me wish I could be with him now. Be the person he wanted, be good enough for this man who I will never know, who I will never meet and who I will never really be certain of. I love the thought of him. I want him to be exactly as I picture him in my mind. Fear, passion, love. It's all so much, it's all so wonderful.


There are many more. Albeniz my friend. Mischief. But I have to stop. Stop before I become lost. Lost in another world. But it's okay because it does not exist. Never, except in my mind.I could never say these words of the living, for Lord knows, there would be no understanding. No one would understand how I love them all. I love that boy who smiled on the bus ride home, the boy with the guitar, the boy with quiet demeanor, the girl with life, the other with sensible outlawed behavior, I love her so much I can almost breathe in the perfume she wears, oh and that other! The boy who I know I will never be closer to than across a table while eating Chinese takeaway. But. These things can never happen. I'm sad yet hopeful. But I have mine. A child dear, a friend, a lover, a stranger, someone who I feel I have known for so long, but is it enough? Is it? Is he too much like Mozart? Or will he be my Liszt? Or perhaps I will never be happy with either. Perhaps we can only be in love with music.

Somewhere

Summer in England

I think we all wake up into days we do not wish to greet.


Today I woke to the rain, and the cold and the darkness of winter.


The rain battering against my window, defiantly, and the cold - just enough to make me uncomfortable. The darkness engulfed except for the slight reflection on my mirror from a distant halo of light, a hope? no, we have none. (My pessimism is in a half lie.) It is just my window from something beyond what I could see. I wasn't sure what was outside. I wasn't sure what would greet me.


Hello winter's morning,
Oh how I love thee.
I heard ye whispering in the night,
And alas I awoke!
To see your happy heart.


I do love the rain. The sound. I think. That must be it.


This morning though, was tainted by the night before. I awoke with the thoughts that had stalked me into sleep. Over and over they whisper. Threatening my day. Threatening to kill any life I was to find.


I did not want to wake. I did not want to greet the day.


I wished to fall back asleep, not a gentle sleep (it never is), but just any sleep at all, a sleep long enough so that everyone will forget, and I, join too the followers of Lethe.



I do not know what days you see, I do not think you understand mine.


No, we do not have today. We have not a single day.

songs

The world has gone insane. Utterly and stupidly insane.


Friends. What friends are these? No smiles to your happy heart.


Pathetic clowns. Those sad clowns.


Fade away sullen girl. They call me a sullen girl. My, my, if only they knew;


The scars are truth, the marks are masks.


I'm going to make a mistake.


I'm going to do it on purpose.


When the day is done and I look back, and the fact is I had fun fumbling around.


I ran where they told me not to run and I sure had fun.


So I'm going to fuck it up again, I'm going to do another detour.


And if you want to make sense, what are you looking at me for? I'm no good at that.


I want to make a mistake.


I'm always doing what I think I should, always doing everybody else good.


And what for? what for?


I wish to forget. You writing in ink, mine in lead. Dear memories they all are. I'm not afraid, is this what you mean? I mean to forget. Sometimes. Some things. No, not really. I love to remember. What are without our memories?


If you don't have a song to sing you're okay, you know how to get along humming.


If you don't have a date, celebrate, go out and sit on the lawn and do nothing. Because it's just what you must do and nobody does it anymore.


No, I don't believe in the wasting of time, I don't believe that I'm wasting mine.


If you don't have a point to make, don't sweat it, you'll make a sharp one being so kind and I'd sure appreciate it. Everyone else just goes to get big headed, why should I follow that beat, being that I'm better than fine?

My Mozart

My Mozart,


this moment is so terribly wrong


there is no sound


there is nothing


nothing. Except her.


I wish to hear the sound envelope me, to stumble at first as I learn what a great master composed in his sleep. This is suffocating. So Suffocating.


I feel old, ancient almost, a relic, this has no sense - no, none at all.


There is another, fussing about names, the pronunciation of names.


(It is pronounced 'Bahkh' not 'Bach'. 'Shoh-pan', not 'Chop-in')


But today, it is not of names. Of course, it is polite, respectful, to pronounce them correctly, but really, today is not of names.


There is something so powerful, so vividly alive that awakens me and sedates me all at once. I am alive and dead;part of something beyond, sometimes I believe, beyond living itself.


In this moment, perhaps like too many moments before this, I do not wish to live.


There is a beauty in death that I long for. A calm quiet.


There are things which must be done, modulation, key change. Those things. (This has been a ritornello).


But when they were done, they will signify the prelude to the means by which shall be met by an end.

servile

Fooled and flawed and proof of failure

How are you today?

I am not nothing. I know this. I am an entity, an organism, I am existing but I am cold. I am fooled and flawed and proof of failure. I am degraded and diminished - no, not diminished in the beauty of music. Like your cliffs papa, like your cliffs.


I am so tired, oh I wish for sleep. I'm just so tired. But I am selfish, so selfish.


I miss the air and the smell, the certainty and belief. I miss existence! Such a wonderful place it is, I see it now. Listen: ... - that is you! Papa, that is you! That is your voice. It's quiet. So awfully quiet, and in this quiet, we are brought there.

The wind swims through me.


Is this my own desperate loneliness? My desperate loneliness making me guilty of this awful caress. There is no solace in this, but there is honesty. It touches every part of me. The cotton I've always worn, has never been a heavy mask.

The dominant dance of an unseen entity. Violated. Violated. I've lost.


My mother would not approve; cotton is not to her taste, not at all. She prefers synthetics, still, despite her insistence and perseverance I will always maintain my impenitent belief that cotton is far more soft.


Yet afar the wind, there is something more. To claim, another. To claim. Then, there is the ocean.


I don't believe the ocean ends, it is unremitting.

Beyond this is more water and more. So we may die trying to find an end. A futile endeavor to find that which does not exist. It is to follow an atheist in his search for God.


But this, the ocean, it is much greater than comprehension, and this, the feeling of being near invisible yet a part of something so grand is unrivaled. It is life giving and it is pain but mostly, it is comfort. It provides a means for execution. It's submission of a different sort. Purely, defiantly an answer, penance, punishment and a sweet and tender joy.


How foolish you are to think so plainly, how foolish.

sitting, waiting, wishing

Hello, Mister?

I want to call him and tell him I can’t find the pen.

Call him and make him aware of the great havoc the loss of this pen has caused. How this pen, this moment of confusion, of loss, of pure and utter desperation will mark me for the rest of my life just like those moments of great tragedy or beauty normally mark a persons life.

But what would I do?

What would he say? He’d be kind and concerned, say all the right things, this pen would become alive to him too.

But of course – I was stupid.

Stupid and selfish.

There was nothing wrong at all. It was just a pen.

I could use the other that lay beside my hand. It was just a pen.

I’d be so sure then, so sure and embarrassed at my own stupidity and want to disappear. I’d hang up the phone apologetically, criminally as though I had tainted myself shamefully. Stand dazed for a moment. Lost in my thoughts and immersed in my own feelings of embarrassment and wonder at the pathetic situation I myself, along with my pen, had become.

Then I’d sleep. Immediate sleep. Just for a while. Short enough to have not slept the afternoon away, but long enough so that when I awaken I’d find myself wondering only vaguely about the pen – had it been a dream?

Undoubtedly, his voice, that must have been a dream, my panic – my, how pathetic that really was, it mustn’t of been real.

But I know, that the sickness I had tried to sleep off will surround me and flood me as I realize, it had all been real. So instead, I sit. I have a period of thought. Debate whether or not to call, whether or not I need this pen (clearly, I don’t) and then rise once again and search frantically for this missing part of me.

I’ve become distracted, and entered another room (why this room?).


The phone. It’s ringing.


I race to answer, but someone already has on the other line.


I place it down quickly; I feel intrusive and sordid.


The words I heard the voice speak are being sung repeatedly in my mind. What did it say? – did you happen to see.. no, don’t be silly, I mustn’t of for I wasn’t there.


But then, it wasn’t meaning me who they had been speaking to.


It is in these moments that thoughts must be gathered. I feel something is missing. I’m not sure what.


Did I get up to look for it? I can’t decide.


I return to my first room. The pen. I’ve lost the pen.

Kickin' the crap

I know someone. I think we all know someone. Somehow, somewhere. Not knowledge with notions of an in-depth skin to soul analysis, but just enough to be able to determine an answer.


We see you're looking quite lovely today, truly lovely, and for what reason?
Ah but you see, loveliness fades - don't you know?


I know someone. Have I ever told you that?


No?


It's obvious though, isn't it?


My someone; if she keeps on killing, I'll be able to settle and then I'll be able to move on.


Consider; how can I fight, if we are on the same side? So I really don't know what to do with this second chance.


I'm much better off the way things are.

Apple

Her Semblance

Inspired by ‘The Applicant’ by Sylvia Plath

Do you think you could tell me a lie?
Prevaricate
my truth, and fabricate your thoughts,
tell me a tale
of anything but.


Could those words pass your lips? No, no? Then
how can I give you a thing?
Leave it.
Walk away.
You should understand


the world is dazzling
when you are a saint and she is blessed;
the faces are smiling because you can.
You don’t believe me?
Look, there they are


watching and waiting for you
their neo-world miracle ‘child’.
Beguile them with perfection.
But you’re forgetting boy
you are a child----


Small and quiet, and oh so guilty.
Don’t you believe me?
Well, I am convinced; assured to be sure
there is another side and I do not doubt,
believe me, I will provoke.


I claimed no fault and screamed your name.
I wished it be your vice.
It’s true, my love, I shied away,
But perhaps it pays to compromise?
Now if taken from there


it’ll be of some use to explain
our current status.
A timeless piece, if ever there was;
it has your brilliance, it has my discredit
it has éclat to both our names.


Dear God, it works – that’s what’s wrong.
You have no flaw, except for this
you have no clue, except you know,
my boy, this shows her odium.
Just believe me, believe me, believe me.

(Aren't we all so terribly lovely?)

*semblance - An outward or token appearance: "Foolish men mistake transitory semblance for eternal fact" (Thomas Carlyle).

A passing thought

It’s peculiar (no, I don’t believe it is really so peculiar) how things may change.


It’s been a long while, weeks?


No, more than weeks; months?


I’m not sure; perchance – I don’t count anymore.


The world used to be at our fingertips,
nothing was out of reach and we were meant to,
(supposedly)
reach out and move towards everything comrades,
more than comrades,
lovers and friends the highest of high respect for one another
and that really, was all.


I saw him the other day.


We spoke about noodles. Awkwardly comfortable.


Microwave noodles that require only a few minutes to cook.


He said that they came with a sauce.


I thought that was lovely.


So I said so.


Then asked, "whatever happened to the toasted cheese sandwiches?"


They were from our time, you see. A mild obsession with the melted cheese and carbohydrate filled goodness that was these sandwiches.


He said there was no time.


Too complicated (too complicated? they were toasted cheese sandwiches..).


So I suppose, that is what happens.


Does everyone choose the simpler alternative? I believe so, we live in a world were efficiency is of the utmost importance and anything else simply deemed obsolete.


But then we begin to make fake promises, promises of words dearly sweet to the ear (of love, hope, trust), but we are no longer innocent. We are guilty of knowledge of the truth of our own lies. We try to fool ourselves, for certainly he’s not fooling me, but I’m comforted, I must allow him that. There is comfort in these lies (though I am disheartened) and thus I can only smile acceptance that this, is just that.

A perfect cadence V - I

Today, much like last night, restricts me with the damned view of hope and success beyond my reach; I have no part of it.


I feel incapable. I’ve sat here for what feels like hours.


It makes me think and forget.


I have to note: water is an element despite its disapproval by science.


Perhaps it is true that it is made up of two-part hydrogen to every oxygen, but it in itself, is elemental.


I think so anyway.


Just like a woman of power and grace is elemental or a tsunami perhaps, yes that seems more reasonable.


Today, burning water takes the place of fire running over my body turning me a fleshy pink. (I never thought I'd compare myself to such a thing, but it's quite like the colour of salmon.)


It’s not unbearable, but it is necessary. It cleanses me in the way a mother sterilizes her progeny’s bottle. I’m not blest with ‘Holy’ waters. Nowhere near. I simply want these thoughts out of me; I want her gone.


Sometimes, truth be told, I think she’s speaks to herself – is this who you are? – (yes, that’s what she said) I wonder, what, no, not who.


It’s just a thought (passing perhaps?); she will be my friend on that day.


The day we found her and mine as simply ‘ours’. Until then, I acquire comfort in both that which transcends beyond my own thoughts and in those petty occurrences that flourish in our lives.


There is so much love (and beauty?) to be found in the overlooked. So much beauty in the way the light falls on the carpet, to the couch, to the wall while the sunsets beyond our grasp and terrible love in a smile of one whom you are meant to belong. Transient thought it may be, there is something to be found.


Life? Maybe.


Are we meant to know?


It is these fleeting moments I believe we wait for, or atleast, I wait for, I can only speak for myself. But these moments are like people. I wonder if they can be trusted. Can we place so much hope in something, only for it to disappear?


It scares me sometimes because although it fills me, I know it’ll only make me all the more vacant if the end reveals that I was fooled by the colorful splendor of some masquerade ball. Though still I suppose, just as everyone else has already said, that this is a risk we must be willing to take for life.


But really, my dear, beauty has an ugly face. I hate it. (Sometimes). It alone is less than a false image; it is the epidermis of a false image and bears no trace of soul.

Goodmorning

I’ve woken into silence.

The mood is gloomy today. A gloom full of inexplicable lively exhaustion and oh, how my body begs for sleep. My eyes, my mind, every inch of me, wishes to lay down again and rest.

So rest they tell me – the others, that is.

Eat. Rest. You’ll be better for it.

But will I?

The sun is yet to rise and already these hours come down on me in such a way that a thousand years could only ever touch. I don’t wish to rest. Not yet. Not today. There are things that I must do, in an order that they must be done so that by the end of it, everything is as it should be, and I will not be deemed inept by my own condemning mind. I need this. Sleep can wait. I don’t think that they could understand.

Well, to be fair (we must always be fair), perhaps one could – for there is possibility in anything (or so my psyche has decided for the moment) – and yet, their questions to me indicate that they have no clue, that they do not understand; this is reasoning; my morning ritual.

It is reason for tomorrow. If this can be done now, it can be done again tomorrow. Perhaps there is purpose, perhaps there is hope. Days like these crawl, they drag and pull me back. It is as though there are a hundred invisible hands grabbing at my flesh demanding that I move in reverse. With each minute that passes, weighing me down and ridiculing me. Watching and laughing as these hands pull me back.

Sickly hands; withering yet strong, dark as night yet pale like a dead man, I hate them.

I hate these days.

From time to time it begins to show; the darkness under my eyes, my body limp and weighted, and so, they tell me to be strong, but they don’t understand; I already am.

So sometimes I hate people. I know, that these measures are not justified, but in times like those – I have not the heart to care. I reason with myself then – just as I always seem to do – until I find logic in my resent for the entire race, until even anyone who ever has smiled or cried or raged is guilty of lies.

What of us all then –? No one is real. Not I, nor him or her nor any of those faces we so surely believed. Yet still, I am but a child; naïve and weak and mostly I think it is merely a passing fancy I have (to believe in no one) and as gradually yet surely as the tides, I too, return back to my primary phase where people in essence can be excused.

But I cannot.

They will not (reason, overlook, forgive), excuse?

Excuse me never, never overlook for these words – they ’re fabrications – you were too perpetual in your trust for me. So you see, I may never be excused nor may I blame. Not even her or even these days, when I wake into a world in which I am alone but for the hands, the voices and her thoughts.