And tonight I am thinking of my friends. My capital F friends, the ones who tried out their recipes on me, taking the risk of poisoning me. The ones that bared their bodies in front of me. The ones whose letters I tend to read over and over and over again. The ones whom I kissed and missed and dreamed about at least once. The friends that I spoke to in a made-up language or a well-scripted body language; the ones that wasted time with me, the ones that read my poems as if they were prayers. Thank you and thank you, and I hope that you are well.
Some of you might now that once upon a time I fell into teaching. I fell into it the way you fall in love, or the way you fall through a crack in the sidewalk - right into another dimension of wonder and woe. Up until now I taught adults but this year I am in charge of some thirty little creatures with beating hearts and blooming brains. And I am beginning to remember my childhood: the time of lost teeth and lost crayons; the fireworks of first friendships and learning how to count to twenty and then counting everything in sight, and how some numbers seem so huge that “only god can be this old”
The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.
she is one of those people who have everything. those who are tired, exhausted, sick of having had everything - a hard bed of jewels, sweaty kisses and a claustrophobically cozy home. a caring family, a life made of money & a gift for creating beauty out of the flimsy fabric of words. but everything is a double edged sword and it turns out that boredom is not blunt, that it is sharp and acrid and can ruin one’s joy. when love is not enough - - when breath is not enough - - when adventure is not enough - - one doesn’t know what is. maybe death with its masks and its farces, its mystery and its dances. only she can’t afford such decadence. at least not now, not yet.
Days like paper cranes. Floating hours. I can’t catch them. Not even in this net of words. Love, love, and loss of love. The romance of tragedy, the tragedy of romance, sun setting in the soul. Nostalgia for streets which wind and coil right into the past. Nostalgia for dreams that are yet to come true… Disheveled hair at 2. a.m. and wine, and the strange roads inscribed on the palms of my hands. Ghosts of past (l)overs hovering near my feet while I sleep.
Ok fine. I thought it would never happen, but I miss Kraków! Village-like, love-like, cloudy, crabby Cracow. Small streets full of people, tears mixed with laughter; the harsh, honest Polish language and the HeyNow! trumpet sound from the cathedral’s tower. And the memories that will never return and that will never go away either.