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He
is running after a pigeon, his parasol fluttering behind him, his
little legs unsteady yet wilful to the quest, towards the bird. The
fountain is arching its waters to the sky and the river is lulling
afternoon dreams. He is 5 years old and full of wonder.
I
wish I'd had a grandmother who had told me stories of old and taught
me how to love, but my grandmother was crazy, drunk and broken from
too much pain.
Hush,
little baby, don't say a word.
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird
The
bird moves ahead of him, hopping, twitching its petrol coloured head
side to side. He runs little steps, nearly trips, tries to clap but
the parasol falls and as it sweeps down cutting across the sun the
bird flaps its wings upwards and is gone.
I
wish I'd had a mother who had took me in her arms and taught me how
to love, but my mother was angry, hardened and broken from too much
pain.
And
if that mockingbird won't sing,
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond
ring
He
wanted me to meet him but I couldn't, I was too tired of it all, of
the fire and the dying of the fire, and my body showed its sadness.
I was standing near the fountain in Trafalgar Square, those great
shots of water surging to my heart, those lions mute roar somehow
still able to stir my passion but ever so slightly. It was fairly
cold, but actually I cannot remember anything of the temperature, for
I was consumed and yet absent. Let it go, I thought.
I'm
meeting someone, I'm meeting my lover from many years ago, I'm
meeting myself as I am now, the furious sound of the train. And I
met you.
Strange,
Time. And Love. Or what, was it something other? Something other
than Love? I had held myself back, or not even had to, I just didn't
feel anything significant. In fact it felt like a chore to go, a
command I was following from the one who used to be my Master and now
was weak in my mind. For others had replaced the pain so many times,
I could no longer find my addiction to him. It was no longer itching
below my skin. But yet, I went, and gradually over those hours I
warmed and became coquettish once more, knew his desire and liked it,
and I let him place those passionate caresses and kisses all over my
body. He awoke me. But having awoken me, he disappeared. Again.
The
bedside book. Hard silk. Hot ice cream. Memories of him.
Intimacy
does not mean anything.
The
excitement (rapture) of hide and seek
Circles
of time, yet still the same place. The place is there, the place,
the place is I wish I'd had a father who had sat me on his knee and
taught me how to love, but my father was in another country, silent
and broken from too much pain.
And
if that diamond ring turns brass,
Papa's gonna buy you a looking
glass
The family tree, roots that I
have escaped from, branches that cannot hold me, and I - always I -
having to search alone for the water to keep giving me Life.
The
roots are the hands of my ancestors; rough with hard work, stretched
with yearning, empty of children, clutching suitcases, wiping silent
tears, burying the dead.
This
tree is one I cannot climb, its arms will not hold me, it has no
fruit. It offers no shade nor food.
Instead
there is an empty space. Could be a cut out of my father, could be a
cut out of my lovers, could be a cut out of my hopes.
And
if that looking glass gets broke,
Papa's gonna buy you a billy
goat
18
years I waited from child to woman, waited for one letter to come.
I
stared at the words, going over his lines in that one letter – the
thoughts becoming engrained facts; heavy with ink
And
on I waited, although I heard many words and was seduced by many with
their eyes full of my light, and their words and poetry flooding my
heart, yet like Psyche who at the moment of trust looks upon her
lover so then they would leave. And my star heart would die again.
And
if that billy goat won't pull,
Papa's gonna buy you a cart and
bull
I see them between my legs,
each one in that same place, it is like a madness, a psychotic
audition, each one with his own style, some blend into one, some
stand out. Dangerous angels.
One day you realise you don't
know the exact date anymore; the date it began or ended. That date
which before marched in front of your head and gripped your heart
tight - is lost. Just as the memories of touch are gone. Though I
can remember your smile and your eyes. Thoughts of what happened
come in flashes, sometimes after months of respite – only yesterday
I tried to remember the last time you left the house, the final
closing of the door - and I couldn't hear a sound. I closed my eyes
to hear it; that angry shutting, that end; but the sound wasn't
there. And then I remembered that it hadn't happened that way, with
you. With you it was through the telephone only and you said you
wouldn't come again, that there was nothing you needed to explain.
For your heart had nothing to forget.
And
if that cart and bull turn over,
Papa's gonna buy you a dog named
Rover
Now
those men like ghosts, I watch their faces; perhaps I am the ghost
and what an advantage, those ravaged faces, time held upon them,
magic and flirtations no longer available in their eyes – only age
and the catching up of the body that has eaten them.
And
behind their ghosts are the priestesses of Babylon in the temples of
healing and the fish head priests, is the lapidarium, the stones
standing as a providence within the realm of creation, epigraphs
testify to the great importances now replaced, the musty odor of the
fall of the Romans, the air of lovers now all gone, nations and
empires now columns and fragments, the gates to historic cities
dissembled to tombstones for their song, is the torn down theatre,
citing fire hazard, some of the beauty remains but much has become
defaced, ugly, built over, now one has to find charm in concrete.
Some dirty charm. Like a stolen fuck behind an abandoned building.
And
if that dog named Rover won't bark
Papa's gonna buy you a horse
and cart
Yet
for him the tree was emanating light. It quivered and moved, an
archaic divine bird, a super conscious being; sparkling, remembering,
opening, responding, speaking, awakening. Bright, white light. So
much so, that it hurt his eyes. He was looking for a way out of
there, for a more comfortable place within that forest for them both
to lie down. Perhaps there was a hut or covered area, for they were
cold. He was stumbling in the dark, trying to give out that he had a
plan, that everything was alright, that he could protect her – keep
her warm – that it was just the night and nothing more, just some
dark hours to wait through. And then as he trod slowly over the dead
bracken and tried in vain to find a resting place there suddenly was
the tree – somehow lit – alive with light.
And
if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest
little baby in town.
Do you remember when we
experienced the tide turn, that very moment, that magical flip of the
water's pull as it started to recede – just as we had begun to be
oceaned yet still danced with our veils to our mistress' song. It
was you and I and the great blue sea, it was you and I and an
alchemical spell that formed a priestesses' alliance in our hearts.
Do you remember when we felt that joy, sister, of embracing the path
of the heart.
Memory, is like another land
with no bridge. Only water that is too strong and too wide to
traverse.
The
absence of everything kills me.
