Dear Charlie,
The trees are wondering what comes next, standing up against the grey sky, mixed up with changing colours and branches undressed. What can I do? They ask. What can I do? Should they move or wait, they wonder. The wet grass giggles with waves of indifference, shrugging away their comedic tears.
The grass is stopped by a black wire fence, protecting cement bricks from amateur botanical jokes. Plastic trees stand guard, bored to death between the fence and the bay window.
Inside, a cat watches an old French movie, dreaming of his Alice In Wonderland moment. Or perhaps he just wants a chance to stop the loud woman from singing that chorus again. Oh, so long Marianne. It’s time that we began to laugh.
What’s his name? This sad clown, writing in his diary, writing about a bunch of sticks of dynamite wrapped up in a red summer dress. He wants to stop time; she doesn’t know his name. But she counts on his steady sanity to predictably burn when she finally adds up the notes. It’s quite simply amusing to lead the hand of a man who is bored with his rotations. So sensible and safe for work. Such a “disgrace to take it philosophically” and to count down to death, but oh so entertaining!
This is the blindness I see, sitting in a dark kitchen in the middle of the afternoon. You’re better off knowing you’re blind. But one can wonder what made it so.
Remember how it went? How it played out? The cruelty of seeing the past so fresh, so tender and to never again recognize the gestures that lit up your soul. You can only die once. Shall we name it, Charlie? It is ill advised. You never were that type of easy. I can’t define the colour of your eyes or the way you looked at me. I can’t put my finger on the calculator of your resurrections. I never know if one of my voices has reached you until the moment you repeat my words back to me, and even then… I don’t know. How can I be sure?
The risk is time. That’s all we have. That’s all we ever had and ever will, until the rotation stops. Did I steal from you, or you from I?
The trees are wondering what comes next, standing up against the grey sky, mixed up with changing colours and branches undressed. What can I do? They ask. What can I do? Should they move or wait, they wonder. The wet grass giggles with waves of indifference, shrugging away their comedic tears.
The grass is stopped by a black wire fence, protecting cement bricks from amateur botanical jokes. Plastic trees stand guard, bored to death between the fence and the bay window.
Inside, a cat watches an old French movie, dreaming of his Alice In Wonderland moment. Or perhaps he just wants a chance to stop the loud woman from singing that chorus again. Oh, so long Marianne. It’s time that we began to laugh.
What’s his name? This sad clown, writing in his diary, writing about a bunch of sticks of dynamite wrapped up in a red summer dress. He wants to stop time; she doesn’t know his name. But she counts on his steady sanity to predictably burn when she finally adds up the notes. It’s quite simply amusing to lead the hand of a man who is bored with his rotations. So sensible and safe for work. Such a “disgrace to take it philosophically” and to count down to death, but oh so entertaining!
This is the blindness I see, sitting in a dark kitchen in the middle of the afternoon. You’re better off knowing you’re blind. But one can wonder what made it so.
Remember how it went? How it played out? The cruelty of seeing the past so fresh, so tender and to never again recognize the gestures that lit up your soul. You can only die once. Shall we name it, Charlie? It is ill advised. You never were that type of easy. I can’t define the colour of your eyes or the way you looked at me. I can’t put my finger on the calculator of your resurrections. I never know if one of my voices has reached you until the moment you repeat my words back to me, and even then… I don’t know. How can I be sure?
The risk is time. That’s all we have. That’s all we ever had and ever will, until the rotation stops. Did I steal from you, or you from I?
Labels: Dear Charlie, notice the sign, theory
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