This series is my contribution to the monthly text-battle 'The secret diary of somebody else' with artist Aino el Solh.
next story on 15.09.19
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That would be the other one, wouldn't it?
A sublime possibility of freshly consumed projection, from within me.
'A transmission by imagination', shooting at you, bedded by the æther and smiling gracefully over the abyss. Jumping down and cutting through the clouds, too close to the grass-covered side, when different hands pull it into the centre of absolute darkness, just to be able to continue to fall.
Sublime by its energetic nature, causal and surely not lavish. Carrying me on a wing that uses the warm lift of the city's backyard. A bright projection that fills the sky with sparkle, transforming a window into a kaleidoscope, a thousand times. Everything falls into place for now, when these fractions and rash rearrangements shake their hands, when it is time to break through the branches, landing on the ground and clearing my mind of most misconception.
The key would always be hidden on top of the lamp outside, next to the side entrance. The window in the entrance door was covered by an embroidered curtain and I'd have to take one step up to get into the house. The front kitchen, as it was called, was fully covered with light greyish tiles and had a gas stove right next to the door. That's where the pancakes were backed and anything else that needed to be fried, so the entire house wouldn't stink. The wardrobe, that reached from the ground (for umbrellas and rubber boots) till far up, was made of wood with golden hooks, with a compartment on top for hats and things. I think his hat was still laying there, even long after his death. The way to the basement, inhabiting all preserving jars filled with plums and pears from the garden, would be short and dark. To go further into the house I would take five stairs up and walk through a kind of non-space, a space in between, too small to stay, just enough to have some storage cupboards on the side and a window on the opposite, through which you could take a peek and see if someone's running through that part of the vast garden. The next door was brown and squeaked and also made some kind of brushing sound, being too close to the ground, heavy at times to push.
I enter the kitchen, the real kitchen. With that corner bench in red, without soft padding. The relic-radio in the corner, dried flowers and the clock that taught us time. Still the smell of that village in my mind. The wooden table is dark and heavy, covered first with some kind of plasticised table cloth with flower ornaments and on top a fine table cloth with golden embroidery. The coffee pot is freshly filled with hot water and ground coffee, sits for ten minuts and is poured through the small sieve in to the mug. The bread boards are of wood and plasticised with funky colourful patterns. Plates are filled with cheese, cold cuts and pickled cucumbers. Everybody has a mug with saucers, maybe a mug is not the right word, because she has a weakness for the expensive and delicate. She is sitting on her chair with that knitted cushion and sides for the arms to rest (the other chairs do not have that). I bend over to her, slowly coming close with my face to hers. I can see the surprise in her eyes, but I am convinced and I have no plans to back down. Never before came I that close to her, its something that is not done or nobody ever thought it possible and I give her a kiss on her soft and pliant cheek.
The door to the living room was straight ahead, where we all went for the last time to take a memorabilia after her death.
a more detailed memoir
writings I draw
This ring holds the strength
that was burning in your heart
fearless as a rock
Funes had all but
seeing you leaving
nothing I could hold
changing ever after us
long be memory
your voice disappeared
saying you love her deeply
Sitting down does not necessarily mean to lay down next. I could stand up eventually after I sat down. I might even have to stand up again. As much as my body is asking me to lay down today, I resist and stay seated, possibly no movement involved at all. If I would lay down I could turn from one side to the other or shake up my pillow, just what feels best for my back. Sitting is simply the between standing and laying. Something that takes a certain amount of time.
What if I put my feet up, would that count as laying or still sitting. Who would be the judge of that and anyways why at all. Someone or something could asks you to get up is also an option. I could focus on the notes on my wall, read them over and over again. If the seat has wheels I could turn my face towards the sun, close my eyes and stare against the inner side of my eyelids. And even if everything was within reach, I still would want to visit San Remo.
If I think of the options, the possibilities might as well be infinite.
I lost the ring.
That ring that I know as long as I can think.
The ring that I was sure I will wear one day.
Anything that had happened the week before seemed to merge as one day.
And so far I did not solve the riddle.
It was around end of last year that I actively decided to stop sabotaging myself, repeating the mantra
'I will be fearless from now on' (as an artist, a human, a lover and a working bee) three times, while laying on the cold floor listening to her Nidra voice. I felt a drive.
I took the train to my parents soon after x-mas, with a card-game in my luggage. This game is meant to get to know each other better by asking questions off cards to one another. I was determined to have my father join. 'What was the best present you've ever received?', 'I received three' (meaning my brothers and me). He had tears stuck in his eyes.
I felt slightly uncomfortable, suppressing my own emotion, believing that I had never before seen him that emotional. Unaware of the puzzle piece that this moment would offer me. He is a man of his generation, a provider that knows no rest and had barely the time or ability to deal with the traumas that he inherited from his ancestors.
What is it to grow old, maturing, knowing your limits and needs, stepping aside, reconsidering, emancipating yourself from the past? We are loosing traces of naivety and consequently a precious type of passion too. I was as clear then as I am now, that I do want to continue to wander, stumble or dive into a lake of tales. This time thou with beaming confidence.
I was finally in Rome when my mom called me to tell me that my father had a stroke and that he is on the intensive care. He died 4 days later surrounded by us on the 5th of March.
His eyes were looking at me for the last time that January.
The golden signet ring with a squared black onyx stone was handed to us by the nurse in a plastic bag, together with his watch and teeth. And only after a month was I ready to wear it.
Slightly too big on my index finger.
People that trust in the power of stones, believe that the onyx crystal 'helps stomp out negative thought patterns stemming from the most debilitating and toxic emotion of them all – fear, the shackles of self-doubt and anxiety'.
A colleague told me that he once dried his hands with the kitchen towel, that was hanging near the garbage bin. His ring was nowhere to be found, only while he emptied the garbage bin he saw his ring falling through. A woman on the street told me (while I was searching the ground with a rented metal detector) that a friend of hers temporarily lost his ring that got stuck at the back of his office-chair.
Maybe our ring fell under the car after I tied my shoes and was then taken by a bird that dropped it near the pedestrian bridge, the ring then being pushed into the canal by a governmental lawn mower.
Like memories that help us through the night.
I want to end this story with the monologue taken from a film.
'[...] if there is pain, nurse it. And if there is a flame, don't snuff it out. Don't be brutal with it. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster, that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to make yourself feel nothing so as not to feel anything – what a waste.'
Countless layers covering even more layers, too dense to ever be lifted.
It must have occurred at the 'piazza delle facciate' as far as I can remember.
The Noblewomen as well as the Merchants would travel far with their historic facades,
made of ancient stones and often covered with useless ornaments. They congregate around
an uneven square for seemingly leisure purposes. The order of placement would commonly be determined by the simplest rule of all 'first come first serve'. Which can be quite grueling.
For example last year, Sir Heros was allocated between Countess Trieux and Baron Calliope, archenemies since birth, just because it took him seconds to find a book cover before his departure. The opposite of what you might be thinking is true, but cleaning the surface of the facades is unheard of. And rather known as to be an effective way of displaying your knowledge, ever since the great depression. The rain patches that are carefully attached around the solid frames of the entrances tell of a landscape far to the east of the square and making it easier to identify with, I was told. The architecture is so numerous in execution, that the mind of the guests on the terraces have no rest assured. The inclination of the stripes first draw your gaze upwards, in order to then direct the glance onto the narrow part of the overhanging roof.
Here is to point out that the Merchant Erato has taken care of the exact 64 degree angles between each of the facades, since 20 years now, which makes it hard for her to find the time for vacation (sometimes you would hear her complain). Not to mention the wooden covers of certain windows, that doubtlessly want to demand their perspective.
Everyone is aware that for each occasion there is a suitable window-attribute trying to least represent the situation which is happening behind it. Whereas the confetti in the gaps indicate that the clouds are hanging low the next day indeed, on time for the farewell. Like I said before, too many layers, the play must have long started without the audience ready. What else would have been the point of shortening this whole rehearsal?
But you know what I am really sorry about? is that in all those years they never managed to lay beautifully patterned tiles at the front entrance, being unpolished to the core over time.