This series is my contribution to the monthly text-battle 'The secret diary of somebody else' with artist Aino el Solh.
next story with the title: (15.05.19)
click here for:
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