I have travelled all the world to find you
He turned unforcedly towards the speaker. Seen from the outside nothing was wrong. There were almost smiles in the air, if not love.
It would hardly be a case of traditional bosom friendship, but less will do on the morning of a late summer's day,where everything is brighter and seems airier than it probably really is, considering everything, which is also quite a lot when all is said and done,which it fortunately rarely does, if ever.
He would have worn a stripy singlet, had he been wearing anything. Now he was tanned, blonde. Their eyes met in his nudity. Right in the middle of it.
It is on the outside and direct. A first impression, so to speak. Inside everything is wrong. Feelings pile up on top of feelings like discarded meat.
Kidding and rut and too many flowers!
The first touch is painful like as kiss. The next like a disarming karate chop.
There is something moving about the way in which they try to reach one another. Violence and caresses become one. The slap turns in slow motion into a careful soft pat on buttock or cheek. The kiss looks like a bite. All goes so fast and slow in the same time and only on the surface the parties involved seem doubtful about what is going on. It is so beautiful. Like in the movies, or commercials for children.
Their gazes become deep and long like a hypnotist's at a mirror. The prelude to a greek tragedy, with chorus and all. But is not every romance like that, incipiently? And is there such a thing here? Is it not like a strike of lightning from a cluded sky when Cupid aims and shoots: Ratttaaa...
Naturally it is somewhat faltering, their first encounter, beneath the masculine and brutal showing off. It is often like that when males make contact. But if you slow down for a moment and look past beads of perspiration and sprinkles of blood, then it will be clear to anyone, or should be clear to anyone, that we are here dealing with emotions as delicate as harp strings.
Afterwards there is darkness. Darkness and silence. It is claimed, that poppies can grow in the eye of the hurricane. Claims like that are numerous. If anything, it is rather poetry than exact science. On the other hand there is no proof either that the cellphone is actually a real reality. It may be an illusion built on the same premises as the world economy .. and love.
Darling, darling would you take down the washing? .. Darling!
Don't call me darling!
I'll go insane! I am not called darling. I have a name!
But you don't darling...
I have an excellent name.
Not that I can think of what it is..
There you are..
.. but that is of no consequence. The name is, but not what it is.
You're rambling darling. Come..
I shall strangle you if you one, just one more time call me darling!
You're not very nice now, you know.
I'll go insane!
You know that I don't like those strangling games...
Look, look I still have bruises here on my neck... and here...
You're asking for it!
I most definitely do not!
You are incessantly provoking with your forced normalisation. It's driving me crazy!
Stop that now, darling. The washing!
That washing's nothing to do with me!
Yes but that's a part of it.
It does not! I never asked for washing. I want sex, intimacy and care!
Yes but if you're in for a penny you've got to take the rest as well.
Who the hell decided that?
That's just the way it is.
It's in the books, or the papers. Now stop that and come help me with the washing.
You can have a little sex afterwards, then. Come on.
Where in the world are you off to?
The Foreign Legion.
Sigh. Well, be home for dinner.
I'm not keeping it warm...
The dream is nothing compared to when the wind is really rising. Yearnings, hopes and stale memories impose themselves where the slightest chink enables them.
It is not the size that matters, they say, but that is another matter altogether. A mirage has the size that fits. The desired one stands flaw- and stainless in a lighting of transfiguration which is as untruthful as it is intriguing...
It is in some way a human behaviour: to have illusions. To entertain expectations. To believe and to dream. There is a time before Freud, still stored in the genes. In there it lies remembering. Remembers Kronborg, Stonehenge and the Bermuda Triangle at sunset. Hercule Poirot claims that the time factor is of vital importance. He is a Belgian.
You want so much to be met. To be united and understood... oh, but isn't that a bunnywunny that comes jumping there. What a cheeky little fellow. Hop hop, hop hop... Amazing little creature. Nothing much but bestial instanct and Walt Disney eyes. It is beyond me how anyone can make themselves with a club skull-knock and afterwards skin such a little slyboots as if it was a Greenlandic baby seal. Man is indeed a peculiar creation. Wonder what God was thinking about that day? Rabbits, maybe...
I have travelled all the world to find you. Repeated, repeated, repeated...
You glance around. Look about, and out. Lie in wait for what traps might be in the near geography. Sometimes succesful. Now and then they lurch back on you. It is a dangerous world. Filled with flesh-eating plants it is. Hibiscus, ranunculus, oxes' tooth and harebell. Daisy, hyacinth, pansy, tulip and aconite and dandelion, elephant grass, strawberry and hemlock. Henbane and hops. Rose, snowdrop,...
"We live, and breathe, and hope for all the best.
We kiss and love and hope that the next one - is him or her without whom all is nil.."
There is inconceivably much water. By and large, there is nothing else. We ought to have gills and fins, but they must have been sold out when we got up and about.
Many have experimented with how long one can hold one's breath under water. Others have tried to integrate it. It is hard to say if they have succeeded.
Drowned bodies are of no use as witnesses. In a late album the Spirou turns out to be an amphibium. Maybe there are others. Maybe there is something we do not know yet. Possibly quite a lot. And then there are the icebergs...
It has started raining more frequently. Or in fact it probably has not. It just feels and is sensed like it. Formerly it would begin with dripping.
One drip, two drips and then more until it was pouring down your cheeks. Now it splashes down and makes your pants wet in an instance. It is completely immoderate.
It is impossible to shield oneself. You can try, but it runs right through. Seeps in. Everywhere. Also into your mind, or below it. A bit like kisses you forgot. Or almost forgot. A kiss is never completely forgotten. Not if it has been a real kiss. One of the wet ones, not smackers, but french ones. The romantic ones... The terribly romantic ones. There are really many of those.
And then you get happy. Spellbound. Euphoric. Night and day become one and inseparable. In love .. Shh .. shh .. Hands everwhere. Eyes all over... Shh ... Words, words, words, and backwards... starry days, or nights, fill all the hours and the pink bed setting. The mosquito net flutters rhythmically in time with our newly gained joy. We are the stuff that dreams are made of .... Shhh.. And I will love you as long as I recall. And you me... Shh.. Don't wake me reality.. Don't wake me my love... Shh...
Where have you been?
Where are you?
Err, are you talking to me?
Where were you?
Hello, do you mean me?
Where were you not?
Yeah okay, and ring-a-ding-dong mate...
Where are you going?
I think I'll just pop into coma. Bye bye...
Why didn't we meet?
Dealing is not the same as shopping.
To hit the galaxy is not necessarily an intergeographic term. It can be. It certainly can, but more often it indicates an all but spiritual journey in the same category as losing one's head . Or being far out. As such, it can actually be classified with out-of-body-experiences. A kind of present-day shamanism. We live in a world full of unacknowledged wormholes and parallelisms. Nothing new there. God's workweek was relative. That has been known for long. Balance is not fixedness, but motion.
The beloved's face blurs over time and melts into the crowd. Only the pain from the missing kiss goodbye stands illuminated in memory.
Lying in the water. Soaring among coloured bubbles. Seaweed and algae caressing your face and your body like hands or tongues. Or me.
We peep up and down through the mirror me and I. We seem recognizable. Safe. Like being back home, with no memories.
Where shall we meet?
Where shall we meet?
Where shall we meet?
Ships are sailing the ocean. Everything from skiffs to supertankers. Whether they want to or not they just sail around. On an orb. Or sink.
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