30 jul. 2009

Some memories

It seems that I never have a pen and paper handy. Or perhaps the clear and accurate language of my thoughts has eloquence only in the moment and is condemned forever to the limits of my mind. All the swirls and the windy aromas that every moment evokes... my conscious tread through life that always takes note and compares and glorifies and admires... all of it is for the present, difficult to put in context, to share.
She smokes another cigarrette. The fan was on too strong. A big fly somehow infiltrated the canopy of that glorious bed next to the open balcony window that shows me slanted snapshots of the sky. I almost slipped on some water on the floor, probably from your dripping bathing suit. This place has nice lamps, colorful they hang over the bar and amidst the tables. We ordered too much food. She smokes another cigarrette. I'm comfy here, and sitting at the round table (even though we all have to move for one person to get out), and with my eyes right at the surface of the water, and in the shower that has no roof and lets in a palm leaf and music and kitchen conversation.... so I'm never thinking of the next place I want to be. There is nothing more delicious than a good conversation, steady, fluid, natural, smart, and illuminating... a reality check and an unblocked view of people's intelligence in the sense that really matters. No better talent than being a good conversationalist. I couldn't believe when she walked in with the crying baby... it made me laugh halfways. The music was barely audible but pierced the atmosphere. Tomorrow I will be riding on a bus, listening to sad high melodies that will remind me of myself at other times and make me realize truths I am too blind to see, while I look through the window at the road and passing cars and empty trees that sleep so alone and small twinkling towns enveloped in mountains. But I shouldn't think about that loneliness now, and the definite yearning I will have of a blanket because of course again I will have forgotten to wear long pants and, anyway, it's always just colder than you forsaw on those buses.
Laughs are warm and echoing. We interrupt each other but no one cares. I can see who you were as a child more clearly than ever... and all our movements are in sync. Before I went to bed I wanted to tell her thanks for coming in with the crying baby and also thanks for not belonging quite as much as you could, and I'm sorry if it looks like we're indifferent to your difference so noble sober and mature.
But I didn't.
The night was filled with shadows and footsteps that turned out only to be the shaggy dog.
The next day I was dissolved in the sea, a sea that only sways and salts you. Somersaults in the waves...
And the bus ride was just as I predicted, with a lucid dream at the end.

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