My name is Calypso, my garden overflows
(It's just tension. It's just a block. Breathe it out. Breathe it out. Out.)
Thick and wild and hidden, is the sweetness there that grows
(as if all the creativity got hidden in the back, curled up in the stubs of the wings)
(or as the muscles were eradicating the words, like weeds overgrow rose bushes left unkept for too long)
My name is Calypso, I have let him go
(talked for two hours with someone I barely know, and on my way home I started to think about the mythology cycle I have created long ago, about Calypso, Galathea and this never published part of Different Stories, where the Third Fairy Godmother meets Euridice. Haven't thought about it for a while)
(actually,forgot it completely)
Haven't seen you in a quite a while, I was down the hold just passing time
(so many things eradicated or put in the boxes where they are overgrowing with cobwebs, and me lying to myself I'll open the boxes somedays)
(and there shall never be someday, someday is always today, this very moment, this moment that has just passed, and if you wait long enough you'll get hit by the train, or get old and die wondering about all somedays that passed you by)
(I have never wanted to learn how to sing, or play an instrument, not really, but I have learned how to dance, and I have learned how to mime, and I have learned how to move my body in space in a way I have never suspected possible)
(and all I have always known I could do really well was to write)
(and yet I have cut myself off writing, as if it were not fitting me, a fancy, a passing I forgot the word starting with shm... )
You're in my mind all of the time I know it's not enough
(as if it were a hidden, secret, guilty pleasure of an old maid wanting to be a writer, a substitute for love, for closeness, for understanding)
(and not a real, tangible, palpable talent I possess)
Black is white is cold is heat
(how many assumptions about myself do I have to tear down, stone by stone, like destroying walls of Jericho with the sheer willpower, because there are simply no angels with their mighty trumpets around? Where are the angels, when you need them?)
(you know, probably in the same place where Neil is, when you need him, as Tori had wisely concluded almost a quarter of the century ago)
My heart is sick of being in chains
(I don't remeber when was the last time when I wrote like that)
(when I wrote)
(WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?)
(the very real choice and confrontation of either be a writer or pretend it was all just for laughs)
(a very real and demanding choice of vocation)
(and a very real and terryfing choice of the road less taken)
(commitment)
(and there are easier commitments to make that this one, more obvious)
(because otherwise you'd have to think about yourself as a creator)
(or an artist)
(so the craftsman seemed a better option, safer, always tools of the trade at your disposition, always this numbing pace, always this easier, safer option of never going to be extremely good, but the craft is OK, isn't it? you don't need to be an artist, world needs craftsmen)
You're only an empty cage, girl, if you kill the bird
(I love the cat named Easter, who says will you never learn, by the way)
(What the fuck happened? When did I cross my mind that recreating is enough?)
everybody else's girl, maybe one day she'll be her own
Excuse me, but can I be you for a while?
(Wednesday is sponsored by Tori Amos)
(and memories of Paris in autumn)
(words bring more words and more words bring more words and words bring more words and)
(I met a witch today and she pulled the plug out of me)
(there is really weird shit going on in the Reality at the moment, as if the storm were moving slowly and velvety, like curtains, or a dragon with the body of rich soft draping skin warm and tender to the touch)
These precious things
Let them bleed
In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
February 19th, 2014
(It's just tension. It's just a block. Breathe it out. Breathe it out. Out.)
Thick and wild and hidden, is the sweetness there that grows
(as if all the creativity got hidden in the back, curled up in the stubs of the wings)
(or as the muscles were eradicating the words, like weeds overgrow rose bushes left unkept for too long)
My name is Calypso, I have let him go
(talked for two hours with someone I barely know, and on my way home I started to think about the mythology cycle I have created long ago, about Calypso, Galathea and this never published part of Different Stories, where the Third Fairy Godmother meets Euridice. Haven't thought about it for a while)
(actually,forgot it completely)
Haven't seen you in a quite a while, I was down the hold just passing time
(so many things eradicated or put in the boxes where they are overgrowing with cobwebs, and me lying to myself I'll open the boxes somedays)
(and there shall never be someday, someday is always today, this very moment, this moment that has just passed, and if you wait long enough you'll get hit by the train, or get old and die wondering about all somedays that passed you by)
(I have never wanted to learn how to sing, or play an instrument, not really, but I have learned how to dance, and I have learned how to mime, and I have learned how to move my body in space in a way I have never suspected possible)
(and all I have always known I could do really well was to write)
(and yet I have cut myself off writing, as if it were not fitting me, a fancy, a passing I forgot the word starting with shm... )
You're in my mind all of the time I know it's not enough
(as if it were a hidden, secret, guilty pleasure of an old maid wanting to be a writer, a substitute for love, for closeness, for understanding)
(and not a real, tangible, palpable talent I possess)
Black is white is cold is heat
(how many assumptions about myself do I have to tear down, stone by stone, like destroying walls of Jericho with the sheer willpower, because there are simply no angels with their mighty trumpets around? Where are the angels, when you need them?)
(you know, probably in the same place where Neil is, when you need him, as Tori had wisely concluded almost a quarter of the century ago)
My heart is sick of being in chains
(I don't remeber when was the last time when I wrote like that)
(when I wrote)
(WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?)
(the very real choice and confrontation of either be a writer or pretend it was all just for laughs)
(a very real and demanding choice of vocation)
(and a very real and terryfing choice of the road less taken)
(commitment)
(and there are easier commitments to make that this one, more obvious)
(because otherwise you'd have to think about yourself as a creator)
(or an artist)
(so the craftsman seemed a better option, safer, always tools of the trade at your disposition, always this numbing pace, always this easier, safer option of never going to be extremely good, but the craft is OK, isn't it? you don't need to be an artist, world needs craftsmen)
You're only an empty cage, girl, if you kill the bird
(I love the cat named Easter, who says will you never learn, by the way)
(What the fuck happened? When did I cross my mind that recreating is enough?)
everybody else's girl, maybe one day she'll be her own
Excuse me, but can I be you for a while?
(Wednesday is sponsored by Tori Amos)
(and memories of Paris in autumn)
(words bring more words and more words bring more words and words bring more words and)
(I met a witch today and she pulled the plug out of me)
(there is really weird shit going on in the Reality at the moment, as if the storm were moving slowly and velvety, like curtains, or a dragon with the body of rich soft draping skin warm and tender to the touch)
These precious things
Let them bleed
In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
-Mark Strand, Keeping Things Whole
February 19th, 2014
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