Sunday, July 06, 2008

strange day in that i received three communications from different ex girl friends, all wanting to see me, one off which i caught up with, and i have to say it was great to see her, she was the fire to my water and filled my lungs with smog for about a year and despite getting of to a good start we parted on very bad terms. ironically i was nuts about this particular lady becuase she had this inner softness when her defenses were down, that made her so appealingly soft and beautiful, she took up knitting at one point, however most of the time we were at war, every attraction has a repulsion, and as usual i came out battle scared and defeated.

but here we are, 6 years later cuddling up and looking for condoms in a nice clean bedroom with a nice view of the stars, listening to french music, sometimes talking about the old days a bit, but not much, while the cat played fetch. anyway i left her place thinking, wow, that was pretty big of her to invite me over after all that time. i'm glad she did becuase she did had moments of ultra coolness and the older i get the more i need to be at peace with my past and come to terms with the ghosts that haunt it.

we lived with her father, a wonderful eccentric artist who i actually adored. i recall when his daughter was overseas he used to make dinner for me, the same meal over and over again, always burnt. anyways he was a well travelled, and well read man who had a brilliant sense of humor and a sparkle in his eye. i really loved that guy and even when the relationship broke down i always felt like i missed him more than her. i saw him a few times afterwards and we would quickly exchange recommended book titles and movies and often we would have both read them or seen the movie. then we would disappear on our way.
his daughter told me he is ill and fallen upon difficult times. i'd like to make him a dinner one day.

well miss renwick, whatever happened in our past i'm sure i was equally to blame and whatever your part was i forgive you. i'm glad you are happy, and that things worked out for you, i'm glad that you rang me and we had phone text, i'm glad that you invited me over and im glad that you're alive and well and in this strange part of my life now where circles are completed.



Anonymous said...

"We construct a narrative for ourselves, and that's the thread that we follow from one day to the next. People who disintegrate as personalities are the ones who lose that thread"

captain mission said...

yeah its very true, but i think sometimes its also healthy to disintegrate a bit, nothing should be fixed unless its tried and tested a few times, identity is elusive and filled with constructs, these are stange things that don't actually exist yet we all act like they do for some reason.

however i do agree with you, my narritive is one written by a hetrosexual version of william burroughs, timothy leary and alister reynolds with a dash of hustler magazine and lots of castaneda, what's yours?

Anonymous said...

Once upon a time a girl met a boy.

She was impressed with his mind and made him kiss her immediately.

She went to his house and said she would fall in love with him when she saw his music.
He ate fish cakes and watched her.

It was a peculiar dance, full of fear and excitement, music and tequila, love and strange one piece pyjamas (with matching hats)

They talked of Broome and cars and blueberry daiquiris, of feet and little girls, AND birds.

They swooned and built walls and swooned again.
They watched films and listened to music and read books, sometimes the boy would read to the girl, she always fell asleep.

Then they lived together, with the dogs, the canaries and the lovely man upstairs.
Soon they travelled overseas and something was said on the Eiffel tower. The girl was frightened. The boy was fearless.

Things changed after that, it was messy, they stopped dancing.

When the girl stole his pyjamas there was no more talk of daiquiris with blueberries.

This made the boy mad. He loved his pyjamas.

The boy dragged his anger blindly, like a blanket that filled his heart with smoke. The girl feels sorry for this.

The girl saw the boy the other day, and remembered why she liked those pyjamas so much, they reminded her of her favourite bird, the one that laughs, has one love and lives forever.

The girl read some words the boy had written in a book that he carries under his wing and in his heart.

She felt the sting of his tail, even though he hasn’t got one, and she felt sad for the lovely man upstairs, hoping that he never hears those words.

The girl cries tequila when she thinks that he might have, and knows the boy would cry rivers of absinthe if he ever read such words of his sun.

The girl writes a story for the boy, because she still feels his sting and thinks good thoughts for the boy.

She hopes he finds his oiseau fran├žais and finishes the story in peace and endings.

captain mission said...

the boy looks back with regret and sadness now he is a man, he looks back at the moments that were wasted in fear, and feels grateful to have had these people in his life that have appeared as demons only to turn out to be angels.
he is filled with only love for them