Friday, 18 May 2018

Sliding riveries




Chet Baker - the current mood. A light midnight jazz and a missing glass of Martini in hand. Herbal tea would just about do. And if you brew it - a restorative ritual. 

Another long frantic upbeat day overboard collapses into the balmy night. People, intoxicated with satisfaction from the finally arrived late, very late spring, walked along the streets with faces as if just after a very good sex.

The moon froze as if colored with gouache on unwashed, dark-painted glass.  Lights of the city in jazz pacification.

I live by thoughts simultaneously in four cities, scattered from each other just by the distance of unpurchased tickets.

Silence ringing in my ears. Calmness and anticipation. Something astounding is bound to happen. Like pivoting on the edge just after falling in lust and just before falling in love, even if a little bit and for a little bit. For a fantasmic organic chemical top up. The value of cardboard house isn't in it's durability. Not ever jaded to fascinate and get fascinated, with the concealed agenda of a premeditated unremitting quest for interlocking jigsaw, a corresponding tip of Maslow's pyramid...

Few sleepless nights. Surrounding to insomnia. The moonchild. When you are that dazed, the mind gets numbed, but senses become sharper...

Another flight to catch with dawn. A stirring game of alternating few coexisting realities, bringing closer one and distancing another. Stepping in and out. Sliding on the timeline, rotating memories of the future and dreams of the past.

Never quite mastered the art of sensible packing. Now - just looking at still Thames and blinking lights from the terrace, feeling grounded and belonging here for this night. Homecoming. Snuggling soothingly in bed.

On the bed table 5-10 books, reading at the same time. Some swallowing in a day, if get lucky.

Living fragmentally just as well - at the same time reading a bunch of intriguing books.

Can not say devoting myself to one thing. Do I even need to concentrate on one thing? Not sure. Why limiting to tunnel vision. Traversing through a lavish fair of possibilities. I like everything and like the way it all unrolls.

You are bewildered, somewhat lonely and above all free, roused by experimental rummage for unknown insightful occurrences. You study me. Looking at the soul as a window. Giving yourself away, though whisper would be enough.

Connected by thin intangible inter-exchanging threads of conversations and touches, in misfired search for a lifelike or larger than life depths of intimacy, we tenderly embrace each other in the interim to avoid feeling emptiness around. Sporadically,  numb amnesia appeals more than void.  I rotary dial. Your familiar hoarse voice distorted by the wires. Our clandestines fly over the dozing roofs of the spring city.


© Elin Vidoff