Max,
Max, buddy,
I wrote this long ago ...
Today, among these virtual pages, I wish to dedicate it to you ...
I know you and I think alike on many subjects ... especially human relationships ... even the intimate ones...
I do not pretend that you can derive a lesson out of it, but as we know each other well, I thought I’d share it ...
Letter to the NEXT ONES
Once again by myself in my one bedroom apartment, in the comfort of my walls and my trinkets and artefacts, my papers, manuscripts and prints, my familiar sounds and noises, the telephone ostracism, Tracy Chapman and my hopes, I just wander in these haunts, too many such visits on a path of ups and downs.
My desert island. My deep down inside.
And, again, I found myself there with pleasure. Without the sacrifice of my dignity. Like Stéphane, but less pretentious, like Patrice, but more friendly, like Philip but more faithful, like Yves, but less brittle, like Ghislain, but less paranoid, Yan went like a whirlwind, after but a few weeks of trying to change me, to mold me, to make me descend from the spheres where I got over the years and eventually to rebuild myself to finally run away while trying to understand...
Like a few other ephemeral conquests, he tried to impose himself with his I-love-yous and sudden expectations.
Not unlike them, he disappeared without even knowing who really was the object of his lust.
Yet, avenged by their reproaches, their feelings of guilt innocently brushed off, their contented minds, their serene souls, closed to changes (that always have to come from me), all fled. All abandoned the trivial battle (trivial because in the name of love, fighting we shall) between two people (one of which is autonomous and the other wants to play the individualist) which lasted, in fact, very little time.
Fortunately, the battle was with unequal weapons. Fury against wisdom. Impetuosity against reflection. Adrift against anchorage. Childhood (now ageless) against self-knowledge.
They fled trying to get me, in itself the biggest folly since I dream of the day when I am no longer the target of their reasoning. I praise the day they will think about what they might bring me instead of taking from me.
May they work on themselves instead of hounding me about my beliefs and my refusals. My internal struggle, my introspection, it is already old. Bound for retirement in fact. I am who I am and ever-present and most fundamental, I am already who I wanted to be.
How do they think of themselves believing they can just try and change that?
If only they knew. If only they could guess that a simple red plastic strainer offered by a true friend and hanging above my stove has in itself more substance in my life then all their sudden and short emotional stays.
Do they not see that so wanting to please me, so forcing the opening, so desiring my company, without being able to even recognize its essence, they’re pushing me each time more determined to my entrenchments ?
The Berlin Wall certainly came down but how?
Through war or diplomacy?
By force or dialogue?
By understanding or ignorance?
And how long after its erection?
Unable that they were to pre-empt my torments, unable to help me find remedies, I am again in these heavenly places, this man-made womb, this fetal heat. My refuge. My only refuge.
Nevertheless, this retreat is different. Colored. By yet another mark, a simple indelible ineradicable reminder.
An empty bottle, a Scottish dandy in relief on its neck. A bottle of Johnny Walker. A single bottle of which the last drop was licked in exceptional company.
An ubiquitous souvenir sitting on a cast iron service table at the foot of a forest green wall, able to lessen the pain left by frivolities to come...
To the others who will come and to the one who wishes to stay, this advice:
Give yourself time and the chance to show you as interesting, as beautiful as is this empty bottle and perhaps I will contemplate you with as much joy, as much simplicity and for as long… and, I hope, for ever.
Max, buddy,
I wrote this long ago ...
Today, among these virtual pages, I wish to dedicate it to you ...
I know you and I think alike on many subjects ... especially human relationships ... even the intimate ones...
I do not pretend that you can derive a lesson out of it, but as we know each other well, I thought I’d share it ...
Letter to the NEXT ONES
Once again by myself in my one bedroom apartment, in the comfort of my walls and my trinkets and artefacts, my papers, manuscripts and prints, my familiar sounds and noises, the telephone ostracism, Tracy Chapman and my hopes, I just wander in these haunts, too many such visits on a path of ups and downs.
My desert island. My deep down inside.
And, again, I found myself there with pleasure. Without the sacrifice of my dignity. Like Stéphane, but less pretentious, like Patrice, but more friendly, like Philip but more faithful, like Yves, but less brittle, like Ghislain, but less paranoid, Yan went like a whirlwind, after but a few weeks of trying to change me, to mold me, to make me descend from the spheres where I got over the years and eventually to rebuild myself to finally run away while trying to understand...
Like a few other ephemeral conquests, he tried to impose himself with his I-love-yous and sudden expectations.
Not unlike them, he disappeared without even knowing who really was the object of his lust.
Yet, avenged by their reproaches, their feelings of guilt innocently brushed off, their contented minds, their serene souls, closed to changes (that always have to come from me), all fled. All abandoned the trivial battle (trivial because in the name of love, fighting we shall) between two people (one of which is autonomous and the other wants to play the individualist) which lasted, in fact, very little time.
Fortunately, the battle was with unequal weapons. Fury against wisdom. Impetuosity against reflection. Adrift against anchorage. Childhood (now ageless) against self-knowledge.
They fled trying to get me, in itself the biggest folly since I dream of the day when I am no longer the target of their reasoning. I praise the day they will think about what they might bring me instead of taking from me.
May they work on themselves instead of hounding me about my beliefs and my refusals. My internal struggle, my introspection, it is already old. Bound for retirement in fact. I am who I am and ever-present and most fundamental, I am already who I wanted to be.
How do they think of themselves believing they can just try and change that?
If only they knew. If only they could guess that a simple red plastic strainer offered by a true friend and hanging above my stove has in itself more substance in my life then all their sudden and short emotional stays.
Do they not see that so wanting to please me, so forcing the opening, so desiring my company, without being able to even recognize its essence, they’re pushing me each time more determined to my entrenchments ?
The Berlin Wall certainly came down but how?
Through war or diplomacy?
By force or dialogue?
By understanding or ignorance?
And how long after its erection?
Unable that they were to pre-empt my torments, unable to help me find remedies, I am again in these heavenly places, this man-made womb, this fetal heat. My refuge. My only refuge.
Nevertheless, this retreat is different. Colored. By yet another mark, a simple indelible ineradicable reminder.
An empty bottle, a Scottish dandy in relief on its neck. A bottle of Johnny Walker. A single bottle of which the last drop was licked in exceptional company.
An ubiquitous souvenir sitting on a cast iron service table at the foot of a forest green wall, able to lessen the pain left by frivolities to come...
To the others who will come and to the one who wishes to stay, this advice:
Give yourself time and the chance to show you as interesting, as beautiful as is this empty bottle and perhaps I will contemplate you with as much joy, as much simplicity and for as long… and, I hope, for ever.
With even much know-how maybe I will talk about you in terms as laudatory as I can with this piece of dried glass.
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