I can’t stand voices and breathing…

…The moorings are snapping one by one. High tension, ping, ping, ping…
Miss C 93.

I could make it all work for you baby. You could tell me anything and I would take care care of you.

The 1st time I saw her, she was siting at a table with too many grown ups pretending she knew what was going on. Hanging with the suits painfully obvious knew that they were all laughing at her and it made my chivalry hitch and cringe.
Se looked so goddamed lonely. Uncomfortable and overdressed. Tiny heels beating a tattoo against the legs of her chair. She sensed me before she saw me, little fox. Tiny even terrier teeth. She turns to me arms pressing in on each side of her torso, she makes her cleavage pout at me.

Until she’s sees my eyes and realizes that I don’t need that.
I loved her then and I love her now. Couldn’t save her. I didn’t stand a chance. But she knows that I didn’t want anything.

All my words are dying. I have these perverse fantasies of vows of silence except for being on stage. I feel like I am doing nothing, saying nothing but the same things over and over again and that I am learning nothing nor am I getting any better at it.

I have to learn new ways to learn.

I have resumed a correspondence with a treasured friend. He and I can hardly be bothered to converse when we meet which is very infrequently as we live different lives in different cities. But via email we are on fuckin fire. His missives kept me sane during the great LA disaster of 05′.And I figure that they will do much of the same service this time out for me.

He asked me, all casual like “How are you doing’?” after I had sent him a gushing missive from the front lines. Took my breath away that he looked through what it was that I was doing to enquire about “Me”

Kindness makes me duck my head stutter and blush like a fool. I don’t know what the hell to do with it.

He made me pause and think. I answered honestly. I said that I tend not to think about it all too much but I think that i’m ok.

I propped up the bar last night. The watcher. The scribe honey. All this beauty fuckin with my wires. Lotta’s friend, the gypsy called me “cute” last night cause all I do is say nothing and refuse to make eye contact.
“Cute”.
Fuckin great…

There was a stem of lilies in a tiki vase on the bar before me. The scent reminding me what had been extracted.

What price had been paid.

Then:
Lillies at 60 dollars a bunch. Wrapped in miles of white tissue paper, swaddled like new borns. Once upon a time when he loved me and I tolerated myself to a slight degree, my beautiful fairytale house by the water would be filled with important, indulgent bunches of white vanity.
The scent trailed me like a ghost.

And now?
Still…

To this day, able to king hit me in a bar in Germany.

Go figure.

SF4L
Michele.