onsdag 14 november 2012

I Don´t Draw Like That Anymore

Don´t give up on me just yet.

In front of this assembly and in the name of God, I swear to love you until I get bored.

To be able to leave, to be able to come and go as one pleases, that is the most important thing in life, and you can´t do it if you have a family. I would have liked children, I have to admit that, but one has to choose… We sold ourselves to the tourists at the Spanish Steps and every memory is crystal clear.

The house, as I remember it, was made of Russian larch wood. It had over-sized windows and the pine trees grew so close their branches knocked on the glass when it was windy. It was always windy. The sea was very close and it brought wind. We used to take walks on the beach before breakfast. Lack of coffee gave you a headache, but you always indulged me. I loved those walks.

You would tell me all about how you made movies down there. You´d run around explaining everything, trying to recall camera angles. I know you did, but I can´t seem to remember it properly. Nowadays I only remember Death. Your Death -- how you portrayed him -- right there on the beach. Death and seagulls.

A few days ago I walked past three basket players. They were impossibly tall. I found it arousing. Last night I dreamt of basket playing vampires. Their capes got in the way.

When you were old and I had long since left (was it you who left?) -- did you masturbate thinking of me? I thought of you. Still would, I believe, if I could remember. You had that crazy energy paired with so much intelligence and talent. How could I not be drawn to you?

I have eighteen children now, thirteen of them were born in 2008, five in 2009. I have no time to regret or remember. I fry sausage for lunch and fight to keep my nails pretty.

”Where you keep… grim?” Ana says and I show her the makeup cupboard, feeling slightly embarrassed at its state; the foundations and eye shadows have all gone old and smelly, but she doesn´t seem to notice. I love her sketches, the one she makes of my character´s dress is divine. ”I will present it to you!” she shouts happily and it only takes me a few seconds to deduct that she means to give it to me as a present.

My intern is a transsexual satanist. I kid you not, it´s true! I love my life.

3 kommentarer:

  1. I would like a transsexual satanist of my very own. If he could play piano with bony fingers, but only Rachmaninov, it would be pleasing.

    Astounding, beautiful imagery. How dare I try to respond in kind? Nothing is lost in translation, my dear. Nothing.

    I don't write you back because he's here, and writing while he is here is like talking behind his back, so I'll wait until he's gone, gone somewhere mundane like work where I have time to dissect and fret and blubber all over the page.

  2. I am glad nothing is lost =)

    Looking forward to the blubbering =)

  3. Transsexual satanist?! If only my workplace was so interesting! Your first paragraph is very Sharon Olds, quite lovely.