You held my hands…

I have been unable to write after this concert with you.

You love the sound of guitar so I chose this concert for you. It was in the Catedral of our city. Saturday night.

You held my hands during the whole concert. When this piece of Piazzolla was played, my hands were in yours. The music of Piazzolla is one of my favorites. I have always loved tango music. It makes me feel melancholic. Sometimes even sad. I have never wished to listen to Piazzolla and my favorite piece “Milonga del Angel” with you by my side. I wanted to post on my blog right after the concert to describe how I felt. Then I could not so I just kept it to myself.

I wish everyone in this world could have the same moment. The Catedral was magical that evening. You touched my hands right after the first piece. And you did not let them go. During the break, you kissed me lightly on my right cheek, then on my hair and my forehead. I posed my head on your left shoulder. You kissed my hands. The two hands. Indifferently, left then right.

You kept my hands after the break. Now they played Bach. The same magic. Or even more. You moved closer to me. Even.

You held my hands that night, the whole night. You did not let me go. We could sleep in a single bed and still had enough space.

I fell asleep in your arms. My hands in yours. I could still hear Piazzolla and Bach. And also your breathe.

Nothing alien

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“You said you’re going far away. How far away are we talking about?”
“It’s a distance that can’t be measured.”
“Like the distance that separates one person’s heart from another’s. (IQ84 – Haruki Murakami)

Do you hear her screaming?

Do you feel her fear?

Do you hear her crying?

Do you feel her suffocating?

Penetrating screams

Convulsive warm tears

In her dream

Aliens abduct her love

He says goodbye and gets in the vessel

It was just a dream

Just a dream

That meant nothing

So why all the screams and tears and breathless fainting

She loves him

The kind of love

That abducts her life

That gets into her bones and skin

At night

That kind of love

Nothing alien

So real it is

Makes her breathe

Leaves her breatheless

That kind of love

Nothing alien

So true it is

While I am asleep

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Please see for me if he is fine

I will close my eyes

I need to sleep tight

Just for a little while

Please see for me if he is alright

While I am asleep

I cannot think of him

Please think of him for me

Just for a little while

I trust you to be on his side

I don’t need a lullaby

Please take care of him

While I am asleep

And dream and dream

And dream and dream

Of him

The young samurais

dream

“The answer is dreams. Dreaming on and on. Entering the world of dreams and never coming out. Living in dreams for the rest of time.” (Sputnik Sweetheart – Haruki Murakami)

Someone says that dreams are not something we see while sleeping, dreams are something that keeps us awake.

My dreams are not the ones described by H. Murakami. I don’t enter the world of dreams and stay in there. I dream of concrete projects which give me energy to move.

Lately I see my life surrounded by people and children of different nations. I see myself with them sharing my books, my favorite movies and music. I see myself reading poems to kids in their language, I see myself teaching kids to write poems. I see myself sharing my love of movies to them. I would like to see them excel in Asian art martial. I will call them: “my junior samurais”. They will be dreamers like me.

This idea keeps me awake. I know I would get there to realize my dreams. I have the energy and the enthusiasm for that. At this point of my life, I have the feeling that it makes a lot of sense this precise dream of sharing.

Yesterday I realized that the love for him, though immense, is never enough to complete me. I need to love more than one person. I have the love for the whole earth and the need to spread it out.

Call it a dream or not. It makes sense to me.

I have the image of the young samurais in my head. Young heroes reading poems in laughs. Beautiful dreams make beautiful dreamers.

When? Where? How?

I will get there.

The ears

“…Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you… So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones… That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine… (Haruki Murakami)

Define being high – have you ever been high without drugs?

Define being in love – that feeling, the closest to getting high, without drugs.

You are on the clouds, suffering is not in your vocabulary, you fly, you float, you are light, you lose focus, you are not weak; you get stronger.

In love and high.

I was lack of sleep for months. His mails usually arrived around 5am in the morning; my brain and body were programmed to open my eyes at 4.59 am, then I could never fall asleep again. I started to get high at 5 am.

I was supposed to see him again sometime in the middle of the year, in June. I stopped counting the days that separated us. Days, months, time passed by so quickly for me and anybody else, except the time within us – him and me. Weekdays were long, weekends were long, nights a nightmare, days full of casual things with other people which made me move and laugh. One morning in early May, his mail arrived at 5am with a bomb effect. He announced his early return due to some emergency. I acknowledged the news at 5.01 am and felt for the first time, since our time apart, a great pain on my chest. It was because the timing could not be any worse. Two days after his return, I needed to get out of the country for some emergency on my side. The whole time he was back in the country, I was outside the country. Fate, destiny, call it whatever name you like. It hit me like a storm. The storm is in me, outside of me, everywhere.

Reacting when you are high is never a good idea. You hardly know what is right, what is wrong. You try to be rational, you try to get some sleep again; and mostly you try to act adult. My head was a mess. The inside of it that morning was like all the wires hidden behind a thousand of computers or actually it was exactly like all the wires that I have tried to hide for months behind my huge TV and the super sophisticate surround home movie (a buy recommended by a geek friend). Even worse. I was in my bed when his mail arrived. Development of some worrisome scenarios. I calculated his possible time on the plane, his trip, when he landed, when I got myself on the plane, when I took off and how two people with such unfortunate destiny could somehow meet each other in a real cloud (yes, not the one in my head when I am high). It became difficult. Think of a bomb with a ticking clock, programmed to be exploded one minute to another, and the yellow, blue, red wires impossible to be unraveled. Imagine a situation where only a Jack Bauer could do something about it; and that was me that morning with no Jack Bauer.

I knew he could only arrive with one flight connection at 5pm the next afternoon. Being in a very no-man’s  land of a relationship where we are friends, or free lovers, or lovers living apart (again my relationship could not fit any normal definition – the only thing which was clear for me from the beginning was that my heart was in command, and my rationality has surrendered long time ago and I was always high when it came to anything related to him), the issue with the “no-definition” and the “no name” relationship with a man who has made you high for almost 200 days on the row, was that, in that particular situation, you would never know if you could show up at the airport just to say hi. Definitely a “no-no” or a “yes-yes” or a “what the hell, I will do it anyway”.

After the breaking news, I went to work, acted normal but could not concentrate. I had one chance to see him before my trip: at the airport. Going to the airport could make me a real stalker, a crazy chick, an immature lady. In public, in daylight, forever, in front of him. Yes, because I don’t care being a stalker, a crazy nuts chick as long as it is in my apartment, in front of my bathroom mirror; I can handle a huge amount of ridiculous in my head, virtually, with words but not out loud, in actions and in front of people, and most of all, at the airport.

During the whole afternoon, I cogitated. The clock on the bomb was still ticking. To be at the airport at 5pm I was supposed to leave my office at 4.30pm, the latest. At 3pm I was still in the dark. I would use some daisies and tear off its petals to play the: “I am going to the airport”, “I am not going to the airport”, “I am not going and I will regret”, “I am going and I will feel remorse”. Tic, tac, tic, tac, 3.30 pm. My hair was dirty, I had no nice make-up (it was a rainy day and normal day of work), I had my ugly old cowboy boots and that was the day that was supposed to meet him after ten weeks apart. I looked tired, ugly but still high. That’s the funniest thing of being in love. Love gives wings and lightness even in the heaviest dilemma. But I had to admit, at some point I did feel a bit dizzy that afternoon. Suddenly, no more imaginary daisies to tear off, I jumped out of my office chair, and headed to the airport without turning off my computer.

Two possibilities of arrivals of his flight: one on the Arrival 1, one on the Arrival 2. Some more imaginary daisies please! I opted for Arrival 1. Once in front of the arrival gate and seeing people getting out, kissing each other, I wanted to flee. Why was I here? Not possible. Wrong choice. Wrong number of daisy petals. What did I do? Why did I decide to go to the airport?? I looked at the people who were waiting. I said to myself, if someone among his friends or relatives was there, I would run off. I could not be there, my place was not there. But I did not know how they looked like. So again, I just stared at them and remembered what he used to tell me: “all of my friends are Turkish or Albanese or Serbian”. So I stared at one man, speculating that he was Turkish and speculating again he was his friend and then again I said to myself: “damn, he is his friend, am sure, I have to back off”. Hardly, I finished this sentence in my head, here he was. And of course, someone was there to pick him up. Not a Turkish young man, but an old Italian man. How could I figure that out just from staring at the people waiting at the gate?? Too late, I said hi. He was surprised I guess, and until now, I still hope it was a good surprise for him.

From the city to the airport, my heart was squeezed a few times. Waiting at the airport, the breathing became a little bit irregular and when he was there in front of me, the breathing stopped for a few seconds. He was nice, easygoing, cool as usual and tanned, more than usual. He was gorgeous and he was HIM, and that was enough. Writing any sentence from now starting with “he is” is not the aim of this short paper. He was there and I was breathless and voiceless. I probably looked stupid. I felt like a child, an adult, an old person, at the same time, all in one. He has the power of God, how could it be? In front of him, I am everything, young, old, ugly, beautiful, smart, stupid, anything.

The following hours were clear and blurred. I kept every minute of this meeting for myself. I had the feeling that if I put it down in words I would be able to remember it for a long time. But then suddenly I felt that silence would make it mine forever.

The “erotic density” of the Greek restaurant where we stopped by to have a coffee was more than “thick”, at least for me.

If I were a moviemaker I would film that unique scene: he showed me his scars and his swollen ears from some MMA combats and I touched them, gently and shyly with my fingers. If I were a poet, I would use all the words in the dictionary to describe this feeling. If I were a photograph, I would congeal and immortalize this image in one shot. That moment was the most erotic moment in any human history of sexuality.

We said goodbye after a few coffees. I went away for my trip. I was high for several days during my trip. He was my storm. He left the day I got back home after my trip.

Today, I still wake up at 4.59am in the morning. My fingers can still feel the soft skin of his ears. And the table in the restaurant putting a distance between our two bodies has a touch of foam. He was so close to me, it was just a distance of a table made of foam.

How about?

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How about a cup of coffee this morning my darling?

How about sharing your last night’s dream?

How about swimming with dolphins this afternoon my love?

How about dancing on the moon tonight?

How about you and me?

Plain, simple, poetic, alive

Crazy, delirious, unbelievable, tremendous

How about us?

Once again

 

The magician

IMG_4405Give me a grain of sand

I would build a castle

Give me a drop of rain

I would pour a river

Give me a green leaf

I would plant a forest

Give me a fraction of a second

I would design a timeless machine

Give me a grin

I would fashion a necklace of laughs

Give me parts of a ruin

Give me a piece of your heart

And I would invent a kingdom

Where  you would be the king

Powerful you would be

Magician would I stay

Guardian would I be

Of those littlest things

I have dreamt up for you

In a ticking second

With no wand

But a thousand of loving thoughtsIMG_4421

A guardian angel in an unsolved enigma

Did I tell you I have an guardian angel watching over me? I think I did earlier in this blog.

Something weird happened two days ago. I went home and immediately realized that someone was in my apartment during the day. First all the doors to the rooms were closed. I never closed the doors. I found it strange but was not more intrigued than that. But when I went to the bathroom I saw the shampoos were not at the usual place. They were indeed moved to a very weird place. Yes, it was very strange and a bit scary. I called the owner living downstairs, thinking he might have got in the apartment to fix or repair something. He said no because he did not have my keys. I tried to think. Nobody has my keys except my guardian angel. My dearest friend in this town. I asked him and he said no, he did not drop by either. So the enigma stayed unsolved. Who could get in the apartment? I could not think of anyone else. I live in a safe place and a safe country so I don’t take this incident too seriously. Still it was weird.

But mostly, I think I was not afraid because I have a guardian angel living nearby. I haven’t seen him a lot lately. My sweet friend of twenty-years old. I have always known that having one like him is just enough for one life.

Yesterday we exchanged texts more than usual because he was worrying more than usual.

– “Are you sure that no one else has the keys?”

– “Just you and me”

– “Hum…”

Then late in the evening, I was watching a movie and he called again:

– “Are you sure you are alright?”

– “Yes, I am. It was weird. And I am sure somebody was there. But no idea who and how.”

– “Hey, a question, if something happens or if you have an emergency, whom would you call here?”

– “You, of course. I will call you right away.”

-” Yes, of course, I am your guardian angel.”

Simple answer. Simple communication. Precious friendship. Unique protection.

Yes, a stranger or someone had been in my apartment.

But not a lot of people I know have a real guardian angel. He told me he has very long hair now. Sure it fits him good. Blond long and wavy hair, this is my angel.

I slept like a baby in sweet dreams yesterday night.

Free fighting

Yesterday I went to see the free fight championship at your club. There was a huge crowd and loud music as usual. I recognized some songs from Eminem. I ran into your best friends. I said hello. They asked me where you were traveling at the moment because they had no news from you since. I talked for a little while with the father of your best friend. He asked me in Italian why I was here and not with you, somewhere in the world. I remember I answered him: “E la vida”. (It’s life). He touched my cheek slightly as a sign of compassion.

The atmosphere was the same as the several last championships. Like the time you were referee. Like the time you fought. I had never felt any violence in free fighting. Probably because you initiated me to watching it and you used to explain to me all the moves and techniques. And as you were such a peaceful person, I could never link free fighting to violence.

Yesterday I was sitting at the first row. Missing you all the time. Missing you was the weakest word to express my feeling. It was the first time since you left that I started to count in my head the weeks left until you could be back home.

Inevitably last night I dreamt of you. We were in my house where I used to live during my childhood. It was a strange association. You were so real in the dream. In the dream you held my hands the whole time. You were so handsome. I was breathless. It was hot weather in the dream. I showed you my garden where I used to play. It was so real. You told me that all your injures were now cured. I woke up in the middle of the night. My pillow was wet. Of tears. I might have cried out of happiness during the dream, for being able to touch you once again. Then I fell asleep again with the still wet pillow at exactly at 4 in the morning.

This morning I saw that you sent me a long mail at 4.02 am. Probably you had seen and felt my tears. You asked me about the free fight night and wondered if I was scared being at the first row and so close to the ring.

My morning started with a dry tear and your sweet words. My dry tear whispered to me: “I love him.”

The crusade

 

I somehow have built something very specific for myself. I could give it a name “my world”. Living inside of it gives me peace. Those who are dreamers like me might have done the same thing.

When I live outside of my world, I feel like going on a crusade, heading to a battlefield with only one weapon, my sincerity. It has been going on and on like that for years. In matters of love. This quest for love is probably an endless mission with a meaning, which until today is still unknown for me.

At nights when I come home, I look at the wounds and bruises and I ask myself: “What does this all mean to me?” The answer is never a clear one because there is simply no clear answer. But deep wounds heal and bruises disappear. I take care of them the best I could. I stay inside of my world for a little while, resting before going on a new crusade.

I probably don’t know how to live differently. My world is a dream. Maybe the crusade and the mission too. Maybe the wounds and the suffering are just part of the dream. Only the quest for love is true. Like my breathing.