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| june 02 1999 | pen on paper...return to days before. Tiny purple notebooks,
cashew nuts as the rain falls. Transcribed upon return, unseen scribble
factor all neat and precise in readable font...transcribed words to the
neat, transcribed life to the neat.
new people, superficial vein of motivation, leadership, personal development. Personal development?? How many of them write I sit, wonder as they talk of "who I am"...how many of them look beyond to the ugly grimy dirty and see perfection in imperfection, beauty in madness? Talking talking yet we say nothing. Mentally point to people, tell myself I would like to know him, for almost invariably the people I would choose to know, truly deeply honestly are hims, quirk of personality quirk of madness. Meet, join, maybe tonight who knows, depends on circumstance, and I fear hurting being hurt...circumstance. all thoughts as I sit and watch |
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| june 03 1999 | rarely angry often hurt...personal slight as we sadly place hope back
for pandora and time passes time. Italian endearments that wound,
steal bit by bit worthiness, deservedness, hope.
desperation, emptiness in convolutions, cryptic abstractions...those who know will understand... those who do not will only come to by invitation.... but if the masks should fall away......... poets told such hypocrytical words of simple joy, moment by moment, past behind, arms around shoulders offering light in darkness...offered light in darkness even though I too am blind. |
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| june 09 1999 | Balcony sitting the city stretches, yet all I see are the trees that
cover like soft green quilt. Finally coolness. Soft grey smoke
wisps from the crematorium and I can smell the final peace of those gone
before me from my 15th floor heaven.
I wrote thom...hope he believes me...at least hope he believes that I believe in him...in butterflies... Not long ago mere days, I sang loud and strong alone before many shaking in fear and still I sang.... and they did not turn away. If you have voice I beg please sing feel the joy in being afraid the purity of exposure and laugh smile dance in the wonder of voice. Smitten smiter smiles are no more...another time when the light is less perfect I will cry knowing the sweet pain of distance rejection growth that will scratch at my soul screaming doubts ghosts demons thoughts of worthlessness of not good enough never good enough. but for now...for right now...they can wait...go to hell.. because today as the soft grey smoke sings the freedom of released souls, I dance along, finding my wings within...the love stumbling tenderness of the friends who help me fly....see their colours as they laugh ...a symphony of the sun... |
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| june 14 1999 | delays bring lost time airport sitting surrounded by strangers.
I await the meeting of my friend who believes in my words, who's faith
never wavers..that I can write, that I should write...
and how I would love to write to fill pages and volumes with the words to let fly the emotion of thought....BUT of what do I write? perhaps there is a need to write of friends...of the CoM, of how we each in our turn love hurt the other, scarring with tenderness. I am angry about what has happened, angry because my frined hurts, angry because of withdrawn friendship and thinly veiled spite misdirected guilt. I who rarely anger...am angry...and disappointed in a friend I expected so much better from. Ingratitude for all that was offered...guilt manifest in childlike spite...anger flares and sadness holds them all like a thin black cord of mourning ...a thin grey circle of madness.
airport sitting still...surrounded by familiar strangers... the beautiful lady so nervous worried, frustrated jewish businessman angry with wasted time, weary french tourists travel home again, the young man with the friendly smile who sits smokes next to me. all familiar now...all strangers.... ...we are all strangers to each other. |
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| june 17 1999 | and I asked him if he would write for me as we sat, our last meal together.
He wrote of the beauty we had seen in this city of wonder, he wrote of
how I had hugged francis at the airport where he was waiting for the lady
in the orange golden dress, he wrote of the rain I had danced in as he
went to get the car...
and now I write, for him...of the smiles, of weary feet walking through gardens of roses, of us as children high atop the ferris wheel all giggles and pretend fear, of paying the bagpiper on the street corner to play a song just for me, of strolling cobblestone streets and talking, truly talking of life love fear pain, and of wistful parting...at the airport once again... I have been enchanted by a city, and I have held the hand of someone who cares, someone who believes, someone who gave my words back to me, who gave me light as he hugged my shadow... thank you my friend...I will never forget.. |
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| june 18 1999 | feet dabbled in aquamarine pool, raspberry tipped toes wiggle a tribute
to tori's voice, stereo in my ears. Sunlight taps my shoulder reminding
of it's orange perfection...I can feel it burn my kneecaps uncaring...the
breeze caresses the completion of my oasis in this day of glory.
I want to swim...surround myself in thecool wetness, probably will though I have no suit... hair dripping droplets splashed swirled bubbles as the water wrinkles accepts. clouded golden as the coolness becomes crystalline brilliant... |
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