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UNFINISHED SILENCES what I wanted to say ..
… to Misha my friend/ almost sister, from Pondicherry ;She wears lehngas, tattoos, t shirts and bare feet
Love doesn’t exist anymore baby,s
he said, thru smoke curls ; her dark wide eyes filling with Silence.
Must show you where I am : this doorway between doors and lives / and doorbells ; these Silences tiptoeing in the tiles between doormats / and every body waiting for somebody else , to start to really say something .
2. Dear Mish
Your emails are like cream you skim off chilling tea ; loved the pics and seven wonders of the world, great that you have such a great mailing list / just miss times when we chatted half a min between 3 pm and 3.05 ; I told you everything Dear Mish.
I miss you. Today we are like……. for some new things there are no words. Hate to say it like this. You do mail and wonder why I never reply.
I don’t know what to say about what the German said to his Ma after the war, the handicapped artists feats and love letters to God on a rainy day : how do I reply to all that, and you asking why
what on earth does everyone say ? Send back more mail so the world goes round and round and each others friends reply everyone’s mail, so we know someone’s alive when they reply , but we do not want to know more , or say anything else, except lots about everybody else, esp those real far away.
Dear Mish, what can I say. emails have no doors to knock on… so I cant invite you in. We ‘ll chat on the threshold and stay there, chatting bi laterally like men at war, looking to other territories and figuring out war heads and other stash no one dare talk about . Its that Age now.
I ve run barefoot so long you wouldn’t believe it : One Editor thought I had stole someone else’s lines ; you’re too young to write like that about pride, he said ; I thought, “ wow !” [ but he mis understood that word PRIDE].
What do you mean too young to write about it . I saw it first in Mama’s eyes, though I was such an awkward child and wrote in reverse and stammered.
I drew on trees and in the sands in the beach, in the blue petticoat Ma stitched for me on her Singer Machine ; no there was no school on the island , just us , and the little green desk Dad made from a Carton for machinery
Where I grew strong just knowing I wasn’t all wrong. We lived then, by a Lighthouse in a compound filled with sand and trees : such a simple place to learn about Dignity.
4. Two paged play in a blue file : was it something I wrote ?
The Lady smiled at my two paged Play, written on the back of other papers,
“ Good, “ she said, “ I like your Work, But you aren’t Qualified.”
Her smile was frozen broken glass , little jaggednesses hugged with arms of ice
I tried to tell her I did not want a job, her money, or her time :
“ Get Out, “ she whispered wordlessly, I had thought to help her Campaign with
the victims of abuse, but left her room,and came back home, to write.
Someday I hope she will find the Love,she never ever found, in somebody’s arms
or the kiss of a child, or even in her own eyes, the lady who never returned my File
5. Peripheral Vision
I hadn’t thought about it, before it became so useful to know that people use peripheral vision so very much in the happenings of a day
esp when they want to not see some thing, or someone properly ;
its almost how frightening how effective that can be, you wouldn’t by lying when you said you did not really see someone standing there who wanted you
or you could see someone try to get away thinking you hadn’t seen them trying to get away ; peripheries are not limited.
Thru eyes lashed with things we may not discuss
we touch, we meet
what sometimes we can only see
in the dark.