Archive for October, 2011

Untitled, again.

I could not find something to listen to.


A stranger walks into her life unexpectedly. She is unaware. He finds himself a dusty corner to sit in, somewhere in the solitude of her thoughts. She is unaware. He draws stories of his past on her walls. She is unaware. He is a stranger of thoughts; an alien of words, a knight of the dawn. She is unaware. She is unaware.

A nomad in search of a safe house is all she ever was. Has she found a place to stay, she wonders. The issue here is not her finding a place to stay. Sleeping on the streets of nothingness always comforted her. Those streets everyone feared at night were her only sanctum. They often warned her of murderers and masked criminals roaming those streets. To her, however, those streets were the closest thing she ever had to a home.

She wonders if this stranger has spotted her late one night as she slept in one of its alleys. She wonders if this stranger is not really a stranger, for he is far too strange to be one. The irony of the situation deceives her. It is not time to meet stranger and ignorantly watch him come in, put the teapot on the stove, pour the tea into the teacup, take the cinnamon cake out of the oven, cut the cinnamon cake into symmetrical squares, open the cupboard, choose one, not two, but one red plate, move two, not one, but two pieces of cake, hold them with the tip of his fingers, place them gently on top of one another on one, not two, but one plate, and walk to the balcony of her unaware hopes and dreams, overlooking a utopia turned into ashes of forlorn.

Not once does she ask who is he, what he wants, where he comes from, what he does, or anything about him. What interests her is his interest in her. What makes a stranger so familiar, so predictable, so insane, so sanely insane, so strange, so confusingly easy to understand, so so.

He glances at her as the tea grows colder, hoping silently that she would join him and witness the fall of her. He will hold her when it all falls. He will comfort her. He will give her a place to stay. He will offer her safety. He will. He will. She glances back questioning herself more than him or his intentions. She quietly paces across this dusty room of hers, almost swaying to the wind of silence – unshaken by his ever-mesmerizing glance.

What are you, he asks, not who but what.


Short Story: Her words were not her.

Listen to: Together we will live forever. 

Entry | 3:45 p.m. | Across the street from Au Petit Fer a Cheval. | Paris.

There she sat on table 5, wearing a peachy floral dress, white sandals, and a bag with a seagull pin, just as she wrote she would. Her golden hair French braided to the left, not right, left. Oh, and those big red geeky glasses she always writes of. Yes, her, it is her sitting on table 5, with her blue journal; with the single spaced, grey lined pages. I wonder what she writes of me in it, she always had a way in her words; a way that kept me wanting more, but never getting anything at all. Is there a heart on the side of every page, just like she described.

Around her a group of friends, loud, disturbing, laughing, joking, two males, three females; one blonde, two brunettes; often she wrote to me how much loud noises distressed her, but she seems to have reached her hidden world, the one she always kept away from me. She almost led me to the door once, and as I begged to enter her world of mystery, her words faded into sleep. We never spoke of that day again, though I tried.

The waiter is approaching her. Ah, yes. Let her turn her face, for I have dreamed of those big hazel eyes every time I read her words. She never liked her big eyes, she wrote they are too big for her soft face, and feel awkward. Then, when I wrote back asking what awkward meant, her words chuckled. An old fashioned man, she called me, just the way she likes them.

The waiter seems to be almost of her age. She leans her head just a little, just a little, and cracks a saintly smile. It appears he asked for her order or some sort, she shook her head gently and turned her head swiftly to her journal. I am intrigued to know what is in that journal, she wrote I could peak in if I had come, and I have come to read. I do not know if I am intrigued enough to hear her voice, not yet anyway. She wrote to me once, asking to hear my voice, I refused. I could not bear letting go of her words. They captivated me in an odd way. I never understood why, but as she sat there today, across the street from where I stood, at 4 p.m., I felt some sort of energy pull me away from her. It was as though her angels have sensed my devils and protected her from me. I am a sinner, I wrote to her that, I told her that, but she never took consideration of it. I wrote to her once:


I am nothing but a sinner. You need not a man of my sort in your way. Do take care of yourself when in presence of a man with my sins, for they have overcome me.


It took her a while to reply back. I thought my words scared her away. They had not. She was, as she wrote, hesitant to express how hilarious my letter was.  So she wrote:

Dear you,

A foolish sinner is one who does not admit to his sins. I have laughed in life no more than this. Sinners color reality, which color do you use?


I longed for the italicized, un-capitalized t at the end of her letters. She fascinated italicizing words she thought mattered, but to her, all words matter. I wonder; is she italicizing any of her words now?

I fear meeting her. I fear that mask of words will fade and turn into pointless giggles. I know her emotions towards me are sound, and I have warned her I am not a man of love, or whatever they name it these forsaken times. She promised she would not let her heart fall for a heartless man, ‘for it is far worse than suicide’.

I light another cigarette. She cannot withstand my smoking habits, yet she withstands the rest of me. Ironic, isn’t? If it were the smokes that stood between us, I would have quit long ago. She does not understand. Such a child she is; a judgmental one. What does she know of smoking if she had never tried it?

I am late to our proposed meeting. I do not want her to see me. I do not want to interact with her. I want to observe her while she writes. I want to experience her words through my eyes. I want to see the movement of her hand as she wrote her Js, her Ys, her italicized, un-capitalized t.

I leave at 4:00 p.m.

Then she writes to me,

Dear you,

I have waited as promised. I wore my peachy floral dress, the one I told you about. I did my hair you pleased. I sat on table 5 as you asked, next to the window. You did not show. Why have you failed me, a man of words and promises never fails. I need an explanation. My feelings are hurt. Do tell me why a man of your sort would not show as promised.


She would not hear of me again. More often than ever, I see her desperately waiting in table 5, growing more frantic each day. I told her, she would not listen. A child of her sort could not, and would not understand. Her hopes are immature, she will grow someday. She must grow someday. She must.

I told her not to trust a man of my sort. She would not listen. She would not listen. I am not to blame.