an abstract response to gol , the dynamics of [sigh]

____You'll learn to hate me
____But still call me baby
____Oh love
____So call me by my name

______Rob Pattinson













watching the wet dark, by Jordi Gual Goodbye my friends..!!

sooner or later, i'm going to have to come to terms with the fact that i will never have that yellow couch again. the couch i buy in the next fortnight will not be that same cozy, ridiculous, faded yellow. it will not suck you in when you lie on it so that for moments you disappear and live off yellow magic fumes and not air. i will not kiss those women on that couch. i will not sit besides mona and get excited about watching Slipknot concerts, or laughing myself into a frenzy watching Southpark, or falling asleep reading Flaubert while it rains outside. it will not be where i stumble to in the middle of the night when i wake up with an idea to write about. it will not be the safest place in known universe. the safest place in the known universe is exactly where i left it. in the first room on the right, through the double doors at 19 Hegafen St. in the port city of Haifa in Northern Israel. and i am very far away.

__(and maybe that's what death is. being very far away. a wholly new silence. the dark side of the moon. and if that's the case, then we die soo often while we are alive. and no one will ever spot at just which moment it happened. and how long it lasted. and when we came back, if it really is us that came back, or if it's... a newer us. or an older us. or a version of us who prefers to sit silently and let others talk. or who wants to be the center of attention. or has slightly different colored eyes that no one will notice)

locked into rooms by cloudmade walls, 9 stories high off the ground, or double-doored rooms with fireplaces and yellow couches... the whole of history is just about houses and spaces and the sounds and stories that fill them.
________(i found another love letter today. i thought i had destroyed them all, but it seems not. this one i could not throw away. i read it, dropped it to the ground, and realized the moment was too finely directed because No Aphrodisiac ended just then and there was nothing but silence. me sitting on a bright blue park bench i have in my room, and a little card on the wooden floor by my feet.


WHAT DEAN IS THINKING
it is not you darling. you are you and you are fine and we are all ok. but where have i been while you have been living life?, and doing the things people do when they are alive?... work and love and play and make new friends and be excited about things, and sad about other things, and laugh and dress themselves and brush their teeth and complain about the price of movie tickets. while you have been doing that, where have i been? where have i been that has had no address... and no constancy so that i have stumbled awkwardly, my knees moving at jagged angles, into the lives of new friends, and then tripped up and rolled on, away, to other places. what is there to show for myself other than the taste of dirt, the grit of sand in my teeth when i sleep at night? it is not you i am sad for, i am sad for the life i wasn't able to make (for myself), or have (which i wanted). and all these messes and catastrophes i've taken and sanded the edges off and put back on shelves for other people, to clear myself just a little bit of space to work with, and for whatever reason, i feel a deadline has been reached and i wasn't prepared to hand in my work. that's what the feeling is. of being late. of being left behind. of being redundant and obsolete. and useless. that's the feeling. and there is no sense to it. no sense to these comparisons, because we are what we are, and we do what we do, and it's always different and yet always the same in one way or another, and... there you go now. farther away. farthest away. space and time and circumstance. we bid you farewell. a final, unquiet silent sort of farewell. a most brutal internal farewell. a kind that is said and not heard. and not answered. and not even known was said, and no one ever knows what is.was felt,

(the saddest part of all)

*__*__*

time: you fu*&er.

*__*__*

and here my calender says a newest year has begun. i sniff and touch the walls of my room. i can't sense anything's different. i go back to my bed, lie down in the fetal position, and listen to the thunder outside. waiting for whatever's next to collide with me. life is the longest collision course that i know of.

much love gol
q