The End of Nothing.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
youth regret, the offering: Valery if you're out there
Ever wake up alone? I tend to prefer it. I think I do. Not interested in state-installed Valentine's day pookery, or primetime television espisodic battles of control. With everyone marrying Jesus and Mohammed these days...and open relationships, I can't get me head around much of it. I can fill my day with art, literature, history or a damn-good argument on the internet. Arthur Rimbaud makes a terrific lover. So does Isadora Duncan. Thelonius is a good friend. I have raw oysters and champagne whenever I make a celebration.
In the midst my litany of unattachment remains a nagging memory: My mid-twenties in the early nineties, New York City, East Village, Thirteenth Street. Drinking too much, working too much, wearing my leather motorcycle jacket all the time. People dropping like flies from AIDS. Soul II Soul next to DeeeLite on the jukeboxes. Woke up with a guy named Valery. Eastern European. Blonde. Russia...Poland, I think Russia. We spent time, saw each other. He was ready to stick around. Something in my gut said 'you'll be sorry' just before he left for Arizona. The cards and letters came. I didn't notice what they really said 'til years later. One and only person, to which I am not genetically related, to say 'special', 'love', and the like. That I now believe. I've scoured the cards, no surname, no return address. Ran a light-leaded pencial over them, in case of an indention, a clue. All that's left are the words most in our society would die for. Many do, certainly.
Valery. Arizona.
I could let Auden pack-in September.
In the midst my litany of unattachment remains a nagging memory: My mid-twenties in the early nineties, New York City, East Village, Thirteenth Street. Drinking too much, working too much, wearing my leather motorcycle jacket all the time. People dropping like flies from AIDS. Soul II Soul next to DeeeLite on the jukeboxes. Woke up with a guy named Valery. Eastern European. Blonde. Russia...Poland, I think Russia. We spent time, saw each other. He was ready to stick around. Something in my gut said 'you'll be sorry' just before he left for Arizona. The cards and letters came. I didn't notice what they really said 'til years later. One and only person, to which I am not genetically related, to say 'special', 'love', and the like. That I now believe. I've scoured the cards, no surname, no return address. Ran a light-leaded pencial over them, in case of an indention, a clue. All that's left are the words most in our society would die for. Many do, certainly.
Valery. Arizona.
I could let Auden pack-in September.
:: posted by Martin B, 9/23/2006 11:50:00 AM
