I wonder whether you can truly love or be love back by someone who hides who they are. Its made me question mob whole life, and all my other relationships. Why did I trust him, or assume I knew anything at all about him? Maybe I imposed on him a dream, a fantasy. When I look back at old photos of us, I have to believe we were happy, at least as happy as any 2 creative people who are stressed out with commitments and fears about the future and what’s next and about their own ideas and inner demons , ever can be.
As if in some privately negotiated death dance
I think about ( him) quite often. As with many people who die violently and too young, there is never any resolution or closure. (He) still moves along inside me, outside too, with his music
I could tell she was either a borderline personality or had some other kind of crazy, contagieous energy, and I try to avoid that kind of drama in my life
The cafe life of beats, surrealist and the French symbolist poets
Brief rendez vous that always ended in wrenching separations.
I packed what was most precious and left all else behind.
We had not even booked a hotel and yet a room awaited us.
Without noticing, I slip into a light yet lingering malaise. Not a depression, more like a fascination for melancholia.
…dragging my malaise through December, with a prolonged period of enforced solitude, though sadly without crystalline effect.
I am certain I didn’t quite meet their criteria, but I suspect that after some deliberation they welcomed me due to my abundance of romantic enthusiasm.
Snowdrifts followed one another in waves. It was a spectacular vortex swirling light. White way, White Sea, white sky, what could be fairer than such a sight.
Delirious nights dominated by a procession of clinically depressed, bad tempered , heavy drinking, opera loving, detective inspectors.
I may not know what is in your mind, but I know how your mind works
I knew the moon would eventually rise above my skylight but I couldn’t wait for it.
They seemed more suspicious then grateful.
Such dark thoughts for the sake of…
Its melancholic menace filled my heart with strange adrenaline.
My list of impossible things one must one day accomplish.
Like choosing a card from a tarot deck that reflects your current state of mind.
The moon was natures spotlight.
Then there are the scores of notebooks, their contents calling confession; revlevation endless variations of the same paragraph and pile of napkins scrawled with incomprehensible rants.
I took my tarot deck out of its worn chamois pouch and drew a card , a little habit before traveling.
It was the card of destiny.
Magic theatre . Entrance not for everybody. For madman only!
I love my coat and the cafe and my morning routine. It was the clearest and simplest expression of my solitary identity.
The joy rides of generations of risk takers
All is present tense on such a ride. Physically impossible to look back.
The sudden brightness of dawn startled him. He staggers into the garden; bright blooms stick out their fiery tongues, sinister oleanders of the red queen. When did the flowers become so sinister? H tried to remember when it all went wrong. How the threads of his life unraveled like winding linen from the unbound feet of s fallen consort.
I felt strangely detached, nib , yet visually connected.
The was no ice on the river and the boat sailed on without her. So not cast your boart on a river of tears, cried the tearing wind.
I was singularly driven to get my shot.
Paul Bowles once said that tangier is a place ehetrr the past and present exist simultaneously in proportionate degree. There is something hidden in the fabric of their city, a weave that. Produces a sense of welcoming coupled with mistrust.
Surrounded by friends, I hadn’t anticipated the deep loneliness that I was to feel nor the resentful heartache I used all my strength to dispel.
Images have their way of dissolving and then abruptly returning, pulling along the joy and pain attached to them…
With the eyes of a woman from the backwoods who has slept with the devil
I d reamed I was somewhere that was also nowhere
We seek to. Stay present, even as the ghost attempt to draw us away.
life is at the bottom of things and belief at the to, while the creative impulse dwelling in the center, informs all.
The pictures were not exceptional but contained the mission itself, which I had long forgotten.
I had since retuned and the urn is no longer there, but I believe I am still. The same person; no amount of change in the world can change that.
The next slow moving hours could only described as sublime.
I wrote without writing - of genies and busters and mystic travelers, my vagabondia
Tragic Hollywood ; Beautiful , Glamorous and Dead
Akutagawa, dazai, & Plath - death by water, barbiturates and carbon monoxide poisoning.
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