“Twilight fades
Through blistered Avalon
The sky's cruel torch
On arching autobahn
Into the uncertain divine
We scream into the last divine
You make me real
You make me real
Strong as I feel
You make me real
Sheila rides on crashing nightingale
Intake eyes leave passing vapor trails
With blushing brilliance alive
Because it's time to arrive
You make me real
You make me real
Strong as I feel
You make me real
Lately I just can't seem to believe
Discard my friends to change the scenery
It meant the world to hold a bruising faith
But now it's just a matter of grace
A summer storm graces all of me
Highway warm sing silent poetry
I could bring you the light
And take you home into the night
You make me real
(Lately I just can't seem to believe)
You make me real
(Discard my friends to change the scenery)
Strong as I feel
(It meant the world to hold a bruising faith)
You make me real
(But now it's just a matter of grace)”.
—- song by the Smashing Pumpkins, lyrics by Billy Corgan ‘To Sheila’ from the album “Adore”
Jörn makes coffee like it’s a precise science but then becomes distracted looking for something
“How’s work?” I ask
He opens every cabinet and then he starts to get peeved ....and then all bets are off with his exacting coffee technique as he slams shut the coffee lid with blasphemy
“What?!!” he’s pissed and some water spills from the coffee pot
“How’s work?” I ask
Jörn gives me this suspicious look
“It isn’t rocket science, Jörn, it’s just a simple question. What happened to the French press?”
“Lisa broke it,” he plugs in the cord
“I actually prefer percolated coffee,” I say now because I can see he’s vexed. I attempt to cheer him up, “I don’t know what the big deal is about French press, actually; I think it taste like the inside of a coffee filter.”
“What!?” he looks still ready to put his fist through something as he looks at me and then he leans against the counter with his arms folded
“So.... How’s work?”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Why are you suspicious? I’m not asking you to divulge top secrets— I was actually asking about the philharmonic. Are you getting along any better with Jaap van Zweden?”
“What makes you think I wasn’t getting along with him?” he asks me, “he went to the Bravo Vail festival, the philharmonic has other events now.”
“Where’s the Bravo Vail festival?” I get up to adjust the cord he has got all twisted up
“Colorado—it’s not like you to ask me about my work, why are you suddenly so interested?”
“It’s not sudden, I ask you things; I asked you last week if you were permanently the new cellist now and, remember, I also asked you the other day how your friend is liking your summer house.”
“My summer house is not work,“ he points out to me
But I decide to ignore that,
“besides you’re just very cagey about...what you do.”
“Have you made an appointment to see Gerald?” he asks
“See what I mean! You change the subject every time.”
“What is ‘cagey’ exactly?” he asks me, “I never heard that expression.”
“Like.... how you are acting right now....”
“So have you?”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
“Wow.... Lisa is right, you do need to control everything..... everyone....” I say the last word under my breath “so what have you been doing then?” I suddenly realize to wonder, “when did the festival start?”
“I’ve been working on the opera at the opera house —you’ve been wrapped up in the penthouse repairs..... and if you want to play Pussy Galore with me, feel free to ask Papa, be my guest....” his eyes challenge me
“Ok....”
I don’t think I like this mood of his.
I say,
“is it just the French press or is it something else I should know?”
He rubs his eyes and sighs heavily,
“I’m sorry.... it’s probably the heat.... and Lisa ....I also would like to have my place to myself again—no I don’t mean you!” he throws his arms at me to stop my sudden reaction. He studies me, “and I don’t want you to start sleeping at the penthouse....” but oddly now abruptly he turns his back when he says this
“Is this about—are you still mad at me about the Hanna thing?”
“What Hanna thing?” then just as abruptly turns around again
“Because I’m letting her stay at the penthouse.”
“I was never concerned about that.”
“Yes you were.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No—I .... I’m glad she’s here and not with that buffoon!”
“You mean Lorenzo?”
He draws his brows together and seems distracted,
“—no the other buffoon!”
But I’m lost
“Lisa.... “ he sighs again to interpret for me
I start to wonder again about my conversation with her and reflect on things she said to me as I study him
The furtive look he gives me causes a gut reaction .... but I stay quiet .... and keep it to myself
He says,
“please don’t move back into the penthouse,” and I hear something in his voice that surprises me. I study his expression, his face that —hides everything.
Except his eyes. They do not
I say,
“I just moved a few things of mine back to the penthouse since the bedroom roof has been fixed and —you know, because it was cluttering up your place....space....”
“Please move them back. You were not cluttering up my space.... Duva.... I’ll make more room for you,” he says. And there is something in his voice that catches me and holds me still
So I stare at him
I stare because this is the most I have ever seen —or heard him .... expose—himself ....
And I suppose because it is so unexpected I find myself react
.... in kind ....
it is a moment ..... that I suddenly feel —that this is like—like we are .... like mirrors .... of each other
like I am looking at myself.... it occurs to me that we are
And like we are two poker faces looking into two polished shields and reflecting off each other
And as I read his eyes and his controlled features on his face
this too reminds me also of so many of those dreams .... as if this is something I must see; and now occurs to me that there is—was something I must have missed.... once before; and long ago;
The dream memories
The dreams; like his haunting sonatas .... those poignant dreams
.... yes, I see it now inside his eyes, within the darkness of that den inside I have seen so many times in dreams
especially the saddest one.... in the hut when the stacks of white hides turn blood red .... and such cold
the coldness I recall so real in dream
when.... my body turns so cold ..... that letting go of life .... What always forces me to wake up because it hurts so much to live again
and now as I stare at him.... seeing ..... those same eyes; with their haunting,
The smeden with the sad, sad eyes;
and how indelibly it has always stayed with me since .....
the agony of them .... and how it hurts to sink into letting go of life
I could not stop the despair and knowing it was too late ....such fatal grief of such regret and knowing I was leaving those eyes forever....
....forever?
How it hurt to let go
It causes my throat to tighten painfully because this I cannot run away from; it feels too real anymore to pretend that all of this is hypothetical
.... yes, I have known him, this now I know; we were as we are now
and I have to look down to stop the burning in my eyes ....caused by the beauty of his, both memory and present; those haunting and most brilliant gems with their strangely captivating and most alluring slant.
He is so good at hiding his emotions but when they are exposed ....there is nothing more bewitching than what is inside those timeless eyes, that I have ever seen
“Please,” he says again
And because I am stopped dead still and caught inside their stunning magnificence —he holds me with his gaze to say without words—
to say. without words.
And holds me there
I don’t realize I hold my breath until my lungs force air to remind me to inhale because it is always easier to keep pretending than to tap inside the heart when so much seems at stake
It makes me dizzy and I stumble backward and begin to fall; I don’t do emotion like this too well, I’ve not had the experience to build that kind of muscle to let it
His hand catches me by the upper arm and then the other
“I mean.... Duva..... my opera— that I write, I write for you because I must; it comes from a place within me I have always known was there but could never reach.... I need to create. It is who I am. I was not whole until..... I found this.... no matter how much I strove to find the inspiration. I write better with you next to me. An artist needs his muse and the most meaningful masterpieces are born from .... something real. I think this is the only way to let the pirate’s soul find .... his renaissance; you make me real and I want you beside me. I know you think that my motives are mixed up in these spy games or decoding you but I think you need to look inside yourself to know the truth. Maybe by learning to trust that within you ....you can learn: you can; learn to feel your voice .... and free it.”
No comments:
Post a Comment