he wants me to write of him; in the din of our world our separate peace
he wants to read how my words describe what his voice does to me; or he wishes to crawl within my head and know my secret thoughts of him
words that require decoding because, well, he knows that every thought I reveal, I say a thousand more
so he wonders how would my contradictions describe one of —what— thousands of fleeting sexual thoughts of him?
assuming …. do I? today —where, how, and how many…. such a bad boy
so, this is yet another marker for a page
…. there has been something that has been weighing heavily on my heart and on my mind these last several weeks
I have known for quite awhile that the brother of my best friend since elementary school was dying of ALS. A most wicked, cruel and tortuous way to have to waste the ending days of a life
and so, this has been pressing upon my thoughts throughout all that has been on my mind for weeks
I remember him vividly, even though I’ve not seen him since we were young.
He was her second older brother; tall, wiry and athletic, with a confident arrogance. Even as a boy, he was breathtakingly handsome; a boyish version of my best friend. He was dazzling, I idolized him
and so, it makes me sad
so…. it seems, he has— at last, found peace
I mark this page for electra ….
…. his messages come to me and as clearly they do say so well; so very well….
as much as they do …. they do not ….
The backdrop of Nazis and Hitler was always present in my life growing up. The stories and accounts were always in conversation. They came to my ears from grandparents as —it was quite impactful to our family background; on both sides—they covered all the territory of the events then —and was why they left Russia and Poland
So then there now were the stories to hear from those we met in the Netherlands. And I remember one in particular I heard between my mother and an old survivor as they spoke outside the front steps of Anne Frank’s house and I listened to their conversation while I watched the canal boats…. you know, so, I guess it was not long since that Grim Reaper tore through when we first moved over there—relatively speaking, as I now look back and count the years
I have said that I was brought up by the old Dutch men at the local Traveler’s Grill down the road where I lived and where I’d hide out for hours with these two old men and their stories. That was my education on life and the world
and why I am so different from Americans where I am never understood by anyone
Well, they warned me of such things we see now happening but, well ….and I keep thinking of Milan Kundera’s description of the invasion of Prague in his novel —which he witnessed in actual life….
these wars and world wars —it is a battle that seems to never resolve…. it seems to me, dark forces that gain muscle through lust of power, it is some dark dinosaur within the replication of mankind ….they cheaply spend lives not their own and we record this in the chronicles that are full of lies…. so, this ‘work’ of mine…. is it just a diary? why do I do it, what does it mean
