Shifting, again. Goodbye, again.

I like it better over there somehow.

Visit me here : Mandarintangerine.

Goodbye, it was nice of you to shelter me here but I can’t stay here forever.

 

That look.

I swear I didn’t know if we both died in that same moment, but I know part of me did.

 

So, there was this dream, you see.

We would meet somewhere near the train station, wait for each other until we were both present. We would greet each other with a simple a simple hello, no peck on the cheek, no arms around each other; just a simple greeting. “Hello there”. “Hi”. Then we would walk together to the stop to wait for something else – a bus. While along the walk, we would talk, nothing about work, nothing philosophical, nothing about beliefs, even if each other had their own, nothing about anything we wouldn’t feel like talking about. We would talk about our childhood, about holidays to distant places, about our dreams, about our nightmares, about our deepest, darkest fears and nothing but about each other.

 When the right bus arrived, we would continue our flight from the world while the moving mechanical beast would take us far away to Somewhere We Would Want To Be. On the way to Where We Would Want To Be, we would pass many other people on their ways to Where They Want To Be. We would pass tall concrete buildings, empty houses with empty souls, overhanging street lamps casting their soft glow on the windows. The further we would go, the further we would leave Things behind. Until we would pass through a lonely road surrounded by grey trees. Our eyes would flicker while the branches of the trees flashed their silhouettes.

Only when the right stop arrived would we alight, leave the beast to crawl its way back, leave the last bit of the world behind. When we would find ourselves at Where We Would Want To Be, we would catch a whiff of brine, a glimpse of the Sea. Then we would walk a while longer to the Beach End, look for a place to sit, search for the right spot and we would sit.

We would sit. We would talk and talk; and talk until we would be so full of each other, we would not be certain about whom was who. We would watch the waves wash themselves to shore, taste the salty air, feel the breeze through our hair. Until we would have nothing left to say, we would have no regrets, we would have fled the world. We would have become each other, and knowing that, we would hold each other.

 We would know. We would know that one would stand, leave for the Things we had left, leave the other who had come so far together with, away from the world; like an escape from an escape. But what we knew would matter little. Because we would have chosen for ourselves already.

 

[my mind]

Here, there, everywhere and nowhere.

 

Piano keys.

There is a crack on the great bowl of grey above. The uncountable drops which seep through, drown the bitumen veins of a nation, lick the green tongues of jubilant vegetation and splotch remaning earth; quenching a thirst. It is the evening, crawling towards twillight, while the last slips of my boyhood draw away I listen to the radio clashing in the sound of the pitter-patter with slender fingers gracing piano keys. As I sit on the unlit veranda, someone patches the leak and patiently the drops clear, all that is left is drained away. Soon, twillight will pass, then even much less sooner, night will arrive drawn by a single silver orb. I try hard to peel off the expiry tab labeled on me in vain. Already, visages from dark places visit me, there will be no new dawn for me, I know. So quickly, this life is spent. I put down my pen and while waiting for the great bowl to paint itself black and throw out its shimmering carpet, I try even harder to hum along to slender fingers gracing piano keys.

 

Utterly inconceivable.

“I saw voices and heard colours before I woke; obtuse colours which flooded and murky voices which enquired. Would you like some tea? Remember to lock the doors before you leave. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Echoed in my eyes.”

“What were the colours like?”

 ”They were mellow colours, ghostly white and orange and red in a fish pool. It was the lusty scent of cinnamon. Warm, warm like the slow fires midway in winter.”

“Could you taste them?”

“No, I did not taste them. Though if I did, I reckon they would be like fruit pie. Apple and pear, without the sweetness. I reckon I’d only taste the tartness of the fruit and the crust will be oak brown and smooth.”

 ”Would you look for me the next time?”

“Only if you do the same, I think you will. Though I have made a promise not to make promises I can’t keep,  there are certain other things which I can promise you.”

“To taste the colours?”

“And to say a goodbye when that moment arrives. To remember to lock the door before I leave.”

“So no one else will open it? So you can trap me in?”

“So I won’t find my way back in again.”

 

(The Andro)

Was it

           the boy who looked like a girl?

Or

           the girl who looked like a boy?

 

Charlotte the Volkswagen and her earliest days.

Charlotte Pumpkin

Born Febuary 1973

Wolfsburg, Germany

 

Dear Randy Vanwarmer,

Are you really the only one who knows? About packing bags and struggling for things to say? About leaving in the rain with the door open? About not standing in the way? About mornings spent staring out the window? About writing letters left unsent and waiting for one?

 Smoke gets in your eyes sometimes, wouldn’t you agree?

Randy Vanwarmer, I know a little about things like that too, if it makes you feel any better.

 

This never happened before.

“They shouldn’t go it alone, it’s not so good when you’re on your own.”