Thursday, July 14, 2011

Stories from "Ithaca". . .

And the old city in the north was there, waiting for me stray son . . . .

 . . . but despite all the joy, some kind of an “emptiness”. I had still one thing to accomplish. I wanted, I needed to see her, at least once, at least just to say goodbye. No explanations, not to beg at all, just to get on with life and leave a lot of stories untold. All the disappointments I had left behind before, with just a little hesitation, maybe even a little dose of sorrow but then days and time buried it all under a deep tomb of oblivion. Maybe nothing to feel proud about after all. But this time have been different. Was it that she was very special??  She was (and is) for sure. Or maybe I am getting older; every time is getting harder and harder to deal with the facts. This time I really felt like the hell with pride and dignity, and common sense,  just deeply wanted to tell her: hold me!! For the last time, before beginning my fall. All this time pretending to be tough, just in order to hide what is crystal-fragile. Maybe it is not a matter of age, but about my heart, or my soul. Or both. Maybe I have left so many pieces of them along the road. 


So I went to the farthest north, just to meet her, but failed. Not a failure in the proper sense of the word, rather, I hesitated. At the middle of the way I turned around and got back. Maybe it was maturity and common sense the ones who advised me not to go any further with such nonsense, but for the first time in my life, I listened to them. “I surrender” said my defeated faith. “It is over” I said myself. It´s over and nothing will make the time to go back on its march. Leave that all behind, forever, for good. My faith collapsed and with it, I lost something else, something hard to describe.

Common sense, yeah, what a thing. Experience, maturity and all that. They advised me not to go any further with my nonsense. . . but the cost was and will be high. “What if. . .?” Eternal question. Barely satisfied with my last minute decision, I began my journey back, thinking, pretending to be cynic and smart.

But it was in the way back, watching all those landscapes passing before my eyes and the raucous sound of the bus erasing the destiny behind,  that tiredness transformed  itself into the key to a dream that made the things clear form me, finally all the answers, all the reasons, the long yearned consolation to a dumb, silent pain. . . .


“She arrived with the first days, of the cruel season of sun. The very moon had became a girl. She arrived and we both knew the true and how everything was going to end, but still we said nothing. Now she has gone. You have gone and have become, the same stranger you were before your arrive. And the moon has come back to her place, so far up there, so silent in the dark sky.

I went to look after you along with your promise, of a silent highway leading to paradise, walking together to the sunset. Solitary road at the edge of the World. It was supposed that you were going to explain me everything about life once in there and the long day would had, finally, came to an end. I have gone to look after you, you and your vision of a winter morning. A little cottage built of whispers and descriptions, located by the last of the seas. It was there where the life was supposed to begin. But once I arrived, I found nothing but dust and neglect. The cottage is just a ghost, of something that once was someone else´s reality. Worn away walls and a table in where a glass of wine was once poured while yet another summer was raining outside. I could even see that picture hanging on the wall, now so old, like a relic of bygone times. Do you remember it? A ladder and moon´s light. And the sky of December so starry. I didn’t sleep that night and thus, I did quit to the chance of dreaming, just in order to catch that very moment, for you. I have caught the stars –I said excited- and now I put them in your hand. The old picture still smells, it smells like fresh night. Then, when the story was still young. 

But there are only traces of a remote existence, there, in the old cottage. Only the footprints of your wise cat, over the dust. I really had the hope to find someone real this time and not you, pretty lady who comes when in the madness. I must leave this place behind now since I realize it was only borrowed, as borrowed were her face and her story. And my happiness. Going back along the lonely road,  to retrace my steps and walk back the mirage.  But now I remember all that sudden, that there is another  place where I could maybe find her.  At the end of the road among woods and lonely meadows. There in where the spring is white. And I know every single street and corner of such place, I even remember that which was mundane, all the days that were never born. I remember the nights and the autumn´s afternoons. I remember your silhouette, cropped by the blue light in the window, sitting, while you confectioned treasures, only visible for them with a pure heart. And the cold nights with innocent movies about perfect love and other fairy tales. A warm blanket. And the privilege to drive away your loneliness.  Why would we have to worry? Everything is going to be better tomorrow. It is supposed that the future got to be always happy. We must only wait and you will see. The radio playing a bunch of old songs early that and all the mornings. One and every single beautiful morning of every season, of what was supposed to be a new start. And just to contemplate you from my corner when you invited me to visit your world, my reward. And bring back to life, just for you, only for you, the long time ago extinct race of the angels. And write your story and transform it into a epopee. The greatest ever told. I know perfectly every street and every corner  and it is not difficult for me to find your place. It is true that my heart beats a little bit faster with every step.  This time I will get it my way. I rehearse the meeting in my mind and all the words I am supposed to say. Here I am, let me hug you, I want to live if life feels like this. You are real, yes, you are not an image. You walk and breath. You smile and cry, love and hate. You called me and wrote me in the middle of the night, so many times, looking for consolation, when it was me the one who received it with your existence. You forged the beauty with your hands, transforming silver and metal into little worlds and pretty realities. It still hangs from my neck, those dreams you framed for me in silver.  Two words and within them the secret of the whole creation revealed. And there it is.  I can see it, the place where you live. There is nothing but to knock the door and the long day would have come to an end.” Yes, may I help you?” The unknown woman asks. I don’t know, it was supposed that she lived here, she the one in which the moon incarnated. But she has gone. “Could you repeat me your name? I found it familiar” My name doesn’t matter anymore. Ever since now my name will be sadness. All the tears and the rain splashing over the windows and the pavement. “Someone has left a letter for you” What a surprise, what an odd world. “It was a long ago that we arrived to this place and there was only a box and the dominant presence of a remote and forgotten existence. In the box an old envelope, with your name on it, dedicated to the pilgrim, the walker, to the story teller one”

Ballad of expected desolation. Maybe if I try with all my strength, I could manage to wake up from this nightmare. Maybe if I try with all my strength, the life could end right now. But no. I open the old envelope and a piece of paper inside. “EVER DREAM” and a perfume that vanishes. Two words and within them the secret of the whole creation revealed. She has not gone. I have found her. The end of the long road and search, today Spring begins. -“Is what you expected to read sir?”- Is that and more. What does it matter now, the color of your eyes? Blue as the sky of the first dawn. Blue Moon. Now, at last the long day ends. No mirage to walk back. This world belongs all to you and you in every second, in every place. You my beautiful that visits me when in the madness and the loneliness. Belong to you all the faces and all the tales. Belong to you all the roads and your spirit in the wet grass and in every blooming flower. Please, look at me tonight when sleeping, get into my life through my window like the first time. Now I have to go. And you as well. I promise not to cry. See you when in a better world, one in where the dreams may come true. See you when in a better life. And now I am leaving to the beginning, along the solitary highway.  The sun is setting in this, the last of all days. And you standing there by the road, the moon made a woman. The moon who shone in my darkest night until transforming it into the brightest day. You wave your hand saying farewell and I leave you back. Faraway and so close at the same time. But  forever in my heart. I am not going to cry since I know now that all the roads lead back to you.  The whole world is yours and I along with it. I will not cry since I know now that I will see you again, yes, one day, when in the eternity. . . .

My pretty and beloved girl, my pretty beloved Blue Moon . . .





Keep well dear friends, a big and warm hug.
 And bye for now . . . . .


A.O. 








3 comments:

Two Tigers said...

Dear Alberto, these words are so full of sadness it makes my heart ache. But they are also full of life and your unique strength and passion and that makes me happy, that you are still there and you are still you. I hope the writing of this has eased your struggle a little. Please know that you are in my thoughts and heart. Be well, my friend!

William Michaelian said...

Yes, be well. And, I must say, it is good to hear your voice again.

Anne said...

:-) varm varm klem til deg Alberto