English Wall (tz)

ponedjeljak, 08.05.2006.

Writing on the Wall

(Writing on the Wall)

Nights always get me into strange movies inside my head. I’m sitting on a riverbank, watching the battle of Titans; dark clouds pressed against the ground; the soil breathing out the vapor and mist. You’re by my side, unaware that I’m drowning. I’m digging through the shelves of memory. I’m counting constellations backwards. I let my body float downstream, swallowed by the rapids, looking at my own self with a stranger’s eyes. I’m drowning fast, even though I have no rocks in my pockets.


The writing's on the subway wall
I'm sorry that I never called I,
I never phoned or wrote to you
It's silly 'cause I wanted to

I’m travelling through woods, meandering within the underground streams of my old neighborhood. I’m laughing at all the right places, joining the mob to chant, adore, lynch, march on... I’m forcing my body to breathe, speak, to lie low undetected. Mimicry has become the way of life. It’s survival in its elementary form. I speak too loud, radiating self-assurance, picked up from educational shows and self-help publications. «How to believe in oneself», page three: in Rome like Romans, in a wild pack, as a wolf to a fellow man; keep your body in perfect shape; live to be a hundred years old and dance on the grave of your enemy...

Oh yes, the subway wall
Sadly seems to say it all
It's my mistake, I know that now
A bit too late to cry...

The spring is late, and winter has not left yet. Someone at the door is just about to knock. I’m going mad from all that waiting. Stomping of feet down my street reminds me to have my doors wide open, to let all runaway chances return with remorse. Days are locked in like colorful pearls on a string, the petals of daisies in a flower meadow. Yet, the spring is late.

You're somewhere else
With someone else
And here am I
All by myself
An empty wall
An empty me
I write the things that should've been
I tell the world how much I care
And miss the one that isn't there
Oh the writing on the wall

The Sun has still not chased away the winter. It lingers around, like the hundred year old- iciness in the garden of a giant, good and bad at the same time; the one, who chased away children’s innocence and laughter and got punished with ice and wasteland. What was the name of this fairytale? I’m getting old, I can’t remember. The only name, popping in my mind is giant Regoc and the little girl Kosjenka, but this is another, almost a love story.

My company is all gone, so I’m taking off my face to rest. This wicked hour, when morning is far and night not young at all, is the best moment for us with a hundred faces, without any face.

She’s asleep now. I forgot which side of the bed she sleeps on. The right, I guess. On her belly, with arms quietly folded next to her body. Her hair is all over the pillow. She’s like a mountain well, which never runs dry. Cold to touch, persistently she follows her bridle path of a mountain goat, without wail or complaint. She understands and accepts that holding own heart in the palm of one’s own hand is a dangerous and careless task. Only sometimes she brings down the floodgates and defense walls, to allow the rare fortunate ones catch her moment of vulnerability, openness, exposed to piercing, interrogative, prying looks… the unnecessary questions. When the clock strikes a minute, she’s safely back in reality. Bringing up another firewall, protection from self-exposure. She turns off the people and their personalities, takes a book, and a blind look in her eyes takes her to deep thoughts. She looks inside, within, while stroking hair with a hairbrush for the hundredth time, before escaping into another dream.

After a challenging day, I finally embrace darkness and lights switched off with appreciation and gratitude; with hope, I’ll fall into abyss of dreamless void, without images, without colors.

My eraser, never worn off, is wiping away all the program languages and coding, leading to her. It will bring me back as an empty cup, a wall without scribble, with neatly folded graffiti by my bedside.

The writing's on the subway wall
And give or take a year or so
Someone will come and rub it out
Delete the words that hurt my heart
Oh yes, there will remain
A little hurt, a little stain
The memory can still be read
Upon the wall inside my head
Oh the writing on the wall (right on)
Oh the writing on the wall (write on)


Goodnight, dear.

(For Lili Marlene Premilovich, aka Lene Lovich, born 30 March 1950, my first love)

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