Another One

Did you ask another

To come down to take your place

And to pretend that fall is

A charming season

I see a shrill light coming

I see that it’s fading too

Did you ask another

To be one fleeting dream

Gratitude had to come overflowing,

Under covered

Gratitude is coming rough and sharp

Puzzled over

That’s what you see

I am gathering parts

And you’re treasuring someone you barely know

Medicines for pain

Then full details in a single act show

Are letting you know I'm chasing another

But dreaming another one

I drew the world today

It’s surrounded by your smile

And something strikes me back

When you were laughing inside

Gratitude had to come overflowing

Under covered

Gratitude is coming rough and sharp

Puzzled over

That’s what you see

I'm gathering parts

And you’re treasuring someone you barely know

Medicines for pain

Then full details in a single act show

Are letting you know I am chasing another

Dreaming another one

Did you ask another to know things

You never asked

Blind Zero, Another One. Shame on them, for they didn't play this song two nights ago.

Memory tricks

It's a funny thing. Sometimes I think, all of a sudden, in something to write here. Something that I find good. Something that, in the next seconds, I shape and reshape with words until it gets as good as I can make it. I often have a notebook with me, so when I can I note it down, to write it here later. However, sometimes I simply cannot write, so I have to remember it. I say to myself that I must remember it, I don't need to remember the right words, just the main idea, I can get to the words eventually. But when I finally sit in front of the computer I can seldom remember. I know there was something, that I was thinking something that I wanted to remember, to write. There's nothing really funny about this, of course; the funny thing I mentioned in the beginning is the following: I can always - and I mean always - remember the place where the thought first came to my mind. Like this evening, the exact bend of the road, when the cab was driving me home. My memory doesn't really suck, as some people might think: it is just rather selective, and apparently it takes pleasure in playing these tricks on me.

Comic Sans

My friend, to make this matter clear: I defend that everyone above 12 years old who uses regularly, and likes, the font Comic Sans MS - bold, italic, with capital letters, whatever - should be summarily executed. No trial, nothing, just shot down on the spot. Period.

A good aim on unintended targets

My memory is a good, if unconvenient friend sometimes. But most of times, it is my own worst enemy.

Gainesborough's tale (1)

Aaron Gainesborough was alone.

He has been alone for quite a long time. Sometimes, when old memories surfaced on his mind, he wondered on how long had he been alone. He couldn't remember exactly though. It seemed a whole lifetime ago. Or rather: the time when things were different seemed a completely different life altogether.

He was sitting on his bed, a narrow bed in a narrow bedroom in quite a small flat. It was given to him by the government. He could have picked up a bigger one. He could have chosen any house he wanted to live in. Even a palace. They would have given it to him. He chose that one. It served him right. "I'm alone", he said to an astonished government officer.

It was a simple house: a small bedroom with only a bed, a small bed-table, a wardrobe in the next wall, a window overlooking the field and the forest in the back of the building; a minimal toilet; a narrow but furnished kitchenette; a living room with nothing but two chairs, a table, a recliner by the window, and shelves. Shelves full of books. The books were the only thing Gainesborough still cherished. The only thing he managed to salvage from the wreckage of is former life. The only thing he still bought these days for pleasure. His only pleasure left.

It could be wondered why he was alone. He had a daughter. A fifteen year-old girl of whom he had never known anything until three years ago, when he saved her and his estranged ex-girlfriend - his daughter's mother - from a harsh ending when the winds of war reached the town. He remembered that day: he, bursting into her house, killing at point-blank range two enemy soldiers. Coldly. One, he shot in the chest three times. The other one, staring back at him, he shot in the head. Right between the eyes. He saw them both, her partner of old and the little girl. He knew in that very moment who she was. He ignored it that fact; he took them out, and ran with them all the way, and got them into the evacuation plane. Years later, already a lieutenant, he returned. With eleven soldiers with him. Alone. They stormed the occupied city and took it by force, and gave it back to the country. He was hailed as a national hero since then - he, who didn't even belong to that country.

He was living in the outskirts of that very town. He never looked after his own daughter. He felt he didn't have the right to interfere. He didn't even know if she knew about him. Probably she didn't.

He got up and walked to the living room. On the table there was bottle of bourbon and a pack of cigarrettes. He poured some of the liquid into a glass, picked up a cigarrette and sat on the recliner, in the corner by the window. That place was the only comfortable place left for him in the world, he thought, whenever he sat there with his drink and his cigarrette. He did that every day, at the exact same time. His ritual.

His little world.

It was one of those warms summers - warm as I remember them in those years, the sky so blue, the heat so intense it seemed to be melting down the road of tar and dust and rock. We walked the road every afternoon, right after lunch. The mornings were reserved to the sacred sleep following a long night, but the fiery blaze of the afternoon didn't keep us inside. We'd walk down the road. How many miles long was it? I don't think I've ever known, as it mattered little. We just walked down the road.

We could, of course, simply walk to the city's dockyard and catch the boat to the island, as it would take us only ten minutes. But we didn't like to do it: we, born and raised in the countryside with its dusty roads and harsh weather, were not fond of the city's easy ways. And that boat was always too crowded, mostly with people whose languages we could not even begin to understand. So we walked to another dockyard, a smaller, less used one, whose boat felt like it was there just waiting for us. In no time we'd be sitting inside, watching the river and the sea as they merged in one blue, endless mirror of water. In no time, we'd be in the island.

Sometimes we'd meet his friends there, in the sands. Back in those days I never felt uneasy among strangers. Maybe because he never forgot I was there, and did not know them. Maybe because they knew I was his friend, and that made me their friend as well. Maybe because in that time I was more outgoing. More at ease. Things back then were easier. We'd all be there, enjoying the summer in the beach. We had nothing to do. We had nothing to worry about. The weather was always perfect, which means it was always as hot as a sphere of hell. The sea was always warm and quiet, and in the rare days it wasn't and the lifeguards came and told everyone not to get into the ocean, we'd simply grab our gear and walk to the other side of the island, by the river, where the waters are always quiet. We'd spend the afternoon there, between ball games in the sand, and fun in the sea. Nothing else was needed.

By the evening we'd return. Boat. Long walk down the road, not as warm then as the sun was going down. Home. My second home, one in which I know I'll always be welcome. I remember it now, and it pains me to know that I'll never have such a time again in my whole lifetime: countless days without worrying, without giving anyone satisfactions about this or that, about doing whatever it is that must be done.

I don't know what to do with myself

Train

Last Thursday I took a train to go to my homeland. The trip takes two hours - and in those two hours I found myself with my laptop on, writing non-stop a new shortstory.

I do remember the last time I had written something new - around what, two years ago? It was also on a train (planes also work). It's been a while since I've been able to write without being in motion. There was a time when I could go to a certain café, sit down, order an orange juice and it would all come to me, but it wasn't just about the place, it was about the company as well, and all that belongs to a time long since gone. Maybe I need to find a new place where I could spend some sunny afternoons writing. I don't know. For now, I know I can write decently on trains. Should use them more then.