The Post Office

Unknowingly

2007-11-02T16:12:00.000+01:00

Here we are waiting for that perfect moment to begin; the beautiful sound of drums softly banged on the Tom-toms captures me floating and following you onto the roof tonight. You ask me what’s in my pocket and I slide my hand into it, pull it out again and spread it open for you to see:

- Oh it’s a little feather! - You say

Now it’s my turn to see what’s in your pocket, let me see what’s inside… you smile and trick me into thinking there’s nothing in your coat’s pocket, then you pull your left hand and there it is:

-A black whisker! Ooh! - I reply without hiding my amazement.

Yes, here we are and I can only be mesmerized…..

She’s wonderful and I, well I’m odd. It’s simply us. These two perfect strangers who have known each other for so long, both tucked inside this fleeting moment, two different kinds befriended by a common enemy, suddenly revealing their magic numbers one to another. How could this have ever happened to us, in a world like this, run by lunatics and their politics? Having ended up being silent lovers and not knowing how or when?

- You are here, real as you are, nothing can bewilder my eyes… - I whisper it out as you try lighting your camel with a candle. We are high, an endless high.

Jeff once sang stars were each one a setting sun. I’m delighted to know this is all we have, a moment alone sitting on the roof, smoking cigarettes and listening to the sound of the night as you keep turning my orbit around.

Hide & Seek

2007-10-28T11:09:00.000+01:00

Give me your eyes
And I will let you see
The man behind these lines
It’s uncomfortable but sure
Every word is all about you

Give me your eyes
And I will let you see
The man behind these lines
It’s unfortunate but true
To know all I want is you

Give me your eyes
And I will let you see
The man behind these lines
It’s impossible but pure
This feeling I've got for you

You can call it anything
Hide and seek
But to me this is everything
Hide and seek
Please keep haunting me

The Waiting

2007-10-21T23:34:00.000+02:00

Deep-digging into my record collection I stumbled across this little old gem, easily one of the simplest yet most overwhelming songs ever written about those precious longings that get us
going sometimes. What’s really lovable is that great first line; it sets the tone not only to the song, but the whole album, aptly titled “Hard Promises”. Perhaps this is why Tom will always be underrated besides the likes of Dylan or Springsteen, because there is that humanity perceivable in his lyrics, in the voice of the common man who’s telling us stories about every image seen and captured by the underdogs of this world. It reminds me of how human we could get to be.

Oh baby don’t it feel like
heaven right now
Don’t it feel like somethin’ from a dream
Yeah I’ve never known nothing quite like this
Don’t it feel like tonight might never be again
We know better than to try and pretend
Baby no one could have ever told me about this…
I said yeah yeah…

The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you see one more card
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part

Well yeah I might have chased a couple of women around
All it ever got me was down
Then there were those that made me feel good
But never as good as I feel right now
Baby you’re the only one that’s ever known how
To make me wanna live like I wanna live now

The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you see one more card
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part

Don’t let it kill you baby, don’t let it get to you
Don’t let it kill you baby, don’t let it get to you
I’ll be your bleedin’ heart, Ill be your cryin’ fool
Don’t let this go too far, don’t let it get to you

Watch / Listen

Death Of A Clown

2007-10-01T01:38:00.000+02:00

Day 274:

“Hold your fire! I have done nothing at all or anything different to what you all might once have done” - Said the captain to his rebelling crew as they tried to have him executed. -“I see no purpose in being the one making the rules here anymore. but let us all be fair this one time, who has then been to where I have, must now stand forward and speak out, because to whomever they may be companions here, their truth must come out of its disguise. If any man is to stand firm and in denial on his own feet, he shall not be sailing here with me or any of you and henceforth I shall not be the last to be judged alone”

The crew remained uncertain about the captain’s words, unable to decide on granting fairness or employing ruthlessness or even to provide him with an answer. His old pals were not there to interfere in this situation or intercede on the captain’s behalf. Charles had died more ten stories ago and Leonard remained a thousand kisses deep. His crew knew very little about him, perhaps due to his own fault after all. In sight of the late events that unfolded mistily and to the extend of his secretive persona, doubt filled the heart of every sailor. This was not the average predicament for the captain.

-“See the pleasure in my smile. I’m not going to change my ways, even if this is as far as you would let me drift” – Continued the captain.

Ever since the captain had trusted one of his dearest secrets to someone he thought and considered a confident, an atmosphere of ignominy was perceived by the captain on every face he addressed. Was his disclosure a sin? Or hadn’t the other sailors had equal truths like this? Where they buried profoundly away in their memories, in a place so dark where they were almost forgotten? Did some of them laundered their own histories and the past the left behind?

Earlier during the present year, the captain decided it was time to turn the ship around. The sailors remained obliged to follow on his orders until they started relating the new itinerary with the mail he was carrying around. He was not going to go on a quest for treasures anymore. Unlikeliest as they would have ever imagined, he simply wanted to deliver mail from complete anonymous to strangers, letters of hope from the sane to the broken-hearted, colourful memories to the blind of thought, and maybe some directions for himself. This of course, disappointed all sailors to the point they brought him down to where he was standing right then.

He was drawn out of his cabin as his hand was firmly held on the feather that was adding the last lines to these words: Never stop to wonder why it takes so long to admit, but I’ll be the rain and I as such, will follow you down, to where the grass grows greener and to where no one shall ever point their finger at you or anyone you know in your heart. To where the ocean will kiss the sand and steal its secrets for you to keep. To a mountain high enough, where the moon will share a palace with the sun, no one will ask you or anyone, to remember the wrong you have not done. When they have been there, they will know it from their tears running lost among raindrops as their guilty heads fall and roll down the hill. If they get to you, they’ll get to me. Don’t let them dare to fade our colours away.

It was past midnight and the whole crew had gathered around on the deck, no one talked, and the ones who wanted to, could not. Beyond the dying candlelight and the autumn winds lied the night burnt and the contemplating eyes of the captain were distantly set on it.

-“If you are still hesitant, I hope you make up your mind as per your wish and execute me soon, be brave to let that silver sing, because I may need some redemption and after this, so will you”

Someone had to shut him up and with no remorse the captain was fired at. The clock struck one-fifteen.

Burnt Down House

2007-09-17T23:45:00.000+02:00

Don’t worry, sometimes this is just the way things are, we’ve been eating the same meals every day and the radio still plays the same old songs. I guess we both got somebody else in our minds. The truth falls before our eyes and drips onto the table again and again.

Welcome to nowhere, that’s what reads on the sign. No common ground to stand on, so where do we go from here? -The road ahead stretches for miles and miles, every line on the asphalt rolling through the rearview mirror incites the sound of the sirens, I look up at the white metal ceiling as I dwell upon chasing a walking hurricane. The wind deserves praising for sweeping me away from the dirt and ashes of our temple into somewhere new. Oh she has the most beautiful of names, but the blisters on my hands tend to speak aloud, they would give me away so easily and unlike you, I’ve wised up and scorched enough to be looking for an unjustified cause to play with fire.

Hope your journey is as pleasant as mine, as for us there cannot be a last time. What is a last chance? - When I can’t even return back to what we used to know because there is simply nothing left at all. You set the house on fire, all for a little spark, to light up those fireworks in your eyes. In no time the flames began to grow, those merciless moments before I had you lost in the smoke; and I, I was left behind inside as the house burnt down.

Late, Later On

2007-09-06T13:29:00.000+02:00

One of these days I will be as gone as I could be,
so you can go back to sleep now darling,
because we may never be,
and this is something I’ve been told,
right from day one.

Within these words I am left to be found,
forsaken and flirting with time,
because silence won’t make it truer,
and this is something I’ve known,
right from the start.

Out on the highway and into the shadowlands,
when your night is eclipsed,
I’ll be out of sight.

You will long live in my memories,
so sleep tight sweet dreams my darling,
because tomorrow is all there is,
and for me a new day is dawning,
right out of you heart.

Out on the highway and into the shadowlands,
when your night is eclipsed,
I’ll be out of sight.

Impossible Germany

2007-08-31T18:43:00.000+02:00

Tonight the Post Office has decided to remain open a bit longer only to celebrate sweetly-crafted pop. An addiction I’ve had since I was a kid trading my lunch money for cassette tapes. (I’ll go further on this at some later stage, as this was a precious age of mine which I’ve always treasured).

There are times when a song comes out of nowhere and it immediately let’s its magic unfold naturally, takes you through the smoke and then shows you where the way out, as a metaphor, is to be found in the form of a door that leads you straight back into the flames. And then the eclectic finale comes in.

Impossible Germany
Unlikely Japan
Wherever you go
Wherever you land

I'll say what this means to me
I'll do what I can
Impossible Germany
Unlikely Japan

Fundamental problem
All need to face
This is important
But I know you're not listening
No I know you're not listening

This was still new to me
I wouldn't understand
Impossible Germany
Unlikely Japan
This is what love is for
To be out of place
Gorgeous and alone
Face to face

With no larger problems
That need to be erased
Nothing more important
Than to know someone's listening
Now I know you'll be listening

Official Site :: Select :: Listen >>

Lost In Space

2007-08-29T16:49:00.000+02:00

Not long ago, it’s hard to tell when, a beautiful cage, a window with a view stretching all the way down the boulevard, seeing the places where he hung around, weak and weary but lucky enough to have found a refuge to head to. It’s easy to take everything for granted letting conscience go astray. Like the things that looked familiar, everything was then moving and feeling out of place. On the frozen past he could not longer reflect or find those answers. Drown by the shocking truth of not having any strings to grab hold onto in a world floating on a wave, misty black and crowded with every passer-by’s darkness stains, their filthy pockets filled with dirt and their guilty eyes set on aeroplanes cruising high upon the overflowing glitter of stars and bars, leaving behind a steaming trail of emptiness, in an escapade cutting through to infinitum.

Life is ever-changing. And helpless to understand how he became part of this mess, he left unresolved the question marks hanging down the invisible shapes, things that were always there and yet we were neither able to see nor understand. A stranger, some might think, like a snow flake on the sand miserably praying for a winter's cry, he drifted down beneath the tides into a sea of secret rhymes, longing to reach out and touch one last dream, to be one, in the memory of water.

- …Il se sent étranger...
- …pas, Il doit dormir..
- …peut etre, seulement perdu dans l'espace

It seemed I’d been riding all day on the bus, only to awake to the sound of soft whispering behind my ears, then realizing it had only been two minutes since I closed my eyes. The engine was still roaring.

Favourite Thing

2007-07-11T12:06:00.000+02:00

Scattered on the ground, the garbage pieces render a pathway to his charm, climbs up the roofs and the trees above, keeping the beat with his four-legged march. His courage is at its peak, he needs no introduction, in his mind he's one hell of a cat. Waving his tail and bouncing his head he approaches this window we all know gives him a chill on the back. Puts his nose on the glass, then rubs his cheeks against it, he's leaving her a little bit of his mark. No much to say, anywhere is everywhere, everything is messed up. It’s not so easy to leave a message on her answering machine, curiosity killed the cat.

Ambiguity is her name, pretending her disguise, another beautiful pussycat dancing ballet on her paws. A little feline angel with the devil in her eyes, she’d press her claws against your back to let you know she’s having fun, everything is alright; then leave a little fur on you to remind you that every time you’re gone, she will miss you much, and you will miss her so.

Yesterday she went out hunting and today she'll grab a bite, because tomorrow is coming closer than you know. He ain’t getting lost yet but the language of purr whispers and blows, like rumors in a box: Enough for tonight.

Woke up in the morning feeling holed-up and blue, stepped into the kitchen, had a little milk; thought about the birds outside who were laughing at the white drops falling from his whiskers as he tried to breathe life into a letter. If only they’d seen kitty after midnight, they wouldn't need to understand why it surely ain’t that bad to be just another stray cat hopelessly jumping someone else’s walls.

Dirt on her mirror, floors and sink too, kitty is a mess, no matter what, there's simply no help so come out and play. One day they'll be at the garden outside, together rolling their backs against the grass on a nearby park, go scratch some rotten trees, steal a little piece, and live like two bohemian criminals, tiptoeing on the piano and running up and down, the streets of Berlin.

Ambiguity.

Hung Up And Overdue

2007-06-28T17:15:00.000+02:00

And in the night she became one with her thoughts and her dreams, realizing there was more to life than suffocating in the memories drifting on a pillow. She stepped out of a room, this dim-lighted gallery filled with the images she tried to forsake quietly, but the ludicrous laughter of those portrayed echoed in her chest, like the cut from a knife abusing through her chest, hastening the march of her heart, only to see it bleed and then collapse. The ruby red desire exploited out of red wine fermented by her sour tears, remains now decorating those rapturous lips on the portraits. It’s a disgrace and such a poor sight. We all are glad she closed that door.

No one would have ever imagined one day she’d be taking her wings off the one embrace she always thought was hers, but her wings pleaded guilty moments before they were sentenced to drown in affairs that could not be explained and spread wide open, breaking away from the thickest knot ever holding back those feathers. It was time to get cut loose and fly high. Just for once, let go off that part that wants to attach itself to the end of the story, cut your lifeline here and start all over again, like we never met before, being oceans apart we won’t be captured..

The news that she’d be approaching the harbour left me starry-eyed, brought me to the coast and here I am, waiting patiently to be friends at first sight while I occupy my mind hoping she would come down and see me. We’d sit right here next to each other and watch the tides swing up and down, back and forth, and when the time gets right, I could tell her about this book where the ending comes rather soon, some day soon.

…you can never tell.

Algunos Días Están Hechos Para Fumar

2007-06-13T15:08:00.000+02:00

Recuerdo muy bien aquel día en el que le vi por primera vez: era tal como hoy, nublado, húmedo y con un blanco en el cielo que se parecía a ese resplandeciente tono de las fotos tomadas con un tiempo de exposición alto. Yo había dejado de fumar de forma oficial por unos años y cuando lo hacia, era de manera esporádica y con intervalos de meses. Pues aquel día me fume uno. Mientras mi compañera hablaba de las banalidades de la oficina, yo contemplaba como el humo del cigarro se elevaba en espirales y se unía sutilmente a esa neblina cegadora, incapaz de evitar tal atracción. Fue entonces cuando entre caladas y la combustión del momento, su rostro blanco y mirada de dos perlas negras, emergió siniestramente acompañada de una carcajada angelical. El tiempo dejo de latir a su ritmo incansable para tomar un suspiro, dejo de correr hacia el futuro y se detuvo por tan solo un pequeño instante para apreciar el presente. Ella encendía su Lucky Strike y empezaba a hablar de las trivialidades del viajar y de valijas extraviadas. De su boca exhalaba aquellas nubes efervecientes como el polvo de estrellas capaz de hacer soñar al hombre más prudente del mundo. No pude evitar pensar que era uno de esos pocos momentos en la vida donde todas las cosas encajaban perfectamente en su entorno y que yo hacia bien observando detenidamente cada detalle. Su protagonismo en esa escena era indiscutible. Yo me estaba perdiendo entre la oscuridad de su mirada, tan fascinado que no pude distinguir mas entre la fantasía y la ficción. Cada vez que sus ojos se tornaban hacia a mi, sentía como me golpeaba aquel huracán que siempre envuelve su presencia. Mi lado racional hubiese optado por buscar la calma, pero traicionero como puede llegar a ser, me dejo abandonado para que yo pudiese seguir siendo azotado por ese viento frió que subía por mi espalda. Al final de esta pequeña función, mientras cada quien se alejaba del escenario con destino a la rutina que nos paga las facturas, yo robaba el ultimo aliento de vida a mi cigarro y las mariposas en el estomago me susurraban al oído que no podría volver a mirarle fijamente a los ojos.

Yo no soy un arcángel para poder decir que le conozco mas allá de lo que alguna vez me haya dicho, pero algo que si es cierto es que soy un mensajero mirón.

Dirty Boots

2007-06-05T16:51:00.000+02:00

They always come in pairs but one of them always cracks-up before the other. That’s exactly what happened to these old boots of mine. It came as no surprise when I first noted it some months ago; there was something joyless about them going all buggered, a message within that caught on me recently, when I finally connected all the little dashes and dots drawing Lilliputian roads accross the sewed parts and found the torn edges and holes that reflected on my life. After all, these boots had been around me for a considerable chunk of my life, they travelled all over the world with me. From sand to snow, gravel roads to museum floors, gardens to office complexes and drunken nights to happier days at the mall. We certainly shared something more than my feet and those Homer Simpson socks. I will dare to say that they were closer to me than you and I ever were.

They haven’t been around forever, that's true, but they were around when I conquered your territories or when I started ruling your heartland, they lived some of it, if not for the most part, in several reincarnations that is. And just like this old pair, there was always another one before… Oh yes, you do remember them, that old pair, don’t you? - Because when you and I faced each other before the eyes of the great battle, the first thing you noticed where my yellow boots. Soldier boots aiming at you, with their hungry soles hoping to cross your borders, those shoelaces made waves as I approached your barricade and then you were hopelessly caught off guard. You had fallen and I celebrated by raising my flag upon you. I stood proud; always wearing my dirty boots. And then a new pair would play substitute for the former ones when they wore off, then another one would come and go and so forth, but one thing you should have known back then is that I always stood by your side wearing the bloody boots. They characterized the working man you told me I was, only that I’d taken the given meaning a bit further to hang it on a more adulated place. As I worshipped you, I believed I wore worshipper boots.

When the emancipation conspired against me, it was all about the boots again. It just had to be about these boots. You could not see past the object, the matter, the leather, the colour. These boots where to you a sign of stagnation and non-progression, nothing more than a symbol for conservatism and alienation. Your country-self felt threatened and you never allowed for our own revolution to start. Instead you empowered the Rubber-Dwarf from the plastic fairy tale to advocate for you, to lead you where I was leading you after all, only with a different, fancier banner and under a cheesy discourse. All conditioned by a bid for foreign aid (which I know you have actually accepted). When it came down to a reason, you simply pointed at my boots. I had underestimated the power of the small food darts served at the sushi bar that day you proclaimed sovereignty.

As I prepared to close a chapter for these boots, yes they have to go, like the other pairs in the past. A new pair is already at hand and trained in the art of walking. Somehow they always seem to overlap the chapters in my life, always carrying a bit of the previous chapter into the next one. It's such a comfortable feeling to know that these boots I once wore, never stopped seeing and keeping track of the changes you never contemplated in the footsteps we left as we walked on.

Beware:
A dirty boot footprint has been left on your mind and possibly on your heart.

Lost Telegram

2007-05-30T16:01:00.000+02:00

I just found this telegram on the floor. It seems to have been posted to someone whose name and address are no longer printed on the envelope. It's a Notice of Surrender and it reads as follows:

From fight to fight,
from dust to dust,
I breathe a sigh
and long to rust.

Storming she comes on her dark horse,
silently I must put my ear to the ground
but her lightning strike comes with subtle force
Chevalier canons that make no sound

On my knees I stand fain,
so glad I am for being on your sights
Because once again,
I have been defeated by your eyes.

If you know who's guilty of having met such beauty, please let the Post Office Captain know. It might not be that late for this telegram to reach its addressee.

Rainy Days Revisited

2007-05-29T01:47:00.000+02:00

Before the rain had even fallen, I had the opportunity to change my mind about it, but stubborn as I am, I decided to go out and get me a pack of lights. I put my coat on and just as I headed outside, I heard the roaring thunderstorm approaching. The cat was standing there by the door, gave me that “you out of your mind??” look. Her expression was priceless.

There had only been a handful of times when I ventured out in a storm. Last time, I recall, must have been in 2000, we were heading back to Weybridge from Gatwick Airport to make a stop in Redhill, just off the M25. It couldn't have been a gloomier day in all the senses. Alejandro and I met this girl some months before, her name was Emma and we had just dropped her at the airport, she was flying back home. Penny was driving and I couldn't help looking at the black clouds coming from above. Then it started pouring rain. God had decided to zip down his pants to go and have a piss all over south eastern England and I was right underneath to watch the whole show.

”I hope that plain crashes down!”, Alejandro said.
I just mumbled out some sort of “hmm, emm” but paid little attention to what he had said. He was upset about the night before and I did not want to start an argument about it.
“Cheer up lads, it can't be that bad!, I'm sure she will write back” said Penny, then added: “Or you guys can give her a call after she's got there and see if she arrived alright”

I was not going to add anything further to the conversation, it only had one destination, and like our ride, it was just as unexciting as Redhill. I kept contemplating the beautiful British motorway system, complex and well-thought as it's known to be, only that it had completely surrendered at the pissing weather. A never ending red tail of lights that looked like the long red tape of German bureaucracy making our pace slower, and the white lights coming from the other direction flashed through like passing destinies right in front of us.

It was then when Penny asked me to put on some tape she'd handed me over. It just read “Grace” and as soon as the music started it became enlightening. I was just about to discover Jeff Buckley and it would turn out to be a soothing experience.

“Do you like it?” she asked.
Not knowing what to reply, I simply said: “sounds as if he had been cursed in life”
“Well he's already dead, my dear” Penny replied in a much lower tone, like the one used to politely express disapproval of someone's comment. I kept silent, and just listened on.

Then I heard that roaring again, the whole floor trembled at such furious sound. I looked around and was glad of not being in Redhill at all. I was back in Berlin, pack of lights already in my hands, lit one up and realized it'll all been a flashback. I took the shortcut home, which runs behind some apartment blocks, I could see the tail of smoke I left as I walked past them. Hadn't really noticed how hard it was raining , and the wind was a blowing madness. I was no longer walking, I felt like being carried by a river, the whole storm filled every street with water. There wasn't a part of me that hadn't gotten wet, Honest. My efforts went as far as protecting my cigarette from getting wet as well. Back on my street and as I approached my place, I felt a cold chill going down my spine and suddenly I recalled the music I was listening to that gloomy day on the M25. It must have been the fact that I had completely forgotten what date it was tomorrow. Jeff Buckley died on the 29th of May, 1997. He drowned in the Mississippi River. He was certainly alive the day before he died, I guess he stayed there in Mississippi a day too long. If it hadn't been for Jeff's restless pledge, I would have never found a way to keep a secret part of my history from becoming public: Emma had stayed in St George's Hill a day too short. She could have stayed and I would have been with her for God knows how long, but in return I would have lost, if not one, at least two friends. It was a gamble and one way or the other I had to win to lose and lose to win. Jeff kept it simple, He only mourned these two words: “Forget her”

I managed to get home with only my shaky hands and a few gallons of water soaking from my clothes. Back into my apartment, the cat was still giving me that look. Somehow reminded me of the occasional and not so-welcoming look from my ex-wife every time I got home after doing something stupid. I could read it from the cat's eyes: “You are out of your mind!” Only, the look was more reassuring this time. One thing I always thought was that the eyes of cats were like windows to other forgotten places, a backdoor to secret passages in time.

Speaking of the devil, I'm yet to mail you the story of how the Captain conquered a country and then lost it in a sushi bar. For now, it's time to switch off my black box recorder... and quote something out of the record:

“Good morning Vietnam - to you too”

A Postcard From Last Year's

2007-05-24T14:29:00.000+02:00

”Hi”
Said Luna while she tugged her hands through her Jetglo hair.
-“I’m here…shall we get in?”
We headed towards the entrance, she wrestled with her umbrella.
It was cold, November everywhere.

We never talked much. In fact we hardly ever talked at all.
The simplest gaze would speak up for the words I could not tell.
Life complexities suggested everything was fine that way.

”you going?” I asked humblingly,
“Ooh”, Luna smiled in that way that makes you fall apart
-“Yes, home” She replied, “The last train home is leaving soon” – “bye”

The rain kept falling down, splashing on the broken asphalt,
grey buildings and low-lit streets sprayed with glitter.
Noisome passages through tube stations.

I knew I was invisible to her, the apex of the night.

Wake Up Time

2007-05-23T12:26:00.000+02:00

“You will achieve greater things than you could ever imagine, you will be important to the world and you will lead other men to make things better for us all” said to me a psychic-priest who was a friend of my mum’s when I was about 13. At the time I didn’t think that much about it, I had greater things in mind, bicycle jumps, Nintendo, Making tapes for my then first girlfriend, play hide n’ seek with the other kids in my street and whenever I ever had some time left, I could then maybe do my school homework. I was just another little brat, like one of the school teachers used to call us in 9^th grade. Besides, who would have listened to a crazy old guy who claimed to once have seen the light of God in his life and then turned to preaching about the parallel future that had been presented to his mind.

Life was good. Those care-free days, lying on the grass, doing nothing but looking up the sky, picturing imaginary shapes formed by the fluffy clouds above. I sometimes wondered about what adults used to tell me, I just couldn’t get passed the idea of living like them. School was serious enough already to be wasting my brain power on anything else other than how to avoid the bully from the street ‘round the corner or what songs and how many of them would I squeeze into the next cassette tape I’d give to Katherine.

If I had followed that dream and had it my way, I would have grown to become an Astronaut. But when I was 15, I was turned down for the Air Force and everything just felt apart. An eyesight problem made my medical exam a failure. The door was slammed right at my face. That door would never be opened again. After that day, everything started to move much faster than before. It was like watching a video tape on slow motion and then pressing the fast forward button on the remote. The picture I always saw so clear, became blurred and blocked. I was entering a new stage in my life and it was an abrupt change. One day I found myself facing decisions, life-changing ones, I had to realize all of it by myself. I then learned that I always had choices and that there were no simple plans in them. Growing up was finally happening and it sucked.

Years went by and I lived fast. Those words I once heard would occasionally echo in my head but I still did not listen. I let them linger in there until they gathered dust. Instead I opted to follow my gut reaction. I left home, went onto college, I lived by myself and it felt comforting to have a life you could call your own, where I was setting up the rules, I learnt how to, then ruled my world. Then when I was 23, coincidence played that dirty game. I was struck by lightning: “Remember… you will achieve greater things than you could ever imagine, you will be important to the world and you will lead other men to make things better for us all” said again the same old man I had seen almost a decade back. I though, “well, he probably says this to everybody else out there, fair enough. This is best ignored”. I think he noticed my scepticism, because right then he mentioned all these things that would be happening to me in the years ahead. I simply thought that I was not going to buy that crap anymore. I turned around and walked away. If only I knew of the things to come I would have tried to make the difference.

Dear Captain, I hope you receive this letter soon. I noticed you looked discouraged and hollow. I tried to reach out to you, but you were ill at ease, hopeless. You could not see I was trying to tell you these things in fact never happened to me. They happened to you.

I looked at you and you looked at me. I have given you the expressions you never give. And I know you’ve been searching, keep searching and it’s not there. You could hide your thoughts from everybody else, but not from me, because I am the one showing them to you. That’s why and out of concern, I’m writing to you in the hope you would read these lines that will help you understand those words were indeed aimed at you, the man outside this mirror. I’m locked-up in this glass and I can’t help you otherwise. Don’t confuse that look in your eyes as distant, it’s just gotten wiser. I know you wish you were working with your hands, but you will. You have already started, you are always doing it for others, it’s just that you don’t notice it. People are depending on you and they expect you to comply. Some people will come and go, others will disappear, but what’s important is that there’ll be a few who will stick around for the long ride. Just be true to them and they will be true to you. It’s time to get rid off the bullet-proof shell you had covered yourself in. Get rid off that wrapping around you and you will see me as truth and bone through this window to the mind.

Yours truthfully,

The man in the mirror.

Take you on a cruise

2007-05-18T10:15:00.000+02:00

I remember having told the pirate lady about the lack of mail flowing through these currents and the little interest this sailor had in getting any message across. The sea hadn’t been easy for the past few moths and it gave neither rest nor truce, yet she managed to come by into my rusty ship and made some odd but sweet demand: She wished to find some mail. Words were like gold and jewels to her and what could lie between those written lines represented the worth of her sought-after treasures. She’d been buccaneering these waters long before I had. She knew best.

Another night, another sail through, Field Commander Cohen was whistling up to the stars and throwing the occasional howl at that moon, strumming those gentle chords while the old man Bukowski kept sipping white wine with his maids. He pulled them out of the water every now and then. I never cared for what they did; they were a good crew, loyal company. I sensed these men knew and shared something I didn't quite know yet. I wondered, as I sipped my aged rum, about how passionate they were at sailing this one life, their ability to turn disgust into humor, pain into cure and love into hate impressed me. They could go from one extreme to another, departure to arrival, port to port. Like the bravest sailors, these men were able to turn their own ships around. They were trying to teach me something. I struggled with the idea, but then I listened to them hard enough, tried to puzzle it out and as I poured some rum, I came to realize that it was because of their muse, they had a muse. The evocation of all desires, urges and feelings, inspiration, lust and wisdom, all potted into one idealized person, the marriage of body and soul.

But then I self-questioned, where did they come from then? - Suzanne, Lydia, Marianne, Joan...of Arc.., what were their real names? How did we know who they were? - Was it a god's gift to some or all men? I thought “I'm too tired to be asking myself about these brides from Babylon, the goddesses of the mind”. I poured some more rum, the darkness in this little cabin gave an inexplicable sense of wide openness, and then I looked into the dim light and thought: “where's mine?”, “how can it come to this and not know?”... As I wrote these words, I could tell there had to be one out there for me and maybe ignoring this is what made Leonard and Charles different than me. Their muse is their power, their drive, their hunger, their craving; they both had found their own. I'm just yet to start looking for this almighty being, where would she be? - What could she do to me? It all became clear, even in the stillness of this darkness I could see it clearly. The message sat flat in the bottom of my mind. This is just like a new quest, a new change of direction, a world of new places to sail to; maybe there'll even be some mail after all...

One last sip at this Nicaraguan nectar, old but strong, it has aged well I have to admit. Maybe this rum had a muse of its own too? -Who knows? ...the glass is certainly empty now. I think the pirate lady should earn the credit for having shone her charms over this ship, after all it was her encouragement and desire to have something to read what led these hands to type these words... will they make any sense or deserve any worth? - Only a treasure seeker could tell I'm afraid.

“Good night Charles & Leonard, you guys can stay up all night if you wish, just make sure this ship remains on course, the captain is going to sleep.”