come pick me up

March 7, 2011 | (Unfinished) Thoughts

dear march,

bring me more sunny days but cold enough so I have to wear a cardigan. reading my favorite book outside would be an entirely different and better experience. also, a significant lack of pollution would be appreciated as well. thank you.

there wasn’t much to say yesterday. I spent the entire sunday watching csi: new york, eating chocolate. avoiding the rest of the world. the opposite of disappearing. I’m still trying to figure it out. I put away the history of love, though, and I’m reading one of my favorite susan sontag’s books: under the sing of saturn. the use of language, the way she played with metaphors and sophisticated symbolisms makes me wish I were a better writer. nothing prevents me from being a good writer except laziness. december thirtyfirst, nineteenfiftyseven. it was a long time ago but every single of her words means more to me than what most of the modern writers are able to write today. a few years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to say this because I didn’t read as much. but.

I woke up in this morning with the remains of last night’s migraine. I thought of my dreams; the city was burning, we were standing the middle of it all, listening to a hard rock back. then I walked away, somebody else called me, it was the australian. he always comes back in my dreams no matter how much I try to push everything into the back of my mind. you walked after me; the whole city was flooded; we swam, we fought. and then there were pieces from white oleander and paint it black. john lennon, yoko ono and frances bean. unrelated, a total confusion. my dreams have been strange lately.

the time you spend at the chinese immigration office in the middle of the city is strange. because you look at the people around you, sitting there, waiting for hours and nobody seems to be excited about actually going to china. most of the trips are intended for business and work. there’s a feeling that’s missing and it’s the one that people get when they think I’m going home. it’s simply not there. just annoyance and hours of waiting for a stamp that takes two minutes.

mother and I wandered into a bookstore, bought new books just like we always do. I met with a friend for coffee; we talked until the late hours, took the ferry across the harbor. and then the australian actually did call; we talked for a little while. it was strange. almost like the old times, but different. but I realized I was content with it all. I did not mind. I walked home in the rain, thinking of the lyrics that he has come up with. girls don’t fall in love. maybe it’s something we could work on together. and just now I realized I had stopped writing my own piece. perhaps, it’s time I start writing poetry again.