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Sunday, September 25, 2016

faith ?

If you're going to claim that you know something, then it should be provable, otherwise, how do you know you know it? just being surrounded by lots of people who agree with you doesn't prove anything - it might prove quite a lot of things, actually but not what you might like to think it does, and quite likely not stuff you're going to be comfortable with, either ; 

And faith is just mad; it's like you have to leap to the end of an argument or discussion about something and act as though you haven't been, and then, apparently - well, allegedly - it all makes sense _ but what wouldn't if you've already committed to believing in it? you might stick with any sort of nonsense out of sheer embarrassment at admitting you'd been taken for such a fool _ if you're going to apply this faith thing to anything, then anybody can just believe whatever they please, and then who's to say who's right or wrong?

It's a very good sign if the various areas of the stuff you know about sort of all fit together, like biochemistry and engineering fit together, even though they're completely different fields because they're linked by clearly provable physical laws and mechanisms that make sense and that demonstrably work_ 

You see, I've met some exceptionally intelligent people whose thinking is all joined up until you get to their hearts, and then it's like that's an area that has been fenced off as out-of-the-bounds, not subject to the rules about proof and likelihood - even plausibility - that they'd apply as a matter of course in every other area which might not be so bad if was some fairly trivial area, like which is the best football team or something, but it isn't_

Ten times ,maybe more, this month John came and stood before my doorstep _ he never rings the bell or knocks_ he takes a stroll around the house, gets to the rear wall, the place where you can climb up and look at the garden, sees what I've planted, how they're growing - maybe they're not growing just yet, there's been a minor landslide, a path-sized strip of grass, about a metre long, the rest of the ground has slipped away, forming shallow, crumbled little slopes of dark-brown clods of earth, some of them stringy with the pale roots of plants and some of them lying toppled at all angles, the rain has not yet smoothed the soil completely so it probably seems like something has happened in the last few weeks_

John puts his hand against the glass and takes a peek inside the only room that can be seen through the ground floor window, sometimes the lights are on, others, there's just a small thing left by the doorway, something to tell John we welcome strangers in these parts of the world_ he's quite self-conscious knowing there are neighbors around who might be able to see him, but he's not fearful, he looks back at the screen and for an instant, before the little squiggle of sun flashes inside my space and disappears again, he can see the reflection of his face_ somewhat to his own surprise, he smiles _ 

I'm not surprised. I perceive this as curiosity adding to his sense of self-perception. A lady once wrote a book about her life, in which John is mentioned. He found it invigorating. To some extent, if what I'm planting infects him (I have to devalue what it does) with self-awareness (since I've done as he pleased and never picked up the phone again to ask "are you okay, John?")  then why not do it? John is my friend. Or was. Or that's what I feel he is.  

I didn't go out last night. John did. He'll go out every Friday and Saturday and Sunday morning till late in the afternoon. So I sat by the window (I wasn't expecting him to drive past my house) and browsed a bit on the devices.

The night was cool, smelled of cigarettes and crisp chill, a bit leafy and town like. I watched a video that was stocked. John driving around the city, it was morning, it was raining, he was listening to Radiohead's Daydreaming, filming the ride.

I hadn't asked how he felt when he sent it., I remembered commenting "it's only natural to feel like you're going to choke if you're listening to such sad songs on a rainy day". Nor had I  told him this was one of the things that I loved so much, when he took me along on his car rides, when he showed me around his city, or sent me vids of the storm outside his white window, with the white radiator glowing underneath.

What I had sent  was a great deal of the white washed walls and the sunny streets, the blue and the optimistic kind of romance fools are only able to exhibit.

I was like... Hey yeah, that's your life, but stay with me, be here, not there.

I never stood silent because silence hints sorrow, and it would be lame. No one likes a sorrowful air. I don't. Where's life appreciation if everyone's sorrowful all day?

Then it just came out one night as all girls want to be desired. Even the toughest ones some point. That was mine, and what do you know ... it  already looked and sounded too ridiculous. I cried and John froze. I wouldn't die of missing him,  that was certain, no one ever does.
So why was I like that?
He was already too far. True, but being far is not necessarily a fault. The weight shouldn't fall on anyone's shoulders. It is what it is, distance. I didn't mind as one would mind, I wasn't going to say "okay but you have to be here now, do it"  because I always appreciate space. It's just that when you do live in all your space and all your distance you eventually miss them physically. No one should apologise so much as I did for wanting to be kissed John and for daydreaming they actually can get to this point again some day, I wanted to say, but instead, I uttered a great sobbing "fuck off". Would you do that to a friend? The next day I texted him as a way of apologising. He said we should talk about everything. We never did.

A plant won't grow overnight, the same way it won't die if it doesn't rain for a while. I made it harder than it was already. Was that what John meant to say ?

At a point I felt I should give it another go "John, all this is nonsense, you can always tell me things and I care enough to listen to the hardest of them if you are certain about what you wish to convey, no one will blame you, you just say things as you feel. If you're not into it anymore I trust you, and it's all good, we're more important than kisses and lovemaking and romancing. I care. What do you say? Shall we hit the reset button?" It would hurt like fuck, but isn't that what friends do? they listen to what you want and stick by your side?

I didn't get to say anything.
He hung up on me.
Call it an iron curtain or an answer on its own.

Going back to a garden is its own answer too,  I thought. Maybe I'm being a jerk.  Days later I texted John "Are we still not talking ?"

. . .  apparently yes

The only thing I got out of watching the vids John had sent was that they seemed to come from a person who missed me, who wanted me to ride along so I could see what he saw.

Right before going to bed I went online and cancelled a Christmas surprise flight.

You win, baby, you win_

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

i się uśmiechałem

The age of Enlightenment

Ivory tablets and pencil are slipped into a little necessaire carried by dancers. In the 19th century, the lady's dance card case opens like a fan. Picture a milky Watteau-esque silhouette removing an ivory butterfly from its "memento of friendship" case to note a dangerous liaison. Soon erased from the tablets, the name leaves only a snowy trace of a moment's gallantry. Beneath flickering chandeliers, love flirts with lightness, all things pass, all things wear out, except for dance. 

19th century

From Moscow to Paris all Europe is swept along by the same heady routs, as parquets are pummelled with and polished by waltzes, mazurkas, quadrilles, écossaises, polkas, and cotillions. Between war and peace, an eddying overflow of happiness, innocence, and spontaneity lifts Natasha off her feet and the wine of its charm makes Andrew dizzy. Like the moth waltzing about the flame- like the Princess of Cleves - the lady of the Camellias, Emma Bovary, Mahaut D' Orgel and Eugene Onegin and Tatyana meet their destiny in their dancing attire. In Tokyo, at the Rokumeikan ball in 1885, Pierre Loti reserves the Blue Danube waltz on the card of a mousme in Parisian attire, and suddenly the world seems smaller. 

20th century

I'm four. I have been doggedly trying to escape the law of gravity. Each morning I climb the top of the library and boldly throw myself off it, striving to fly as far as the bed. I flap my arms, warbling. The sounds I make are not words but the attempts (as I perceive them at the time) of a bird to remain airborne. The bed is far away and not once do I manage to fly all that way, but I never admit defeat. I want to fly, just a little bit. I believe I am utterly capable. They give me ballet lessons. At the end of the school year, I mess up the entire play because I choose to throw my tutu away and fly around the other tiny dancers instead of just bowing. The audience laughs, I take an un-tutued bow and yell " yay dad I did it ! "

I'm six. I still dream about flying all the time. In my sleep, I have done it so many times. I see myself cycling in a street, suddenly the bike builds momentum, the wheels get slightly off the ground, my feet go mad on the pedals, faster, faster, I'm up. Next thing I know the bike is gone and I'm over the town; the rooftops look like lego bricks, the cars look like Playmobil. I tell my mother all about the dream. She says dreaming you're flying is a happy dream, something great is coming to you. My father laughs at the description. We have a writer in the house, he says behind his newspaper. 

I'm sixteen. I go to parties. Everyone's favourite thing to do is head-banging. Mine is when everyone goes nuts and starts to jump around. Slow-dancing is great for kissers, fast is great for dreamers and crazy people. One day -I know it- I will dance all night, to all kinds of dances. I will be swept off my feet. I still want to fly. I love going to the local exhibition and stare at a Northrop F-5A Freedom Fighter. It's the closest I've been to an aircraft.  My classmates say I'll flunk for drawing dancers that look like freedom fighter planes and birds that look like dancers. My art class teacher gives me an A+. 

21st century

I'm twenty-six when I get on my first plane to D.C. I'm so ecstatic I feel like screaming, which I don't because it will scare people. Instead, I laugh as the wheels leave the ground and don't blink an eye for two hours to Amsterdam. I get back on for a six-hour flight to the States and still refuse to sleep. I remember when I was six on my bike and watched planes in the sky. I chased them till they disappeared. I remember when I was six on my bike and chased the sun behind the lines of trees. The day is still young and I'm chasing the sun  _ up here. 

I'm thirty-six when I dance all night to all kinds of dances. I am swept off my feet. I'm flying. The morning breaks, the sun is up, lays smiling next to me, the sun has an actual voice and an accent. The sun has a bird carved in his arm. Moments later I've taken out a paper and a pen, slip a number in one of the suitcase compartments. Without him noticing what I did, without me noticing he's taken out a card with a number on it. 



A note: 

I'm not on a plane right now. I'm not swept off my feet. But I when I get in the car as I press my foot on the pedal and speed builds up, I turn the volume to a song that comes up and dance on the seat.  I still refuse to admit defeat in my efforts to fly. I still chase the sun among tree branches. I smile up. My stories write themselves. Therefore, earlier today, when I began to write this memory play, I made no exception; I hadn't planned for a finishing paragraph. I don't think I will be using one, though. If I've learned anything from flying and dancing, it's that some stories keep writing themselves for a very long, long time 

Monday, September 19, 2016

carry on

I know you think about it _ on Sunday evenings when all noise has settled down
or at night before the last light goes out, or when you ride from the bar under the orange lights, or when you come home from work and get cooking those funny dishes of yours with the kiełbasy_   sometimes it will pop up as you brush your teeth and then you'll spit it out and it gets washed down.

I know you said you would, but you haven't nipped it in the bud, have you? and time goes by and there's a new thing every day, and such many and wonderful opportunities, and time goes by and you say, hey maybe not yet, but one day soon it will get too old, and more time goes by and you're someone who loves new things so much, and someone who hates old things so bad, and simply wanted it to cease completely, but oddly enough it doesn't feel (or get) too old, does it? sometimes it feels as if it was yesterday, despite everything. 

How do I know ? 

We both know as I'm writing these lines 

They're not a means of stating I am still here, even if I do nothing or say nothing you will still feel it in your bones. 

Remember the fruit pic ? you might have wondered why there were so many photographs taken, so many words spoken, so much and so extensively given detail, and you may even wonder why I even kept the set of little blue thingies that you said would crash in your suitcase. It's just that some things need to be preserved as they are, at a certain unspoiled state, say like a jar of pickles when winter makes one's veggies unavailable. I would say "ask your dad" but I'm not sure he even noticed when your mother packed the tiny vital bits into small preservation units. And baby, you are a little bit like him. I knew that when I thanked the man. 

Coming home from work, A Day at The Races played in the car. Bass and drums to the max. For a moment it felt as if something  ...  I can't put my finger on it. 

For a little while, it felt as if everything was simple and amazing. I missed the fun of it _ as if I've ever seen you drumming your ass off on the stirring wheel, or as if we'd sketch Good old fashioned Lover Boy, and the Millionaire Waltz on the way, because they're like musicals. 

Yeah, you can say this sounds so typical of me... 

Or maybe ... maybe you just vibe me hard sometimes 

Tuesday, September 13, 2016


a large, black tooth
serves well as a reminder
   burning against her complexion

ruptured and dark right from the start
  what people do with the diamond ? 
what do they do when it's so late
you had it?         she stole it? 
the heart 
 what        would
you          do?
?              ?



When I first loved him, I wanted to take him apart

the same way a child dismembers a clockwork toy to comprehend the inscrutable mechanics of its interior

I wanted to see him far more naked  than he was with his clothes off 

Photos : me  (click to see full image)

Monday, September 12, 2016


Powiedziano mi, wiedzieli, jestem czarownicą 
Wróżko ,mówili , wiesz wszystko 

Naprawdę chciałbym , aby posiadała asa w dłoni _ i dobrą kartą w rękawie
Ale wiem, ja też mam długi język

Photos : me 

p.s. my apologies to Polish speakers, I've just started learning ... 

Sunday, September 11, 2016

Is there life on Mars ?

I wake up to Starman by David Bowie, it was playing in my sleep, and as one will probably do, opening my eyes I try to locate the source; maybe it was coming from outside the living room door (it wasn't) or perhaps the phone was ringing and my brain had translated the ringtone into something more preferable (not the case either, because I soon remember that my phone has been on mute for quite some time now).

         I switch on the Wi-Fi and give it a go, it's nice to get up to ol' Ziggy, let him sing the song from the start. I lit a jack and stare at the ceiling for a couple of minutes. 

I am neither here nor there. Half here, half somewhere else. 

Damn, I haven't got around to get the walls painted, and the rain season is officially in. 

Lying on the couch (it's 8 a.m already) I feel my stomach turning to the idea of having breakfast. Proud nutritionist indicated I've lost 14 pounds, and despite the fact -as well as the aparent, newly reinstated kalophony of my spinning-class worked-out legs, I've got a long way to go in terms of stamina. 

First day I took it I had the constant feeling I was about to cough blood, or the Milupa milk my mother bottle-fed me as an infant. As it turns out, spinning is    n o t   like cycling. 
But I'll get there eventually. What's to stop me from coughing up both my intestines struggling to maintain pace, speed and  a huge smile at the same time? Nada. Not even the deprecatory look on Larry's face as we wave goodbye and he watches me bottom-lip a Davidoff a la truck driver right outside his tempered glass door (the audacity!). 

You are dead to me, he gestures in a wannasay-something-serious-in-a-wannasound-funny-way, which definitely falls to the ground, because, hey Lars I won't give up smoking so say goodbye to Rosie the queen of Corona. 

Breakfast minutes later; an omelette the size of Brazil, and coffee, tons of the browniest, nastiest, shittiest kind of frappe; the last and lousiest brick of the perk pyramid, but fucking amazing. 

Then this song comes up on the flow playlist suggested by YouTube. It's a tune I've only heard once before ... eyes something, chanelled to me in late July. The addresser had come across it some time before we met, but I guess it must have seemed fit enough for the addressee. 

Fork down. A wan smile, as if I' m remembering an old and feeble joke. It wasn't a joke, though. My hands are cool, I'm turning myself this way and that. The blinds are up and the air is close. 

I don't know why such instances occur when they're the last thing one needs, only that this one had me reduced to something I wish the addresser hadn't seen, and if seen not noticed, and if noticed not cared enough to take it all back.  History shows that addressers of songs (and of, eventually, further fruitful insights on the splendor of your starry addressee-eyes eating shit) may    n o t   actually indulge in starry eyes, and nope, what comes out of it is definitely  n o t  like cycling  _  

Cancel song _ Nothing should jostle my complacency, at least not in such a skulking manner. Bleh ! 

- So you really believe it can be undone? The "spell reversed" and all? 
Aspa's words have their way of ringing in my head like lozenges of spice to an otherwise dull tasting bowl of soup. 

I replay the scene.

- Nice one !  I clap like a seal to her metaphor (she's not what you call a metaphor person), and to answer your question, yes it can. Everything can. It's all a matter of perspective, isn't that what they say? You build it in your head, you make it happen, and as Hervé Vilard would put it  Capri c' est fini, nous n' irons plus jamais*. Everyone can do it. 

- Not I, but seriously you think .. everyone.. did? 

- Ever so efficiently, yes. You disagree? 

- Things aren't always as they seem. 

- Yeah, yeah, appearances and stuff.. I snort, really I'm not going that way. 

- I don't know how you 're able to switch on and off like that. You've always done that. 

- I know. It's a survival skill. 

- Perhaps you're right, but ..

- Here comes the sugarcoating "but"... 

- If it helps to be as firm on things, then go ahead , knock yourself out, but once the little "spike" is in, and no one comes to pull it out immediately, it progressively makes its way deeper, kinda stays there, lingers. 
No matter what you say. My guess is, not you, not this asshole ever removed the 'spike', so you are both stuck with it. 
And it's funny, because you finally met your match. You see, you have always been an asshole like that too ! He just happened to be faster in the 'removal' process than you are- or that's what he wants you to believe- and... 

- Shit, this is a great metaphor day for you, isn't it ? I interrupted, I might as well ask you to chip in a little wisdom should I run out of 'unintended puns'. I didn't want her to go on talking about him. We're always analyzing things to let go of our pains, to try and double-guess the truths behind the questions we don't get answers to. But it's totally futile. It's like praying to a Totem that will never -ever- reply. Plus, without her realizing, she dug up another battered reflection of a strectched leg, of a tender rosy foot that had just stepped on an urchin, asking to be looked after. 

- Are you certain? 
- Yeah, do it, use a knife, take it out. 
Spike was out. Foot was able to walk straight again. 

That's the way to do it. Act fast, cut , take it out. It seems, that on a happy day I forgot who I really am. Maybe it was the sun, and the moon, and the summer mood, and that semi-drunk air holidays carry, but I hadn't been paying enough attention to real life metaphors and what they may end up signifying, or on how many levels. 

Quick and efficient spike removal. Otherwise ensuing pain having been dulled with serious doses of alcohol, endorphins, phenylethamine or whatever, gets topped with the inexhaustible will -on the part of the nursing hand- to alleviate. The little school of life tests that -should you observe real close - allude to who's doing what to whom, and how stories can turn. Hah ! The irony! 

Are you sure ? Yeah, do it, use a knife, take it if the spike was never there. Brand new foot, easy, breezy, like tossing a hair off a dollop of dough. 

- Entertain my thought, said Aspa, but I'm guessing that one of these days you'll be very surprised.

- I'll be very surprised if I get to entertain your thought, I retorted and that was that.

In the harsh morning light of the kitchen, the dishes are washed and neatly put on the dishrack. The counter gets cleaned and the trash thrown away. Lars is waiting behind his tempered-glass door to stretch the limits of my spine and pelvis. Boxes await in the living room to be picked up by the moving truck. The faces and the necks of strangers in the streets glow. The hurt blue of bare September skies gives way to the news casts on TV screens behind the windows of a megastore, and my new language teacher got me a skype date at the library. 

There's a starman waiting in the sky
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds

I may still have had the same question to ask astroboy ... But will, like lyrics ultimately fades.

Light's off _ 


* Capri, it is finished, we will not go anymore. 

Thursday, September 8, 2016

Ben Harper Is My Lover - a poem by Navin Harsha Seneviratne

I ended up with two Africa classes this quarter. 
It made me hate conquests of any kind. 
Christianity and commerce. 
Starbucks and European civilization. 
It gave me even more reasons to justify Bob Marley. 
Justify spending 13.50 on dreadlock shampoo. 
Justify making a stand. 
All the while 
Having the option of changing into my red GAP sweater, 
Reading my Bible, 
And drinking the single, tall, caramel machiato 
I'm so addicted to. 
How can I hate a corrupt and powerful nation 
Without hating a system 
I have no intention 
Of leaving?

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

stary ale jary *

To my friend Dimi- thank you for the music

Umiłowany dentysto, 
Twe gumowe palce w mych ustach
Twój głos tak miękki, stłumiony
Opuść maskę, drogi dentysto
Opuść maskę

- Hey doc, how's it going?

- Deadpool, really? 

- Why I thought you needed a rest, you know like... country fun after too many nights spent in the city. 

Doc shook his head and pulled up a chair for me. He ordered the usual -gin and tonic, and watched me raising a deadpan eyebrow. I don't think I will ever get to fathom people who drink gin and tonic. I always found it too - I don't know if that's the right way to put it- ... sanitary for an alcoholic beverage. After all, it was invented in the 19th century as a way to stave off malaria during the British occupation of India, because the Brits believed that quinine which gives tonic its bitter flavor was an effective remedy for the disease ...Go figure. People who choose gin and tonic as their favorite drink kind of confuse me, as if they're trying to keep things clean and tidy whereas their hearts tell them otherwise. Alcohol dictates otherwise. You can't be clean and tidy with alcohol, can you? But then again that's only me. 

- And what are you having today? Campari with bitter lemon? Martini? a Twelve-Mile Limit or some other quizzical cocktail the mixologist over there spends about two hours brewing inside a smoking jar filled with chestnut leaves or god knows what? It was the bartender's turn to give Doc a raised eyebrow. I of course laughed at the sight of his tight-lipped reticent illocution and ordered the first of a few shots. 

- So you actually watched it. 

- First half, and the rest ..

- On fast forward ... Jees Doc ...

When it comes to cinematography, over a span of twenty-four years, Doc got me to watch lots of films I probably wouldn't have seen otherwise. Despite the fact that I've watched hundreds of them, as I don't mind going to the cinema all by myself, he would always insist there were a few hidden gems and would act all surprised when I declared I'd missed them. 
Doc was the one who had introduced me to La Reine Margot, back in 1994, when reading Alexander Dumas was definitely not the thing to a fourteen year old girl and which surprisingly enough was his bedtime story at the time (he was thirteen) - as well as Emir Kusturica films like Le Temps des Gitans, Arizona Dream, and Underground , which he found particularly satisfying to discuss with me as if he knew exactly what we were watching.
 Sometimes after watching we'd sit for a while staring at the black-and-white noise, then he'd recommend that we watch it again on fast-forward and debate on whether  the impression was the same. Why this and why that. 
Doc was an inexhaustible pool of pending queries. 
We both reckoned Polanski is a genius if you just ignore the alleged sex-with-a-minor thing, we both hearted the Coen brothers, but lately we have come to completely disagree about all superhero movies (including Batman flicks, even though technically, like Tony Stark in the Iron Man films, he's not a superhero). I say they are brilliant, and he argues that they're brain-rotting rubbish, which  I believe is just mental for a guy who also happened to introduce me to MagicThe Gathering, Lord of The Rings, Vampire the Masquerade, Dungeons and Dragons, Morrowind, Terry Pratchett, and H.P. Lovecraft. 

- I'm sorry to break your heart, dear Sigs, but it was mostly shit. 
Sigs is a name he made up, a compound of my name and cigarettes. He hasn't called me Sigs for ages. That's not the best news. 

- No it wasn't. It was a damn good laugh and I found it really interesting.

- Interesting? Doc sneers as I go for the second shot. That's the best you can come up with, interesting? What's next? Fucking compeling? Clockwork Orange was intresting, I'd go with that, but seriously Deadpool? 

- You know I've fallen asleep five times trying to watch fucking Clockwork Orange... and I've done 2001: A Space Odyssey. But let's call this a tie -you had me watch Kagemusha once, so there you have it. 

- Again, how on earth does Kagemusha have anything to compare with the MTV Hissy Fit Teen Choice Award?

- You used to love comics so much. Had such a vast collection, from Marvel and Dark Horse to fucking Top Cow and Kodansha remember? What the fuck happened to that guy? And ... what the fuck happened to all of his treasure? I mean it just hit me but, have you gin and tonic-ed everything? 

Doc's face grew wan for a moment. I had touched a nerve, not exactly readable. On one hand he had already heard me theorise on gin and tonic drinkers, or switchers-to (the latter in his case as he used to drink practically everything, with a mild preference to no-particular-type-of-beer - when broke, and a very-specific-type-of-vodka - when comfortable), and on the other hand ... well, that was the unreadable part. 

- Who cares? his tired expression gave way to a well-rehearsed, wannabe-perky stunt "Let's order some mussels, shall we? For he is the King mussel, doomed to be a mussel so long as that wretch lived." 

- Nice try, but apparently, paraphrasing Edith Nesbit * won't get you anywhere with me. It's one thing to be hungry and another to dodge ... and FYI ... You should care .... I fucking care , I added. 

- .... she added using fuck for the thousandth time that day.. 

-  No need to get condescending, at least not in such lackluster way, my using fuck and its derivatives is no news. 

- No it isn't.. just reminds me of somebody, he sighed and ordered a second to my fourth shot. 

- Somebody that you used to know ? I tried to Gotye-humor Doc but he was in no mood to allow for the joke to sit. He shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette, jogged the lighter among his fingers. 

- It's just that... I dunno.. I guess comics seem to be part of another me, they belong to the past and despite the fact they have served a certain -undeniably pleasing- purpose, I've outgrown them, you know? I'm interested in deeper, more sensible, rooted things now. I've just lost the will to ... own them. 

Now? Undeniably pleasing? I had to smother my snicker. Clearly Doc was not referring to comics, but asking what or ... who exactly the analogy stood for wouldn't do any good; when openly asked about something that pains him a greater deal than he cares to digest, my thoroughly frank, fully open king-mussel mate clams up. 

- You and I have watched abysmally shitty films, I mean, apart from the good, and the great ones. We've watched Highlander 2, The fucking - oh shit I'm using fuck again- Hottie and the Nottie. We've watched practically every kind of messed up, melancholic, lowest i.q. requiring, embarassing, wretched film possible. My guess is superhero movies is not something you need to ... struggle against ... let alone comics... 

- Comic book collections take up a lot of space, time and patience, you know? 

- I know ... hence the pricelessness.. I said and ventured for my own analogy. You see lad, you will find that sticking with something you really, honestly enjoy, is because it is ...  demanding. There is a voice that says you should not give it up. And by voice I don't mean your rationale, but a deeper, older one, coming from your bones. And yeah you have listened to both ...  fighting ... one wins, the other gets stifled. Do you think that anyone really changes so much as to become two different people ? I don't , and you've  been a superhero movie, comic book buff for too long. 

I pulled a 50 euro bill from my pocket, paid for the drinks, got 30 euro change. Doc was just smoking and looking outside the large windowpane at a teen boy hobbling across the pavement, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a girl. He let her go, and as she walked away he stumbled. It was a modestly blue night, with the right amount of cloud above the city. They both looked a little drunk, their voices were muffled. 

- Can't seem to pick up the Wi-Fi here , said Doc probably listening to his own voice trail away.

- No need lad. Besides it's time for me to get goin'.

- You've done that so many times,  get goin', I mean. 

- You know I have.  

- Hey, thanks for the drinks, he said. 

I made for the door. Turned back. "Do yourself a favor... go get that comic book". I patted my old mate on the back and left my 30 euro on the counter beside him. 

-  It's been sometime now, but a comic book  doesn't cost 30, you're leaving me with too much, you know? he gruffly mumbled behind my back. 

- I know, I said, but -experience speaking- a long distance phone call does. 


* old but gold 

* The Magic World is an influential collection of twelve short stories by E. Nesbit. It was first published in book form in 1912 by Macmillan and Co. Ltd., with illustrations by H. R. Millar and Gerald Spencer Pryse. The stories, previously printed in magazines (like Blackie's Children's Annual), are typical of Nesbit's arch, ironic, clever fantasies for children, The phrase is from "The Magician's Heart".