My stone… slipped

Picking up a stone and putting it into my pocket.

No purpose, no use. But there is an action. Picking up and putting it in; for an uncanny reason. It is like being attached to a person. There is no reason, no purpose. It just happens like picking up a stone on the road. Then, the attachment begins in my pocket. When I think about it, when I touch it, when I hold it in my palm. It becomes my stone, my gem.

When I lose it, my heart will break. And I will miss it. I can’t believe there will be another stone on the road that will catch my attention. Never again, Never. Until I find one.

Exhale. Trust. There will be another. The wonder of life will unfold in the most mysterious way that I can hardly project. The morning will come that I’ve been never sure if it will. I will be still alive; breathing; trusting.

Trusting the next breath coming in, trusting there will be another.
Another. The other. Then, another.

<October 11th, 2017>

Putting the dawn to sleep

 

“Putting the dawn to sleep.”

I misheard what he said. Until I looked up the title of the song, I thought that was the title. And I loved the title I mistook. I would very much like to put the dawn to sleep. Holding off the rising sun. Inviting the dreams back.

But I found that I loved the actual song with the correct title more than any other song in the world. It sang to me. Me, a dog with a broken leg. The correct title was

“Putting the dog to sleep.”

Just introducing that song to me did make my day, my year, or several years. That was the song which I would like to hear when I die. And until I die. Over and over. And over and over. And over and over.

All the lyrics go like this.

Prove to me
I’m not gonna die alone
Put your arm’ round my collar bone
And open the door

Don’t lie to me
If you’re putting the dog to sleep
That pet you just couldn’t keep
And couldn’t afford

Well, prove to me
I’m not gonna die alone
Unstitch that shit I’ve sewn
To close up the hole, that tore through my skin

Well my trust in you
Is a dog with a broken leg
Tendons too torn to beg
For you let me back in

You said I can’t prove to you
You’re not gonna die alone
But trust me take you home
To clean up that blood all over your paws

You can’t keep running out
Kicking yourself off the bed
Kicking yourself in the head
Because you’re kicking me too

Put your trust in me
I’m not gonna die alone
Put your trust in me
I’m not gonna die alone
I don’t think so

So, after I put my dawn to sleep, I will go back to this music as I see each line of the lyric inscribed in the back of my eyelids, in my bed, wherever, whenever; and forever… feeling my heart squeezed with warm hands.

<October 3rd, 2017, written upon the spark “the inscription of the bedroom ceiling”> 

Sanctuary

Sanctuary

a cafe in HongKong

a cold beer, a long slender glass

the name remains

I wonder if it is still there.

 

The Crumbs

in the midtown Manhattan

SPACE FOR RENT

the sign will be gone soon

the memories will be washed out with it.

 

Woodstock

a music cafe on the ground floor

I heard Lenard Cohen’s voice for the first time there

Bonnie and Clyde poster on the wall

long gone, that time of my life.

 

dots,

steps,

memory works in funny way,

and I want to look at

yours.

 

My heart hardens sometimes…

my tightly sewn neck

didn’t allow turning my head

that was the moment

my mind gave in

and I sat there,

cried.

 

from time to time

my memory flew back to that parking lot

that morning

I was devastated

losing my power in control

which enabled me holding myself together for several months against that battle.

 

life is totally personal,

totally alone; we can expereince only ourselves

but sometimes,

the dread of the aloneness I felt that morning

sneaks into my body

and hardens my heart.

 

I knew that I was the one

didn’t ask anything to anyone

dying must be easier than confessing my weakness,

my sadness,

for me at that time,

maybe for me now too.

 

the old habits are hard to get rid of

I put on those without noticing,

even with all those self-development shits I’ve done,

I reach to that thick heavy coat in haste,

smelling like sorrow, giving more chills than warmth,

and bury my head deep under the worn familiar threads; shivering…