31 de maig 2010

Known places, known faces

A bike ride.

I am riding very often lately, listening over and over old songs: Zappa, Toreros muertos, The Who, Cocorosie and not to forget the vibrant Dresden Dolls.

During a particular tune the looks of a woman amidst a very quiet evening suddenly reminded me of other times. A carefully dressed woman with a beehive wig, who never spoke, but always reminded me as the black haired version of Tintin's Bianca Castafiore. That woman I was used to see so often belonged to a reality that showed a me in memories who can't quite be identified, blurred through narrow streets, a bottle green carpet, evenings of wine and the subtle breeze inebriating a table full of people who felt delightfully emprisoned in Babel.

It was an instant flash of nostalgy, a reference to certain tracks left behind.

The light turns green and I ride away from that moment. I am back in a bigger box to think out of, a bigger mini-metropoli. A place where the known faces needn't remind me where I'm not or who I'm not.
I do need more music to hum, more fresh air, subjects that touch me to write restlessly, characters to identify with.

I found a place with all of that, within a short distance and worth the ride.

13 de maig 2010

Proof of love

I was meaning to write it long ago, I'd like to put it down to words, as it is a great proof of love.

An unfortunate loss in our family brought us again together. The ones who always stick to each other, and the ones we cut contact with.
I lost contact with my cousin, my only male cousin, just because we communicate via different means and we are two worlds apart. But the mutual love is there. There was always a special connection between us, me, being the oldest of all, him being the only boy. I really appreciated a boy in the family, as it got me in connection with my male bit. I saw some family videos and there we were: The boy and the tomboy, always finding a way to challenge each other.

Until February 2010 I hadn't seen him for 7 years. It was sad to loose the contact and not know how to regain it in some way...

And there we were, and it felt great to hug him and tell him, that I was really hoping to see him and give him a hug, that I was sorry for the distance, that I always had him in my mind.

So he took me out for dinner. The best sushi place there is in town. And so I found out that he had moved into music and was doing concerts with his own songs.
And I dared saying that I write lyrics and that I was trying to learn to play guitar.
He said it was easy, he encouraged me, I could see he believed in me and that made me strong.

He took me home with the car, I was fine taking public transport, but he said he had to, because he had something for me.

We arrived at my place and with a smile in his face, he opened the trunk.

A guitar, a beautiful dark guitar, my eyes sparked: "take it, I have many, I don't need it"
"Next time you come over, we will play together"

I keep practicing. I sit, take my guitar and think of him. His little detail meant the world to me.
Blood is thick.

Granny, wherever you are. You would be so happy to know you brought people together when you left. Not only me. I saw some miracles happening the days you were gone. I saw a lot the love you left being spread.

We will miss you, but we took your love with us. Your energy is huge and lives in us.

You always believed in miracles. Well, you made miracles within us.

06 de maig 2010

Sweet Miss Darling

Miss Darling, I still think of you. But it seems you have disappeared from the face of the planet.
Still have stages where I start a research and look for you.
I started the search again two months ago.
It didn't deliver. Your name is too common and I can't seem to find the people who were related to you, the time we met.
I talked about you then, when travelling. When memories reorganize and somehow your brain resuscitates moments that were in slumber.
Then I could see so clear our promenade. Our crazy days, your sweet words. The day we jumped on that cab, the evenings in the bathtub squattering those rich people's house, wearing their pearls, drinking their bubbly... You making me look like a woman, you taught me great things!

The communes in Berlin you put up so well with, along with your jet set life. You were unique.
The expectations we had from life. Well, the ones you had. I had no expectations but enjoying everything that was happening around me. You were aiming for something, I hope you found it.

I know you are somewhere not far, for sure, but I don't know how to find you. Or if it would make any sense now. Now that we are older... Would it mean the same to you again? Would you see me as the crazy savage messing around your controlled life?

Maybe that is the objective of memories. They are there to feed you at times, to wake them up when necessary, and, I should conclude, not to go back to them in the flesh, not to expect that a memory will live up to its expectations when you face a different time, when you are not aware that other events in life have changed the people in them. We are the same, but not the same. The moment is not there, only its memory.

... I still hope to see Miss Darling again. Maybe she finds me. I am easier to find.