We stopped on the path, near the canal, our preferred running lane in Faust’s metropolis, under the chestnut trees. The air was already much cooler, prelude to the cold wind that soon would blow from the plains of Poland and beyond.
“You’re getting too good for me,” I said, nearly out of breath, with the smile of a slightly puzzled male, faced with exquisite female beauty, and superior strength in one.
You smiled and blew a kiss: “Come on, I have to justify your admiration, and, besides, were we not a bischen different it would not work would it?” With the Köpenick accent, how could I ever resist you?
The moon appeared, a moody silvery face half masked by grey clouds, just above the trees. The young woman moved slowly through the quiet house: it was still early, perhaps before seven in the old clock time: she knew where to find her love, the writer, who must have been at work for a good two hours when she woke up.
There he was, one beloved hand resting still over the keyboard, the deep eyes reading; she did not want to disrupt his thoughts, soon enough the city sounds would bring him to the present (whenever that was, and hopefully close to her.)
He saw her reflection in the screen: “Good morning to my angel,” he said turning toward her, an unstoppable smile on his lips.
“I envy you so much,” she replied, kissing him with much tenderness, “you can so easily live in two worlds at a time…”
She had much talent, at imitating people, acting the impossible, in turn the clown and the seductress, her smile an inescapable charm.
How well I remember her, and the hours, the long walks, the mist of the days, the early morning smell of coffee, the magic of love…
How I wish to live those happy years again, the laughter, the games, her steps in the sand, her shadow in the woods…
And now she’s gone, far, so far even I can no longer reach her: so I will ask the witch to make the offer, taking those dreams back to where they belong, the deep and dark forest of the dead, where I shall seek her soul, for eternity.
On the small balcony he looked at the slow traffic down on the street: the city was near silent, in a thin mist of rain.
He would take a picture of the buildings, at the junction, this time on a high enough aperture to see the drops falling, and the dream-like quality of the scenery.
But now, he felt her presence behind him: and soon her hand on his shoulder, her angel voice whispering in his ear.
She was back, the slim shoulders, the firm thighs, strong hands to handle a strong man.
And the wonderful sex that would follow, as the rain fell on Faust’s city.
I try to concentrate on our work: you the model, I, the painter.
Yet what goes through this mind, what dreams are born and destroyed, what illicit fantasies stimulate this imagination?
What pain tortures this body?
For art is the opposite of love.
Art is the dark killer of illusions.
Image: Saori Taira, via Tohjiro
His mind was set long ago: to please her, to make himself the indispensable lover. He knows his way, the meaning of her scent. His, is the gentleness, the patience, the obedience of a true believer. Hers, the certainty of finding the summit, of savouring love in all its glory.
What’s your favourite daily ritual?
You let the sun brighten the room, and I know: this is your hour, the time when the choice is yours.
But first, we follow the ritual…
“Which door do you wish to open?”
“Will you want more, or less?”
“On this side of me is a mystery.”
To which tradition is that I reply:
“I shall open the door that leads to your deepest desires.”
“I will give you more.”
“Then it is the side I wish to possess.”
Worshipping you is my role, yours is to reinvent the ritual…
He’s away, and I should miss him, and perhaps I do, but I know he’s happy.
He’s happy not because I am not there: he calls me every night, his words are as soft and suggestive as ever; he’s happy because he’s free.
He’s free of the ghosts of the past that haunted him, in Faust’s city he found peace and forgiveness, along her tree-lined streets, among people so much younger than him, and me…
I know he goes to the small park, where he finds solace, sometime love, maybe even poetry and inspiration.
I envy his freedom, but I know soon I will join him, not just for a day, or two, but forever…
I know you don’t expect me yet, but I’ll be with you real fast…
And, you know, those jeans pull off easy, and those boots: I am already there, in your small studio, you, naked, me, naked, and the beast, in the street, happy…
Those boots are made for riding.