Paris, 3 de April de 1973
Tuesday, April 3, 1973
moment in time
Paris, 3 de April de 1973
I was thinking of you now; a fleeting thought, so I decided to take a fresh, clean sheet of white paper, a mechanical pencil and make that feeling last.
The memory that brought you back to me was of you tossing bread crumbs to the ducks; of your anxiety: “ what if they come here? All at once!!” and you looked at me, and I thought that to be hilarious.
I’m sure that it was not your thought but I felt as if you were checking to see if I would protect you from a bunch of hungry ducks. Marie, I would certainly run and hope you had the wits to follow me, and the common sense to leave the bread crumbs behind. I am pretty sure we can not outrun a bunch of flying ducks. But you threw your bread crumbs, and they didn’t give a “ duck” about it. Kids these days!
Your face looking at the ducks, at the bread crumbs, back and forth between them and the bread crumbs. Our synchronized laughter to a moment in time. Our joy of being.
hi
Paris, 3 de April de 1973
I was born long ago, and again the other day, when I met you. I will forever remember, and tell others that the first body part of you I saw was your feet. Now, I don’t know how interesting this detail will be to anyone but it is what I choose to remember. I looked over the book I was reading and saw them entering my frame; then I raised my head and saw your beautiful face. “Hi!” you said. “ I just wanted to say hi.” and you had an “ I’m just a simple Canadian girl” expression; which I immediately understood would be your spiel. I remember thinking: “ Yes. Sure. P-liz, lady!” I could sense you coming light years away.
what about now?
Paris, 3 de April de 1973
Marie,
meeting you the other day was nice; a surprise for a day that until then was going accordingly to plan. I have those:plans. And as comforting as they might be, they don’t warm the lonely nights.
Papers on the wall describing the days to come, fragmented in years, months, hours, that mend together until all that there is, is a cacophony of things to do.
I read all that I've written to you and pause: do I seem anxious, nervous, God-forbid, desperate? I don’t know. I am not sure I care to know either.
I found myself watching the moments of our conversations and realized, perhaps a bit surprised, that I didn’t rewrite any of my dialogue with you. I felt a strange sense of accomplishment over this, as if, for the first time ever, I accept myself for who I am.
And that feeling made me wanna meet you again.
dear
Paris, 3 de April de 1973
I apologize for how long it took for the last letter to arrive. I wrote it and held on to it. I was concerned that you would think I was moving too quickly and I let a few days go by before putting in the mail. Only now I realized that I forgot to change the date I wrote to you. So much for playing cool. The things we choose to concern ourselves with.
Dear, Marie,
I’m not sure how dear you are yet, and I have diggnosel ( what in the world? ) let me start this again…
Marie,
I need to take a breath or two before writing you this ( if the writing of this word looks weary, seems trembling to you it is because I never know if it is spelled as “writing” or “writting.” The same goes to the word Wednesday; I have to stop and write “wed” ( no double intendant-promise made or intended here) and then write “ nesday”.
It makes no sense; much like this letter it seems. A whole page; my hand hurts and I’ve managed to say absolutely nothing.
“ It’s a talent I’ve always possessed…” sang the candlestick in The Beauty and the Beast animated feature. I feel like I'm tap-dancing; like the dishes.
Truth be told; I feel like the little tea cup.
Que tal agora?
Paris, 3 de April de 1973
Marie,
conhecer você foi ótimo; uma surpresa para um dia que até então ia conforme o planejado. Eu tenho muitos dias assim: planejados. E por mais reconfortantes que sejam, eles não aquecem as noites de solidão.
Papéis na parede descrevendo os dias que virão, fragmentados em anos, meses, horas, que se multiplicam até que o que existe é uma cacofonia de coisas a fazer.
Li tudo o que acabei de escrever para você e parei: pareço ansioso, nervoso, Deus me livre, desesperado? Não sei. Eu também não tenho certeza se quero saber.
Eu me peguei lembrando de momentos em nossa conversa e percebi, talvez um pouco surpreso, que não editei nenhum dos meus diálogos com você. Tive uma estranha sensação de realização com isso, como se, pela primeira vez, eu me aceitasse como sou.
E esse sentimento me fez querer te encontrar novamente.
oi
Paris, 3 de April de 1973
Eu nasci há muitos anos atrás, e novamente outro dia, quando te encontrei. Vou me lembrar para sempre e dizer a todos que a primeira parte do seu corpo que vi foram seus pés. Bem, eu não sei o quão interessante esse detalhe será para alguém, mas é o que eu escolho lembrar.
Olhei por cima do livro que estava lendo e os vi entrando em minha moldura; então levantei minha cabeça e vi seu lindo rosto.
"Oi!" você disse. "Eu só vim te dizer oi." e você tinha uma expressão tipo “eu sou apenas uma simples garota Canadense”; que eu imediatamente entendi seria seu charme.
Lembro de ter pensado: “Sim. Tá bem!. Se liga garota! " Eu senti você chegando a anos-luz de distância.
momento fugaz
Paris, 3 de April de 1973
Eu estava pensando em você agora; um pensamento fugaz, então decidi pegar uma folha de papel em branco, nova, uma lapiseira, e fazer esse sentimento durar. A memória que a trouxe de volta pra mim foi de você jogando migalhas de pão para os patos; da sua ansiedade: “e se eles vierem aqui? Tudo de uma vez só!!" e você olhou para mim, e eu achei aquilo hilário.
Tenho certeza de que não foi seu pensamento, mas senti como se você estivesse verificando se eu iria protegê-la de um bando de patos famintos.
Marie, eu certamente correria, e espero que você tenha a inteligência para me seguir, e o bom senso para deixar as migalhas de pão para trás. Tenho certeza de que não podemos fugir de um bando de patos voadores. Mas você jogou suas migalhas de pão, e eles não deram a mínima para isso. As crianças nos dias de hoje!
Seu rosto olhando para os patos, para as migalhas de pão, indo e voltando, entre eles e as migalhas de pão. Nossa gargalhada sincronizada por um momento no tempo. Nossa alegria de ser.
ART and WRITING
ART and WRITING have to be a serious revelation of mankind to itself, or perhaps more importantly, a hidden confession: of pettiness, vindictiveness, smallness, gallantry and bravado, hidden, within the structure of a PLAY or a POEM, a FILM, like a trojan horse that only a few people in the audience will recognize and feel: ashamed, uncomfortable, distressed and kindredship.
A whisper only they will will hear and take with them, in secret, in shame, all the way home or up until the day they die.
WRITE always with the intent of creating a
MIRROR the audience can look into it and recognize themselves.
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