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.

                                              

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.