Letters from the Depths of Solitude (The Forty-Fifth)

The chipped nailpolish playes a role of the ticking watch, an hourglass in which the running of the stream of sand never stops. Today you paint your nails, in fresh, smooth brush, tomorrow the varnish is chipped. Tomorrow you’ll seek me and I am dead.

And so many clock-like ticklings around and about your body: skirt wearing out, a stocking catching a notch somewhere and broken, phone measuring time whether you pay attention to its elapse or not, things going out of fashion next season, like ultra-modern earrings, but nailpolish cracking on nails is most noticeable. I have to turn an hourglass again, and repaint the nails. And I do.

Sandglass is a visualization of time. About fluid nature of time the humanity always thought in terms and metaphors of movement, flux, flow, motion, and unrest. And ruin (ruination of nailpolish) is another such metaphor and an image: Of time petrified, done, finished. Its movement is recorded as belonging to the past in the very absence of movement.

I think about frescos fracturing in churches over the course of centuries, and feed with pieces of meat and grapes a new wondrous gargoyle which flung itself into my window from a portal of a medieval cathedral–imagining you fully clad and myself, naked and lowered on my knees (such a disturbing disbalance of power).

(Written in a white pencil on violet velvet.)

By the way was I very absurd about children last night? I was rather shocked that you should think I didn’t care for Nessa’s. They are such an immense source of pleasure to me. But I see what it is: I’m always angry with myself for not having forced Leonard to take the risk in spite of doctors; he was afraid for me and wouldn’t; but if I’d had rather more self-control no doubt it would have been all right. That’s I suppose why I don’t talk of Nessa’s children—it’s true I never do—whom I adore.
—  Virginia Woolf to Ethel Sands (9 February 1927)
Letters from the Depths of Solitude (The Forty-Forth)

Colors which suit her happen to be warm, bright, clear, and clean, spring-like colors: yellow, chartreuse, green, coral, red, cornflower blue.

Colors which she likes and which attract her attention whenever she sees them, in clothes, in jewelry, and even interior, are another matter–they are cold, deep, dark, complex, intense, vivid, vibrant, received as a mix of different tinges of nearing colors: dark-blue, purple, maroon, blue-green, mallow pink, fuchsia, violet, purple red–deaf, deep, dreamy colors.

To be sure, they all make her look like she’s drown: deep shadows around eyes, sharpened features, hair momentarily discolored, cheeks paled.

She also likes light cold colors: blue, cold pink, mint green, cold yellow. They, too, do not suit her.

She’s certainly aware of it. It’s an issue of a long-time struggle. She has long made a decision to adhere to light, warm colors. There is nothing bad about them. Beautiful colors however you look.

But deep blue. But cold purple.

(Written in pins on a political map of Spain.)

Kyra. This is something like a letter to you. 

I’m not gone. 

Keep reading

Letters from the Depths of Solitude (The Forty-Second)

You are a beautiful lover, perhaps all the more so if I never know you. Thus I can retain the space for imaginings, I can guard myself against yet another disenchantment–not that I fear disenchantments, I rather welcome them, but I’d like to linger in limbo for a moment (to use Eleanor’s phrase).

So far, and it is a dry medical fact pinned down on a velvet pillow, like a brooch resembling a bug or a bug resembling a brooch, you are the best. For you answer to every gesture and accept a frown and a smile as the earth accepts the ray of the sun and the hail–indifferently in some higher sense, that is to say, as if there was a tomorrow.

Tomorrow, tomorrow,
I love you, tomorrow

I like this simple song; Why it is not re-sung by contemporary singers and only has renditions in children’s unsure voices, escapes me. I even learned to play it; I have scores.

Hail is a form of solid precipitation, Wiki informs us in its usual tautological manner. The type of cloud to which we owe this dreaded miracle: Cumulonimbus, great word. The nature of the event: Chunks of ice falling down from the sky. The better event is only the outpouring of frogs, a bizarre yet not unheard of phenomenon. Type of cloud: Anuranimbus (let’s say).

And hailstone sounds like just another name of gem: moonstone, bloodstone, sunstone. And in fact hailstone resembles quarts; opaque, muddy, white; I imagine colorful are rare. Mint green variety of hailstone are the rarest, and, accordingly, most expensive. I’d wear it in a ring but that’s not my color.

(Puts a hat in a drawer.)

Letters from the Depths of Solitude (The Fourty-Third)

You know how hard it is to ask. I have a steel nail in my skull, never ask for anything. Russian writer Mikhail Bulgakov in his novel “The Master and Margaritta” produced one of these adages, which often substitute the novel itself in minds of educated society:

“Never ask for anything. They will come by themselves and give you whatever you need.”

Who – they? When they will come? Will they? How would they know you need anything? I am afraid to think what an abysmal collection of proud graves this phrase opens, being itself a sum of an unending line of such graves.

(Written in sand on grass.)

Dear Anonymous,

I do believe in soulmates. I’ve met a fair many actually. Not all were lovers, but they were all loved indeed. I met a tiny soul that knew how to giggle with braces and she always said that being free meant that we had to let go of our own greeds. She was the first time I realized my own selfish desires. I met this tiny soul and I finally tasted love for the first time. It was young, but love is love and that still hurt me. I met a soul that caught mine on fire and she still texts like I’d answer, to be honest with you, she’s reading this very poem with you. She’s dictating this whole section of this prose piece. She’s the namesake of my blog. She’s the reason why I’ve been dying on Tumblr for almost a year. She’s the reason I met my sister. She’s the reason I grew. She’s the reason why you get to ask these questions. And she’s reading this with you because that’s all that we’ll ever have left. Things to be written and things to be read. But that’s it, you know? Some stories cut short, but her story, it’ll never be exactly over. And I’ll regret typing these words, but I still love her like the first time I saw her smile and she’ll read this and go, yeah, I thought so, I guess for today, we can say that she has won. But the war is mine and this soul that caught fire on my arms, she will be something I can’t love, but she will be something that I can love; is that confusing? Let me explain. Love does these things to us. I’ve moved away from her so many times that she finally left. I broke her heart so many times that she finally cracked open mine. I took her hips one time too many, I guess some dances won’t ever happen again. I’ve seen her skin shine in the dark and I’ve seen her smile fade into the night. I’ve called her the sun before and some days, she still reminds. I’ve called her the moon before and some nights, she’s still mine. I told myself, this will be the last time I will ever write about you, but it never really happens. She’s my bad habit. She’s my addiction, but even addicts get a second chance, even bad habits disappear, and even poets stop immortalizing people who no longer appear within the words. She’s reading these words and she’s searching for happiness that we once shared and my apologies, but I no longer think about you and smile. This was a poem for the anon, but it seems that you’re still reading so, you can get a piece of the cake too. Some souls don’t last forever. When I say that, I mean they come and go as they please. They touch and burn themselves out. They fear more than they love and they resent more than they accept. But you see, that was our problem. WE. We… We were the problem. Identical in every way. I loved her every way. From her flaws to her perfections. From her smiles to her tears. From her intelligence to her shallowness. From her rivers to her deserts. From her nights to her days. We were so identical. We stopped accepting each other a long time ago. Sex destroyed us both. She never stopped me and I never really cared enough to be tender and gentle. Relationships suck, but you want know what’s worse? They end and you’re there; your mistakes, a ghost hanging from the ceiling. Your words the noose. Her goodbye, the death of me. Her touch, a reminder that even beautiful things can break us. Her smile, a reminder that lips do more than speak. Her laughter, a reminder that memories come knocking when you least expect it. She always gets the longest parts of my poetry when it comes to love, and it’s because she’s my longest relationship. She is a soul and I was lost within it for so long that I forgot about my own and she’ll be reading this and go, he never forgot. Baby, how could I? Even if you forget, I don’t think I ever can. And I have tried to move on, it didn’t work. I’m honest, I’m more over her now than months ago, but it’s not all the way there.

Recently, however.

I’ve met another soul.
And this whole piece has
gotten off track, but hear me out.

She has dark hair that matches her smirky smile. When she’s around, my heart doesn’t think twice. It beats and beats. I seem to be a steaming kettle when she’s around. I seem to be out of breath when she talks. I seem too nervous because I don’t want to fuck this up. I seem to have this shaking inside of my bones and my hands can’t stop fissuring. I’m cracked and I think she notices. I’ve written her a few letters and maybe she’s afraid. Maybe, my words are nothing. Maybe she thinks I’m a loser, but it doesn’t matter. The thing is, I tried to get to know her. She has beauty, but I don’t know her insides. She has the looks, but I’ve yet to peek into her brain. She has the struggle beneath her eyes, I can see the bags containing a new universe. I can see a small sadness that yells a silent whisper of regrets. She smiles because she has to, and I’ve not known much peace but if there was ever anything more disturbing than having a crush on someone out of your league–

It is the fact that she has yet to reject me.

That scares me. At every corner,
there’s an open letter to her heart.

That scares me because the last time
I wrote my heart for someone,
they left my insides on the ground.

That scares me because I don’t know
how to act or how to write or
how to breathe or how to talk.

This shyness that I developed,
it is most likely from guilt.

I’ve come to the realization that I don’t know how to treat people properly. I don’t have respect for anyone but people who might penetrate my mind with something interesting. I don’t have kindness for stupid people because the world is full of it. I’m not a perfect man. Far from it, I’m imperfect. So the fact that you’re asking about relationships to me is kinda ironic. I’m the last person to tell someone how to love another.

But if you want the truth. I’ve met all kind of souls. Every single person that I have loved. They were my soulmate. And the truth is.

They don’t stay. They touch. They breathe down your neck. And then just like that.

A dull part of your soul just completely sharpens itself and you’re using it to cut your heart from out of your own chest because your heartbeats sound so much like theirs you can’t fucking sleep and it still bothers me because even as she’s reading this; she’s going to skim through it quickly because that’s her method to not crying while reading my poetry.

And I guess the tldr is…

Soulmates do exist, they just don’t stay with you forever. Soulmates do exist, they just stay for a short period. Soulmates do exist, but just remember…

Their definition of love won’t always be the same as yours.

—  To our soulmates
Letters from the Depths of Solitude (The Forty-First)

After Onegin was rejected by Tatiana–he, I’d remind, found her reading his love letter and pouring it with tears–his fate was not exactly clear. There are different versions (Nabokov wrote on all of them). The main direction Onegin’s wayward paths took–described by Pushkin, who considered proceeding with the novel–was a travel to the borderlands of the Caucasus, a usual place for disenchanted Russians of the imperial times to go get lost.

A rebellious land fraught with dangers, the earth beyond beautiful, picturesque in what today we’d call a cinematographic way: Meadows full of flowers, wattle-and-daub huts, medieval castles and forts, mountains with snowy tops, gradually progressing into sculptured clouds. The land inhabited by peoples reconstructed in popular Russian consciousness as peoples of excessive pride, independence, and cruelty; great bladesmiths and jewelers, harboring towards Russians a rattling concoction of passionate hatred and love. (Nothing new to the relations of the metropoly and colonies; colonizers always imagine themselves conquerers and enlighteners, and people under their rule both ingrates and appreciative welcomers, dreaming to marry their daughters to them.)

I see Onegin standing on some cliff, arms akimbo, taking immense grave pleasure in his solitude. And a perfect living example, a paragon of such hero was Mikhail Lermontov, the first Russian poet of melancholy, a great singer of poignancy, boredom, and despair.

Again a role not accessible for a woman, which I find all the more appealing. 

I’d like to be not sitting in a glossy cafe somewhere in the West, but, with greasy hair for absence of hot water, drinking tea out of tin cup somewhere in Siberia, of course. And writing not maudlin poetry but things of importance–describing the Angara Cascade of dams, for instance, amid my beloved ruins-which-I-do-not-call-ruins-for-fear-of-offending-people-who-do-not-call-ruins-ruins-either.

Now that’d be life.

(Composed in lego details on the carpet.)