Thursday, November 23, 2006

Maria Isabella

She is my goddess. I dream of her every night like an electric blue in my darkest night. I love her; I love her dark images lying within me. I desire her. I suffer for her. She is my rose that defines my intimate lust to black petals. Am I dreaming? Her beauty is my joy against the inexplicable landscape of existence. Have you seen her eyes? Her eyes like a dot in the sky. Her naked eyes, her dead eyes I desire in her silence.

I make love to her cadaver. I make love to my nymph. Her last word still exists in my fantasy. I’m dying, I’m flying, I’m begging. I am crying as I dream of her naked, so vivid in the fog of my confused being. Here is a draw between her pulchritude and Death.

Her pulchritude is sadness never wither in my bed. I am suffering from isolation and beautiful memories. Is living a kind of poetic struggle? I am bleeding with lost words and promises, bleeding in her absence, making love with her body parched with lethargic words. What is existence if I can’t create you with imagery and allusion, Maria Isabelle?

Her love is my vanity. My vanity is my nocturnal malady. I suffer for this beautiful enigma. I hide her pulchritude deep in the darkness of my heart. The tears of the black emerald are reverie in my sleepless night. It is a dream of simple joy where words are nomads and heresy of wisdom. She died and I created her image with fantasy, anguish, hatred, and total silence. Her death becomes my divinity. Life with her kiss is indefinable. It is music with tempo of madness and tenderness. It is poetry hiding with her virginity. Ah, my Maria Isabelle, my nymph. Life is a tragedy to fulfill, I reckon. Do you still remember the past before Death kissed you? Love you said “Must be with sadness. It has neither beginning nor end. It is beauty inside the tragedy of life. Love must possess the solitude of the self and never a possession of the other self”. How true, how true! Is love an expression of the self only to become a possession of the past?

I wait her holding her hand in my dream. I wait for her while I wander in the beauty of thing that sleeps in the middle of the night.

She left and died. In the spring of July was the first time I made love to her cadaver. In the dark space of my heart I conquered the love that will never be mine again. I mourn in her silence. Her lips are mute I love to kiss, her breast is a soft pillow I caress, her naked body is a dead petal of rose with intimacy and lust. I am with sadness. I am fleeting. I am with her death.

Death.

Death is.

Before July sadness is vague. Walking with her in the garden of life is a passionate moment for me, an exquisite joy. I paint the sky with purple hue. It was life full of surprises, imagination, sensuality and love. My love is dying as it breathe the passion and desire of my beloved. Ah, Maria Isabelle, I am now here with your memory and without your lips to warmth me. I disobey time. Why do you have to kiss me with all these flowers lying here without you seeing how beautiful they are? Time is something I can’t unravel. My consciousness is always there in my past. Where are you, Maria Isabelle? I want to kiss you, to feel you, to make love with you.

I can’t imagine her last words for me. I hate her last word exists in my mind: The last word of love is saying goodbye.

Philosophy of Sigh

Why sigh? Why I write?

My answer is this: Because I am guilty. In what manner I am guilty? What kind of crime?

Let me put it this way: In Franz Kafka’s unfinished novel The Trial, a question is left to the reader. Is Josef K. guilty? (He was accused of an unknown crime and died in the end of the story without ever knowing what kind of crime he had committed.) Max Brod, Kafka’s biographer and best friend offered an answer: Josef K was guilty of being incapable to love.

Like Josef K. I am guilty of being incapable to love. But on the contrary I know my crime: I am guilty for loving literature above all. I know, John Galt, contradiction doesn’t exist. How can I love Literature if I am incapable to love? Let me explain this by experience. By experience I mean stories of my life with women.

Wisdom is like a cell phone snatcher. It always comes suddenly, rubbing you out for the abrupt elucidation. Last Sunday, after Manny Pacquiao was abducted by Tralmafadorians for the 2007 calendar porn star pictorial, it dawned on me that I am incapable to love outside literature.

I’m incapable to love outside literature? The truth is I never love any woman in my life. Being in love is being with literature. I can only manifest my deep affection with my beloved with loving the puddles of literature. I can only be with my beloved as I am deeply in love with literature. It is to write with them but not about them as it manifests my imagination. To write and to love is two things inseparable to me. To love only bathed with the lyrical scent of literature and tenderness of their breast, like two planets I have to conquer in my cup of double espresso universe. (That is why I never doubted why writers and artists are promiscuous in nature.)

Writing is to imagine the brazilin model Gisele Bundchen lying in my bed as I write verses in her most beautiful legs, as if her body is particle accelerator that triggers a wormhole and open a door where I can travel into the unknown side of poetry. It is only by my wildest imagination can I possess such beauty, not to mention the beautiful tragedy.

It is like loving a woman who will never arrive in your date, a letter by a virgin boy to his beloved upon his first discovery of eroticism, a cry of a woman who ditched by her boyfriend for another young lad, an unanswered prayer of a child to God, a doodle art while Elliot Smith or Aimee Mann hum in your room. It is an answer, it is sighing. It is love giving a beautiful sigh.

Writing is a sad, sad, sad, sad affair. It is being with Rilke whose beloved will never arrive. It is being with Neruda who wrote the most beautiful and saddest line in the ocean of Love. It is being with Yeats who wrote mysticism as his lyrical gift to his Helen who left him. It is being with Molly Millions as our lips are parched with Lucky Strike in our coffin bed. It is being with Einstein who discovered the Zen of Sexual Position hidden in the mathematical precision of energy, mass, and the constant speed of light.

Above all, it is being with Kafka dating with Ingrid Bergman in the small town of poetry and imagination, a coffee date rendered in the palette of philosophical and erotic bedscape. Writing is sighing; it is called Philosophy of Sigh.

It is an answer to ambiguous love affair with Life and its lack of meaning. Writing is being faithful with life amidst the shitty experiences. It is to feel the humanity inside me.

Never mind if I drown again, I think of the distant sea, to qoute Kundera, as love conceived and yet to be born. I am guilty, I sigh; therefore I write.