Old Age

You stand pale in front of me; the glass
And the carafe.
This familiar stance is what I like;
Your hand in mine.

Let’s drink! Since our life’s been jolly
Without seperation
Neither the glass broken
Nor the carafe empty.

One of us might not be here one day
To drink
Or to refill.

İhtiyarlık

Benim, bardağın , sürahinin ,
Önümüzdesin ; rengin uçmuş,
Bu ; eski , sevdiğim bir duruş
Elin , içinde benimkinin.

İçelim! Madem ömrümüz hoş
Geçmiş , tatmamışız ayrılık ;
Madem ne bayrağımız kırık,
Madem ne sürahimiz boş.

Bir gün ikimizden birimiz
İçmek veya doldurmak için
Burada olmayabiliriz.

- Orhan Veli

Note: In line 7, he plays with the words “bardak” and “bayrak” in Turkish; meaning glass and flag. He actually says “flag” but I translated it as “glass”. It’s up to you to decide if he was serious or just playing. ‘Bardağımız’ and ‘bayrağımız’ sound almost exactly the same when spoken. Also note that his usage of ‘flag’ very possibly implies the flag of the two of them and not the national flag. Turkish is a very metaphorical agglutinative language; spoken Turkish mostly consists of phrases, sayings, metaphors and rhyme in contrast to English which is quite straightforward and clear. For instance, what I translated as ‘pale’ is literally ‘your color has flown away”. And the rhyme.. forget about it!

I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t like days when we came over and we had to play in your room while they had their little tea party. Your room was full of girl stuff and light colors. You’d tell me the names of your dolls. (What were you thinking?) I also remember you had a bunkbed which confuses me to this day; you didn’t have any siblings. But I learned something incredibly important and precious then; I would make such a fuss and constantly bother our moms, yell and scream about how I didn’t want to play with your toys and that your room was boring. Once I created enough of a commotion, they’d eventually take you and me to our apartment so they could continue their festivity in peace at yours. So on such lucky days, my obnoxious behavior would lead me to get you alone, at my place!

Once we got to our place, I’d learn my second precious lesson; girls do NOT care about cars. My impressive line of Matchbox BMWs and Mercedes could not even make you pretend to care, even when I’d line them up on dad’s expensive record player and make them turn, you didn’t care, you just didn’t, little stupid cars are turning on a record player; how great!

Then came the third precious lesson and it was for both of us: Once I’d run out of ideas on how to make you remotely interested in my life and what I liked doing, perhaps combined with your prediction that I didn’t care if your favorite doll was Ayşe, Barbie or Leyla, a little light appeared to both of us.

Dear, I can’t ever forget that moment; the door. Look at the door: pairs of shoes, many pairs, my mother’s, my father’s, grown up shoes! Within seconds, you and I rushed to the door and before I could even have a chance to pick ones I like, you had my mother’s heels on and I was standing in my father’s dress shoes. It felt good! So good, so fair that we didn’t even question what was next. This was it; we had found it, a little door to reality, an understanding of how we can actually spend time together. So simple; we had to play the same game. Nothing would ever be that simple again. You looked so good in heels.

After that moment and with our grown up shoes on, everything was easy, the rest came by itself. We moved to the living room, sat by the window, your legs crossed like a lady and mine crossed like a man; ankle to knee. “Tell me dear, how was your day at work?” “Oh it was fine, you know how it is these days. How are the children? Did they do their homework?” I know it sounds funny but I can’t laugh right now. That revelation of reality, pure, straightforward authenticity stops my ability to laugh at it. Eventhough the shoes were not ours, eventhough our children were fake, our marriage secret and uncertified, one never finds such honesty in life like we did that day. I was a dentist of course, just like dad and we had one son and one daughter but I remember discussing it; I was set on one son, you added the daughter. “Bi de kızımız olsun.”

Hours went by that window, watching the world go by and conversing so lightly, so necessarily easy. I remember you going to the kitchen and getting two coffee cups, asking if I would take it with sugar tonight. You brought our coffee and the conversation went on and on as we sipped the imaginary coffee. I must admit you made great coffee, dear. I can’t even begin to count how many times we did this; different shoes, different stories from the dentist’s office, I think you even cooked me an imaginary moussaka once. The Greek and the Turkish recipe made no difference to us and your baklava tasted incredible. We never had to invent another game and each time was as good as the first, that was love.

Then time past and my brother was born; it ruined everything. We had to move to a bigger apartment, just down the same street but I never saw you again. I thought I fell in love once more in 3rd grade; she was a redhead and would wink at me from across the classroom; I felt very special and forgot about you. Few months later, I caught her winking at another boy. I didn’t care that much really. After all, it was just a flirt; nothing real. I forgot about her quickly. I am 31 now and the rest of my story is irrelevant so I won’t bother you with it.

Well dear, I just wanted to tell you I haven’t forgotten our marriage despite I can’t remember your name. I hope I never do remember your name and you don’t read this and we never find each other. You probably didn’t tell your husband you were married before. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.

Ending this autumn with Musil’s “Progress would be wonderful - if only it would stop.” and opening the door to winter with Walser; “I shall never let myself be rescued nor shall I ever rescue anybody.”

How long do I have to be quiet? I can go for a long time, you know. Is this what you wanted? What was it you wanted? Is this is not what you wanted and is it too late?

In 2008, in the spring, you purchased a pack of Winston Lights, one pack of tampons, pregnancy test, 3 photographs, stole $200, my socks, a videotape of indecent behavior and you rushed out the door. I should immediately confess that the videotape you took was only a copy. You punched me in the chest, threw the bottle of Jim Beam on the kitchen floor, that’s allright, I don’t mind cleaning. Really, I don’t. In regards to the stuff you hid in my house, I know where they are and no I haven’t looked and I am not going to read any of it; I am not a historian. The best words known to man are words lost and I’d like it to stay that way. What you don’t say is lost forever. You are not a treasure chest, not one bit.

I liked your hair, smile and the way you fell off your chair, that was cute; very cute, eventhough you did it on purpose and pretended it was an accident; that made it even cuter. Oh and the nights you’d start babbling about.. well, nobody knows what you were talking about, you threw those words in the wind hoping one of them would crash into mine so the lights of that little explosion would punch one of us in the face and we’d see some sort of light, spark, madness, innovation that could take us elsewhere. Ah, that elsewhere; half-sex, half-trust, half-truth and oh my, half-beginning which would eventually lead us to a half-end. That’s what you wanted, a half-end, not a real end; penis in, baby out.

To this day, I know you think we’re still at half. Half the battle, half the loss, half the song, half of your letters read, half of them kept secret for the right time. Half of the gifts to be returned to sender; half a film. Silly.

It’s still 2008, fall. I’ve come to say a half goodbye as the half goodbye should cover a half hello. It’s over, it isn’t going any further. The ocean behind you is now all yours to swim in. In full. I am going to mail you the bikini you left here and the master videotape. I don’t need your address, I know where you are.

Croatia, after decades of communism is probably the one republic of former Yugoslavia that is adjusting to capitalism slightly better than the others. The whole country is pretty much all renovated after the “last” “Balkan” war. I love coming here and everytime, I understand communism more and more. Even it’s gone, even if it’s not here. But its definition stays and understanding it seems easier at a country that left it behind rather than a country living in it.

Here’s how, allow me:

Tonight I went to eat delicious fish on the Adriatic coast. The Croats have amazing culinary skills when it comes to fish as the country’s coast is made up of 1,000, yes, one thousand small and big islands and islets. As I was savouring my fried red mullets (I had more than one), a spanish couple sat at the table next to me. The waiter came by and asked them what they’d like to drink. The couple ordered 2 cokes, diet. Simple choice.

A few minutes later, the waiter arrived with their cokes and 2 glasses; only one of the glasses had ice in it. Somehow the gentleman got the glass with the ice, about 4 cubes of it. The lady politely asked she’d like ice as well. This is where the waiter got extremely confused. Let me note that the waiter did not offer the ice to the gentleman because he is sexist, he is not. It just happened that way; there is no explanation as to why only one of the glasses had ice in it. Just luck. The waiter’s confusion intensified when the gentleman pointed to the ice in his glass and said “more”. He just didn’t get it; it didn’t get through. At this point, the lady pointed to her glass and then pointed to the ice in her husband’s glass. No. Nothing. The lady said, for the 3rd time, she’d like some ice as well. Nope. Nada. No communicacion!

The confused waiter finally understood; he took the gentleman’s glass and emptied the ice into the lady’s glass. They all laughed. Regardless, the problem wasn’t solved. Now, the gentleman had no ice. To resolve the problem, the waiter took the lady’s glass and tried to distribute the ice amongst them. One ice cube fell into the gentleman’s glass. Now, he had one ice cube and the lady had three. Still not working out. Once more they laughed. Finally seeing that his actions weren’t satisfying the Spanish couple, the waiter, using a fork and a knife, took one more ice cube out of the lady’s glass and put it into the husband’s. Finally! Both had 2 cubes of ice though most of it had melted in the heat of the Mediterranean night. Not once did the waiter thought to go get more ice.

This is communism at its best: You start with a bunch of ice. While trying to distribute and share the ice, most of it melts away and at the end no one has any ice. In the time it takes to distribute the ice, one could’ve had a delicious cold coke watching the waves of the Adriatic wash Croatia’s now capitalist shores.

La Concha is big. It’s a big big hotel. I am one of the 4 guests staying at La Concha in San Juan, Puerto Rico. With all the hurricane warnings and the incredible rain, only a few of us call this a vacation. Well, I am not here for a vacation. I am not here for any specific reason, to be honest. I am here because it’s 2008, I am 31, the world is still turning, time doesn’t end when you don’t believe it, I love coffee, I am reading a book on qualities, Bushmills is great whiskey, I do not wear checkered shirts, my father was a dentist and a clarinet player, I am going to make a feature film next summer, I wear size 42 shoes, people say I have nice hands.

None of these are reasons to be in San Juan, I know. But maybe there is a gap somewhere between those facts that requires me to be in Puerto Rico today and I am here because I trust that space between actualities, the space that makes room for the black hole between one’s justifications; the slot, the vent, the crack, perforation. Leonard Cohen said there’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. So just because I or you can’t pinpoint it, it doesn’t mean the reason doesn’t exist. For the confused reader, let’s note that I am not talking about fate. Fate is a manmade concept. I try not to believe in manmade notions.

As a result of the space between, well let’s say, my father being a clarinet player and Bushmills is great whiskey, I am in San Juan. What? How? This is why: One lives a narrative no matter what. The narrative has two authors; one’s self and the world. The world is always willing, it’s the good writer, so disciplined, working 24/7, helping build your narrative relentlessly, it makes nature, it makes people, it makes places, it makes food, it makes love, it makes hate, it makes cars. It makes the props. You are the lazy collaborator. You only work on your narrative when you want to, you don’t fill in your part as much as you should. You owe the world.

So I came to San Juan because it’s my responsibility, because I owe the world and I have to pay my debt before I get out of here and my co-written fragmented narrative comes to an end. As a result, I am in San Juan on business. My responsibility to my narrative and the world at large is much bigger and inflexible than the rationale for vacation. I am not here to rest and swim in the pool, well, it’s also raining like crazy. My business trip so far has been good, I feel that I am paying back what I owe to the script of my life each time the bartender wonders what the hell I am doing here for the other 3 people staying at the hotel at least seem to take pictures. Now, I am going to get up from this chair, walk over to the bartender and explain my reasons, why the business of the world is important and why I had to come to San Juan to pay a debt and how it’s vital one honors his contracts with the world; the debt to the Act 2 of my life so the paragraph can now read:

“His father was a clarinet player. He went to San Juan in 2008. Bushmills is great whiskey.”

One sentence at a time.

I dream of people who can leave themselves behind, rise above the garbage of mankind and its self-referential notion of good and bad. Only then, can we really be together, in the same space, truly and enjoy how irrelevant even that is. This is difficult as believing in progress doesn’t necessarily mean believing any progress has yet been made. Do I think this is possible? Probably not, not in my lifetime. So what do I do? Every inch one moves away from morality is where they meet me. This meeting, given these current circumstances is satisfactory. Thus, I am content.

The foremost and first rule of all human endeavors has to be disbelief, pure and honest disbelief. Only then, we have a tiny chance at progress. All feelings, all notions, all thought should first be approached with utter disbelief and skepticism. All other formulas have proven to be lethal and rendered disgusting results. Absolute distrust in science, business, art, religion and feelings is necessary for any real insight into ourselves and the world surrounding us. This begins with throwing out the word ‘truth’. As we can all see, we are far from that vital act and until we get there, we are merely circling the length of one foot; our own.

2 - Mirrorless also @ Sunnyside Shorts Film Festival in Queens, NY. September 6. 8pm

“No one who speaks of the greatest and most important thing in the world means anything that really exists. What peculiar quality of the world would it be equivalent to? It all amounts to one thing being greater or more important, or more beautiful and sadder, than another; in other words, the existence of a hierarchy of values and the comparative mode, which surely implies an end point and a superlative? But if you point this out to someone who happens at that very moment to be speaking of the greatest and most important thing in the world, that person will suspect that she is dealing with an individual devoid of feelings and ideals.” - R. Musil

It feels great to see it put to words so well after being in this situation most of my life, thank you Robert. You with me?

Tonight, I’d like to pass along a few quotes from Robert Musil’s essay-novel The Man Without Qualities. I recommend it highly to those who have in one way or another entered a skeptical plateau of life at any point. Also, it’s an incredible resource for those who want to understand Europe and Europeans; for indulging in the social and ideological history of early 20th century Europe is necessary to even begin to grasp its reality today. (Yes, it’s 3 fat volumes, good luck!)

“The man going quietly about his business all day long expends far more muscular energy than an athlete who lifts a huge weight once a day. This has been proved physiologically, and so the social sum total of everybody’s little everyday efforts, especially when added together, doubtless releases far more energy into the world than do rare heroic feats. This total even makes the single heroic feat look positively minuscule, like a grain of sand on a mountaintop with a megalomaniacal sense of its own importance.”

“Happiness depends very little on what we want, but only on achieving whatever it is.”

“Modern man is born in a hospital and dies in a hospital, so he should make his home like a clinic.”

“The difference between a healthy person and one who is mentally ill is the fact that the healthy one has all the mental illnesses, and the mentally ill person has only one.”

“The man with an ordinary sense of reality is like a fish that nibbles at the hook but is unaware of the line, while the man with that sense of reality which can also be called a sense of possibility trawls a line through the water and has no idea whether there’s any bait on it.”

Good night + morning.

Dear Anna,

Look at me. I am writing this because it is absolutely impossible to tell you any of it. Not because it is wrong, not because wolves will fetch your babies if I do. Only because I can’t say it in person, not face to face, not with gestures, not over the phone, not to you, not like that. Why? Because you don’t deserve it. This song, Anna, is not really a song but let’s pretend it’s a song so I can sing it easier. And my singing voice, Anna, is not the prettiest . You call, you write, you ask why. Actually, you don’t even ask why. I imagine you ask why or shall we say, why not? In words, you ask about the weather, the whereabouts; the here and there of life. In fact, strangers always talk about the weather. We’re not strangers? We are. So let me answer questions you haven’t asked in person for the same reasons I can’t answer them in person.

Let’s face it; at your age, it’s impossible for you to understand what I am singing about; but let’s be fair too; at my age, I’ve forgotten the notes you sing. Age doesn’t make any of us better or better looking. It doesn’t make us worse either. Time is useless. Time’s job is the job of a blind librarian; cataloging chaos. But how does one catalog chaos?

It seems that my doors and windows to you are shut. These shut doors and windows don’t reflect much sunlight. You sit and wonder why. Are you not enough? What is wrong with you? Nothing is wrong with you, Anna. You are beautiful, your golden hair, be it real or be it painted reflects more sunlight than the cigarette smoke which drifts away from my beard as I yell at the gatekeeper “Let the dogs in!”

I know I started something I can’t finish. Blame me. I am good at taking it. Only don’t blame yourself. Ever. I dream that you imagine a plateau which people call the world. And in that world, is a village, where you and I can watch horses play in black sand and whiskey flows in the rivers. But I am not there, Anna. Not because of you, not because I don’t trust your horses, not because your horses are toothless.

I just can’t ride horses whose shoes I haven’t made myself. Let’s be friends?

Sex and The City preaches the opposite. It says women are beings who spend all their time drinking cocktails, talking about men, buying shoes and that’s pretty much it. It dumbs down the female to a few almost material equations. The problem gets worse; on top of the picture it paints, it also says that is cool. It lies to the female and says ‘if you are like this, it’s ok and if you are not like this, you should be; go out and buy some pink heels and everything will be fine, these are your essentials’. In other words, it advocates and confirms that this material, dumb and pseudo-sexual way is the female way.

I think you get what I am saying.

There is, of course, a third and most important layer to the problem. Many women, including some of my very close friends watch the show. Some actually like it, some like it ironically; pretending they only watch it for fun which is all good until it is not good. Ironic appreciation is worse than actual appreciation, it fuels the show’s idea further and enlarges its platform for ‘proving’ itself right. These women who are otherwise intelligent, feminist and progressive get themselves caught in the show’s web. It becomes a secret fetish but unfortunately it is not as good as chocolate.
I am personally shocked to find so many intelligent females to be engulfed by this nonsense; people who are otherwise ready at all times to fight for women’s rights, equality and a fair environment where we can continue the exciting exploration between the two sexes that I mentioned above.

Come on, ladies. Your interest in Sex and The City is making us men look smarter, and believe me; we are not.

I am staying at a former jail. My room feels like I should be guilty and I feel guilty. In fact, I am guilty. Thank you for this opportunity to confess, retreat and rehabilitate. Shared institutional bathrooms remind me of my boarding school days and that’s good. I liked boarding school. I liked it a lot. I spent 7 years there. Most of western Europe has merged into the same notion of the western European cosmopolis and no that’s not because of the EU. It has become hard to distinguish between Amsterdam, Paris, Barcelona and so on; not in the way they or their people are or look, just in the daily routine of things; the coffee, the trains, the so-called global intellectualism which bores me to death. I miss when you could sit at a cafe in Barcelona and not feel like you are sitting at a cafe in Paris and vice versa. I guess this sort of strict difference is brought upon by war. War always brings us back to what we believe we rightfully own or have invented. If there was a war between the Dutch and the French, the French cafe cup might very well disappear from the Amsterdam cafes and get replaced by the Dutch goblet in a matter of days?

Two more little notes and I will leave you alone:

a) The main difference between America and the rest of the world is renting vs. owning one’s life. In Europe and the Middle East, for instance, one rents his life from the history and the tradition that owns it. In America, one buys, makes and owns one’s life. More on this later..

b) I have discovered why prostitution is legal and over-marketed in the Netherlands; the local girls do not wear skirts. They really don’t. Don’t ask me why.

Bye.

I polished my boots, my shirt is white, my beard trimmed, I am 31, I’ve got 52 dollars 32 cents in my pocket. I am putting the boots on, my keys are already in my pocket. I am going to go and drink 7 glasses of Irish whiskey; that leaves $10.32 tip for the bartender. Keep in touch.

She saw him walk down the street, on main street, at the corner shop with his buddies so many times, so many smiles. Impression, hunch, intuition, they are all there. Even if it is luck and witchcraft, it’s there, it’s in the air; magnetic, enchanting and urgent. This is America. Her skirt writes the fate of the town. She is a princess, everyone knows it.

A film, borrow the car and drive-in, kiss her there. She doesn’t let him go any further that night. A kiss is a kiss and a kiss is enough. For now. The tale wraps itself around their lips, she tells all her friends; she believes and she is right. He lies and tells everyone he already fucked her. But it’s ok because he loves her, he won’t leave once he fucks her, the ring will come, marry me darling?

Days and months marry each other. Months run fast and love is not cheap but it comes easy, in the garden, in the back seat, rain and all that, the beautiful etc. of life. He actually speaks; 3 words, marry me darling? Shivers down the spine, blinks in the eye, hold her hand right there and tight. She says yes. Your mother said yes. Who could blame her? He fucks her that night, fucks her hard.

Beg, borrow, steal and there is money. The wedding is small but friend and foe are at peace for one night, music plays, chocolate cake, cheap beer, they dance. Their apartment is small but the curtains are handmade, the bread she bakes is rockhard; he likes it regardless. Now they have to wait, with this bread in the shade, for 9 months. There is a seed. Your seed.

Well, then there is you. Pretty, you cry a lot. Name? You must have a good name. They search dictionaries, ask friends, look through gardening books and voila! There is your name. You love your name, it’s the only gift you will appreciate from the future or the past, whatever you want to call it.

The rest of this story is old, told many times: He left a few days after, or few months after. 6 years later, he sent you a postcard. He didn’t come to your graduation. 4 years after that, he wrote a letter; it said the weather was warm and he was well and how is school, by the way? He buys and sells horses or he buys and sells houses or he buys and sells stocks or he hunts tigers in the forest. He is dirt poor or he is filthy rich. He didn’t say where he was. Either case, he is alive and you can read now and write and forget even. You’ve learned to forget, that’s good. It is good that he is alive, there is still years to come. Time will come on its own accord and you already know he feels he has a debt to pay. That’s good. This kind of debt doesn’t get interest. We can wait a little longer. A meeting perhaps, a cup of coffee. 10 years from now or let it be 20. It will take 5 minutes and we will forgive 30 years in 3 seconds. But a debt is a debt even if it takes 3 seconds to pay. So you let it go until it comes around on its own, there is nothing else to do, there must be a cycle to all this; all things circle themselves. The rule of leaving is the same as the rule of coming back, you know this. Sooner or later, you will have that coffee.

A few years later, he marries a bigger woman. Bigger than your mother. Age happens to everyone and the size of her bosom loses its relevance. The bigger bosomed wife gives him another child. His name is almost as good as yours.

On a sunny day, he collapses in his office; heart attack. On a sunny day, he falls off his favorite horse and breaks his neck. On a sunny day, he gets killed by the tiger he was supposed to hunt. On a sunny day, he falls of the porch of the new house he was trying to sell.

He dies without paying that debt but the debt lives on. His son takes it over. He is young, parts his hair, arranges to meet a girl at the corner shop, her skirt writes the fate of the town, this is America, chocolate cake, cheap beer, time will come on its own accord.

The box doesn’t go. Everyday the box stays, it gets more and more irrelavant; it quiets down, its seams creak a little more, no, it doesn’t get fatter, just older. Letters fly out of it. A to Z. Backwards and in languages we can’t comprehend, it forms more words; I can’t this, you can’t that, when you, when I, if we, if you. It gets worse, turns into jibberish, flat and outlined, still talking. We are still talking. This hotel, that room, your dress, socks in the drawers, raising glasses to victories of no specific battle. We, the army beat the army that was ours. What a victory! Flags up, cheers, mate. Let’s fuck.

We fuck. Get inside, baby. For a moment, the battle is physical. Win me. Win me over. Sides change, weapons change, bullets bought and sold. The box rattles under the bed, she puts on a show, he watches. They laugh, sorry to laugh. Her boots paint the walls black, she falls on the floor, splash! Whiskey glass broken, her eyes are saying something, she can barely hear it. He certainly can’t. Bathroom, fridge, let’s make coffee? No. He whispers something to her. She can’t hear it. She stretches out on the floor, legs spread. He pulls her boots off and pins flowers on her hair, carries her back to the bed. She forgets why. Sorry, darling, I forgot why. He puts a song on the stereo and whispers again. Hear me, darling, hear me if you can.

The box rattles more. They stay inside for days, nobody sees them, nobody finds them. There is no TV.

On Sunday, they buy a car. Hello Mercedes. Gas is expensive. In diesel wheels, they drive off. Till the tires are flat, till they find money. Sell the car, buy a horse. No, don’t be silly, who rides horses these days? They expected something. Something more.

9 years and more. A box of letters, a wish for a horse and a diesel. What more?

You know me. You know the parts well, unclear parts, unleashed parts, splinter, limb, my roles against yours.

Time teaches people each other; that’s all time is good for, nothing else. My crooked finger, your scar, the night I fell off the porch and you screamed, headlights, earthquakes and there is more. Me as I am in your construction and mine is inevitable as well; the version of you who is more real than you yourself. So time moved on, finally, we pushed it, all the way out to here. Now it’s here, now it’s gone, you are not in it now, you are not in it now, it’ll come back in a minute.. And then, limb again, hello scar, your mother’s letters.

Time is useless. Other than this. This is time’s job; today’s coffee is time’s job, your fragile voice, unaltered and uniform. Benevolence is time’s job; it builds a gift that knows not to be given, then that same time compensates, it compensates for it’s own lack, relief and out of either goodwill or empathy it disguises itself. What else can disguise 4 years? What else yearns for itself? The stone wants to remain a stone and whatever you and I do or whatever partial concern we throw at it, you and I are time’s job. They do not have soy milk at this cafe.

Mirror, mirror on the wall.. Let’s put that beauty junk aside for a minute. The beauty junk that exactly and specifically fuels time’s machine. Let me understand myself first; necessarily understand myself. And you, too. Throw the mirror out for today’s coffee. Mirrors are useless. I wake up like all men wake up, in the course of kindness, neighbors, business associates, friends, deal and bargain cutters, I will be asked what I am like. The question is simple and you hear it too; maybe slightly, only slighty more than you ask it yourself: What am I like?

Whether you are awake or asleep doesn’t negate the question. It’s simplicity kills you at hello. Am I kind? Am I understanding? Am I smart? Am I? Your gut feeling says yes or no, it says yes one day, no the other, yes to one another. It also preaches, your gut. Your gut says “you need to change”. Mister. Lady. Your gut knows nothing. It’s just a gut. Nevertheless, you let it speak. You say yes. You say no. You say mostly. Whatever you say, the second and simpler question shoots you in the forehead before you can even answer the first one. The second question: Enough?

Am I kind, enough? Am I understanding, enough? Am I smart, enough? Am I, enough?

That’s enough. I am not going to go on deeper into this for it’s not why I am writing. I am writing this because you are time’s gift to me and I know that I am to you. You are my other gut; the one who knows me. In a world riddled with coincidence and circumstance, what we are will never be clear to ourselves. It will only be clear to those that time has picked for that job. I am not talking about love, desire or lust. Surely, they will come in this picture at one point or another but they will also go. What remains is the mirror that doesn’t show anything; only knows it. Then, the useless bastard time has done it’s job. I know myself because you know me. You know yourself because I know you.

So, old lover, precious friend, keeper of silent tremors, thank you. For the coffee, this hour, and reminding me what I am like.

See you soon or later. Better late than never. Whatever you do, don’t die. I’ve already lost one.

P.S: Sorry about the soy milk.