For writing perhaps you need loneliness. Loneliness for breakfast, loneliness for lunch and loneliness for dinner. But that will never be enough. You’ll need to sleep with her, caress her cheeks, she’ll have to be the muse in all of your dreams. And what is it you can write then? A really-real account of that solitude? Who needs it? Isn’t everybody is expert in the field? Isn’t it the only thing a specialisation is impossible? Who needs the account of some idiot roaming the earth to feel loneliness in different shades of grey, exuberant solitude, dying-away solitude, salty, sour, sweet and bitter solitude. To whom may it concern? To the creator? O, and does not everyone of us in his most private domain, in the reign of his hyperindividualistic final judgement, IS the creator all by himself? It’s not the good old romantic idea of writing soul to soul, of tolling the bells in my head and offering you threads that connect those bells straight to the bells in your head, dear reader. And we’d ring together with delire like a noisy old Glockenspiel. The law of the connected bells, the resonnance of my ideas in your head, of my emotion in your lap. It’s not about that. It’s not a quest to overcome solitude of anything else, it’s just a humble récit of experiences I decided to make and share. Because I think the internal combustion, the digestion of our experiences has been governed for too long by factors that ought to be replaced. All you have to do is to nod and occasionally click with your mouse or with the side of your thumb on your touch-pad. And if you like it, support the author of course. I like hazelnuts.
Read some Henry Miller in the morning. I love the smell of Henry Miller in the morning. Struck by his honesty, his courage to live his freedom, though I still have to look up some words. Yes, I read him with a dictionary, with sticks to lean on like Dali. But don’t worry. The language that I type is efficient in saying what I have to say. Put some comments, dear reader, about fragments, doses, portions, paragraphs that you like, so I can focus on that. Since I write for the reader. Your wish is my command. I won’t do explicit erotic scenes, that might cause me trouble with the internet police or whatever the Sittenwächter in the digital realm are called. No hairy sheaths, no stiff broomsticks, no shivering bodies will enter the scene. But I could of course leave that for the paper… that would be a nice business idea. Who would be interested to buy a copy? Explicit sex should be banned to paper, it should be banned to a medium you could bury under your pillow before engaging in what its contents so vividly describe. But that’s already enough I think. Some note to fill out the day. Don’t worry about me, I was not bored. Wrote some pages, had the best coffee on the world that’s why I dwell in Lisboa right now. It’s chosen, it’s freedom. We do it, we do it all.
2 thoughts on “February 11. To whom it may concern.”
No, dear traveller! You are not writing solely on loneliness. You are encountering the world out there, with your fabulous ability to meet really real people in their special every-day moments. That is the most difficult to write on: the small miracles of human relationships, this all too tiny and invisible “between”. Chaire,
you are not alone. if you are willing to spare me a space in your heart, I’m willing to live there.