Polka dot
Strawberries cherries and an angel's kiss in spring
My summer wine is really made from all these things
I looked with child's eyes at my friends singing, so full of admiration and unconditional love for them both, the two dearest to my heart - certainly no one but me would understand that moment viewed from the crossroads of France and Finland, the profound amusement of the situation and even deeper love I feel for them. Intense nostalgia of past bliss veils that song now and forever, always dedicated to karaoke nights, taxi rides in the luminous dusk and laughters.
Weekdays before had been harsh and drown in frenzy, and I'm at a loss of words to characterize the dimension of exhaustion which affects me. Keeping things done and kept awake all in a stimulants-induced torpor, but under the fever a lack of sleep as never experienced before, dashing into all edges and walls, pushed to tight management of sleep time slots and caffeine absorption. And yet, and very heartwarmingly, everything, events and relations, had settled and got an exquisite taste of normality and concreteness, beyond their surreal array. Heading in a taxi toward a karaoke bar, picked up in the heart of a night looking like a sluggish sunset, would have been at first sight surreal enough without the enlivened discussion between two Finns wearing shades about the features and qualities of this and that karaoke place. Only fun instead of that. Not even sure they noticed I laughed. This finally wouldn't have been a night for singing, clubs and bars were crowded and not very cheerful - but for that light-hearted moment in Fairy Land, nearly as brilliant as another song and a tango, in another basement, in another land.
I trembled upon seeing you leaving, surprised in the early morning, and silently wished you'd stay. You did and sun had never been that bright. Are words said then to be kept for the record? I'd love they would. Don't lose heart, I whispered to myself, draw on your innermost resources of trust against the bleak perspectives threatening to bring you down. Dispel this cloud of irritating flies of fear and doubt buzzing around you. The complexity of the situation exposed in full light, along with the most delicious moments; past, my past, echoed through the former. In the latter we'd draw our strength, in the sunny indulging tramway ride, in the so funny expeditions in bookstores but not for books; and then we joined in a walk which was merely surreal for we were in it.
Funny how much it was a Pride Parade in the Finnish way, much quieter than French ones, much less extravagant people, much more in a margin closer to normality and social acceptance. Mostly girls, very strongly present. We stood looking at the walk passing by, trying to find our friends in. I suspected the Estonian Kaisa from my Finnish course, which feels now like remote past, to be somewhere around; as we entered the march joining the boys, she walked as a coincidence in the very next row. We hugged, talked a bit, she was tremendously joyous, joked with the boys in broken Finnish, and we chased balloons. Once in a while the procession stopped, and a loud cheer ran from its head to its end. Someone was asked to give me a balloon, and I ended up with ten all entangled. At times I was stopped by people wanting also one, the rest of the time holding them high and walking in the sun. It was a very gay atmosphere, in all meanings but mostly in joy. And in the sweet treeshades were even sweeter divinely drunken moments.
You took the sun away with you, gradually vanishing in the sky's dampness; exhaustion creeping back in spite of the boys' high spirits and indecent behaviour in public places. I left off, a bit out, barely able to walk between the tram and my place, where I immediately passed out for a long drift in the realm of sleep.
I need so much to rest. Unpleasant perspectives, whose time is counted down very symbolically these very days, drain me even more, along with the bite of absence and missing. But very latest events feed more thinking that sorrow - another note on mirrors, and a dramatic evidence that complying with everyone's feelings happens to be the best way to hurt some. So deeply relevant and placed precisely on my way, as if, to me at least, the idea was not already so very obvious.
Strangely I spent these last days burning myself, cigarette, ignited thread of balloons, hot water and stoves, not to mention how dangerously candles have been burning in my room all through our sleep. I still burst into laughter alone out in the street thinking back to some instants of the weekend - especially the Small Sausage Song - and the man-at-work signpost in the sandbox, and the ride on someone's back through the Alley - much to the disapproval of people around.