out to sea.
Next page, you arrive San Diego and San Francisco.
You not really write about love. Was love not in your nineteen-year-old life? Is really only blue sea in your brown eyes at that time? What about your dreams?
After that long voyage, you longing for something you can do with your hands. Twenty years old, you go art school. You studying sculptures there by making your hands dirty. A photo between the pages. I guess was that the sculpture you made. Enormous naked man, lying down and taking over whole floor of big studio. A giant, but naked giant. That the main subject of your sculptures. Then you writing you have sex with several boys in that art school.
First I think I reading wrong and you mean girls not boys, but then I look again. Matt, Dan, Peter. These are boys names.
“I don’t feel any real love in my heart,”
you write.
When you move London, you go
squat
in old houses and meet mans in street every night. You talk to the strangers in the park and you go to home together. You say you feel warm by touching other’s body, by having sex with mans. You think you a homosexual, you call it
Gay
. But you even can’t remember faces and names the second day.
Then there is another diary. Is some years later. You feel empty that kind of hunting-boy-life, so you become campaigner, a demon-strator. You for campaign against the capitalism, against the McDonald developing, and you go India stopping mining companies doing developmenting there. You go with young demon-strater group to everywhere, Delhi, Calcutta, Mexico, Los Angeles…Always drifting around. But I thinking maybe you not know what want to do in your life. Or why you travel so much? In those
squatter
’s days, the sculpture you made are all destroyed. Nothing left. You don’t have a woman lover being with you (or maybe you never want to?), and you don’t have a man lover being with you either. Only thing you had, you wrote, is “
sex and seduction.
”
You wrote about days you work as youth worker. I didn’t understand what this job about. You wrote about holiday trips with children. There photos between pages: you with teenagers laughing in front of camera. You love those teenage boys. You work that for ten years. But how come you stop a job which you really like? I don’t understand. Maybe because your
gay
life? Maybe kind of scandal as homosexual teacher. I never know…Anyway you left your job, and what happening next?
My eyes becoming sore. I am tired of reading, all these words, my brain is just too full by your past. Everywhere is you, and you are everywhere, every sentence, every page.
I put back all these old diaries, old letters. My hand covered by dust. I wash my hand, under cold tap water. I thinking probably you never read these things for long time. Maybe I am first person opening these boxes in last twenty years.
Night is long. Quiet outside. Cars passing sometimes. I sit on your chair. I feel bit heavy. I feel bit difficult to breathe.
I sleep on your bed alone, which we slept every night together since I move in. Actually is single bed supposed be for one person. I realise this again. I am awake. I trying draw map of you, map of your past. But is difficult. I see the morning lights outside through the garden, through fruit tree without flowers. Is fourth day you away and is the day you will be return. You said you be here in the morning, about half past ten.
Nine o’clock now. I get up, and I brush my teeth, and I make some tea. I put my cold hand on teapot to get warm. I wait for you to return. But now I scared about you to return. You will drift with your Chinese woman, in boat on the ocean. No seashore in distance. She floating away and passing in your life like piece of wood on the sea.
One hour going by, and waiting is painful. I try study
singular
and
plural
from textbook which Mrs. Margaret give to
Next page, you arrive San Diego and San Francisco.
You not really write about love. Was love not in your nineteen-year-old life? Is really only blue sea in your brown eyes at that time? What about your dreams?
After that long voyage, you longing for something you can do with your hands. Twenty years old, you go art school. You studying sculptures there by making your hands dirty. A photo between the pages. I guess was that the sculpture you made. Enormous naked man, lying down and taking over whole floor of big studio. A giant, but naked giant. That the main subject of your sculptures. Then you writing you have sex with several boys in that art school.
First I think I reading wrong and you mean girls not boys, but then I look again. Matt, Dan, Peter. These are boys names.
“I don’t feel any real love in my heart,”
you write.
When you move London, you go
squat
in old houses and meet mans in street every night. You talk to the strangers in the park and you go to home together. You say you feel warm by touching other’s body, by having sex with mans. You think you a homosexual, you call it
Gay
. But you even can’t remember faces and names the second day.
Then there is another diary. Is some years later. You feel empty that kind of hunting-boy-life, so you become campaigner, a demon-strator. You for campaign against the capitalism, against the McDonald developing, and you go India stopping mining companies doing developmenting there. You go with young demon-strater group to everywhere, Delhi, Calcutta, Mexico, Los Angeles…Always drifting around. But I thinking maybe you not know what want to do in your life. Or why you travel so much? In those
squatter
’s days, the sculpture you made are all destroyed. Nothing left. You don’t have a woman lover being with you (or maybe you never want to?), and you don’t have a man lover being with you either. Only thing you had, you wrote, is “
sex and seduction.
”
You wrote about days you work as youth worker. I didn’t understand what this job about. You wrote about holiday trips with children. There photos between pages: you with teenagers laughing in front of camera. You love those teenage boys. You work that for ten years. But how come you stop a job which you really like? I don’t understand. Maybe because your
gay
life? Maybe kind of scandal as homosexual teacher. I never know…Anyway you left your job, and what happening next?
My eyes becoming sore. I am tired of reading, all these words, my brain is just too full by your past. Everywhere is you, and you are everywhere, every sentence, every page.
I put back all these old diaries, old letters. My hand covered by dust. I wash my hand, under cold tap water. I thinking probably you never read these things for long time. Maybe I am first person opening these boxes in last twenty years.
Night is long. Quiet outside. Cars passing sometimes. I sit on your chair. I feel bit heavy. I feel bit difficult to breathe.
I sleep on your bed alone, which we slept every night together since I move in. Actually is single bed supposed be for one person. I realise this again. I am awake. I trying draw map of you, map of your past. But is difficult. I see the morning lights outside through the garden, through fruit tree without flowers. Is fourth day you away and is the day you will be return. You said you be here in the morning, about half past ten.
Nine o’clock now. I get up, and I brush my teeth, and I make some tea. I put my cold hand on teapot to get warm. I wait for you to return. But now I scared about you to return. You will drift with your Chinese woman, in boat on the ocean. No seashore in distance. She floating away and passing in your life like piece of wood on the sea.
One hour going by, and waiting is painful. I try study
singular
and
plural
from textbook which Mrs. Margaret give to
Similar Books
