The hungry princess

The alarm rang at 6.35 am as usual and Rajkumari opened her eyes only to realise that she is lying on a hospital bed.

'Not again!!!....' she thought to herself remembering all those multiple surgeries that were performed on her in the past - the forceful insertion of black contact lenses, cutting down her height by half, multiple open heart surgeries and everything else that resulted in her suffering from a so called 'distorted self-image' disease.

But the hospital seemed different this time. First of all, after a long time Rajkumari could actually choose her hospital voluntarily, and since she was getting older and supposedly wiser everyday let's all hope that she made her choice really carefully this time.

 One of the most striking features of the hospital was that the treatment was being done for free! Can you imagine, dear reader, that there are still places in this world that do not demand extra money as fees for the doctors and nurses? She was also surprised to find out that the hospital staff believed in naturopathy and the treatment did not involve scalpels, cutting, or any other harmful equipment that could cause permanent damage to one's self, instead imagination, laughter and long conversations were used, and so our Rajkumari enjoyed spending her time with the nurses.

One of the nurses was a tiny dwarf with long beard and spiky ears. He happened to have lived in the North Pole before, and had even met our Rajkumari once in the past. He was responsible for telling Rajkumari that she was not the only person who could not stand the cold climate of the North and decided to run down to the southern parts of the country. 'Really????' our Rajkumari exclaimed in disbelief infused with a shade of bemusement.... ' but all this time I thought that I'm the only one who could not get used to strict intellectual marketing lines pronounced loudly by everybody in the North Pole, hm..., maybe I'm not that silly after all....'

Another nurse was responsible for music therapy as she exposed Rajkumari to various kinds of music from Bach to electric guitar, while yet another decided to give therapy of hugs and affection. Wasn't it Mr Che who once said that 'true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love'? 

This type of therapy seemed to be doing wonders to our Rajkumari, and so she sat on her bed and looked around with her green-grey-brownish eyes and exclaimed loudly 'BREAKFAST!!!!' To tell the truth our Rajkumari was a lady, and had it been for herself she could have satiated her hunger with a single cup of tea, but she had a tiger to feed... and the tiger was really hungry... the tiger was actually starving, as the days of constant warfare made the tiger famished...(she successfully threw a grenade last night at the troops trying to call her from the deserted kingdom..... how did the troops manage to find her new whereabouts she did not know, but still she managed to fight them away)

So Rajkumari sat quietly in the corner... well... not that quietly, but let's give her the right to be loud from time to time as she is learning how to express herself freely and clearly,  and she began to sharpen her magic spear that she was preparing for the elf. You see, she suddenly realised that she loves the art of warfare, especially if the opponent proves himself to be an elfian prince in disguise... And so she started scheming of the tortures that she would expose the elf to, before throwing his body to the hungry tiger.... 

She would first pierce the elf with her spear and then hang him upside down over a cooking fire and with her magic pen she would write different words on his skin so that he would wriggle in unbearable pleasurable laughter that this type of torturing was giving him. This over she would scratch his skin off his body to peer at everything that was hidden inside, and then she would hand over the remains of his to the hungry tiger, who would train the elf in the art of purring before deciding to finally taste the flesh of the elfian creature.... very slowly, bit by bit the tiger would consume every single part of the elfian body.... and then.....

And then the time for lunch would come, so that the elfian slave would be send to the kitchen to prepare some tasty food for our hungry Rajkumari, who can't live on tea all her life after all, but she does enjoy assisting in the kitchen.

Band aid

I hurt my finger. It was an ongoing process that lasted quite a few years and there was no band-aid around. I think the crust is still fresh and I don't want the blood to flow out of it again. I'm too old for it, you now?
Dramatic outbursts. Bad acting. I know. I don't like parsi drama myself. I like non-proscenium intimate spaces.
I hurt myself while reading. The finger was cut on some of the pages.
I recently realised how many of the children books should have been banned from the shelves. It's only now that I'm discovering how the childhood we had influences our present. Examples are many... thought I might tell you some over a cup of tea. They are very much there in that metal trunk and I think it's time to clean the house and arrange the space. I need it for myself. I don't like carrying extra luggage with me.  I recently threw away and old dress from the metro station. It feels so light without it. It changes so many things.

You know, sometimes we tend to infuse our readings with meanings that aren't really there. We place a mirror in front of the audience while we perform on stage at the same time. I'm a gate crusher into a performance that isn't even mine.
I wanted to be a good reader. There weren't many books involved and I believe in reading them thoroughly...
They might be one that I would like to learn by heart. My silly little tail of cat's brain run so far that for a moment it even imagined an optional career in gardening. But it feels scary too. I don't want to cut my finger again. It hurts. I don't enjoy throwing stones.

There was a book of naturalism once. It started in a nice way, but then some characters underwent a sudden change of style which involved pills prescribed by good old Freud and one day the reader found herself lying on a floor of a room and the two hands extended from the book and caught the reader by the throat. There are those sudden moments in life when you stop carrying for a second... you just want it to be over... and then suddenly you discover how much you want to live and that you actually do have muscles to push those hands away... What followed was a sudden international phone call, that was only bandage available at that moment.
Do you know the feeling of being so connected with somebody that the very sound of that person's voice makes you feel how that other person feels? that international connection was that strong. And in the lands further to the west a sudden worry resulted in a sudden deterioration of an already ill body and somebody was holding somebody else's hand while standing on a wiping cloth.

There was also a gradual change in language in which that naturalistic book was written... I think it made the reader feel sick and she still hasn't fully recovered. It sometimes makes girls write those words infused with a mixture of fear and inability to comprehend that someone could actually understand the writer's sense of life and humor.

A few hand claps were also involved in the cutting process. People do tend to clap a lot at the end of a performance, isn't it?  It wasn't a bad book. It's a sad book. The reader really tried to read it but one day simply couldn't do it anymore...She relocated to a small palace in the less familiar part of the city. The book is not there on the shelf anymore for many years. But I still kept the title. It was a compromise. I needed the title page because sometimes the library authorities ask for the titles if you want to stay in the library for more than just few hours. I love this library. Can't imagine myself anywhere else. I've been a member for so many years now...


I do get high on my trips sometimes... and green trees in the south do make me feel alive.
Many things were taken out from old chests of dreams that were shut for a number of years. The school, the trees, the room... They were there with me for such a long time packed neatly in my saris.

 I need a doctor with a bandage very much.   But then again... I don't like proscenium theatre, intimate space would be a better choice to stage a play.

The tale of Rajkumari

She stood up with her hands on the parapet, gazing far away at the clouds that covered the sun as it was slowly descending to fall asleep in that land of dreams beyond the horizon. The birds were still crossing the sky in their last attempt to laugh before they would fall asleep in their nests.She was standing there in expectation of seeing those beautiful green feathered creatures that would fly by the balcony every evening. She could feel the gentle touch of the wind in her hair. The same hair that would hide all her thoughts and fears seemed much softer now, as if suddenly the warmth of the place and people around helped her to brush through it every evening as she kept her head on a pillow of dreams that suddenly began to fly out freely to create magic designs on the walls around.

It rained in the afternoon as she was standing in the middle of a busy street waiting for the bus that would take her to a place where dreams transform themselves to reality. Drops of rain on her face as she looked up to challenge the sun and discovered that a painting is awaiting her somewhere high up in the sky. A rainbow of smiles and peace... Even the sense of longing seemed to have faded in colour as she looked at the bright light around here.
She smiled gently at a thought of a rainbow that her mother used to make for her among the red poppy flowers and roses that she would water on warm summer's days.

She felt another sense of warmth recently. A child laid next to her and with every breath she could feel how this tiny life absorbs every thought of hers, every breath, every emotion. It wasn't even her child, but still she wished to keep that tiny creature in her arms and just be there in that warmth. It was a new feeling for her and suddenly she began to wonder if one day she might be able to pour herself into another tiny being, a sponge absorbing the world. What kind of the world would that be? What would be the colour of his or her eyes? Would there be somebody looking at her as her own belly would swell day after day? Would he put a hand on her belly and tell stories to both of them?


There once was a Rajkumari who could have had anything she wanted provided she would give up her own self to the orders of a king. But even when she was a little girl she would often lie down in her hammock somewhere between an old pear tree and a cherry tree and she would imagine that she was not a real child of her king father. She would pluck the cherries and keep them on her ears pretending that they are the most precious earrings that one could ever had, and she would dream of lands far far away beyond the horizon...
She was a strange Rajkumari who did not want to ride on a back of black shiny horse, she preferred her donkey instead. She even kissed one a night before as she saw him standing lost somewhere in the busy street. The sense of belonging that was lost and it was not easy to find it again.
As all Rajkumaris she once dreamed of meeting a Rajkumar, but you see, the XXI century stories make Rajkumars speak a lot about dreams they have and then run away to get themselves TVs and expensive mobile phones, which often leaves Rajkumaris laying down on a cold floor of a hospital bed needing expensive multiple open heart surgeries that can sometimes be dangerous for mental health. Anyways, this part of the story happened long long time ago, and our brave Rajkumari already managed to blow up some of the forts of the plastic troops with her tiny army of words...
So what happened to her then? Nothing special, you see, she was wise enough to know that simple things can have more value that those pretty shiny boxes that we see in the TV commercials, and so she packed her tiger and a few skirts (she was a girls after all, and all the girls want to feel pretty from time to time) and decided to go away in search of a strange colourful elf with crooked nose, rude manners and strange language of images that he would take out from his magic bag every now and then.
And then??????
And then Rajkumari pierced the elf with her magic spear and she fed him to the tiger... And they lived happily ever after in a tiny house among the green trees by the lake.

my world

I live in the world of signs, colours and metaphors that stand between me and the grey world outside.
The smell of emotions...  Love of the vanilla fragrant.
Thoughts dreaming inside the entangled long hair.
I learn languages just like I learn people. The older one gets the more difficult it is to learn a new language, to learn how to read a new person. I learn patience as I scribble the letters in my little notebook and feel amazed to discover how the worlds of unknown signs slowly allow me to discover them on a board of a moving bus. I learn the letters so that one day I could learn words and grammar. I don't want to be a curious student who stops education at learning some phrases overheard here and there, I want to learn about the shapes of letters so that later on I could complete the puzzle of words around me. I want to immerse myself in the language so that one day I could even write my own stories.
I want to stand in a shade of a colourful tree and look around the garden, just like my mother did when I was born to a 42 year old woman.
I look at animals - free souls of birds flying in the sky. Green parrot's squawk when she complains secretly about the harshness of the world. The cat that keeps his head on my shoulder as we drift towards the lands of dreams. The dog that curls himself next to my feet. The mouse hiding somewhere behind the corner.
I am the chief commander of my army of words that run towards the battlefield knowing that defeat awaits them there every single day. Battlefields and markets are the places where I don't belong. My little government school had no funds to teach me how to trade the heart, they spoke of revolutions instead.
I dream of evenings spent at the threshold with stars above me and an oil lamp lit somewhere in the corner. A wrinkled hand of an old woman. A letter from the past that was found in the present. Memories and dreams intertwined in vapour flying away from a cup of hot tea.

Manual

1. Never laugh at her height for in the last I don't know how many years she was being constantly reminded of it in a rather negative way, and each time somebody speaks of her height she feels as if she was some strange specimen, a misfit, an animal in the zoo.

2. Never laugh at her poor pronunciation and spelling mistakes. None of the languages that she uses is her own, and she did spend quite a lot of time to learn each of the languages that she speaks. Unlike you she did not go to an English medium school, she went to a very simple government school and she had to learn the languages on her own. But at least she tried. She is trying to learn how to read and write in another language right now, and there is nobody around who would help her with it.

3. Never tell her that she is from abroad. She happens to have been born in the same country of humanity as the rest of the people in this world.

4. Never tell her that she is just a Bharatanatyam dancer for you have no idea about other things that she has done in her life. She did not study at a fancy institute abroad, but the moment she decided that she actually wants to be a bit more than just a Bharatanatyam dancer she did her own studies in libraries, by meeting people, by watching people's work, working with people and by stealing knowledge in every possible way. She is a big thief when it comes to knowledge and she's always hungry for more.

5. Never tell her that she does nothing in life, for she actually does quite a lot and tries hard to make independent living.

6. Give her gifts. But not the material ones, she does not care about them. Give her gifts that are special and only for her. Give her words, she loves them. Give her moments to remember. Give her memories, and give her a gift of sharing your thoughts and fears. To give somebody your own vulnerability is the greatest gift of trust. Give her knowledge. Teach her everything you know, she always loves learning.

7. Give her time. If you don't have it try to make it for her. She is not greedy for time, but it is the gift of time that would make her feel important for you.

8. Accept her for the way she is. She does try hard to accept you for the way you are, no matter how complicated that is. Understanding lies somewhere in between.

9. Try to understand her moods. If she is angry then most probably she is angry with herself rather than with you. Her anger is often self destructive. She pretends to be a strong person with an air of self-importance, but in reality she is just a girl with very low self-esteem who is scared that you might reject her. Remember that if she gets angry it means that she does care. She does not like getting angry, and it always works when you try to make her laugh in such situations.

10. Talk to her. Anytime and about anything. It makes her feel important. She loves it when you share your thoughts, work, opinions, jokes, words, fears, happiness with her. She has not developed any telepathic abilities as yet.

11. Give her compliments if you think she is worth it. But never try to give her the false ones. She would never admit it in your face but she loves compliments, she did not hear many in her life.

12. Never shout at her nor try to raise your hand. It brings some scary memories into her head, they still hurt.

13. Be frank with her. If you care do tell her so, if you don't also tell her - she deserves to know, and she is big enough to deal with it.

14. Try to ask about her life and work. She would love to discuss her ideas with you, even though it frightens her that you might find her silly and uninteresting. And believe me, if she ever asks you for help, or your opinion it does mean a lot.

15. Love her cat, for he is the most important companion of hers.

16. Be patient, she does know that she is not easy to deal with.

17. Be gentle, for she is a real girl with real emotions and not some kind of machine.

18. Don't lie. The hardest truh is always better than the sweetest of lies.

Please follow the instructions given above if you wish to obtain the unlimited warranty period.

Ordinary man

It was one of those days that leaves you heavy at heart when the lightness of anticipation has to give space to the stones of disappointment.
She walked through a long street and each of the steps made her feet fall deeper nd deeper into a blackish dust that covered everything around. The machines in the garages were whining like women when they take turns to watch over a dead body. Broken pieces of various parts of old trucks were scattered on what remained of the green grass. A black cylindric shape had arabic inscription on it. A pile of tyres of various shapes was lying on the side of the road. Had it been somewhere else she could imagine that a bunch of children could make use of them and transform them into colourful houses, palaces and forts of their imagination, but the street did not seem to want to indulge itself  much in the games of imagination. It seemed to her that the greasy paddles are waiting to catch her with invisible hands and are eager to wash away all the colours of her existence so that she would become  as invisible and numb as them.
Her heart felt heavy. It felt heavier than any other day for the feeling of being so close and at the same time so far away from the open sky made her feel even more miserable than she actually was. She looked up at the clouds. Their shapes and colours made her think of old ships travelling through the seas. Their dignified movements as they crossed the sky in oblivion of the human existence below them. A bird in the sky. So free... a messenger between the known and unknown, between the past and future, between you and me...
The messenger of all those unspoken words and thoughts so hidden under my skin and yet wanting to become transparent.
The irony of faith that makes that what is private a public affair, and that what is public a private one.
The desire to pour all my being into another vessel and allow you to close the lid so that I could stay there forever.
She felt like screaming today. It was today that she realised that she met a human being. A man. She stood by the lake a few days ago watching a parrot flying in the sky and it reminded her of a dream she had long time ago... Was it the same lake that she saw that night?
The man she saw was not a king that you would hear about in fairy tales. He was a very ordinary creature, but it was this ordinariness that made him special. It was because of his bare feet that stamped so lightly on the ground that she sometimes thought that one day he would turn into a tree and then she would hide in the shadow of its branches. To think that she had been so close to him and yet the invisible wall kept her so far...
She stopped as the street ended and it was time to cross another street full of signboards and rushing vehicles. She turned... What was she thinking? Did she think that she would find the outstretched branches behind her? There was nothing behind her but a dirty dusty street...
A man sat on the throne and adjusted his crown as the crowd of attendants busied themselves around him.
She crossed the street and boarded a bus... a seat next to her was empty... she knew that a man would enjoy all the small pleasures of sharing minute observations of the world around... but the king has his duties and she has no right to turn kings into ordinary men...
I wish she could...

I don't have a house, but I do have home...

I don't have a house, but I do have home...
Every evening before sleep I enter that space of my mind that allows me to be myself. Just myself, nothing more and nothing less than that. The only time when I can be really naked. Have you ever stood naked in front of a mirror and looked at yourself? tried to see who you really are? Not just the skin covering the flesh but all those thoughts that hide underneath.

I saw a girl once. She was not one of those beautiful faces that you would die for. I'm not even sure if you would remember her the next day. She stood in front of a mirror... The colours of her thoughts were a strange mixture of blue and green paint just like the sky, the lake and the trees she had seen once in a dream. I think you might like to see her naked... Dressed only in the colours of her thoughts... Your fingers brushing through her entangled fears in a gentle attempt to untie all the knots.

A furry ball is my home. The touch of his warmth as I extend my hand to feel another being next to me. Memories hidden in brown wool... A peacock on the wall... A sound from a mosque... A night of singing by the fire... A swing hanging from a tree... A bath in a geyser on a desert...

I saw a girl once. She stood in front of a looking glass watching how tears form rivers flowing down her cheeks. Rivers are made of blue colour, and so are lakes. Would mister Jung want to say a few words about  desires and reality?

I saw a girl once. She stood in front of glasses. She smiled for a moment... It was one of those moments that lasts forever.

My grandmother used to look at the world through a magnifying glass... I saw a girl who laughed loud and the trees around her responded to her happiness...

I don't have a house, but I do have home...

Sometimes I don't feel like living anymore...

We sat down looking at each other across the table of differences in age and life experiences. But we were very similar to each other. Same cups of milk coffee, same eyes, same gap between the front teeth, fat ankles. We were sitting there in silence and I must have looked outside the window to catch a glimpse of a plum tree. There was nothing extraordinary in two women sitting together in a kitchen. The bond of womanhood.
'Sometimes I don't feel like living anymore' she said.

Many years and thousand of coffees later we spoke on the phone in the evening. 'I will live, I promise, I want to'... And we made plans of life and what it would be like and laughed at the perspective of their realisation.

But sometimes promises are not meant to be kept... like shoe lace hanging from the fan, like 100 tablets of heart medicine and a bottle of wine, like jumping down from 16th floor of an apartment building, or jumping into the coldest of cold waters, or in the most prosaic of ways on the hospital bed..........................

I'm sitting now by the table with a cup of tea and as I think about her in the kitchen I begin to wonder what it means to be alive. Where is the difference between living a life and surviving from one day to another.
It is so simple when we look at it at the basic level of our needs of food and shelter - but what if financial security is not enough for somebody to feel alive?

I am scared of big metro stations and streets with hundreds of words staring at me from the advertising boards. I stopped at the metro station once and kept looking at an old man in a hat, who walked so slowly among the speeding crowd. Where was everybody rushing at that hour? His lips looked as if they had been sealed, as if he had not spoken for years, and I couldn't but begin to wonder if you actually pay attention to what he wanted to say. Did I actually pay attention to what she wanted to say while she was sitting in her armchair... What happens to those whose words and ways of living do not conform with the images thrown at us from a TV screen?

Driver, please, stop the world and allow me to get down at the next stop.

Can you remember the last time you felt truly alive? I feel alive in my work but outside that space? I used to feel alive while sitting under the tree with a cup of chai and a book in my hand. A dog would come for a pat and as I looked up I could feel the sun on my face and I would become amazed with the colours of leaves above my head.

Life hides in the smallest moments around us. It is like a patchwork quilt of tiny pieces of memories and happiness. It is hand made, and not stitched by some machine and sold as a mass product.
I heard them talk about a business plan today - buy cheap, stitch cheap, sell cheap, earn fast...
A friend of mine paints her own shirts... private use.
I like sleeping under cheap colourful bedsheets. I always take time to choose them carefully. They are me.

The drum.

Ta dhin dhit ta dhin...

I was a 6 year old child when I felt the call of wild freedom entering my body with a loud sound of a drum played by a black skinned shaman dancing in a jungle of my childhood just outside the middle-class window of security and order. My face against a cold glass and fear in my mother's heart. Did she feel then that this sound shall accompany me throughout my life?

Dha Tete Tha tete...

I was eleven. 34'51N 5'44E  Biskra. Algeria. Africa.
He was a boy who had nothing and having nothing is the most precious possession of those who dare to dream. And so he would often dream to the rhythmic sounds that his fingers produced on a huge metal can that would keep upside down by the wall of the house facing my window. Did you know that sounds can sometimes speak more than words? Did you know that the innocence of childhood nurtures your being more than language you speak? Everyday I would wait for the magic concert below my window. Every day we would roam around happily in our small oasis of freedom and integrity. One day a boy drew a sparrow and said it reminded him of me. And the next day he gave me a drawing of the same bird with 3 words written underneath... I love you...  The innocence and freedom of childhood.
But another voice said it would rather breed Arabian horses than Arabs and some of the childhood dreams were broken by an unknown till then word 'racism'. The fingers on a metal can against shiny middle-class drum kit of strictly fixed rules of behaviour obeyed under the supervision of an opera conductor.


Dhit ta dhene ta a...

The wedding processions in Delhi are full of the sounds of incoherent drumbeats, trumpets, and bursting of crakers. Sounds loud enough to awaken the dead and make them stand somewhere in the corner of the street shouting at the crowd to become silent and allow them to sleep in their dreamless reality.

Ta hatha jhom...

I love you. Ta dhing... (She turned her face away.) But I lo... Ta dhing ta (She turned her face the other side) I need... Ta dhing tat ta (She bent forward holding her stomach) Do I...

and then the Tandava dance started...
A bird spread its wings and flew away from a white sheet of paper...

Fragments of Crave and 4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane

At 4.48
when depression visits
I shall hang myself
to the sound of my lover's breathing

I do not want to die

I have become so depressed by the fact of my mortality that I have decided to commit suicide

I do not want to live

This is not a world in which I wish to live.

 I want to scream for you, the only doctor who ever touched me voluntarily, who looked me in the eye, who laughed at my gallows humour spoken in the voice from the newly-dug grave, who took the piss when I shaved my head, who lied and said it was nice to see me. Who lied. And said it was nice to see me. I trusted you, I loved you, 

Sometimes I turn around and catch the smell of you and I cannot go on I cannot fucking go on without expressing this terrible so fucking awful physical aching fucking longing I have for you. And I cannot believe that I can feel this for you and you feel nothing. Do you feel nothing?


And I go out at six in the morning and start my search for you. If I've dreamt a message of a street or a pub or a station I go there. And I wait for you.

(Silence.)

I want to sleep next to you and do your shopping and carry your bags and tell you how much I love being with you

 And I want to play hide-and-seek and give you my clothes and tell you I like your shoes and sit on the steps while you take a bath and massage your neck and kiss your feet and hold your hand an go for a meal and not mind when you eat my food and meet you at Rudy's and talk about the day and type up your letters and carry your boxes and laugh at your paranoia and give you tapes you don't listen to and watch great films and watch terrible films and complain about the radio and take pictures of you when you're sleeping and get up to fetch you coffee at midnight and have you steal my cigarettes and never be able to find a match and tell you about the tv programme I saw the night before and take you to the eye hospital and not laugh at your jokes and want you in the morning but let you sleep for a while and kiss your back and stroke your skin and tell you how much I love your hair your eyes
 
and sit on the steps smoking till your neighbour comes home and sit on the steps smoking till you come home and worry when you're late and be amazed when you're early and give you sunflowers and go to your party and dance till I'm black and be sorry when I'm wrong and happy when you forgive me and look at your photos and wish I'd known you forever and hear your voice in my ear and feel your skin on my skin and get scared when you're angry and your eye has gone red and the other eye blue and your hair to the left and your face oriental and tell you you're gorgeous and hug you when you're anxious and hold you when you hurt and want you when I smell you and offend  you when I touch you   and whimper when I'm next to  you and whimper when I'm not  and dribble on your breast and smother you in the night and get cold when you take the blanket and hot when you don't and melt when you smile and dissolve when you laugh and not understand why you think I'm rejecting you when I'm not rejecting you and wonder how you could think I'd ever reject you and wonder  who  you  are  but  accept  you  anyway  and  tell  you  about  the  tree  angel enchanted forest boy who flew across the ocean because he loved you and write poems for you and wonder why you don't believe me and have a feeling so deep I can't find words for it and want to buy you a kitten I'd get jealous of because it would get more attention than me and keep you in bed when you have to go and cry like a baby when you finally do and get rid of the roaches and buy you presents you don't want and take them away again and ask you to marry me and you say no again but keep on asking because though you think I don't mean it I do always have from the first time I asked you and wander the city thinking it's empty without you and want what you want and think I'm loosing myself but know I'm safe with you and tell you the worst of me and try to give you the best of me because you don't deserve any less and answer your questions when I'd rather not and tell you the truth when I really don't want to and try to be honest because I know you prefer it and think it's all over but hang on in for just ten more minutes before you throw me out of your life and forget who I am and try to get closer to you because it's beautiful learning to know you and well worth the effort and speak German to you badly and Hebrew to you worse and make love with you at three in the morning and somehow somehow somehow communicate some of the/ overwhelming undying overpowering unconditional all-encompassing heart-enriching mind-expanding on-going never-ending love I have for you.

(Silence.)
I've never in my life had a problem giving another person what they want. But no one's ever been able to do that for me. No one touches me, no one gets near me. But now you've touched me somewhere so fucking deep I can't believe and I can't be that for you. Because I can't find you.


Do you think it's possible for a person to be born in the wrong body? (Silence.)

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you for rejecting me by never being there, fuck you for making me feel shit about myself, fuck you for bleeding the fucking love and life out of me, fuck my father for fucking up my life for good and fuck my mother for not leaving him, but most of all, fuck you God for making me love a person who does not exist,



I dread the loss of him I've never touched love keeps me a slave in a cage of tears
I gnaw my tongue with which to him I can never speak
I miss a man who was never born
I kiss a man across the years that say we shall never meet


my thought walks away with a killing smile leaving discordant anxiety
which roars in my soul

 No hope No hope No hope



A song for my loved one, touching his absence the flux of his heart, the splash of his smile

In ten years time he'll still be dead. When I'm living with it, dealing with it, when a few days pass when I don't even think of it, he'll still be dead. When I'm an old lady living ion the street forgetting my name he'll still be dead, he'll still be dead, he'll still be dead, it's just
fucking
over



and I must stand alone

My love, my love, why have you forsaken me? he is the couching place where I never shall lie
and there's no meaning to life in the light of my loss

Built to be lonely to love the absent

Find me
Free me
from this

corrosive doubt futile despair

horror in repose

I can fill my space fill my time
but nothing can fill this void in my heart



The vital need for which I would die




Cut out my tongue tear out my hair
cut off my limbs
but leave me my love
I would rather have lost my legs
pulled out my teeth gouged out my eyes than lost my love

Sanity is found at the centre of convulsion, where madness is scorched form the bisected soul.


At 4.48

I shall sleep

I came to you hoping to be healed.

You are my doctor, my saviour, my omnipotent judge, my priest, my god, the surgeon of my soul.

And I am your proselyte to sanity.




– You've seen the worst of me.

– I know nothing of you.

– But I like you.

(Silence.)

– You're my last hope. (A long silence.)
– You don't need a friend you need a doctor. (A long silence.)

(A very long silence.)

– But you have friends. (A long silence.)
You have a lot of friends.
What do you offer your friends to make them so supportive? (A long silence.)
What do you offer your friends to make them so supportive? (A long silence.)
What do you offer? (Silence.)
We have a professional relationship. I think we have a good relationship. But it's professional.

(Silence.)

I feel your pain but I cannot hold your life in my hands. (Silence.)
You'll be all right. You're strong. I know you'll be okay because I like you and you can't like someone who doesn't like themself.  I'll miss you. And I know you'll be ok.

When I walk out of here at the end of the day I need to go home to my lover and relax. I need to be with my friends and relax. I need my friends to be really together.

(Silence.)

I fucking hate this job and I need my friends to be sane. (Silence.)


you will always have a piece of me because you held my life in your hands

like a bird on the wing in a swollen sky my mind is torn by lightning


What am I like?


the child of negation

out of one torture chamber into another
a vile succession of errors without remission every step of the way I've fallen

Anguish for which doctors can find no cure

I hope you never understand
Because I like you

I like you
I like you

still black water
as deep as forever
as cold as the sky
as still as my heart when your voice is gone
I shall freeze in hell of course I love you you saved my life

I wish you hadn't
I wish you hadn't
I wish you'd left me alone

I've always loved you
even when I hated you

the only thing that's permanent is destruction we're all going to disappear
trying to leave a mark more permanent that myself


the vital need for which I would die to be loved



I'm dying for one who doesn't care
I'm dying for one who doesn't know

I have no desire for death no suicide ever had



watch me vanish watch me



vanish watch me
watch me


It is myself I have never met, whose face is pasted on the underside of my mind



please open the curtains