Come Christmas, Come Ice

"Do they know it's Christmas time?" some artists sung back in the 80s, I have always wondered why. One can hardly escape the Christmas barrage; starving people all over the world included. Funny time of year; Christmas. Everybody is merry, and full of good intentions, and "Christmas spirit". Yeah. It's the only time of year, indeed, when people act as though they are possessed by some benevolent umbra. Benevolence aside: a ghost is a ghost, and in my book ghosts are never good. Not good at all. Too bad exorcists are in cahoots with the rest of them. Them. Yeah. You know the people who adore Christmas. So.

So. What do I think of Nietzsche? It's a question that strangely enough has become current. I had thought about Nietzsche and his mongrel philosophy several years since, and after an initial period of detestation I found several of his works well worth a read. But, to be honest, his philosophy never managed to set its talons firmly in my flesh. I'm more of a Schopenhauer, Heidegger, Hegel, &c. aficionado. Eh. Philosophy's only rocked my boat when put in a certain (historical) context. For instance, when I read on modernism I read Nietzsche. When I read on the Romantics (Byron, and his band of brothers) I read Rousseau. In general, I find philosophies a bit troublesome; it's like religion: everyody has an opinion, and makes it vociferously known, regardless of what the general consensus is (not that the general consensus is worth much in the grand scheme of things; but, eh, it represents a general willingness if not a general way of thinking. Ideas should be introduced with the utmost care. Nietzsche's philosophy has been used to justify all sorts of sordid deeds, and twisted ways of thinking), and tries to covince you of its Truth.
For instance, 'Christmas spirit' is used to flog all sorts of stuff, which we do not need. An altruistic ideal gets perverted into a commercial ideal. Nice.

Lucky me spent the greater part of the day in bed, listening to music, and dreaming of Chris Keller, eh, yeah. It was a nice dream. Unfortunately, at around six in the evening I sprang up, afraid I had overslept... which was not the case. And try as I did I could not grasp the shards of my dream that fell like leaves to earth..

"Bye, bye dream. Please, come back and visit me soon..."

Silly Little Bunny

I'm silly. Without a doubt I am just that. Silly. Oftentimes I think that my silliness - which left unchecked could not only be my downfall but wreak havoc on unsuspecting passers-by as well. Yeah. Anyway, I hope they realize that I am not to blame whatsoever, and should harm ever come their way I am truly sorry. I shall repeat it again: I am silly - lest they forget.

A few days back I was listening to some very cool electro songs and all of a sudden I was taken by this tremendous feeling of ecstacy; I felt so in touch with the essence of the universe; I wanted to make love to the entire world. I felt a bit saddened, though, that I didn't long to make love to one special person in particular. I just hope I'll reach that point of wanting to make love to one person in particular soon; since you can't fool around with all of the people all of the time. But, eh, there's no rush. I'm quite happy as it is being single; I just hope I ain't broken. Well, the question of sex is a very delicate one. I don't miss it, per se. Though the lack of it, or rather its shadow, looms over me everywhere I turn. It is some spectral force that I feel exerting its insidious pull on me, eh, yeah. So. It's been a while. A long while. A very long while. Thank God I have other things on my mind that dim any feeling of eroticism that dares grow sunny in these brumal times. Yes. How Shakespearian.

At any rate, I keep myself duly occupied with work (Death, and Writing), and grinding my passion into dust. Chores that befit my constitution; that of a true romantic. I have written a nice little poem that speaks of my inner turmoil, but I reckon most people will judge it completely in the reverse manner than it was intended. They will, in all likelihood, read something quite perverse in it. As I have already written earlier today; free interpretation has caused a lot of damage in this world, as has innocence. Innocence has done much more harm than malicious design, or free interpretation, ever did. See, malicious designs are intrinsincally flawed; since human beings are flawed. Besides, humans are much more acute to recognizing devices that are intended to cause harm. We are wary creatures. The genius with innocence is that it is utterly unknowing of its own nefarious plot. Silently, and moreover righteously, it unfolds its diabolical plot and ensnares us in its web of naiveté.
We are flabbergasted once we figure out that all the misfortune that was dealt to us has come from such a guileless source. All was done to us with the best of intentions. Silly Little Bunny.

Puddle

Yes, there are so many reasons for me to be happy. Many reasons for me to think my life quite OK. I should stop leaking all these opaque drips. Water is meant to be clear, not murky.

Crystal

"False face must hide what the false heart doth know."

MacBeth sure knew how to make horrid acts seem trivial and necessary.

Crushed

"There's absolutely nothing out there. Repeat after me: There's nothing out there. You have to believe it; otherwise it's no use."

The words lay uncomfortably in my mind. They did not take. Not even when I thought about the exquisite times I had with Steven. Not even when I evoked the sensation the sweetness of his words used to rouse in me. After a while I just told Steven that I was exhausted and wanted to get some sleep. He was quite understanding, although for a while he stared at me - as only he could - silently communicating his earnest disapproval, and, I suspect, wishing that I had done things differently. I guess he couldn't stand seeing my mind destroyed. Before he left he tried to give a hug, perhaps in a last bitter attempt to offer me some solace, or to demonstrate that he did not think it entirely my doing, but I would not let him touch me. In my mind he was just as dirty as the others. Just as contemptible.

"Is it going to be like this from now on Kathy? Please, don't tell me it's going to be like this." I almost felt sorry for him; he looked so terribly lost, so utterly confounded.

"Like what Steven? Tell me. As far as I know it's always been like this. Always. You talk and talk and talk and words keep coming and coming and coming and in the end you do not make any sense whatsoever. It all goes clean over my head." (Did I laugh nervously on purpose?) "I have never understood your motives Steven. Never and most certainly not now. Please leave. Please..."

"You're not well, Kathy. That's why you're here. You tried, you tried... to hurt." He stops. I touch his face gently and cup his cheek with the palm of my hand.

"Steven, please... leave. I need to be alone. Let me be alone. I can't bear it all right now. I..." I feel as though I have confessed to all the wrongs in world. The more I look at Steven, the more I resent his being here.

"If that's what you want Kathy I'll leave, but I will not let you go through this alone. I love you, and I always will."

Yes, Steven thank you! Thank you for loving me! I just warmly wish you had more experience in the matter so you could have done a better job of it. Sometimes love is not enough. Not quite enough. Men try to hide their true intentions, mask them behind those sweetly intoxicating words 'I love you'. Men like Steven especially should avoid saying them at any cost; when they say sweetly those intoxicating words it's always accompanied with a doleful look in their eyes as though by saying those words they admit defeat, or insanity. It goes against their nature. (What does he know about love? What? What? What? How could things have gone otherwise with that one feeling hanging between us like a noose?)

I have not been mentally deranged all my life. No, not all my life. I purposefully refrain from using that worn-out term "crazy". I am not crazy. Crazy are those who take in portentous nonsense, unchecked by their conscience or intellect, buckets full at a time. Crazy are those who go about in life frolicking as though life's one big pasture. I am not crazy. It is just that my mind's natural condition has been upset; a very recent development in my psychology. I do not know what brought it about; it is a state I have found myself in by mere chance. Perhaps - when I think hard about it - it was facilitated by the addiction I was nursing; I had begun drinking in secret. Taking little sips, at first, of the strong alcoholic drinks that my husband bought for his buddies and him, to calm my nerves. My nerves needed calming after the second child was born: Michael. Dear little Michael. If only dear little Michael knew how his incessant crying made his mother's nerves contract. A slow twitch. A fast twitch. A twitch that made me revolt against all the supposed little pleasures motherhood hides in itself. Mother needed a drink, or two, or four, or six. And while everybody around me loved everything about my life: my children, my husband, the way the household seemed to run itself, the way I persisted that this was all my choice, that I am an emancipated woman, that - this - is the homeliness that I have longed for for so long, I hated every aspect of it. In their eyes I was the happy housewife. I believed it, too, for a while. (The happy housewife - with a smile sported so often it osmosed completely in her face)
At a certain point I feared talking; for fear that I might say things that go against the assumed nature of mothers. We women have become slaves of our own conspiracy. What else can you do when the fear of talking, of saying too much strangles you? I went quiet. Dead quiet. I could not speak anymore; the words just did not come. Steven, at first, tried his best to understand; he did the only thing that he could do. He tried to change. I did not want him to change; not for me, not for the children. When words fail you, what else do you have? Actions? Actions? Actions don't speak louder than words. They are just as confusing; just as liable to ensnare you. You touch. It gets interpretated in ways you did not intend. A kiss can endear but also confuse. I withdrew in myself, and now I'm here in this country retreat, as they call it so politely. Locked away in the bosom of nature, trying to find myself, my voice, with the help of these strangers. My voice, ladies and gentlemen of this wonderful retreat, has been silenced by reason for reasons that are pathetically clear; we are not allowed to exist.

"Kathy. Wake up. Wake up, dear." Steven's voice came from afar as if it had to travel millions of lightyears to reach me. I turned my head slowly and stared quite unexpectedly directly into his stale blue eyes. I simpered, and said a tired hello. He kissed me on the cheek with such wariness that it made me uncomfortable.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him. He sensed my disquiet. "I just came to see how you are doing. We are still married. I still care." My skin crawled when he said "married" as though he and I were shackled together. As though he owned me. "I'm not married to you. I've never been married. I do not belong to you, Steven. I am my own woman." Ridiculous. I needn't say these words out loud. I needn't claim my independence like this. I should live my own life, choose my own destiny. "Whether you like it, or not, Kath... we are married." I rested my head on the pillow, and shut my eyes. "Go away. Go away. Go away." The words dripped out of my mouth on to the pillow. I turned around so Steven could not see my face, as I lay there muttering the words like a mantra. He did not budge. He put his arms around me and whispered in my ear that he will always love me no matter what. I thought about the day I said yes. By the convention of fairytales when I secured the prize my tale should have ended happily. I was now a proper woman, and utterly dead to the world. Wiped clean. Tagged. Now known by a different name. Perfection comes at such a high expense, and its promise - a life without care - is as empty as the notion itself. Is a life without care even a life worth living? My life was perfect for just one second. One second before I sealed the deal with my unbendable yes. Yes, I do and with it I did, and had done myself in.

Steven's mother hated me. She hated me for things I wasn't even aware of. She hated me for making Steven leave her behind. I did not tell him to pack his things and go. But, she couldn't care less.

"I know your mother cursed me behind a blast of perfect manners. She is like that. She is just full of hate that woman. Born spiteful."

"You don't mean those things Kathy. You know mum loves you."

"She loves the thought of my being here, and spending the rest of my life safely tucked away under this rather lush rug in the middle of nowhere, out of her sight. She loves the fact that I've been declared unfit. She hates the fact that you still come here to visit me; that you haven't moved back to the West coast; that you still love me." It felt unreal saying that word. Love. What is there to love in life, really?

"Kathy, don't... Just rest. OK. Just lie down and sleep."

"For once, Steven you're being sensible. Now, leave me alone."

I closed my eyes, and thought about my wedding day. It was such a lovely day. Such a lovely day. When I heard Steven close the door behind him, I reached under my pillow and grabbed the bottle of pills I had hidden there. I emptied it in my hand. My hand was sweaty, and some of the pills stuck to it like lint to a pair of trousers. I put the pills in my mouth, plucked the rest that clung to my hand and licked my hand clean. My mouth was dry. I took a big gulp of water to wash them down. I slowly rested my head on the pillow, and stared at the ceiling; wishing I could see the stars.

When Steven next saw me I was dead. And, finally free.

Ice breaker

A common strategy to cement new relationships is to go through a harrowing experience together; it is a certified way to bond. With this in mind I have to say, with certainty, that my trip with M. to the Museum yesterday firmly established our budding friendship; not that the Museum in itself is extremely disturbing, but rather the new exhibition. Eric van Lieshout - a Dutchman, who has received critical acclaim for his "thought-provoking analysis of modern day society" this year - has exhibited some of the nodules of the minglement of his imagination and interpretation: yes, it sounds as scary as it reads. I thought his view on modern day society quite puerile if not downright idiotic, and the critical analysis diffusing that his work is thought-provoking is faulty beyond reason; his work did nothing of that sort. Thoughts were not provoked; I remained quite indifferent, and felt cheated. Luckily, M. thought exactly the same. Bond.

At any rate, we did enjoy the collection of paintings by true artists. Bond tightening. Modern art is often so bland, and devoid of depth. I'm not at all conservative in my tastes; on the contrary, I'm a staunch supporter of progress, whether in art, literature, or music. But, I'm a staunch supporter of a philosophically based progression; a movement rooted in a philosophy (a critical analysis of fundamental assumptions or beliefs). I care not for the random view of an individual if it's mere his anxieties put into words, paintings, music without a frame of reference; I cannot but be reminded of pubertal writings (poems!), drawings, and songs discharged under the influence of a changing hormonal balance. Incoherent projections. Eric van Lieshout's work is devoid of a philosophy; I could not detect a message in his work, a binding theme, something that would validate his work being there... in a Museum... for people to look at. If it weren't for the company of M. I would have been bored beyond belief.

I had not thought I would spend such a long time with M. We spent a good seven hours in each other's company. All in all, it was a very entertaining seven hours. Entertaining yet strained in some way. I found him rather tense. Not per se so because of me. I find his being so tense is his own doing, and the roots lie in his past - not unsurprisingly - and his current life. Also I sensed that he was not fully "present"; he was a little preoccupied... and kept checking his phone, which - of course - made me feel awkward.
I have had a nice enough day though; only the whole experience has left me puzzled. Perhaps, even a bit unsettled. It is a feeling I cannot explain; I think I do not have the energy to invest in new friendships, and M. is a person to whom I want, maybe even need, to give my full attention, and as I cannot give him that I'm pondering whether I should invest in this. All my friendships have reached that point of equilibrium; we are comfortable with each other, and we know and respect each other's wishes. It is going to take a while before he'll let his guard down. I'll just have to see how this will play out.

The fear of being alone is this:

The face of an empty bed
The eyes of which cause a rift
In the perfection in your head

(No drink can ever cloud
That)

The desperation of your hands
As they clasp open air
The strain on your spine as it bends
Toward a palpable nowhere

(No drink can ever cloud
That)

The empty lines on your wrist
(Where you lover's name used to beat)
Which his tapered lips once kissed
Will forever remain unfulfilled

(No amount of magick drink
Can ever cloud that)

Arctic

It's foul weather. Rain. The wind is blowing maddeningly, and I'm a mess - not directly as a result of this furious weather. I have been thinking about the novel I have been working on for the last three, I lie, four, I lie again, five years, or so. It's been roaming about my mind for quite some time, and I have even kept a journal in which I have delineated the storyline. It has existed in this - skeletal - form for three years, and now - I'm afraid - it demands to be brought to term, if not fleshed out. I have no choice in the matter. My mind is pregnant with ideas, and these are violently making themselves aware. I have started writing yet again.

I have Gertrude Stein, Anaïs Nin, and Somerset Maugham to blame. Of the three Miss Stein is the biggest culprit with her essays that have sparked my enthusiasm and reminded me why I love writing so much. I was a little apprehensive at first; afraid that her writing might frustrate my train of thought, but all that unease proved to be superfluous. Quite unnecessary, not unlike the writing of some people whose names shall remain unmentioned.

The novel I have been working on deals with Pain - among other themes. The mythologizing of drama through talk shows, through confession, through reality shows. Via these channels Suffering enters the realm of myth. This vulgarized Suffering creates in its wake multiple possibilities of overcoming it; possibilities handed by the gurus that preside over the cathartic process of confession witnessed by a studio audience. Pain is intrinsically shareable. It communicates itself through universal tropes / language / sensations. Shared Suffering binds people.

At any rate, I do not want to bore you with details.

The unmending lovely lies
Which made me feel obliged
To smell the sameness in the air;
The cigarette-burned mixture
Of sexual atrophy & Paradise.

Murky

So, to-morrow I'm going to the Boijmans van Beuningen Museum with a colleague-slash-potential-friend. I have been looking forward to this little outing for several days now, and am slightly nervous since this will be our first time hanging out in a totally non-work related environment. It never crossed my mind until recently to socialize with colleagues outside of work; it was simply unthinkable. Most of the people I have worked with were, in some form or other, nauseatingly annoying... and it was my policy to keep colleagues out of my private sphere. But this policy was chucked right out of the window when I started working for the ZDG Group; since my getting this job involved a clean act of nepotism, on the one hand, and a clean display of my worth, on the other. Tainted it was from the get-go; so why fuss with policies that are there to be changed?

I wonder how it will go. I will probably write a full report on how the day went.

Of course, you opted for a knife
The sharp end of which is so versatile
One can cut, sever, dissect a smile
To save, or simply end a life.

He can't be a hero all the time.

Naturally you possessed a wicked eye
For tendons, nerves, & spines
Your tongue could carve the perfect lie
& whisper neatly between the lines:

You can't be a whore all the time.

Translucent

Today I read in one of those self-proclaimed "quality newspapers" that the current trend in architecture (To borrow heavily from past styles) is pathetically anachronistic, and quite vulgar. The critics postulate that it goes against progress, that it is far from picturesque; on the contrary, it is rather absurd, that the aficionados risk asphyxiation by the fumes of sentimentalism that escape from such monstrosities. Yadda Yadda Yadda.

I reckon what they would have said to the architects of the Renaissance.

Beautiful men sitting with their backs bent
In commuter trains.

Should I lament the empty space in my bed?
With my knees clenched together
Mimicking a human
Not fully formed.

Or, should I brood over the loss of youth
And wear my slippers to work
To show that my body
Has not frozen
From rolling on the floor?

(It's silly, he knows
The fire of the volcano's
Breath can hardly be
Put out like that)

Or, should I run to the local jeweller
To buy diamond rings and necklaces
For the sleeping ladies
In their blue dresses
(Such pretty creatures)
Who all reside at the same address?

(They don't know me
It is safe to talk.
To stop and smile
This is the otherside
Of the liver)

Everyday my bed gets emptier
Beside me shall lie only my hair
Reminders of the time when I
Had only Time in wait.

Gaseous

My heart feels like it is running out of fuel. It sputters vehemently. Perhaps in a vigorous attempt to postpone the inevitable. It seems that the hearts in my family have a tendency to stop prematurely. This may, in part, explain my escapist nature.

I'm trying to figure out what it is that I precisely want, or rather, need to make me a better person. The list of requirements is awfully short at this moment in time. And, I'm afraid that it will show me up as the ice cube I am. To face one's nature in its complete nakedness, stripped bare of all the trimmings, is not half as bad as the thought of having oneself exposed in front of the scrutinous gaze of strangers. But being an ice cube: should I really care?

At any rate, I'm a little out of sorts. Yes, well. I have just eaten a salad (goat's cheese, spinach, apples, walnuts, honey, sundried tomatoes) and it has made me a tad more than queasy. So. I'm inclined to attribute my nausea, and general feeling of unease, to my grub and my sputtering heart - whose silencing is imminent, I'm sensing...

I've just returned home from work, and today I had a talk with my supervisor. Not one of those "talk" talks, just a regular talk with little, or no, consequences. She was highly curious about how I have experienced working the graveyard shift with my colleague B. - of whose character I had been informed by many colleagues before I had even set eyes on him. Their synopses did not endear him to me immediately, but rather made me extremely wary. Yes, B. I had been told is a very vitriolic man. I was intrigued. It is perhaps needless to say that B. and I did not hit it off. We had a huge blow-up which resulted in my telling him off, and in my thinking him completely embittered by his failure in life, alcoholism, and divorce. Oh. B. did not mind telling his lifestory to me - not even when I showed him through my body language and my not asking after his motives when he disclosed facts of his private life that were "private" - and to me at least - should have remained so for the time being, if not for ever, that I was not in the slightest degree interested. One cannot deny him persistence, at any rate.
At a certain point I had enough. The blow-up ensued. The make-up did not. Well. We managed to patch things up - but it was quite shoddily done, since neither of us had the mental strength to deal with the issue right there and then.

So. Today my supervisor wanted to know "what went down". I told her. I also told her that I'd rather not work with B. Sadly, she could not make me any promises. Soit. I'm used to getting my wishes thwarted by the-powers-that-be; why should it be any other way when the powers are closer to home, and less omnipotent?

I screwed up a lot today at work. I wasn't really focussed. So, in an attempt to divert attention from my failing to meet the standards I showed my colleagues pictures of Britney S.'s vagina - which is making quite a name for itself on the Internet; I think someone's vagina is going to realize that her owner is cramping her style, and decide to get herself an agent and a solo career. Mark my words. We haven't seen the last of Britney's vagina.

We should not waste faith on countless gods
That breathlessly hold their cameras
Directed at our reposing souls.

Nor should we dull the air with prayers
That hang like a mist over our sins
(like the kindness of drunken strangers
that taps us gently on our chins
When we offer them another drink)

Prayers tend to cloud our goodwill:
A supernatural cosmetics
They are in fact sticky tarmac roads
That lead to the same old Rome.

We should learn to grow
Asphodels instead
(To entice the bees
In the black of our eyes)
In the gardens at
The edge of Infinity

Liquid

In the grand scheme of things why should it matter if I choose to watch amateur porn as a pastime? Why should anyone go out of their way to reprove me for watching innocent little clips of people emulating the fabulous lives of porn stars? Would not one deliver a great injustice to these aspiring porn stars by denying them an audience? I do not have the heart to snub their (American) dreams of limited fame, forestalled fortune, and earthy happiness. Besides, their stellar performances have inspired me to adopt a signature moan.

I am obliged to ride the train more often than my delicate sensibilities can handle. It is almost a rule of thumb that some, or other, stranger with lambent eyes, or pendulous breasts, or a menacing moustache, or drenched in some designer disinfectant seeks conversation with me; either by staring at me until I feel extremely uncomfortable and am forced into conversation, or by simply starting talking to me as though we are old acquaintances.

I wonder whether I'm unconciously sending out signals that say: "I'm starved for conversation. Do not mind this book that I'm reading. It is just a silly ploy to keep my attention from wandering to the fact that I had rather talk right now than read. I will commend you for seeing through this shoddy ploy."

At any rate, a few days back I was sitting in the train minding my own business, which was reading 'Cakes and Ale', when a Chinese couple entered the train. They were heavily in conversation and hurriedly looking for some empty seats. Like the gentleman I am, I non-verbally let know that there were a couple of seats empty where I was seated by removing my bag, and my feet, off the empty seats. They repaid my magnanimity with a broad smile, and several flitting glances, and nestled themselves swiftly in the available spaces lest someone should beat them to the empty seats. All the while they were feverishly talking Chinese.
I smiled. I had taken, when I was in college, some Chinese language lessons. I tried to figure out what they were saying; alas to no avail. They were speaking - to my knowledge - Mandarin, and I had only learned Cantonese. Nevertheless I was distracted by their animation if not by what they were saying. After a while though I dug back into my book. From the corner of my eye, however, I could espy the Chinese couple eyeing me as though I was some curious artefact. I looked up. They smiled broadly. I smiled back, and nodded. The man blushed. The girl giggled. I was perturbed - if only moderately. They gave me these knowing looks, as though I had been made part of their secret world. The communication between us was entirely sub rosa.

I was intrigued. I feigned understanding what they were talking about; I closely followed their non-verbal communication, and reacted accordingly. I could see that now they started to feel a bit uncomfortable. Aha! This little play went on until I had to get off. When I stood up to exit the train they both looked up at me, and smiled intently and let their eyes linger on me as I walked down the aisle to the door.

Delighted to be
In your arms again
I grew a simple wish
At the edge
Of my eyelash:

Let all the deeds
of trust make arches.

Frozen

I suppose I should write an introduction, or other. I suppose I should delineate my intentions, or rather, what my wishes are, with a certain care. Should not it be funny if that were my shortcoming?

Of the social rituals I find the mediated introduction the most deleterious. It is wicked in that the act of your being presented to another person is always accompanied by a brief synopsis of your person; written, and unedited, by the person who is mediating the act.

"May I introduce you to Frozen Tapwater? He's the most glistening ice cube in the sea of cola; and, I have heard that he does not melt in your hand, but rather in your mouth. So, you can shake his hand without any apprehension. He's a good friend of mine, yes. We have known each other for - what is it? - six years now."

Smiles appear, whether genuine or fake, followed by a string of perfunctory courteous questions. The 'conversation' gets flailed anxiously by the newly acquainted lest an awkward silence falls and they get rushed to the real world in which they care nothing for each other's existence.

"So..."

"Straw tells me you're in accounting?"

"Yes, uh, but I sort of hate my job, and I'd rather not talk about it... if you know what I mean."

"Oh. Fortunately I don't know..."

[Pause]

"Yes, isn't that Bubbles over there?"

"Who?"

"I'm going to say Hello to Bubbles."

"OK."

And quite against common sense we persist in subjecting each other to this social minuet. I once, in a fit of absence of mind, introduced two friends of mine who instantly took a dislike to each other but remained perfectly courteous the entire time. It was the most horrific thing I had ever seen.

One of them on the next occasion he saw me said: "What a character such-and-such was. He worked the room like an inspirational speaker, whose motto - which was without a doubt prompted by some insidious side-effect of a stimulant drug - read "Let's keep the discussion lively - at any cost."

The other was equally witty: "Such-and-such looks really great. Does he use the souls of young virgins as a moisturizer?"

That was the last time I introduced people to each other.

I love not Boys,
Or silly Men.
I love rhetorically
For lack of toys

But every now and then
I kiss them metaphysically
Just to feel
The Universe shake with the fever

Of being born again.