today this pavement smells familiar. I’ve never really appreciated the bristly surface of this carpet,
but when he embraces me with this hysterical strength,
i can nearly feel my mother’s uterus closer to my baby little fingers.
the desert around me makes me feel like a crowned Queen.
it’s just…my bones, just my bones i want to feel buttoning up to the earth.
what else? i’m tired of this war, i’d come back to my far far Paris,
or to a waitress uniform or just something white,
to hide this vocation for triumph and cry.
the curves of the carpet,
indeed,
follow the lineaments of my face,
already torn apart from the tears,
from the willing to throw away these ideas,
that somewhere inside are ripping my stomach apart.
my heart is in the throat, in the throat of the void.
as if, in the desert, there was only one light, mine.
but what’s the difference? what’s the difference??
I walk, my face covered in tears,
because they can’t find me anymore,
because i’m alone with my idea.
and now i’m a little scared.
even just a voice, bring me down to the ground, again;
but this time, the carpet isn’t embracing me anymore.
nobody is embracing me anymore,
because i’ve erased my past, i’ve erased my present and i’ve erased my future,
that now is just me and is working as a waitress.
now the wind outside is raping me.
i can see the street. i can see many lives. but i cannot see mine.
I picture her happy, chased by poppy petals all along Beirut’s high road,
i picture her playing with tea leaves, and paint her hair black,
then white, then back to black, and finally white again.
I miss her now.
I miss her because art is not cold. art is not static. art is a journey, not an arrival.
it’s a procedure, not a product.
her, my life, has become my cause and consequence. and now she’s not here!
because to be both woman and artist, you must lose within yourself,
without any help, you just have to let yourself fall.
and the lack of balance will be your new stability.
yeh, ’cause i lost my thread,
i’ve tied my filaments to the wrong edges,
and now, even just a voice, dissolves them in the insatiable vortex of life,
of the continuous movement.
and now wish i could come back to something white,
white white white,
completely white: but my clothes, are not that white anymore.
life has ejaculated on them for too long and now they got the color of her sperm.
milan, amsterdam, london, paris, LIFE , why did you let me go?
i feel you pulling back…
i feel you changing shape…
and then, when i’m about to set me free,
you stand in front of me
and let all the filaments slide down to the earth;
and with my hands to the sky,
I forsake everything.
a.aime
aaimepharmacy 