This story is not about sheep. Let me tell you. This story is about Potamotrygorgeous, my herder. There is a cushion that said to find joy in the little things. But if you make it into a pillow, you will see it’s used mostly to spend sleepless night on. It’s full of tears. On that pillow lies a paper. It is weighted down with words. I see it. Here’s what I read.. I can’t make much of it though, the black ink flowing from the pen is blurry because of the salt ink flowing from the eyes.. study it the way you would do a sunset that leaves you speechless.
“Leave it briefly a diary where you have access and feel invited to read or a moment to sit down next to me in my soul. That may also silently; I myself have to be alternately need quiet very hard (as they would a CD must deliver; ten songs with only silence it), I notice it to the tension in my face, my lips pressed together. Dope would now just relax, I wake up with a headache because I do not really want to put more on the pillow my head. And relaxes my mouth anymore. I have the mouth of my father. And the teeth (though he slit his show a few years ago to walling by the dentist).
At the same rage my fingers on the keyboard to express anyway what is happening inside me. “We have very disturbing news .. we have a spot seen on the scan,” said the specialist. They came with the four inside and he had better go sit down. And then it’s five o’clock and on weekends and you have to wait until Monday, because only then will discuss how to proceed. Surgery is risky because it weighs so little. Yesterday, when I was with him, there were pancakes on a plate with a lot of icing on it. He has to arrive, or they do not even operate. It calls intermittently and not on me. And I realize that it may be nothing, maybe the lens of the scanner was dirty. Maybe it’s a trinket what’s already 73 years, just as I might my whole life with that crooked cervical course I have absolutely no problems with … maybe it’s something ‘normal’ can be removed. All maybes.
And preparing a piece for me on the other maybe. And then everything is chaotic. Because besides me -real- is a yellow post-it with I GOT THIS out. And somehow I think I can bear it if he is forever dead, and that I only one thing going to find it difficult: that he himself then do not remember. I’m going to see him when he’s dead. That moment. That one moment when you “you are you not aware that you’re gone, and I do.” All know in you at that moment you are no longer together ultimately, it’s like you than most big contrast of your life looks are combined, with a force that would still pull apart the Magdeburg spheres. This time he does not know he’s dead. I’m alone. That moment, which I will look at him and not to me. And I look sideways at my yellow post it. I GOT THIS. While running away from this letter I forget that I have a body and punch me mercilessly hard my shoulder against the door frame, en route to a toilet paper to catch my tears still in my eyes, because they are not on my makeup run, I’ve made so heavy that I can not cry. Purpose. I do not want it. It’s not necessary too. He is still there. And he writes his lungs from his body. To me, among others. And he hopes that I want to read him, because relieving him, he says. And I read. I read the tears from my eyes. We survived the divorce, mirr.
I feel like I want to wring them out like a dishcloth and want to wash me all the words that he is still squeezed out of himself. Love me. Write what you feel, what you like, what you think. Be proud of me. Be mad at me. Philosophize with me. Be sulky, be blunt, be sad, mischievous, curtly. Talk to me. Look back with me. Go back for a drive with me. Sit at the bar with me. Watch football with me. Eat croquettes with me. Reflect with me. Make puns with me. Giggle me. Stay with me..
Tell me how it felt when I first was on your body when I was born. What did you feel when you went to me when you came home from work and I was lying in the cradle, what you did, what you said, how do I then looked .. how you comforted me, how I sounded like I was crying. Tell everything I no longer remember about us. Tell everything that only you and I can know. How can we together in the garage endless long songs sang together we invented on the spot .. “there was once a male haaajoekadeeej, there was once a male haajoekadeeejj ..
the man could not walk, haaajoekadeeej that man could not walk, haaajoekadeejj, then came to help a female, haaaajoekadeej …
How the organ at home used to write your own songs, with their own text and we sang along to. How do you invented own games that we played with you, you were the cat and the mouse, we, imbecile-the-bieba and mikke-the-mecca. How do you let go of guilders behind your ear. How you played pharmacist and we were able to buy everything in the form of tickling our body from cheek-baking bacon until crisp armpit. How did you come to one foot and swung one hand through the garden as a carousel, and we when we were older (heavier), always himself had to make haste because we would otherwise not materialize came more ..
In a daze like this I can be with myself any way. Listen loud hardstyle. By mirr, say I want out sometime with him. My wall covered with dark brown (or army green). Installing a bathtub. All I ever did wrong make amends with everyone. Monday horrible haircut, clippers over, side, rear, top tail. Tonight just eat what I feel like. Fuck, my brother is on vacation .. when he crossed the border into Croatia to enjoy a well deserved ten days with his girlfriend, the results of the scan came. A piercing’s put. Do everything for always different. With such bright colors life that your eyes are aching them close do after you finally sleep indeed have a nice and relaxing your head lay on a pillow.
A tattoo’s put. With a text. And even that text to tell you. It is a word. A word which only my father and I understand the humor. We once discussed how we could arrange it so that if someone would be kidnapped by us, and the family would be called for ransom, how would the kidnapped then be able to know that he really is, so we know that the other still alive and we do not do anything for the money. He then invented a word that I know the meaning (and it), and if so we would use that word, the other would know that he is still alive. Years thought that if he would ever die, I to tattoo the word on my arm. In his handwriting. And if he do not write this afternoon for me the word, then I suggest it yourself together all the letters that I get from the written things that I do have him. The word is on my lips to tell you the word, but my lips are pressed together. It’s something of him and me. I get hardly breathe I notice. I want silence around me.
I who has always music on.
I want it quiet around me. Very loud.”
This story was not about sheep. I told you. This story was about Potamotrygorgeous, my herder. There was a cushion that said to find joy in the little things. But if you made it into a pillow, you would have seen it was used mostly to spend sleepless night on. It was full of tears. On that pillow laid a paper. It was weighted down with words. I saw it. This is what I read.. I couldn’t make much of it though, the black ink flowing from the pen was blurry because of the salt ink flowing from the eyes.. I hope you studied it the way you would do a sunset that leaves you speechless.