Saturday, June 07, 2008

á bientôt

The Rockrose Moon (A Serial Fiction) Part 54

Since I went to San Francisco this last winter, (based on the weather here it is still winter in June), and reconnected, Michel and I have been corresponding.

Before I left home, all that water under all those beautiful big bridges, my friend S. called him up and asked him to ask me to marry him so I wouldn’t leave San Francisco.

I used to wear perfume then, French perfume of course. Now I only wear it when a guy asks. We are all politically correct here and most everyone doesn’t wear scent in yoga class. This is nice there, not to be distracted.

S. is mixed like me, but she was ashamed of her Filipino mother and always said she was full-blooded Spanish. It was a secret we shared.

The last time I saw her she told me she could smell me at the top of the stairs. We used to work out together. I listened to her endlessly talk about her terrible “ideal” first marriage to an older man, who promised her a life he could not afford. We used to put our matching pagers on the table at dinner after the gym, waiting to hear from him. Whoever he happened to be.

I shepherded her into her next relationship with a handsome young broke guy her own age. S. is a person who bought a new car because her CD player was not functioning…

Michel asked me then to marry him, to move to Amsterdam with him. Instead I left him and moved here.

My muse. I’ve been hiding.

He’s asked again.

My passport is up to date; my life here is a mess, and my writing going nowhere.

I ache for the company of intelligent successful people who speak multiple languages and while I’ve failed at fully realizing the local self-centered petty world of wannabe poets here in this blog, Christian is planning a tour de force on the subject with his friend Mr. Vidal. He promises to never mention me.

He’ll be fine without me.

Michel has promised to take me first to the Concetgebouw before we fly to Hamburg to meet his ailing father. His father, about whom, (their relationship) I wrote my very first poem. Inspired by a painting of a blue rose on Michel’s wall done by his father in his tiny studio where I found all the words I have written since.

Then maybe we will go to Milan, where he likes to buy his shirts. All the men in café society can teach me how to play chess.

I’m tired and happy and sad and glad to be leaving.

Sometime I may check back in, but for now I am leaving this blog in the capable hands of Audrey Elizabeth.

Maybe we can all convince her to stop hiding as well.

Labels: , ,