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The Making Of

    We met on an island
    Not asking how it come, why,
    We were there alone with our dreams,
    I, in love, with a dream never to come true,
    You, between lovers, with a dream soon to become true.
    "Why do you think my dream will come true?" you asked,
    "Because of your age, experience, knowledge?"
    "Because I believe in it," I answered.

    We had nothing in common,
    Age, miles, music.
    We had everything in common,
    Age, miles, music.
    You were not the first one to tell me...
    "You speak in riddles."
    "True," I answered, "you are one of the few to know the answers.
    Share with me? I need to know the answers too."

    "In another world I wish we could have been lovers."
    "In another world I wish you could have been my daughter."
    "Would it then have been different?"
    "Yes, for me."
    "What about me?"
    "You would not have been born.
    You would have been created."
    "Create me," you said, "make me beautiful."
    ""I will," I said, "I am still looking for the mirror."
    "The mirror?"
    "Yes, the one that does not darken in envy every time you look into it."
    "You mean like in fairytales?"
    "I mean like in realities."
    "There is no plural to realities, there is just one.
    The other is a grammatical aberration."

    "True, there is only one. Therefore I want you to see it."
    "In the mirror?"
    "In the mirror."
    "Will you find this mirror?"
    "If you never let go of my hand, I will."
    "I will be beautiful?"
    "You are beautiful."
    "I will fall in love?"
    "You are in love. All you need is your lover.
    Till now all you had were assholes."
    You giggled. Long time since I heard you giggle.
    Probably never.
    "This word is not suitable for a poem."
    "Your lovers were not suitable for you."
    "Am I a poem?"
    "Do you read these lines?"
    "So you are a poem."
    "Will you be there when I find him? My lover?"
    "If you allow me I will be there to kiss the bride."
    "You sound so old fashioned."
    "I am, in age. Not in mind."
    "Is this poem the start of making me?"
    "No. This is just one more step. And I do not make you.
    We do."
    "Will you still be around? I mean, when I need you."
    "You forget one thing, girl. I need you too."
    "I have to go. I have to study."
    "I have to go. I have to dream."
    "Dream of me..."
    "You are impertinent. You know my dreams are taken."
    "May I just hide in a corner and sleep there for a while?"
    "A tiny corner?"
    "Just big enough for me. And my ears."
    I exploded in laughter and so did you.
    "You have a beautiful laughter," I said. "And she wouldn't mind, I know."
    "How do you know?"
    "She knows what's in my heart."
    "So do I."
    "This is why we met on this island. Because we know each other's heart.
    You have to study."
    "I will miss you my friend."
    "You will not. I am here."
    "Au revoir, mon ami."
    "Au revoir, mon amie."



The Making Of, Two

    "Who are you? Is it you?" I asked the sleeping figure, floating inside a cloud of liquid nitrogen, her face the paleness of death, her dark hair hanging down, low, beyond her suspended body, her hands by her sides... how could the hands be at her side and her hair flow down, I asked myself loudly, expecting her to answer.

    "You like physics, I hate it... you answer this question..." her pale lips hardly moving, her eyes closed.

    "You like chemistry..." I countered, speaking softly close to her ear, afraid her frozen body would shatter into single molecules under the impact of my voice waves... "...so maybe the answer lies in nitrogen's chemistry wonders..."

    She did not answer right away, and I was not sure she was alive. Maybe I had imagined this exchange between us. We were isolated from the world, a transparent castle surrounding us, a frozen forest I passed through on my way here leaving damp traces on the ground - transparent as well. She was dressed in a black robe, modestly covering her body from neck to ankles, her feet bare... I felt a sudden, terrible twinge to tickle the soles of her feet then run away like some stupid kid. Then remembered the nitrogen, the brittle flesh, the sudden impulse to laugh she may have had if she was alive followed by imminent explosion and death. It took me so long to find her, to reach her, I could not risk losing her now.

    She talked... how could absolutely frozen lips move?... something may have warmed them to blushing pale scarlet...

    "I am supposed to be a sleeping princess and only a prince could kiss me awake. I wanted to sleep for a full year. Or more. Silent. You are not a prince, why did you wake me up with words?" Her closed left eye got a sparkling glow accumulating at its left corner, and a pearly perfectly round blob of liquid nitrogen slid down to the floor. Followed by another one, then another one... evaporating in thin rainbows as they hit the transparent tiles... where did the light come from, I wondered, are there nitrogen rainbows in this world, wherever this was supposed to be? I jumped back lest one drop would hit my foot and pierce right through it, afraid not for my flesh burn but for the rainbow loss.

    "Princes are busy chasing the wrong princesses, princess. I am here to use my word to find your word and wake you up to beauty. And if needed use your love of chemistry and my love of physics to explain your sleep. And the hanging hair. And the hands at the sides of your body. And show you the mirror."

    The rolling blobs stopped their chatter. Thin mist was rising from her mouth, the red in her lips deepening, her tiny breasts stretching against the cloth, trying to get breath inside the body.

    "Do I know you?" she asked, eyes still closed, her toes stretching as a ballerina trying to find the touch of a silver gilded floor. "I knew once someone who was talking to me in riddles, and talking about mirrors..."

    I dared near my fingers to hers, afraid yet... I sensed the warmth radiating from her skin to mine... I dared take hold of her hand... it did not shatter. Neither did mine burn. She raised the upper half of her body and slid down to the floor from her invisible bed. Her eyes still closed, her other hand making mystical fluid movements in the air.

    "Open your eyes, will you?" I asked.


    "Because I want to see their color."

    She opened her eyes, transparent as clear water pools sparkling next to the mountain's source, transparent as crystal glass formed by woven moon rays.

    "You cannot see my eyes color, I never told you my eyes' color."

    "True, you did not. I can paint them. But then they will be mine, not yours. I will wait till you tell me."

    I stood in front of her, picked up my quill and started writing with white ink on her dark robe. Signs, letters, phrases started flowing from the endless ink source onto the cloth, staining it with white shapes, forms... she shivered as the wet liquid soaked through and tiny rivulets formed on her skin dripping down to her ankles.

    "What are you doing?" she asked in genuine wonder.

    "Changing your dress, painting it from black to white, filling it with magic..."

    "Magic? Who gave you magic? For me?..."

    "Magic, elves' magic and words and runes. You taught me this magic, you claimed you found it in Tolkien's books. Everybody thought these are fairy stories... you were right, there is real magic there. I found it. Now I speak it, I write it, I paint you in it, I turn you into magic. Till your robe will bathe into it, and your skin will drown into it and you turn into the white of love."

    "Why white, I always thought love stories are pink?"

    "That's why they are called 'stories'. We talk here reality. Beauty, innocence. White."

    Those transparent eyes were fixing me with their stare, unreadable, yet so intense...

    "One day I will tell you the color of my eyes. When you are ready."

    "One day I will show you the mirror. When you are ready."

    "When will I be ready? When you finish writing me white?"

    "I am but a tool, all I do is helping you see reality. I paint reality for you, white, beauty, innocence..."

    "You keep using these words - innocence, beauty, white... why? Does it have something to do with me?"

    "It has everything to do with you. When you will not ask this question anymore then I will know you are ready for the mirror. Because then you are ready for reality. Let's go."

    She closed her fingers around mine, warmth flowing both ways. I started walking.

    "Where are you taking me?..." and as we advanced, behind us trees woke up into green, flowers into red, birds into song.

    "Back to your world, there where so many princes are looking for you..."




    Oh maiden, oh maiden, oh maiden so sweet
    Asleep on a bench in a dim lighted street
    Where little grey squirrels are nibbling your feet
    And moths in your eyes sparkling fireflies meet.

    Oh maiden, oh maiden, oh maiden so shy
    So dark is your hair and so deep is your eye
    The white of your skin lights the south of my sky
    When lilacs each evening in agony cry.

    Oh maiden, oh maiden, oh maiden so lone
    Your heartbreak wears mornings a smile’s pallid clone
    Awaiting the arrow to shatter your bone
    And wake up that heart buried deep in your stone.



LiMerick's Way

She adopted me. I adopted her. As father, friend, confidant. As daughter, friend, confidant. She adopted a code name, LiMarike. I adopted a code name, doesn’t matter. My job was to keep her alive. Her job was to help me succeed in my job.

We made it. Together. Thank you, LiMarike.

    I met a girl, an AP member,
    Her smile pure March, her soul September,
    I'll let you measure
    My depth of pleasure
    When to July they all surrender...

    (this is a northern hemisphere limerick of course :) ...)


    Found two LOLs, I'm mighty proud,
    Twice I heard you laughing loud,
    Waiting for
    Just slightly more,
    Say... like raindrops in a cloud?


    LiMarike LiMerick,
    Language magic does the trick,
    None her guile,
    Bright her smile,
    Joy is... wow, and sad is... ick...




Of Age


    “Yes dear.”

    “How old are you?”

    “In three moons it will be one hundred seventy one. And you, do you remember how old you are?”

    “Women never remember their age. Well, when we were young it mattered, not anymore. One hundred thirty two.”

    “Yeap, you were young, I was beginning to fade already.”

    “Still, we had eleven kids, twenty seven dogs, three mules, stopped counting the great great great grandkids. Soon they will have kids too. Jared, how long do we plan on living?”

    “At least as long as that asshole Maynard which you almost chose over me, and then some. I have to prove to you I was the better choice.”

    “Your potatoes are better, you were the better choice, that’s sure.”

    “Only my potatoes?” I revolted, and pinched her behind. “Careful grand grand grand mother or you’ll have to face child bearing again.”

    “Don’t think I would mind,” she answered, throwing a potato straight at my head. Luckily it was rotten, so it splashed instead of bumping off. “OK, you were also better in bed.”

    That pissed me really off.

    “Hey, how do you know it? Did you play around my back with the Maynard bum?”

    “No, you old fool. You were simply the best, so there is no comparison needed.”

    That sounded as fake as her wig, but what old fool would not accept such a compliment? I closed my eyes satisfied, swinging on the creaking chair, the peeling paint seeding broken green crumbs on the porch, ignoring the fact that nothing would grow out of it. The leaves were shedding off the trees like huge yellow-brown drops fighting off gravitation and following spiraling patterns till they splashed to the ground. They never really splashed, but I liked imagining they did, imagining the sound, the image... I got up, unbending my body slowly over the five meters till the drawer, opened it, and brought back the album with me to the porch, bending as slowly back into sitting position. She pulled her chair close to mine, disturbing in the process the old dog sleeping underneath it. The dog got up, stretched, yawned, and moved over underneath my chair.

    “What is that, our marriage album?” she asked.

    “No, your acting album... you were one hell of a good actress...” I added hastily, kissing away the tear that suddenly appeared on her wrinkled face. For the next two hours we leafed through it, she – remembering, I – imagining. She took a sip of orange juice, her only concession in this marriage, and I took a sip of coffee, my only concession in this marriage. I hated the damn stuff but she insisted, one hundred years ago... ...it’s coffee or Maynard... did she leave me a choice? And with that damn Maynard still alive...


    “Yes dear.”

    “This is a fantasy, isn’t it? And when I stop reading, the fantasy dies and you go back to your world and I to mine. And even the dog disappears with the closing of the page.”

    “Of course it is. We know it. We decided to paint pictures of life, and this is one of many. This one is on earth, on a porch, growing potatoes and looking at leaves falling...”

    “And at common memories...”

    “Which you will have one day with Jared. Life is beautiful with the Jared of your life, I told you, I just pulled one scene out of this life. You are an artist, you can create the full story, before, during, after.”

    “Jared, you know I wish.”

    “I know, my dear. Take another sip of orange juice?...”

    She took the jar and spilled it on my head. Then ran to the bedroom, as fast as a one hundred thirty two year old woman could run. I chased her as fast as a one hundred seventy one year old man could chase. The dog got there much before me, no wonder, he was one hundred fifty seven years younger. He growled dissatisfied as we fought over the place on the bed, until I threatened him with feeding him chicken. He hated chicken. I went to the window and before pulling down the shades I made an indecent sign in the general direction of Maynard’s barn. I knew he was waiting there, watching us through his WWI binoculars. No chance, old man, no chance, I snickered to myself, deciding to leave the shades defiantly open. I put my teeth in the glass next to hers and jumped into the bed... Well, as much as a one hundred seventy one year old man could jump.