Du Chronicles d’une femme enamoure: Entre #12

March 26, 2003 at 10:56 am (LJ import, forgotten memories, her handwriting, literary excerpts) (, , , )

There is a painting, an old one, in his house which looks exactly like one of the paintings back home. It is signed by a certain R. Sacdalan and has a common landscape theme –a nipa hut by a lake, with rolling mountains in the far background. It would probably mean nothing but I can’t wait to go home and see if we indeed have the same painting replicas; if our ancestors had the same bad taste.It is early evening. We are trying to recall the words to an old song. To aid ourselves, he is once again with his guitar and I am with my pen and notebook.

I missed having moments like these. Alone together. Together alone. Relaxed. Talking. Mindlessly singing.

I feel silly though. I was going through my notebook and noticed only now that I am stumped once again with my writing. Stumped even with all the poetry I have surrounded myself with. Time lost its watch once again, the world its senses of direction and gravity. Nothing and nobody exists. Nobody but —

*sigh*

Why can’t I write about him, around him, while everything is still beautiful? I don’t want to end up writing only after the whole thing has blown up in my face again. Yes, the writings usually turn out better, but when they do, they give me heart attacks.

Being enamored does have its down side.

I wonder if Winterson wrote The Passion while her body was stiff with sex?

6:47 PM, 11 March 2003
He is heartbreakingly beautiful under the porch lights…

 

 

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