the dry bite of loneliness

On fictional space or The truth

Candle light, every time I invite him over.

Carefully chosen underwear, always lace. I like them in beige, skin color, maybe with golden details. Or black.

Body washed in water. Private parts with scentless soap, hair with scentless shampoo. I like to smell like myself.

I am careful to clip my nails so as not to injure him, or leave marks.

I let my hair fall free and wear very little and light fabric. Mostly silk and simple cotton, clean cut.

Sometimes I will put a flower in my hair.

Martini Bianco, served on rocks with lime on the balcony, during hot summer nights, such as this one.

Bathtub is ready, lukewarm water to cool us down.

I sit on the balcony, the moon is full, it’s close to midnight, he will soon be here, I am ready. I put a record on, old tunes from the 30s, 40s and 50s. This is my favorite music. Etta James, for example, and her voice perfect in the combination with the small cracking sounds produced by the record player, singing At Last. The music is under my skin, my body already in the mood. I am closing my eyes. Light breeze is caressing me. I can almost feel the fairies sing and hear them fly, dance and feast. My shirt, silk, skin color, with a golden lace collar, is held on with a single button at the bottom of the back of my neck. It is there that I feel his warm breath. The little hairs are highly attentive when the button comes undone and my nipples are met with the fresh summer breeze, instantly eager to cooperate. I am being lifted from my chair, the air around me is changing and then, still with my eyes closed, I am being lowered into water. I lie there, in clear water, protected by black lace of my underwear, lit by the candlelight. I can feel him watching me. My breathing is heavier by the second. My skin calling for attention, yearning for his touch.

Two large hands are gently stripping me free of the lace.

On frustration or Whatever happened to my part?

a meditation on possible future.

When in dessagreement with institution – leave institution.

And so, I need to start looking for a job. But what kind of job do I want to have? Or better, in what kind of labour do I want to transform into money? What kind of money do I want to earn?

I want to earn money with knitting and crocheying.

I want to earn money with writting.

I want to earn money with performing. Do I?

I want to earn money with the food I make.

I can open a petit cafe restaurant. This petit cafe would sell very good cafe, infact it would sell the best one. It would include a huge variety of tea – like rose-buds tea. And creamy hot chocolate. White, dark, milk, with lavander, chilly peppers, ginger or sea salt. I would get all these ingredients from private people from India, Shri Lanka, China, Chile, Argentina, France, Croatia – and yes, I would ship it by plane if necessary. I would also make cakes. Cakes like the fresh Apple Pie I made last night for the DancingKids. All kinds of chocolate-cherry combination cakes. Banana-sweetpotato cake.

I would put flowers on the tables, wooden tables, wooden chairs. I would also serve soup, home made soup. And quiche “Shiran”, and simple sandwiches, and salads, because Katie likes those.

If my friends would feel inspired, I would allow them to make food, too. Specially if they had recipies they simply had to share.

I would develop photographs I made when younger and hang them on the walls. Photos of the sky, photos of cities I visited. Photos of people reading, thinking, singing. Reading – I would have books lying around. Books that I read, but also books that other people read and decided to leave there so other people can read those, too. I would also make space for some arts magazines. Local and worldwide.

Wouldn’t that be a beautiful place? I would also ask friends to make pillows, cups, mugs, cutlery – all that could be made by hand – would be.

Where would this petit cafe be?

In Zagreb? Paris? NewYork? I don’t know.

Where is my place in this world? I don’t know. Because it so obviously is and is NOT here.

Tel Aviv might be a place for my cafe. Or Stockholm.

I am afraid of the local feeling. Is it that I feel that freedom comes with being recognized in the world, traveling around, not having a stable place? Is it fear of Pär not making an effort of comming to Zagreb or Tel Aviv? But whoever said that I will not be able to travel?

Who cares? I wonder. Who gives a damn, anyway?

So I will bake. And make hats.