9/11/2016, 17:09 hrs. Light rain, 6 degrees Celsius, moderate Northwesterly wind
(13 miles per hour)
The riverbank is almost empty. I am in the familiar
presence of seagulls. It’s becoming darker, colder
every day… A teenager, wearing a dark sweater,
a baseball cap and a safety pin attached to the
front walks by. ‘A Love Supreme’ by Coltrane
breaks the silence. It’s coming from the teenager’s
sound system. A welcome invasion; jazz waves slide…
on the river surface… They shine. I smile, feel a few
raindrops falling down my face. I am free fire. Air.
Water. The river of jazz. Flowing, meandering between
the shores of memory and forgetting. Of us. Streams
of sound flow, merge… you, me, this river… in
counterpoint. A memory lands on my palm, softly.
I open my hand… a few jazz notes fly away.
14/11/2016, 18:42 hrs. Light cloud, 11 degrees Celsius, Southwesterly breeze
(8 miles per hour)
The night of the Supermoon. The skies are covered…
I cannot see the moon… but I can feel its calming,
grounding presence. You asked me once ‘What is
your worst fear?’ and I said ‘Not to remember’.
I realise now that my worst fear is not to forget,
but to be forgotten. Because I know this: when dust
settles on my writings, your memory of me will fade.
Until I become a distant moon in the sky that once
was full of promise. And when dust settles on my
love for you after enough time has passed, my
memory of you will fade equally. Until you are a
faraway melody playing in the shadows of my past.
With each day that passes our memories of each
other weaken a little more. Call it the law of gravity.
Until we slip imperceptibly into the deep waters of
forgetting and our remembering becomes silent,
just naked sounds of time passed. So, I choose to
write to you every day. I write to you with words
so fresh, new, light that you can only read, hear,
listen to them with an open heart. A heart that
always remembers. For what are we without
11/11/2106, 14:42 hrs. Sunny, 10 degrees Celsius, light Southeasterly wind
(5 miles per hour)
The November sun is dancing between the tree branches
and the ship’s sails. A mellow afternoon. There are tourists
walking on the ship. Strangers…. yet, not. We are all connected
by invisible threads. Our lives; hearts, lungs, brains; veins
flowing through a complex system of networks. Like rivers.
Every river belongs to a river system; watershed. The main river
with its tributaries, smaller streams; branching away, fusing again.
All connected to the river’s source. Meandering. Yet, every river
is different. And every soul is indivisible, unique; like the river,
the body is connected to its life source…Every soul has its song.
When I say to you ‘I see you’, what I mean is ‘I see your soul’…,
or ‘I hear your soul’s song’.
8/11/2016, 10:03 hrs. Sunny intervals, 4 degrees Celsius, light Westerly breeze
(7 miles per hour)
It’s a beautiful, sunny November morning. Between shade
and light, I imagine Scheherazade telling her stories. I hear
her voice, see her face in the shadows of the Sultan’s palace.
Every night, until dawn, Scheherazade stays alive through storytelling
alone. Thousand and one nights. Scheherazade stays alive, the Sultan
falls in love with her, marries her. I think of her, as I watch the line
separating the shadows from the light, splitting this river into two. I think of her,
because I feel she could be my light, my alter-ego. And I, her shade.
Like Sheherazade, I am alive through storytelling alone; only you know this.
And I smile… I know, because of her I no longer live my life in the shadows.
I am no longer afraid. For far too long I have been standing by, wrapped
in my own sorrow, waiting. For something. Folding my grief. Surrounded
by the ghosts of my future. And I understand this. I understand that our love
lives, breaths daily on the borderline, on the very fine line that separates
the shade from the light shining so brightly on this river. I am shade,
you are light. Scheherazade and the Sultan.
Paris, 6/11/2016, 16:52 hrs. Sunny, 7 degrees Celsius, Southwesterly wind
(6 miles per hour).
My view is a balcony overlooking the Seine. I step out in
the fresh air. The street below me is empty, just a man
walking his dog. I breathe, soak in the softness, warmth,
roundness of shapes, colours, patterns… The familiarity of
feeling. Deep vibrations in the river’s undercurrents blend
with the urban noises of cars, sirens in the distance. The water
is flowing endlessly releasing its own sounds into the city.
In dreams, the river is a protector of haunted ships, it hosts
nymphs, lost sirens, mermaids… feminine creatures of the sea.
I notice glitters on its mirroring surface; it is becoming
darker outside. Your loving is a river; it never changes,
and it changes constantly.