Ana Toader

Let us mime death. Let us play Erik Satie, Gymnopedie #1.

The feeble hands which hold the dagger above my heart. It will slip away from them, as soon as the muscles give in. It is so heavy. It will slip inside me like a lover. And I will never see my parents again. I will never laugh.

Faced with the irrevocable, I feel them. A string of ballerinas, rushing along my tearducts, in their white satin toe shoes. It seems I loved life after all.

To remember and experiment. Monsieur Satie has given us 3 minutes and 36 seconds of exitus, light as silk, heavy as iron.  

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erik_Satie

What is magical and absurd can also be salvation.  Camelia-white and thin fingers, playing my violin-heart. What ridiculous music. My heart. And “sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

I am not like you. I am not like them either. I realise these statements are difficult to believe, not even diversity is infinite. And “I’m very brave generally, he went on in a low voice: only today I happen to have a headache.”

I will hide right here, under rat tails. I will press my cheek to the floor, cram my body against the wall. I can wait for things to vanish in a poof! while I pin down my open heart with 6 nails, for no one to see. 

I can live like this. “The rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday – but never jam today.”

My two favourite ignudi guard the creation of light from darkness.

One is the lover and one is the thinker, but I can never decide which one I like better. Some days it is the thinker, always the thinker first, twin and mirror, promise of agonies for my heart and precision for my mind.

Some other days thinkers are too surgical, I dream of the lover – creature of oceans and nights, inviting me in. Drowning with a mouth full of velvet.

 And yet both of them are all this. Mordant and pristine. Petit mort. Bruise.

As I sit here, two breaths away from him, formerly *H*I*M*, and feel like a larger than life, larger than his life, self-contained goddess, I am thinking….

Not. a. thing.

Resolution by the transient nature of love. Human hearts live in now, it is only our melancholy, our loyalties and our need of certainty that live in any other time.  I am no heart-breaking Ophelia today, but what magic is locked in her songs.

“He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.”