Diamantes - Letter to Leïlah/Letter to You - May 18, 2008

Strange phantoms fill the mist tonight. The urge for me to Write drifts just below my consciousness, tickling me like an almost-forgotten memory; there is much I want to say, I don’t know how or when I’ll say it. Capitalism, Death, Jenny, Karma, Music, Love, Energy, Religion, the value of friendships, the cost of negative activities, the clouds of grief, the inspiration of strength, the glory of finding the sun, the guilt at forgetting, at being selfish, for yet another consecutive day, to write to my friends and let them know how I’m doing, what’s up, what’s new, how’s it hanging, and so on.

All of it conspires to swirling coffee, from delayed thoughts amongst the hours spent slaving on the clock for the big bucks, to tendrils of remembrance, and what was it she said in her last email?

And then I think, “it doesn’t matter, just write, she’s your friend, be there for her”. And yet the call of grandeur creeps in like a reptilian, delayed melody amongst the steel-string atmosphere of modern expressionism, and Book overtakes Simple and Write in my ever-grandiose mind, so I slip into the dusty files, those pixilated icons and find files with names like “Brazil Sept-2003”. Dear God, I know there’s something worthwhile in that Word file, some 150 pages long consisting of dozens of emails amongst some ancient Power of Three, but I can’t bring myself to read more than a few words, it still feels like living vicariously through others, like fantasies or the past can bring more satisfaction than merely trying your best to live a real life Now. And so it remains an archive. Whatever advice I received from the Kisses and Hugs of a Brazilian Autumn, whatever subtle artistic lines I might have uttered amongst my uncontained enthusiasm and un-channeled need for love--leave it buried, baby. Let it Be. Each event seemed so important and we always felt like life was just about to happen amongst our bastard lyrics.

How many diamonds have you left scattered in the rugs of yesterday’s apartments, baby?

Ah, that line seems poetic tonight. THAT is what I almost started looking for tonight amongst the yellowed pixels. Dear, I feel a renaissance inside of me. Better than all of our dreams of yesterdays; something real finally seems attainable after all of these years of darkness, grief, hiding, an ill marriage, lack of a band, striving for attention in a world blinded by all of our private narcissisms--ah, so many tepid pools and each of us nurturing a dying flower mirrored in sky-colored scum. I think Now who I am is not so much that I seek attention but more that I Believe In Myself.

I think my immediate writing, coming soon to a theatre near you, will take on the form of a “blog”, a modern word and platform I dance around with uneasiness, but I think the small bites of my beliefs will add up to a nice little “this is what Tony believes as of the end of 2008” journal book. I think all of those “this is what Tony believes” are really starting to solidify: issues recently with my job, so much I’ve learned from losing Jenny, growing older and becoming intolerant of the bullshit people put each other through, just to list a few examples. All of this I would write to you in an email.

And bless you dearest of friends, one of the keys for my soon-to-be-blog will be the “trick” of thinking I’m writing to You (oh yes, the fake Power of Three has become the Truth of Two, it’s an old story, we’ve discussed and buried it). I don’t exercise her anymore, the Muse that bears your softness (I’d rather be your friend), but that doesn’t mean that I’m not aware that if I opened that Querida’s Box, the contents inside would shine with the brilliance of a thousand suns. A thousand and one nights she sang to entertain the King, Scheherazade. In other words, it is a necessary and comforting writer’s trick to think I’m writing to someone. It makes sense that the audience might wear your face as I pause and collect my thoughts. After all, if there is ever anything important I want to say about anything, it is you I want to tell first.

So, this is my report. I’m prepared. For once I don’t feel like it will be the last gasp of a dying sun, but the dawning of a new day. Of skin and hearts of glass.

How many diamonds have you left scattered
in the rugs of yesterdays lost,
Windows streaming a worried light,
Windows framing a sick moon at night?

The call of grandeur leaves you tattered
in the dawn of yesterdays lost,
A melody modern among us floats,
Strings of steel, sharp and grandiose.