r e p r i s e

Sitting at this kitchen table again, after about three, maybe four years, with a laptop in front of me, again, drinking green tea and thinking that it was about this time of the year. An exceptional reprise of feelings and attitude, so rare, so precious, so distant and lonely in a house not my home.





I turn the radio on and tune into some stations, half of which are Austrian, the rest I don't even bother trying to figure out. I find a classical station with an opera from Puccini, which ends too soon, then there is a violin concert on, Mozart, seldom played, but said to be very special. Outside, it is peaceful and there is sunshine, end of the winter sort of sunshine, opaque. The dogs are resting outside. The back door is open and there is a light, just right breeze coming in, cool enough to awaken a feeling of longing and belonging, just the way I like it. No hurry, even work can wait, though when I open the file I am struck how familiar work is, how straightforward and easy, I dive in, it is so reassuring.

The radio plays some Haydn, from the later years, when he was working for himself, solely. The sounds reckon liberty and happiness.



I go to the bathroom and decide to pull my hair back into a ponytail. A semi ponytail, my hair is not long enough, but it feels good to have it out of my face. Most of the time, even that would make me feel vulnerable, but today is special. I did not even put mascara on this morning. I have got plans for the day. Work, some writing to do and some re-introductory running in the afternoon in the forest where we took the dogs for a walk a few years back. There was ice on the road then -- it should be all clear and almost in buds these days. It is ten past two, with fine chocolate covered marzipan and green tea. Something by Maria Callas would be nice to listen to.



Only here and now. Almost no thoughts, nothing to write about. Only peaceful feelings, some time spent on my own. I was told yesterday, or maybe the day before, that according to Buddha the way to happiness is the lack of possession and the lack of wishes, desires. He might as well tell me that I'll never be happy -- his word does not count, that's why. As though he is not affected by reality and truth.

Tell me, time has not changed a thing here, time has not changed us at all. The past has not brought about any change at all, we are still running around in the same wicked circle.

I am not looking for memories because things are just the way they used to be, that's what I see in the pace of life here, the colours and the attitudes, the reactions and the eyes that dare open up.

24 hours or maybe a week is the scope I can still cope with. 12 hours these days, with on the spot decisions -- bag full, everything I might need during the day is in there, but there are mainly newspapers with property ads, and I spend quite a big part of the day looking through them, making phone calls, and thinking I will not be home early, and I don't even want to. Whatever is happening in the given moment has the greatest effect and I am thankful for every thoughtful word, every minute you spend on me, unselfishly. It is a luxury. 3 hours, sometimes 4 out of the 12 I can plan ahead I waste dreaming. Tossing and turning. Talking to myself. Singing, when no-one can hear. Time spent in harmony is more than I would dare hope for.

Her words sound so distant, have you noticed? I know she does not talk a lot, but she used to be much more open. I think it is my fault, I have let people down, I have gone too far when there was nowhere to go. I know that, but there is no way I can change. I don't mean harm, but I want so much less we'll never get along. The main problem is that I won't even try because I am ready to accept whatever it is, and I work on micro-scale, thinking of miniature things that may, in fact, have some meaning. Like the colour of her lipstick means a lot to her, and the garden, but I have talked about that before. Most of our life is wasted running in circles, he tells me and for a moment I can keep up with him as I suddenly turn around. He's been walking in circles around me, as if embarrassed. I want to tell him to stop.

I don't think there is much to say, things will just happen the way they are supposed to happen. Will we speak about them first, or will we never speak at all, only live in the moment, well, to be honest, I don't care at all, on one condition. That you'll be there, as much as I'll be there.

I feel good sitting in this café, in spite of the smoke, though asking myself, what are we doing here, why did we decide to come, anyway? I try to tell myself that there is a meaning to it, though it is needless, I feel splendid, extremely happy not to have to be somewhere else, you know, though I'd rather be talking to soothing, attentive her. Talking to her about sitting here and why it is so special. Instead, I tell them about "rust", and then we talk about the past. Not the future yet, please.

So I am honest. Because I am grateful for what they are and what they are thinking. There is more to life, unfortunately, for example there are the conversations I have come across and the small talk I have to deal with, but I find peace within, or what I consider within, and from time to time I recall what Keith told me years ago, and I know I am right in my circumstances, and he is right in his own, because I have done things for my own integrity while he has always lived for integrity with God. My mother tells me I am selfish, and I don't fight her anymore.

Coffeine is not the reason for our insomnia, since he rarely has tea and hardly ever drinks coffee. He orders one, though, maybe for me, thinking instead of me because I am not quite there, because he thinks other notions might be occupying my mind. We walk along wide roads in the cold, looking at flowers and not buying any, taking the metro and a bus, going to bed early, talking nonsense for an hour, teasing, talking about lovers, and I cling on to him for all the understanding and the honesty for he only knows what is going on.

And I am losing faith, no longer trying to hide it. I know I couldn't as the ups and downs I experience are shown and because there is no reason to try to hold such things back. Have I been too weak, have I been too patient, and is it necessary to change -- there are so many questions and very few answers, if any. The further it goes on, the more revelation I need.

It is past 11, almost midnight, and I struggle to keep my eyes open, to read. I watch out for every sound, every movement outside, waiting for him to arrive only to ask where next, lover? Where next, husband?