the call

12:41 AM. My phone is ringing. The air is too hot, my mind too busy, throwing myself back and forth, forth and back in china's bed I take the momentum of my tossing around to swing my legs over the edge onto the hardwood floor and stagger to the table where my phone buzzes. It is Marie. Of course, I think, she just came back from the mountains. So I pick up, but he is sleeping, or trying to do so. Did I wake you up, she asks and I say no, no, and I look at his gorgeous broad shoulders and the stormy curls clouding where his lips linger on the white pillow case. - We've just been watching Kill Bill so it's all good. How are you doing, how was the mountain.
Good, good, she replies, but I am calling because I just read what you sent me.
Oh! I hear my silence drop to the floor.
Emeralda - yes? - Emeralda, you have to write a book. The silence inside trickles down and gathers at the ground to become a flooding storm. One day. Once upon a time... The way you described it, the way you confused it, all of it, it was just exactly like it was, you know, the magic of it. She says. Maybe. Something like that, I don't quite remember. But it was good and it really meant something to me to be awoken by her calling me to tell me that.
His soft breaths swaft in the air. I hear him sleeping. He triggered all of my emotions. He was the wheel of my drive. He rolled me in and out and over. It was a really good year. And now he is here. Lying next to me, breathing. Sleeping. Waiting, for me to come, and love.

Earlier he and I were sitting. He was reading, I was typing away on the old typewriter, a veil of inspiration thick and stinging, in the air. It is always a good memory to just be whoever, whatever, whereever you may be.

And I remembered, how some people told me along the way, how they wished me good luck for my musical career and that I should be a singer. And I remembered how somebody else told me as well, that I should write more. And I remembered how it feels to be inspired when somebody you admire compliments you.

So I get up at 12:58 to yet attempt another moment of writing on the good old mac G4 Powerbook while longingly glancing at the smooth, black and silver Corona next to the powerbook on china's desk. this isn't china, this isn't america, this isn't in obscurity. anymore.

it is a call. and -

this is trying. more.