Quote: How do we re-create the emotional truth of an experience, and what leeway does the writer have?
Quote: D’Agata’s response, when he heard Fingal’s question? “It’s called art, dickhead.”
Didn’t sleep last night. Tossing . Turning.
Kelly and her boyfriend came in. They had been dumped on the curb by the friendly taxi driver after he failed to find the address. Kelly stayed and guarded the luggage while Kevin walked the streets until he found the right door and then just started ringing the doorbell nervously. I went down, swung it open, and when I saw him immediately knew who it was before he introduced himself.
We walked the two blocks in the cold and back, carrying the heavy luggage, trying to make small talk and not appear out of breath. I installed them a bit brusquely into their bedroom, told them we’d talk today and went back to bed.
Couldn’t go back to sleep, which is very unusual for me, turned the TV on and mindlessly zapped through the whole tirade a couple of times until I came across a film that looked convincingly old but not campy, it had this blonde guy, a mercenary, being offered a job. It was set in Africa, which reminded me of a friend’s husband who, after knowing them years with me thinking he was some type of traveling salesman, one drunk night made me privy to what he did for a living, basically “either enforced or protected specific interests through the professional use of military knowledge and experience”. Anyway, the movie is called Dark of the Sun, and I do think it was good, in a Wild Geese sort of way. I then turned the TV off and lay there in the dark looking at the ceiling thinking of Ilse. Yvette Mimieux had me thinking of her al throughout the fighting. Some sadness, no regrets.
What’s the radicality of radical? To write. Okay, what’s going down, veamos. El asunto Platero este, quedan como 14 días, a fortnight. What have we thought, yes, yes, yes, the doctor premise, we’re going to make her a doctor, what kina of doctor, a young one, yes that should do, she arrives to a place, in the middle of the jungla, San Buenalike, the Madidid, yes, algo así, y la historia, la historia sera narrada desde el punto de vista del ambulanciero, why? porqué me da la oportuinidad de que sea algo mucho más colorido, como él la ve como una buena persona o como, independientemente a su llegada decide to be on her side, we have a few pages to get the build-up going and to introduce all the main characters y que quede claro whose antagonizing who. Hmmmm, characters, primero, la doctora, next el ambulenciero auxilair que es quien narra, go back in time, Reynaldo perez, yes he’s the one, he’ll tell us the story, next we have a nurse, or two, the administrator and the chief doctor, I have to decide whose the antagonist, whose “neutral” and the way it’ll play out. two weeks. aquí vamos.
Ilse to me:
So you “unfriended” me on Facebook on Valentines day… yes, that gives me a rough idea of how much you love me…
Also as someone who has such strong feelings as you say you have, I find it a little odd for you to wait for me to make plans for us to meet up somewhere in the world (which I asked you a couple of times but your answer has always been, no, I can’t), and you say it’s not about the money but I know you wouldn’t think twice about getting yourself a new motorcycle and stuff, you just don’t want to spend it to travel together.
So, what it comes down to is words. Nothing but words. You waiting for me to come. As always. That’s not enough for me.
If you were as crazy in love with me as you say you are, you would not have waited but just came over and you would have found me.
All the best to you.
Me to Ilse:
You’re the most selfish unempathic person I’ve met in my entire life… you don’t know anything about love or family and never will, that’s why you are alone.
You don’t deserve what’s been given to you by life or by those who love you, what a waste, what a shame.
Go on, keep being the eternal tourist, keep on pretending that’s what you want, keep posting empty comments and souless pictures on facebook, keep running away from the fact that you can’t stay somewhere long enough before people start getting fed up with your crap.
I’m the only man who’s ever loved you, but yeah, it wasn’t enough for you, so fuck you Ilse.
Don’t write to me ever again I’m through with you and your shit.