I’ve been writing letters to Kandinsky all morning. Making love to the gestures he left behind on a canvas;
a red gash
a blue arch
pastel paradise
paris in springtime.
I tell him everything. Kandinsky is himself and a representation. He is himself and all of mankind. He is my best friend, everyone I have ever lost, he is my lover, my only companion.
He changes and keeps changing. When I write to him I am writing to YOU.
The news today came as a slow shock. I knew she wasn’t well. I’d even wondered if she had…
and she did. No one bothered to tell me. I had to find the dead end on my own. I know he hates me and he has every right too, but he could have sent something. I doubt he even sees that as an option, I surely don’t. I wouldn’t contact him if it were the end of the world. Still, I was blinded by the situation. I can see now what I really did to him, and I am sorry. I injured him in ways I couldn’t concieve of back then. It’s already been four years. Here I was pointing the finger all that time, but it turns out I’m the bad guy.
I know she wasn’t very happy with me either at times, but we shared everything. We never judged each other. I’m stuck here smokeless unwillingly conjuring up all these dead names. Lovers and friends cast aside that I never could afford to think about before…now it’s all here and I can’t simply turn and walk away. I’m stuck in the middle of this catastrophe and there’s no discernable exit. Solve the puzzle, make the escape. Still. He didn’t love me the way he claims he did. And I…well I stopped loving him out of doubt, and fear. I didn’t want to fall into the trap of the one who loves more…that stupid, dangerous game. Of all the mornings in life it just had to come down now. I guess I evaded the truth as long as I could. Now it’s time to either get over it or take a bath with an electrified jellyfish. By that I mean toaster. I don’t know that I’m strong enough for any of this.