MY ONLY PLANET

I have to be back. There is not such a thing that I need more time, or I have to do this or that before. This is the only thing I have to deal with. To be back. To try. And then let it go so that I can be back again. I’m waiting for an intense moment when I get an answer or I can share another question with you. That intense moment might be this one. Or the following one. I’m trying. I need silence. I need perfect silence where I cannot hear anything except for my own heart beats. I need silence! - I’m shouting. Can you hear what I’m saying if I don’t say a word? I’ll only give you a look to ensure you about my understanding, a look with which I accept your presence in my life. I won’t play any games. I won’t use any words. I need silence! – a voice is shouting inside of me. And you, you can only hear my heart beats. Your head is lying on my chest and I’m stroking your soft hair. I’m watching you as you fall asleep. I don’t know what kind of battle it is. What are the weapons of harmon

We have lived; our moments are important. This is what it is to be a writer: to be the carrier of details that make up history, to care about the orange booths in the coffee shop in Owatonna. Recording the details of our lives is a stance against bombs with their mass ability to kill, against too much speed and efficiency. A writer must say yes to life, to all of life: the water glasses, the Kemp’s half-and-half, the ketchup on the counter. It’s not a writer’s task to say, ’It’s too dumb to live in a small town or to eat in a café when you can eat macrobiotic at home’. Our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist – the real truth of who we are: several pounds overweight, the gray, cold street outside, the Christmas tinsel in the showcase, the Jewish writer in the orange booth across from her blond friend who has black children. We must become writers who accept things as they are, come to love the details, and step forward with a yes on our lips so there c

We sit at the table. You sit in front of me and you wait that I say something. I’m quiet. I pretend I watch the waiter if he is coming. I cannot look into your eyes. In my head I repeat the sentences I formed for such situations. Easy, superficial sentences that comfort you. Words, which accurately describe our relationship and settle our places in the world. You are angry with me. You waste your precious time on me and I don’t even try to fake the image of a non-existing system. You don’t know how much effort it was to pull myself together and meet you. It’s only now that you are facing with the fact how it is to disappoint each other, I knew it before I had left. We cannot do anything. I would like to tell you how I ended up here. The first signs about which I thought they were only accessories of an ephemeral fed. It made me feel terribly good, though. I was happy that I can also be part of the whole. I enjoyed such an elated state of satisfaction that I never did before. Then I wan