Lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely eyes , lonely face, lonely lonely in your place.
Lonely, lonely, lonely eyes, lonely face, lonely lonely in your place.
I Thought That I Knew All That There Was to, lonely, lonely, lonely ...
Lonely, lonely, lonely eyes, lonely face, lonely lonely in your place.
I Thought That I Knew All That There Was to, lonely, lonely, lonely ...
I will be almost three years to live without my father . At that time, among other things, I became a woman. He was not there to see, but I believe, in this my only moment of Fe that know . Only now, after so long, I begin to feel its absence. Yesterday, for example while jogging buying Christmas presents, I realized that my mother told me "your dad walks needing Helena clothes, buy something nice, a sweater and socks because I always wear socks in the summer too, "Not this request, not my father and I mean now when I remember our conversations I must say, that man could not stop crying every time I called and told her father Hello, how are. I think it happens week in which I reproach or blame me, punish me or to hate me for not having done a bit more for it. I do not think I will reach all life in order to accept that he is not. I think I'm going to die and one of my joys is going to be that I will not become a distant star switching off, not just going to be again a child running to his father wherever you go. Hoping to still remember me and know that I, at least in this life, I had the courage to become a woman.
Of all the things I had to accept in this life, there is one on which further work. My father never going to see them play. Never. I think it's the only thing I would like to fix and unfortunately the only thing that is beyond repair. The rest, good or evil, or so I was fixing, leave it as it was. This non-materiality of my father as a human being and its conversion to the ground beef and black, I can not solve. These days I have suggested the mood to go through that. To me that breaks my heart a little every time I play under that truth does not make me want laughing. Give me a strong desire and terrible long to mourn and leave everything, not the guitar, everything to go live on the land they live on other men, that land where everything is all the same, all does not matter, nothing matters and anything is a joke and the limit is not pain, nor death, nor even humanity itself. The limit is the pain can be caused in the other and the goal is how to expand. Is that I always liked the bastards over fools.
That music is a cure continues to be cliche but it will never stop being true. That July day my father died I was alone. In the hospital had not anyone and firing, encouraged by my analyst, marked a before and after in my life that even today has no balance. I realized that dying is a huge thank-final without credit. Was completed. Understand what is starting to forget someone. I do not remember, even forcing me to tears and again: the edge of a growing hatred for myself, as was the voice of my father. I do not remember. I can not, is that his tone was dry, the effect of cigarette 43/70 not leave until he lost a lung. I remember it was serious. I remember those details. But if I close my eyes I can not play your voice. I forgot. And I can not call, I can not pick up my phone and call to see how this, if already up, if you ate well, if watching a program on TV. I can not hear as voice breaks when he hears me talk. I can not hear, I'll never be able to hear the voice of my own father. The only thing left to reternelo, is to write about it. And maybe I'm doing today, recovering a little, making it a little more mine, wanting to stay a little longer with him, not feeling great human being crap I usually feel when I realize the amount of times you waste your company and as stupid, how stupid, arrogant as I was, so I was incredibly stupid for not having been able to forgive in time, the number of times that this man I wounded, all those times you left me alone, the number of times he forgot me, the mistakes he made me his only daughter. But none of that now torments me. At least not now, now the only thing that troubles me is close my eyes and could not hear the voice of my own father.
Today I went to the cemetery for the first time in all these years, days and hours . I confess, I thought it would be worse but is that cemeteries are very quiet and even reflective. The graveyards are full of stories, not really understand why the writers do not write in the corridors of cemeteries, hosted by the banks and the aroma of jasmine. I would, but I could not write. Oh yes, sitting at the grave of my father could write mentally, perhaps mumble a few words, record them and come home to hear the result. The grass in the cemeteries is something that should be noted, at least the perfect grass that covers the grave of my father is amazing. When I bend down to touch it, I felt it in my hands as a gift of nature and smell the scent that creates the green after the rain was a gift. Rub over with my hands, not about to pat my father, or below these rhizomes found the warmth of his nature. I never could bring into my house and green, so alive. Perhaps because in my home as I am alive. Maybe that's why I'm not sure.
Take flowers, the liberal attempt I went through a finger from side to side with the pin that held the cellophane. More tried to free the flesh, but sank into it. More tried to free the skin, went deeper. I realized that the flowers, cellophane and tissue paper hanging from my finger and if everything went well I was going to get a piece of skin under the weight of all three. As I do not like anyone, even the effects of the weight of things, decide for me, I start it. It did not hurt.
Now it is late at night and prepare to go to a party. New Year is approaching and my house, my animals sleep. A friend calls me, not leaving until I get there. Tomorrow I'm going to dinner with my mother and give her gifts. I already know I bought her because she could not stop. For the first time after 29 years I will have my gold openers over my ears. I was so excited today I showed the small red bag where they are stored, to return to store and telling me I had to wait until midnight to get the rings, put on my pink panties, toast with a bit of alcohol and give their gifts. Although we both know that we are our mutual gifts.
Now that Daddy is not and under the tree, because I do not disown the tree, there are many gifts, I can only wait. I listen to Tom Waits while dialogue with his tone of voice. Closing Time is my favorite album of Waits, the disc to engage in dialogue deeper and more sacred. I love you .... and can you see. All these days of prose, poetry, songs and words were for me, rather than the constant struggle against time these days to write, anything, on any format, supporting the torture of uniting word after word, all these days and years of pain, that whole bunch of songs, all that learning through music, tuning the pain the character string, the handful of concerts, singing with the size of my hope, that is the size of my faith, which is the pebble from my heart that will be forever wounded, but not of death.
While voice is me, I will use it. As I left heart, I will use it to love. As I is life, live with the rage of love, of which we know the daily struggle is to win only one more day of death.
Everything else, everything else does not matter.
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