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July 17, 2005

My Ukrainian girl - dead engine

I'm in love, I sweat on a new girl and on changing lanes. She's Ukrainian, a synchronized swimming trainer roaming around Europe these days and what not. Making Milan, Valencia, Zurich, strolling in public, leaving a trail, a reptile, I love her. I call her a pedophile, ain't she, dragging the carrot dish, cart and Oreos action, looking for unnamable, soda on sale and Mexican chips, trust and post-humans Russian, Spanish, German. Altogether. I suck at these things, I'm from Memphis, what do I expect, what do I know?

Time to go take a quick dip under and it's clear, feminine, green, half submerged gestures on the wire ticking "OK", opening in a "V", more structures that I can describe. Whichever way she goes, think of a blonde, something, somewhere under, not exactly a trip, scraping the typos away, can you tell? Busy with my characters, handling time, I'm in love for this girl, seriously! And can't even speak a good idea, just like everyone, I just want more time. But I don't know, I'm from Memphis, what do I expect, what do I know?

A scan of Sophia, I remember sketching for her, nail down a good geometry, fitting and folding, taping and learning, spiders, Bach, another turn and other feelings. This must be serious. I feel it. When I catch her walking in and hailing and spreading the noise, clothes, faces, then leaning down on the current framework, ain't she just right? I suck at these things, I guess I said that, I'm from Memphis, what do I expect?

Education, my family, the old tree in the old yard, does it matter? Now? I like to watch you dancing. I like that. I do not want to disturb you. Please continue. I want to just sit here and sip my JD and watch you. The skeletal complex moving in the pipeline. Hairs brushing and falling, improvising, a string of special strokes waiting. I'm in love with this girl and I suck.

If you ask your destination, a plan for the day, spaghetti for dinner, a walkabout on the shady side of the room, alone with magazines on a lounge, throwing confetti and laughing at the streets, when we walk, confused and can not speak. If I could trace and express but do I want to? I'm from Memphis, what do I want to know, what do I say?

Stand still, work the frame, leaving for a round of buses, planes, the cartoonish treatment. Ask you for postcards. Right out of St. Michel and along Left Bank the stands I caress, the tiny people exchanging and talking politics and the bookstore right on Deux Magot? I love my little Ukrainian girl and her list of things to do. I creep for her symmetry, easiness, and her being volatile. And I'll take care of her, I promise, when she comes back.

All of the money, that's how we do it, passing from her stopovers down to Chinasky and from there to Seoul and back to Djovkhar Ghaala, where our friends live. Easy. The Russians are still trying to hack it down. But they've got Chinasky down yesterday, she does not know and the guns are shining, quietly humming under. My cats keep me company, I won't miss her. When she comes back. My Ukrainian girl.

© Fortunato Caragliano

Posted by lck at July 17, 2005 06:45 PM