memory lane...come away with me

so..even though i m burried under a pile of work this week i headed out yesterday and made a little trip into the past...so i drove for about an hour through the first summer sun in days...i dont know why i did that...there is a urgent feeling lately to go back to places where i spent time when i was young..as well as getting back in touch with some people i didnt spoke to in about over ten years...people i so extremly miss...so i drove to this house...long ago in this mansion was some kind of artist collony...4-5 people who lived steadily there and about 5 or 6 more who were always coming and going...the house was already old by then...almost empty...furniture from the basemnet and the attic...a lot was done provisorical..but it was all clean and pretty...i used to come with my older cousin or with my oldest sister..by then i had given up painting allready and i wouldnt make any art anymore..but still i loved to be surounded by the artist friends i had...i would spent hours with laying in the garden...planting tulips and iris...sitting model...reading...picking spider webs from the candelabra in the hall...talking for hours and hours ...sitting on the roof working on my novel...with the evening and the cool evening breeze everything would slow down...we would carrie a pasting table onto the balkony...make pasta..wine...grey country bread...slices and chunks of raw fruits and vegetables...more wine...lighting candles because there usually wasnt any electricity in the house...and on we went with eating and talking...everyone was much older then i was...and it was all exiting for me...not only the creativity in this house but also its sexual tension which found its way into my novel...that summer seemed to be endless when i look backwards on it...when i flip through my diary from that time i m stunned by the ways i thought back them..what was important for me...

upstairs there was this huge room..almost like a ball room ...it had the only working fireplace aside the kitchen und high walls as well as a ceiling encrusted with broken stucco...gilbert und ceszare spend over a week painting the broken ceiling with a sky and clouds..oh so many clouds which had pink and golden edges as if the sun would go down in venice and touch the clouds with its golden burning dawning fingers...there we would sit by night...more wine...smoking..talking...kissing..touching...couples would set up...leave into other rooms...come back..leave with someone else maybe...smoking always made me tired..silent..so i would just sit there..with glowing eyes and marvel at the things arround me...i was in love with someone..but the time was complicated because i was with someone else...

it was just one summer but there is a whole life pressed between the pages of those days..in my mind i open the book of that time..and people and moments slip out between the pages like dried flowers from a diary...by the end of the summer we all left ..it was too cold in the old house without heating...strangely no oen really said goodbye...one by one left and moved on..so i did..moved away...and yesterday i came back...now immigrants do live in the house that is all whithered and broken now...i went arround it...i read the names on the mail boxes..i sneaked insid einto the stair case...heavy breathing...its wine cellar coolness welcomed me just as always..just like back then when i still was young and barefeet..skin kissed by the summer sun...a book under my arm..hair hanging sweaty into my face..on ym way to get something to drink...inside everything was dirty now..broken...the stair into the room with the painted ceiling was barraicaded and so i couldnt go there...still i could knock on the doors and count down of all the names and ghosts which are soaked into the walls of this house..sit down on the splintered stairs and remember all the feet which had went up and down them back in that summer...now its all gone...there was a round flower bed in front of the house full of roses and jasmin..gone...the tiled floor is dirty and dusty...and i was standing there..like a relict from another time...thinking of what i was teache dhere..what i had seen..what i had written there...thought of the beam in the attic where i had carved two name sinto the wood ..te amo i had whispered into the dusty summer light which came in through the dirty windows...te amo i had said when i had left the house so many years ago ....yesterday i stood there in the darkness..my mouth so dry...still..te amo i said again and left...