Friday, September 29, 2017

Filed Under - her side of the story

There is not enough tequila in the whole damn country to help me forget these last twenty four hours.

And just how much of this disaster am I responsible for - probably all of it... probably all of it...

When I fuck things up I really fuck things up... talent.

This may very well be the last post I make at these Deringer Files - it was fun while it lasted - but I can't deal with other peoples insanity when I have my own to deal with -it is just not fun any more and what started out as an experiment in therapy may have turned into a complete disaster - someone has it out for me - but I will still be around... lurking and you can always find me here rifling through these files.

We close it all with this letter that the girl we call Dagmar sent me today - since others claiming to be who I believe them not to be are giving their side of the story - and many of them just don't make any God damn sense whatsoever... She decided to throw hers into the damn hat as here it is a little bit of crazy, from the only letter I know to be genuine...

Drink up amigos... I am way ahead of you.

When my father first brought you home you were a mess, your face was still swollen and bloody and cut up, you could not see out of one eye, your jaw was busted, you walked like an old dog from the street that was run over by a car that destiny kept alive for her own perverted amusement.

And you freightened me. I hid behind my oldest sister and my mother, but you don't remember that because you could not see well. I looked at you through the small space between them and hide my face from you.

You looked like a monster. You were broken and I remember my mother saying that night to my father (when my parents thought I had gone to sleep but I could not, because there was a strange monster in the house), my mother said you were beyond fixing, that you were too lost in your hatred and anger and that you were a ghost in the world that death did not even want.

I did not know then what my mother meant about all those things because I was so young but I truly do remember those words she was saying.

I would not understand them until many years later when I would find out how true it is that you are damaged beyond the help of the shamans you go hunting for.

But I think they are all just too sad to tell you the truth my love – this bitch of a life beat you good and hard and no matter how much you try to pretend that you are over it all – you are not, and you do not belong here among the barely living in this shit world of ours

But here you are always a step ahead of the reaper, but maybe like my mother says, he gets close enough and realizes that it's you and he throws you back.

I know I am not the first person to tell you this and I will not be the last – you were not made for these times we are in.

Your dreams are beyond this worlds understanding. Your soul is lonely for a time that may never had existed. Your heart breaks for a love that can never fill you up, because it is something you simply do not believe in anymore

And I know that and I accept that, but I do not have to like it.

But here is what I think, my lovely dreamer, and it is the truth that every one knows but you.

You have to empty your heart of the love you did not get to give before you can fill it with the love I want to give you............................ I said it. But you already know.

Querido mongolon, I know the truth. I have spoken with Frankie, and everyone who has met him and heard the true story of that romance you scaled down to just some passing affair as you made your way back home, some little fling with another young girl - sick and lonely and afraid – that you crawlled out of the depths for only to stumble back down into it when she was gone. It was more than what you make it out to be.

And the way Frankie tells it – that was a love that only Russian poets could dream up and the city of Asuncion has the scars and scorches of that romance on it still as proof of the love you made, poeta, as you said – “where is the proof I will leave behind for the love I made”
It is there. Cris knows it, Jan knows it, Tommy knows it, and Dom knew it. My father knows it – the whole damn tribe knows it. And you know it. But you wish to deny it.

She is the one that broke you – not that Elsa. And that girl Carmen, stupid girl, is just another poor victem of the passion that you scoundered on the slow train into hell. You damn stupid fool.

I want to tell you.

I like the way you remember me and the way you tell me the stories of when I was young. You remember it all different than the rest do, but you were always watching me as a stranger from the shadows even when you were in the light. You were always distant from the family, from the crowd. Watching over me like a guardian angel – that one outcast trying to buy his way back home by looking after some spoiled brat girl – you were that wounded dog in my fathers house... that is what we called you. My mother started that, she was so cruel to you, but I imagine all mothers have been cruel to you.

The wounded dog in my fathers house. That loyal dog that sat at the masters feet waiting with dignity and pride for the scraps from the table. To proud to beg and to broken to run away. And that mean little girl tugging at your broken ear and teasing you and calling you names and sticking her tongue at you.

But you were there to chase the other monsters away and you watched over us in the night, sitting in the dark looking out the window at the night - I watched you many times just looking and listening for other ghosts and monsters and you never slept until the sun started to come out and then you would close your eyes and pretend to wake up.

But I knew you did not sleep. Did you know that I watched you. Did you know that I knew your secret.

I have been collecting and uncovering your secrets since I was little

But I do not want to know them all because I do not want to know the whole truth about the wounded dog in my fathers house.

My father never told me about what happened to you and how he found you and all the things that really led to how you came to be that broken dog from the street. I have never asked him and I have never asked you and I never will – but will oneday the truth I uncover, and then learn something that should have stayed unspoken and undcovered?

I'll tell you when I knew.

It was when I had gotten mad at my mother and sisters and I said I was going to run away and I ran away into the fields with only my bag with a notebook and a markers and my hair brush and I was out there all day until it started to get dark and when I came out of the field you were sitting in the middle of the path just looking into the direction of where I wlked out... just sitting there waiting for me and I started to cry and you carried me back home.

You did not say anything you just let me cry and I wanted to say I was sorry for being mean to you all the time but then I thought you might think I was weak if I did tell you but you let my cry all the way home and you did not say anything and you put me down before we got to the house and let me walk in on my own.

And I walked past my mother without saying anything and I walked past my father and went to my room

But then I stopped to look back at my father and he looked at you and that was when he knew that you were going to be part of our lives forever.

That is what he said.

And my mother knew it too. But honestly, I do not really know why my mother has it in for you... well maybe now because she hates that I feel the way I do for you, but for back then, I could not figure it out, but once we were at church and it is one time when father was worried about you that my mother lited a candle for you and she said for you to be safe (so that father could stop to worry about you)... did you never expect that to happen my love.

You were right about saying that you were the most worse student of my father. He did say it too, but his love for you was always there and you are with the most favorite of people in the world for him.

My father is getting old dear, and I hope that you will returnsoon to see him.

Do you know that my father always knew everything you were doing, where you were and when you were in trouble and that when you joined up with Cris and Dom that he always followed you and what you were up to – I know that you know that but when we are sitting at the table eating and my father would look upset (it was the only time he would get upset or worried was when it was about you, because my father is a strong and smart man and you know he does not worry about anything) but when he was upset everyone knew that it was because he had been given news from someone in the network about you.

And my mother would look at my father and he would shake his head and raise his hands the way apologetic fathers do trying to find and excuse for their bad sons and say “Victor... I just don't know” and he would look over at me and shake his head and he would say “That boy never learns” and he would say the grace and we would eat and my mother would start to talk about something and I would ask what happened to Victor and my mother would yell at me and my father would just make something up that was nothing about you.

But he did then and still does today keep track of all these men but there are some that everyone knows are his favorites and they seem to be the most broken ones like you.

My father says that you are chasing after the phantoms of disaster and the world will destroy itself without any help from you if you just let it happen it will – but father refuses to see that the anger of the young boy has flourished into something more fierce now in the man.

Let the world fall apart my love as we watch from the mountains or far off from the shore – like you have said before. It does not need you but to put out the flames on the final night when it is time for those better men to rebuild it all... and then you must slip away into the shadows again, because that new world will have no place for the men that did the slaughtering, the way the world casts away broken soldiers and what else do you have to give this world and what else is there for you to take from it but my love.

And now it is my turn to tell you

Yes I am afraid.

I am afraid of the anger that you keep at bay for my sake when I am around. I am afraid of the hatred that still grows that you will never get rid of. I am afraid of that pain that still burns inside of you because I know it will never fade. I am afraid of the ghost that you chase – Veronica, because no woman will ever be able to compete with her. And I am afraid when you go chasing after the ghost of her in those dark places in the night and in your mind and in your soul, because darling maybe one day you will not come back and maybe up to now you have been lucky... but that devil wants his pound of flesh... I know, you already made your deal, but I know you too well, my love, you still have debts that need to be paid in those dark places on the run.

I am afraid that I can not give you what you need or want and I am afraid that you might not give me what I need and want and I am afraid that maybe what this is is not love but something more simple and less expensive and that it is something than can be easily discarded or forgotten and left behind in some closet... like the way you tried to forget Veronica.

Who will you find to guard that shoe box of the memories of me Victor?

I am afraid of the things you will write about me when I have lost you to the ghost.

I am afraid that you will not abandon that road.

But I want you to abandon that road and we will lock ourselves up in Valparaiso or run away to the Black Sea and you can write poems and stories that no one will ever read and seduce me with your lies and leave me a broken mess – wreck my mind and crush my soul and drive my passion into madness... give me the love you would have given Veronica – I am afraid that if you really gave me the chance, I would crush all that is left you you my sweet monster, because yes, I have always been crazy but you did not ever help the situation - I would crush what is left of you and cut out your heart and build a new alter to the Godess of Blah Blah Blah and all those mad poets and wandering souls that the world abondoned, those dreamers and the fools for love that could not hold back the pain and the fury of their desire that only had the options of love or death – can find a place to rest under that alter that I will cover with the words you hid from this bitch of a world - what better way to go out my love.

I am afraid that I may never know the ghost of love the way you chase her.

I am afraid that maybe I too will ende up marying a man I do not love.

But maybe this is not love at all

You do not have to love me and I do not have to love you - isn't that what you said once to another woman? You don't have to love me to sit in silence with me and breath in the same moment with me.

This is true.

All of it and maybe I did not say it all the right way.

But there.

And I am afraid that one day I will lose this feeling and I will not come running back to you when you call me.

And I am afraid now that this letter is over that the moment I was running to and that you were running from has passed.

Because now

I can't do it anymore.



And then she wrote me another one telling me off like no woman has ever told me off before - it was absolute gold... and on that note...

he found a girl and they danced out of sight...

the madness and the memories

How disappointed would you be to find out that the world you think is real is nothing more than the twilight left behind from a magical experiment gone wrong... and you are, for the time being, trapped in the limbo between the dream and the consciousness of a sometimes lonely poet... who only wanted to slip back in time for a moment... and just a moment... a long time ago... to say the words that should have been said... to  look into her eyes for just a little bit longer... to find a glow of eternity and to find the truth of love in that last kiss... that ended too soon...

I am sorry for the inconvenience the hunger of my soul may be putting you through - but in my defense, I am no master wizard... nor where the men that  thought could help me find my way back to that girl... that left me when I was just beginning to come to life... and those wayward spirits... they play with ones emotions when it comes to negotiating their bargains... for they too wish to slip into the physical realm for reasons only they would understand... a bunch of jokers they are and really worthless in the affairs of love... if it is love that I was trying to go back and find... maybe not... she did not love me... but there were moments - in between the madness and the cries... when the city darkened and the voices out side the window faded away to where ever the whispered lies of unfaithful lovers disappear to... there were those moments when she was in my arms and I sang her songs I wrote for another woman... and the light came in through the cracks in the window that cast shadows on the walls and floor like light reflecting from a lake in the night... and she would let out her lazy moan and needed me to carry her to bed... and lay her down like a child... that moment... when I thought she would drift off to sleep... and I would try to rise from the bed with out disturbing her... when she would grab my arm and open her eyes and ask me if I loved her... and I would - with out hesitation lean in closer to her and say - "who else would you imagine that I could love..."

and her lip would curl just a bit in the corners and her whisper would tremble in a subtle way  - the way some notes sound out of place in your favorite song - but only you can notice it and can actually appreciate the awkward subtleties of a masterpiece... that my friends... and passersby... was the moment I was trying to get back to... when the hopes and dreams of other wandering fools clashed with mine and we ended up drifting in this chaos... chasing after the loves we lost and the moments that slipped away - that had they played out differently... my friends... you would have never come to know this wandering fool of a man and his ramblings...

When I tell the story of the one that got away - it is not you... nor are you the one for whom I spilled my blood for on the alter of Qamal... for one more moment in time with the one that slipped away to some other dream realm with what was left of my heart... and the scribbles I call poetry that suffocated my soul... and the words of the man I wanted to be for you...

Saturday, September 2, 2017

lost poet wandering

I do, very often, lose myself in my dreams... in the middle of a conversation or a prayer or in the madness of my love making... I will drift off into another world – which I sometimes confuse for reality – as that other world is so much better than this chaos I have been thrown into... but... said the master... in a dream or a letter or channeled through the ether... “the dream is the reality...”

I have spent the majority of my life chasing after magic – in poetry and art, in books and structures and kisses... in hidden places and the passing glances of beautiful strangers... magic is what my soul yearns for – the mystical, the mysterious... the mythical... the illusive and the spiritual.

There is an empty space inside of me – that part of you that is the bridge between your heart and your soul... the passageway between the ego and the mind... for me there is emptiness and I have wandered around the world and floated through the astral realms and even cloaked myself in the shadows of the occult and let myself linger, perhaps longer than I should have, in the libraries of madmen in search of meaning and reason and some simple philosophy that could ease the anger and hatred I have carried with me and carry still... a spell or a curse to pull the whispers of my creator out of the smoke and the fire... something to reassure me that I will not go out of the world the way I came into it... but... perhaps that is the best of all possible ways to go out... covered in blood... screaming and cursing the God that gives... and takes it all away...

I have gone down paths, in search of the eternal fires and forbidden waters, that angels did tell me “we will not go after you if you cannot find your way back from that temple in the dark”.

I never abandoned my God... though I feel many times... my God may have abandoned me... and I wonder now, as an older man (but not much wiser), was he watching me through his spyglass all along as I stumbled and crawled and bartered my way back home from those places I knew I never should have gone looking for to begin with... the strange thing of it all, is that the magic was there waiting for me to stumble upon when I returned from the abyss of my heart and the maddening stillness of my mind.

I wake from the dream – or fall into it – at destinies will. I come out of the cloud and find myself in a book dealers holding some delicate grimoire in my hands or I'll materialize in a crowded corner of an antique shop caressing a pocket watch or some old mans spectacles searching the details for a trace of it in my memories... I whisper words to trinkets in hopes they may remember me and call out to me by name and reveal to me those secrets I left behind in a far away place when we wandered the world together in search of the same magic... I still have boxes filled with all those trinkets – pins and watches and tools... old picture frames and cigarette cases... stamps and postcards and strangers journals... on shelves in a closet in a place the world will ignore as it rushes toward the apocalypse...

I had to stop and think of the restless dreams and hopes of old cowboys... do they get carried off in the dust and come to rest on the wings of butterflies... only to be shaken loose as they fly into a storm. What of the sad stories and lies of solitary sailors that no-one will ever hear... is there an angel in the waters swimming after those echos - stuffing them into a bottle and flying them away to a mountain where they come out of the glass as sighs disguised as clouds erupting into rain... will I too just be forgotten... will anyone collect the dreams I leave behind... will there be any proof for the world of the love I made and the tears I cried... and the desires of my soul... when the fires have stopped burning on the sun...

Will she ever know... for me... it was real.