On Saturday I met you and on Sunday I met you. Both of you are septuagenarians. One of you is a man, the other, a woman. I am related to both of you one way or another. To you by blood, and to you through cinema. There are more justifiable links, between both of you, between myself and both of you, and between my writing and both of you. I am going to find the latter link hopefully in a few more lines.
On Saturday we opened the conversation by briefly speaking of loathsome creatures. You told me that we just cannot help having xitel (weeds) growing out of us, and that it is up to us to decide whether to cultivate good weeds or bad weeds. Your little analogy floored me. Your ecclesiastical career made me expect a more textual response, rather than such a visual one reminiscent of those that dwell in the de Sagazan garden. I left your house with Baudelaire's title "Les Fleurs du Mal" reverberating in my head, and a hope that the kind of weeds I grow benefit bees.
Yes, I can sense that link approaching now. Because on Sunday, after our walk by the flooded bank was cut short by a freak storm (I'm sure I have a couple more past entries which deal with me getting drenched by freak storms), after you waited for us under a tree as we ran and laughed with our soaked scalps to retrieve my car, and right before I dropped you off, you told me of a lover you had in the 90s whose €250,000 ring came into your life on a sink by the soap in a hostel you were staying at, who struck up a conversation soon after, perhaps out of gratitude.
"How are you?" she had asked you.
To which you had replied, "Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux; riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant tres vieux" which may sound a little too embellished for some but knowing you, no one else is more capable of making those two verses theirs. You were generous to me with your storytelling, as you fed me with details of how you lived your relationship, including the dramatic ending one morning when a dagger flew and landed millimetres away from you and stabbed the wooden table on which you were reading a comic book.
"It is over," she replied without ever having given you time to ask why. You asked that after, to which she had told you that she really does not like comic books.
As you explained to me this attack of which its cold, violent absurdity did not leave any room for chagrin, you made a motion with your right index finger in front of your face, imitating the rapid movement the other end of the dagger did once it struck the wood.
With this link, with these images, I seal them both like a spell.
The excitement never ceases.