flags

o M.,

this, the worst time of day. not night not morning. but 5 p.m. the shoulder time when light is soft. the perfect angle. and I would give anything.

to see you walk in. (to my office - the torn couch @ Café Fantastico!)

I don’t look at the pix you sent. much. you on parade. Sweden? Bosnia? Golan Heights? the flags. the march. your eyes straight. I’ve put them in the back of my moleskine notebook. safe.

work goes. dance, okay. rehearsal in ½ hr. my tangos will do but my bulerias is half-way. across the Atlantic. hope it gets here before I go on stage. it seems I dance with only half my body these days.

listen, this afternoon. I walked into a little shop. west coast hippy. incense, clothes with tiny mirrors. you know the kind. (or maybe you don’t). I bought you a string of Tibetan prayer flags. I’m sending it with the next roto. (with your beef jerky don’t worry).

I bought a string for me too. wrote your initials on them. indelible ink. hung them high above my roof.

promise me. M. promise me. when you get them. with your twizzlers and your Sweet Orient (my treat) you’ll unroll them.  slowly. hold them between your fingers. hold them to your face. smell them. keep them somewhere. 

safe.

 

S