#about...

I have so much to say to you, so much to tell you, so much I want to speak with you about. You’ve inspired me so much, there’s so much I want to ask you, question you about, hear your opinion on and stories and such. I could go on. But we’re not in touch. You told me you would, you promised in fact, alas… I’ve barely heard a word. Another man struck with stress, is all I know. Why does that happen to the men I engage with? Is that my effect on them? Sure not? I have barely… made any moves this time, I even set restrictions – were they to my own, or our, detriment?

I’ll never know until you speak to me, that thing is sure. Oh well, for now, there’s only me and my cup of coffee. And chocolates that the cute boss at work threw to me, saying, “Merry Christmas!” with a cheer. I swooned. And then I may have thought of you, because that’s what seems to happen when any guy passes my mind; I’m instantly reminded – Oh! There’s also… That guy, you know? The only guy that I’m actually interested in, the one I actually want to be mine, you know? You. That’s the one.

Ah. I’ve been forbidden, first and foremost by myself (which is a lie, firstly it was my dearest friends who advised me –to say it lightly– to –frankly– keep the hell away from you while you figure your shit out and man yourself together (exactly like that, yeah) and learn how to treat me right. I’m glad we got that out of the way) to contact you. Any further, at least. Which makes perfect sense, because in theory and essence I’m a needy little bitch and brat and if I don’t get what I’m craving when I ask for it, I… I can’t seem to stop and end up swallowing myself whole?

As you know, I have a sweet tooth and thought you to be quite the sweetheart, but alas, in times of need, when need be, I myself, will have to be enough. Cute and sweet as I, myself, am, isn’t that right?

Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t even. Can I? What am I trying to say? To the point, Mia.

Right.

We talked about playing music, particularly playing guitar. I was struck by how your parents didn’t want this for you, not before at least you started at boarding school. I feel sorry for you, although it’s been 15+ odd years since then, and I imagine you’ve kept it up somewhat and still play and I imagine you’re quite good at it and I know you’re a singer too. I must admit, I’m intrigued and in awe and I want to hear more, literally, I want to listen to you play and sing, and not just on the recordings which make me cringe a little bit but also makes my heart flutter, you know? It’s the oddest sensation. And then when you sent me a particular song of yours and before that you told me that a piece of my writing inspired you, that you wanted to write music for it, something along the lines –or notes or rhythm– of that particular song, well, it was new to me, it wasn’t what I had envisioned, not that I had envisioned anything at all for that particular work I’ve done, but for my other “scriptures”, if you will, I imagined something a bit more… classical or folky? Like Agnes Obel or Anna von Hauswolff, at least, that’s what I aspire to… but again, the track you sent me, when I heard it and you described how you’d change it and briefly described what you’d do differently, well, I felt it. I could hear it, and I want it. I want it so badly. It would be a dream come true, but I told you this, didn’t I? That it was –and still is– a dream of mine to have music written to my words, either inspired by or just that, written to my words with them in mind and accompanied by… a musician's tunes.

Back to the notion that your parents didn’t really want you to play music, or at least weren’t keen on it, but rather had you learn dancing for whatever reason. But also the notion that they didn’t enjoy listening to your noisy attempts and playing because, well, it surely didn’t sound particularly good right at the beginning. Well. Both of those things, or all three or however many little bits there are to pick, all of the above remind me of my own father’s childhood. He basically had to sit in a cupboard to practice playing the clarinet, because otherwise his father would scold or tease him for how awful it sounded. Like someone pulling the tail of a cat, he said. I feel so sorry for that. Both for the hypothetical cat, but also for my father, and you, for those miserable practice moments. That’s not what anyone needs. But also, my father went to dancing lessons too as a child, and I have to say that it’s quite… peculiar. Quite an interesting set of… occurrences that correlate between you and my dad.

Did I tell you about my great aunt? I forget her name, but she was a violinist. I’m… sure she was quite good, I believe for a period of time she played with an assembly of musicians, if I didn’t misunderstand the story. Apparently, in regard to appearance, I take after her. Something about my eyes and smile, my more closely related aunt said, well, told me when she was looking at a picture of her. She showed me the picture too. This woman in her black robes and hair tied in a bun, again I apologize if I remember wrongly, but I must admit, the resemblance was uncanny. It was obvious that it wasn’t me, but it was also fairly obvious that we were, or surely are, related. How funny is that? And there aren’t any other musical people in my lineage or ancestry or however you say.

This story of her, and story of yours, and the conversation we had, well, it prompted me to pick up my guitar again and start playing. That was another thing I wanted to tell you. While you were away on your trip, hunting deer and wild boar, well, I picked up and started plucking at my guitar. The first day was rubbish and I didn’t really enjoy it much, but the day after I tried again, and it was as if everything came to me, bit by bit. It was as if, what my fingers had learned all those many years ago, 10+ to tell you the truth, well, they picked it up again, as if remembered. As if they were suddenly lost in thought, lost in a not particularly recent, but rather a distant time, where worries and obligations were fewer and farther between, only school assignments and boys and oh who am I fooling it hasn’t really changed a bit… but my point is, time has undoubtedly passed, I can’t wear the same clothes I wore then, I have new relationships and my hair is no longer blond but red… but my fingers seem to be the same, and the memories in them when they strike the strings of my guitar. I quickly clipped my nails, this had to be done, and then… and then, song after song, as if beckoning the tunes and melodies forth, they all came along as if it were only yesterday that I had played them last.