The study room is a collage. New interpretations of metaphors, expect no allegory, there is no end and moral..women from time they roam about freely in my study. A few scattered papers on my table, the jotted poems smile back at me. It was Sylvia and her poems. I pick them up and stack them in the shelf..or in self…..Walls are glimmering with paint stains, who was that Alice, or Frida? When will they teach me to paint, to draw…..to capture my pain on a canvas with colours…I am not wiping it off…..cleanliness was never our trait…..
we meet we chat we hold conversations, the most intelligent of us all, Simone, she can never go quiet..Sometimes she amuses us with the love letters men wrote to her…She celebrates Sartre as a prized possession, and Frida mourns Diego…none of her paintings are as beautiful as what her tears have drawn on her pink cheeks…Tina flaunts Neruda’s poem and we all laugh. We snack on philosophy, we munch politics, we drink to our own proposed solutions..No one to stop us..
My ashtray is full, I am tired of rolling cigarettes for them, Marjane hasn’t mastered the art of rolling and so hasn’t many others..”A few more and then shove up the tobacco in your asses yourself” I shouted…A bubble of laughter broke, the waves hit the window so hard, the olive tree outside my window gave a shrug.. women! it exclaimed..
You know who threw a rotten egg at my window? It was Ayn, and we cheered at her, we howled and raised our wine glasses for her health…the men, they knocked, we giggled and shouted in harmony; go away.
Our laughter has a rhythm, the rhythm of clicking..of metals of guns. Tamara teaches us how to use them. She leaves her weapons in my study. She promised I will have good use of them. I will slay the foe, with ideas and with weapons if need be. For I am not afraid to use either of them..
I relive the renaissance, the revolution, the resistances…I pick up the left over ideas, philosophies, art, music, courage, bravery, intelligence, persistence…above all I pick up the zest for life after them..Had they all not suffered? Yet haven’t they all left a mark in history? There are shadows, of that Italian painter, of the Bolsheviks..A quick visit from a number of others, Mead? Reed? We are from all colours..Like a Spectrum of womanhood..Nothing stops our laughter..
Sitting on my bean bag someone is playing an old Victor Jara piece..some of us dance in pairs, in each other’s arms..Resting my head on the shoulder, a slow waltz. Being embraced by Virginia, being comforted by Susan..they hold the world of love..The feeling of belonging..they kiss away my fears, they caress away my pain..they embalm me with a thirst, for life for success for independence…
In the morning my study is foggy with smoke, the guitar lay on the floor, the guns stood leaning on the wall, papers scattered, paint drops..pens pencils a rusted camera.. the upbeats have slowly calmed down..When did we all depart, when did we go to sleep..When did silence engulf us..
Hair strands on my floor, strands of long hair..golden, brown, black, white….