I sent this note wrapped in bacon- someone told me everything is better wrapped in bacon :

I left Barcelona early enough to see the sun shine over Paris today

I am leaving tomorrow to spend some days in Italy, The Hague, and Long Island

see some friends, maybe you'll turn up there and I can make a film where you don't run away again? I always think that I will meet you soon, in the meantime I tell you that I miss you so my dear. Because I should, because I do, because we should always say it before it becomes a last or lost edition of a story



and then

this morning while looking for scorpions under stones I found this letter:



'Did I ever tell you that, other than a poet, a writer, a painter, a thinker, a runner, a late night shopper, a bloody undefined this some of that and blah, blah blah in between the chorus chants :

"You are also very very , beautiful, dearest anti Antigone!

You are A seven seas beauty!"

didn't you tell me you wrote love letters once and many? and had no reply-I'd like to see those hand written charms, find myself jealous you spent time with those unsolvable math equations. did we bury this last year heart, did we roast it with some hot pepper paste and finally say thank you and goodbye to the race of men who only deplete, oil slick wasters. yes.

let's start forgetting, let's rewrite your words that had no address in his heart, burn them someplace in Florence, and you may use the dark black remains to draw a new heart up and down all the great cathedral walls -find god outside

not locked twisted inside unanswered prayers

We can write letters in Gaelic-if we both can remember how-you are a lighthouse leading me to Atlantis, we can swim to Greece, where you ought to be singing

black hair under the sun Santorini

morning glory running up hills, after you've lit every candle

to your own icon'

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  interstitial 2

  let me know the universe stroked your mailbox that is all-the universe writes me back, are you in the package? are you in the mail? the answer, if I were, I would be open for you

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  he says whatever is out side is better as he cuts places in me so that waterlilies may float like lights on holy water, he pushes civilisations and empires out of me that last

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  returned gift 2

  returned gifts, TIME TO RUN The life of memory and a letter she wrote stating that quoting Kierkegaard giving all to love was not the same as giving all to love- then coming home from listening to Brazilian Forro girl...

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  infinity works

  The green grass of Tullamore, and the desert. We may seem to be made of these two images. Yes, the desert. I travelled the Wadi Rum up to the end of the peninsula shared between four nations. But haven't been to the Sahara yet -even if I was born the...