Cesious, You

We were meant to meet each other by the seaside, but we found the wrong place and came to the swimming pool.

There were four chairs neatly sat next to each other, opposite to an old shower, an opened door led to a derelict swimming pool where the lovers X and A finally found/lost/reunited with each other last year at Marienbad. We might have met, and might have not — A disused sanctum forgotten, where the virgins sacrificed their lives to the drown god.

I walk on, once again, down these corridors, through these halls, these galleries, in this structure of another century, this enormous, luxurious, baroque, lugubrious hotel where corridors succeed endless corridors silent deserted corridors overloaded with a dim, cold ornamentation of woodwork, stucco, moldings, marble, black mirrors, dark paintings, columns, heavy hangings, sculptured doorframes, series of doorways, galleries, transverse corridors that open in turn on empty salons, rooms overloaded with an ornamentation from another century, silent halls where the sound of advancing footsteps is absorbed by carpets so thick and heavy that nothing can be heard, as if the ear of the man walking on once again, down these corridors, through these halls, these galleries, in this structure of another century, this enormous, luxurious, baroque, lugubrious hotel where corridors succeed endless corridors silent deserted corridors overloaded with a dim, cold ornamentation of woodwork, stucco, moldings, marble, black mirrors, dark paintings, columns, heavy hangings, sculptured doorframes, series of doorways, galleries, transverse corridors that open in turn on empty salons, rooms overloaded with an ornamentation from another century, silent halls where the sound of advancing footsteps is absorbed by carpets so thick and heavy that nothing can be heard - always WALLS, always corridors, always doors and on the other side, still more WALLS.

— Alain Robbe-Grillet, Last Year at Marienbad (1961)

These whisperings worst than silence that you've imprisoning me in these days. (Oui, Alain, Alain.)

Under the moonlight, the surface of the water lifted a diaphanous film of the steam, humidity with faint chlorine, slime on the soft skin. Everywhere was covered by opaque, and you look down, there were waves under the sea blue cover, dark blue sometimes, shaking, like gelatin. Through the other side of the opaline looking glass - it could be anything between the endless dreams and hallucinations.

Gold foil reflected from your eyes of cesious blue, is it a type of Irish blue? Perhaps they existed to remind me so many things you wanted to tell me, but it was unnecessary. Calm and Tacit: ‘Nothing to be afraid of. With ease, and you, be(d)side.’

So there we were, by the pool sitting opposite each other, me and him, between a painted red line. The window to the outside world was in a blur, steamed up with condensation, away with the clouds.

'I like looking at you doing that.' I said.

He gazed upon me.

'I know.' He continued. 'I love you, so much.'

We looked at each other, gently closed our eyes, and opened. Eyelashes like little butterflies kissing. I cried, because I was simply happy.

Beautifully flawed, fragmented pieces like the heavy bass blasted fluorescent light fallen from the ceiling of the barn. Scattered.

I don’t need Frank O’Hara’s prose to tell you how much I adore you.
Warren Ellis' violin bow pulled away many lonely hearts, that was how I would like to remember you.

Are you coming?