A Conversation at Covent Garden

It is night. A lonely road. Father is driving the car, his five children are sleeping. I am not sure I was awake. Not sure why I know. Things like that happen to me from time to time. Not sure I was there, but with a smile on my face and sure like hell; I felt safe.



The Sketchbook of Mr. Franky J. Jones.



A Conversation in the Rain at Covent Garden.

                                                            By Sis.



I.



Maybe had dining together and civilized conversations

not become nothing more then a formality;

if we did not just want to eat when we were hungry

for these days we only said what we had to – no illusions.

And yet, no-one wants to be the fifth wheel on the wagon,

but Prince Charming came and she felt like Cinderella again -

and we knew just by the sight we had lost her – she was taken

despite she had once been our own little red riding hood.

But still, she needed our approval – our loyalty.

The way she hang on to our invitations seemed sweet,

but served like a warning bell – as if she was in danger.

The atmosphere was tight – not that we had known otherwise.



Fearing our own happiness used to be the way,

deny our true selves - what we really wanted

Chandeliers, roses hers and bottles wine

my little girl - what is right, what was wrong?

Sorrow without tears and a smile with no joy -

oh, we saw the insanity rise inside our child.

Little red riding hood - looking down on madness.

We wondered where we had been when she was lured.

Because the moment the rain touches my foot,

the pain touches my heart - with guilt and pride -

like a child fighting fears and monsters in the night.

Created situations which should never have been.



But maybe, maybe if the earth had just been warm

and the clouds not so wet that night, maybe then -

when the darkness was falling upon our town

and she and I stepped outside – once again.



Maybe then, she would not have spoken.





“I am frightened tonight. Do not leave me now.

                                                                        Stand still.”

“Do you not see the water in the street. The shadows

                                                            moving in the water.”

“What, what is that?

            Hear that sound. What is that music?”



My head turns blank on the inside the moment she speaks.

Had it been a question? Must I answer...



“Can you not hear it cry.

            That stranger playing the fiddle.”

“Can you not gaze into my eyes -

                                    do you not remember?”

I feel like talking with her is like a game. I am always afraid

afraid to fail in giving the right response during conversations –

afraid that I am going to be the reason the silence falls.



I remember.

I remember the fairytale

                                    I have written for us,

            but I see empty eyes

                        staring from beneath the ground.



Afraid.

I am afraid that she will be quiet. 



“Nothing there is beneath the ground.”



Maybe because the way she makes conversations

reminds me of the card plays with my little girl.



“Where are you looking trough -

                                                what I am saying and my being.”

“Can't you see nothing,

                        no meaning in our life together?”



The things we said to each other during those games

were the only things that did actually matter.

But because of the going game,

did the response always fail - which was like the point

of the words spoken during the heat of card games.



“Be quiet -

            do you not hear the stranger play

can you not listen

                        it is our song at the fiddle.”

“Do you not have a memory

                        of our first dance

            in the ballroom at Somerset House.”

“Are you not alive? Is there nothing in your heart?”

In my heart -

            there is a promise you made me,

though we are only dancing now

                                                in the rain.



Of course, my stories are just stories with a joke, 

but in the depth of my anecdote there is - in a whisper -

always a message. 



“I do not remember,

                        but why,

            why can you not gaze into my eyes.”

“Speak to me in this rain.

                                    Speak – answer me.”



“Why will you not be happy?”



Only if she figures...



“You can dance in the silence,

                                    but not on the magic in my whispers.”



Whisper once more that made promise...

                                    you have forgotten.

“Do you not hear - do you not see?

This madness you spill

                        is nothing worth to me.”

“Nothing.”



I thought that my madness would end all of our plays.

I am shot in the head...by the truth.



What, this madness -

                        that one promise we made for life

            Is it worth nothing to you?



“What can it be worth to me,

                                    nothing there is”

“ Do you not see - do you not hear it cry. This stranger -

            Can you not see my empty eyes?”



I only wonder why she is still with me – now everything else has gone

and I ask myself when will it really be the final game-over?



“You have become a stranger to me.”



II. Thousand of Things.

                    with much gratitude to Bro.



Then why, why do you speak to me,

                                    here in this silence

No –

Why do you share,

                        all thousand of things with me?



All that time she had been there – right in front of me

like roses, dark roses. With thorns and poison…



“Thousand words I could write -

                                    with one gaze into a strangers eyes;

and thousand things I could know -

                        by one word spoken on the street.”

“But only with you,

                        you, my love

            I have the desire to tell when I gaze.”



What good would a gaze yours do,

                                                if you can not see the world I have made for us?

                        Your eyes are way to empty.



“Still, I have heard

                        of wisdom in that world;

and read tales,

            written down by an hand yours.”

“But seen I have not.”



Oh, my love. Do you still give away your roses

Thorns and poison, away. But do you –



“Why will you not take me there with you?”



Why, why can’t you see nothing,

                        no meaning in our life together

Where are you gazing at now -

            what I am saying and my being?



“My eyes have gazed themselves blind

                        on the magic in our existence,”



            “Nothing there is left.”



“Nothing, but the thousand things

                                                we have forgotten.”



Do you still fight this cry – do not. Oh, my love,

My only one. If with thorns, you still love me -



Then speak to me on the street;

                        gaze with your empty eyes.

Open the book which I still have to write -

            because I will fill it.

                                    With this – the thousand things

                                                                        we have forgotten.



“With words in a strange language,

                                    comming from a stranger?”



My head turns blank on the inside the moment she speaks.

Had it been a question? Must I answer...



“But let then the fiddle cry 

one last time –”



And oh, my head – and everything was just spinning.

I thought all of our plays would come to an end today -

I always refused to see irony but saw now its immortality;

my little red riding hood cold and asleep under the covers.

Now fearing our own happiness was never the way,

neither knowing how we have become who we are.

Nor what we really want, but is just wrong to desire - 

for joy and never sorrow can not be until one has died.

But when did some kind of animal make his appearance -

who has dared to keep my little girl chained to a wall.

Why is this charming monster hurting what is mine,

where is he hiding - it has to  be hunted down. 



What I always feared the most was the fear itself,

for fear is more then just an emotion –  like rage;

rage is only of the size as the damage it will cost -

it passes along with time but fear will not, it stays.

To me is fear more alive, alive like an animal.

An animal which can actually sneak up from behind;

it is not to be seen but that just gives him the might

to scare me to death with the element of surprise.

And sometimes when I am so tired and so strained,

then I can see myself -  see myself hugging this animal.

The strongest is he, the most capable of giving protection -

when I want to feel safe and hide where the monsters are.



And I know I have begged her to be quiet for she was scaring me,

but today I have been hiding but I have not feared for myself -

the silence we tried to deny is still warm, as is my little girl.

And my world is still turning - for she makes it spin every day…





For now I know that there will always, 

                                            always be yelling - 

          crying inside my head…