I saw you yesterday evening walking – bored to death – throgh my mind. You stopped at the corner of the loneliest street, stood still for a moment as if thinking of something useful, then looked around for a bench to sit down and cool off. “Hey, don’t!!” you overpass the sign Do Not Sit The Paint Is Wet and there you are sitting, your best time is the smiling to yourself time, your best space is the little dark channel between your sporty brows whenever you frown to yourself thinking to the nightmare of my evergreen traffic lights and at the shocking accidents you’ve seen along my highways. Thank God you’ve been so wise

and didn’t look for Paradise

but for a quite little street instead. I’m sending you a man with balloons and yet another one selling ice-cream and some pretty girls with rosy skirts and long thin legs and let’s be fair: it’s the Sunday of your childhood!! You could be 7 or 13 and if you really want to see some hot stuff I can send you some, and all the balloons would giggle and would ask for booze and cigarettes, here they are, where do I begin, nowhere, you’ve been already started hush-hush, go on, I’m not your mother, not yet. Buy an apple pie

don’t cry

here’s the wind you need to dry up your tears, what a lonely street indeed, just you and no men only ghosts, and it’s hard to tell

the difference between mind and Hell.

Am I going to be alright, yes, you’re alright for now, your sense of ballance is still hidden in my hypothalamic pocket, but look at you, you’re bored or scared, it’s the same thing, “Don’t be scared and don’t go!”, this place is an uncontrollable mess

you confess,

then you stand straight up and start walking with big odd steps, you turn at the corner, look for the main avenue, find the purple 65′s van and take the highway

out of me with three green traces of paint on your interesting butt.

PS: “A Teenager” above. Charcoal and watercolours. And I bow low to Merz’s “Loveheart”.

I need more truth. But God, what shell I do with it?…

PS: The White Album. An album full of inner and outer tensions. Poor “Rocky Raccon”. An annoying Yoko and “Happiness is a warm gun”. A mocking “Glass Onion”. A straight “Why don’t we do it in the road?”. Dear Harrison and “While my guitar gently weeps”. This is archetypal music. And we can definitely talk – in, well, C. G. Jung’s terms at least – about a Beatles complex. Sweet memories, hot memories, interpretations, lines, borrowed gestures, stolen harmonies, innate-like musical reflexes. Indeed, pretty much like, say, a jungian mother complex.
No wonder that people like Son of a Plumber can’t help themselves but writing “complex”-songs like “I have never quite got over the fact that Beatles broke up”. Dear Prudence…