HALFWAY BRIDGE

The worst and best for any of us are the moments of utter surrealism. For me those are the ones that detach me from the earth beneath my feet. This is when I learn to fly, each time a little more. Until one day I’ll sail off the cliff and glide away. But before I’ll be rescued over and over again by the kind souls floating by - the ones I have known for years and the ones I have only just met. Some of them are men these days, some of them are women. They stand next to me and look up into the sky to ascertain which way the wind blows. And then they take my hand and leap. And more often than not I will be rescued by myself.

 

As a writer I have a natural affinity to surrealistic friends. I call them that, but to be honest, they are simply not real. They are not there. I create them in my head. And in my heart. And then I spend so much time with them that I forget what real human contact feels like. I don’t mind mostly. Until someone takes my hand. It brings a smile to my face and I sway to the rhythm that we find together. And sometimes, like right now, I carry that rhythm within me. Music provides easy fixes for me these days. Music acts like a reminder of what that inside rhythm sounds like and so not to loose it, yet, I listen to the same songs over and over again.

 

A beautiful girl with short blonde hair and the wickedest smile. She is so young that instinctively I stretch my face muscles and wonder if I am maybe grimacing now. Well, in any case she walks up to me and inquires what kind of ice cream I am having. I try to explain. Obviously she pretends to be interested. She can’t be, really. But she smiles, then turns, tells me she’ll get the same kind. So I sit there on my bench, flattered and wait for her return. That went so well! Alas she won’t come back this time.

 

The musician who has known me most of my life gave me my first kiss years ago. He used to drive me crazy and now he and I hardly ever talk. We lead lives that won’t allow for us to cross paths but each year around our birthdays we enjoy fun conversations. The kind you have with people you don’t need to explain things to, the kind you have with friends you only just met in the bar yesterday to catch up. The musician still drives me crazy sometimes or at least he would, if we were to meet more often. Also I am proud of him. He wasn’t always a musician.

 

There is a bar shaped like a predator with the most elegant interior and a knowledgable, adorable barkeep. It is indeed the kind of place where you find stories huddled together ready to spill. Now I won’t divulge them to you because those stories have a different destination. And maybe, just maybe, that bar is far too tacky to be tasteful. But still it makes us feel good about ourselves. It may be where we celebrate life lest we forget. We quench carnal desires and we just do what we like. And no, it is not a sex club, although there is a second floor I don’t know much about -

 

A little over half a year ago a fellow filmmaker and I made a pact. I know, it is not exactly six months so the German police of precision would not allow for me to bring this up here. But really I couldn’t care less. Also he and I share near-same birthdays so -

 

Our pact is based on the fact that initially we did not particularly like each other. And that night in another bar in another part of the galaxy we tried to approach each other’s bizarreness and face the differences. We were aliens and we put one foot in front of the other. I could see his approach - figuratively - from the other end of the bar. He was sweet. There was a thought of kindness he had been holding on to since the last time we had met and before he even said hello it poured out of him. I am not going to tell you what it was he said, it hit me deep and put a smile on my face. Kind soul that he was, but I am digressing. We figured that for diverse reasons we likely run the risk of not making it to an old age. Now, saying this out loud, I believe, to the right person is not ''painting the devil on the wall'' as a German saying goes, it merely confirms the occasional hunch one carries within. So my fellow filmmaker and I made a pact: Let us not die before we have done the work. I intent to always honour this pact. I love it. It is a good pact.

 

Sometimes I forget what I feel like when I am close to my own skin. When I am not trying to break out of it over and over again. I haven’t tried to break out for a long time. The past six months have been good to me. However much paved with lemons they were. I find myself surrounded by the most inspiring and gentlest souls. I find love and I am happy to say that most of it is within. And that I can give it to who I want. Awesome! The boy that cut ''I love you'' in the lawn outside Reykjavik’s hospital to impress the nurse is doing just fine. Our skins are not made for eternity and one day we will leave them. This is a bizarre kind of existence, come to think of it. And not everyone appreciates the durability of skin all the time. Sometimes I don’t. I hope to be better. I pick up the pen and paper in moments of sadness and utmost happiness to remind myself and others that we are beautiful, strange creatures.

 

I don’t know what this is. This blog, or whatever. I have not contributed to it in a while and - as usual these lines sway in and out of reality. But reality on its own does not hold up to my expectations. And these days my expectations are being met.