Carmen's Interlocutor, my drawer

Carmen Martín Gaite said that her need for writing came from her constant and failed search for the perfect interlocutor and insisted upon the fact that people wouldn't need to write if they had someone who would listen. She was so obsessed about this some critics considered her work mono-thematic, saying that frustrated search was the one and only topic of her novels. I won't go as far as calling this lady "obsessive" but she did write a book called The Perfect Interlocutor.

In my case, the search is a little more modest. Around 1994 I started writing a diary. I can't really recall the exact date as all my memories of primary school are just that, primary school, and I seem to have stored all memories from 1988 (when I believe it's my first memory) to 1997 in the same box. Nearly ten years of infant life tangled in the same drawer, all mixed up with socks and knickers. (That it's clearly an exaggeration for I would never dare to mix socks and knickers, that'll be simply too chaotic).

The fact is, I seem to be writing increasingly less. Funny that, increasingly (like those red lines in graphs) less (like skimmed yogurts). I am one of those people that would expose themselves to the slightest sympathetic smile and will dump all their mental dribble there and then. Should I be quieter and write it all instead? I do need to improve my writing skills.

a.

The Sugary Turmoil of a Rugger Bugger (pink icing version)

Icing decorations:

Tulle tutu.
She spins and spins like sugar.
Tutu tulle.
Confectionery light pink frugal
Sugar for baking,
For dancing,
For spinning around her.
Like the sprocket wheel of
A desperate housewife in a condo gym.
Bugger.

Rugger. Ruggering balls, kicked around her,
Buffeting her like a prawn in a 10 dollar buffet.
Macho men eating nachos, cheesing off, edible fair.
For baking,
For fasting,
For fluttering around her.
Like the dustless wing of
A desperate moth under children power.
Buffalo wings.

Under the icing decorations:

What are little girls made of?
"Sugar and spice, and all that's nice;
That's what little girls are made of."

What are little boys made of?
"Snaps and snails, and puppy-dog's tails;
That's what little boys are made of."

A.

"¿Conoces al boticario del pueblo al lado de Candelario?
En vez de cabeza,
Tiene una cereza.
No ve ni torta, claro."

(Do you know the apothecary
from that village next to Candelario?
Instead of a head,
He's got a cherry.
He's as blind as a bat, of course)

Laurence Saum wrote something like this years and years ago and for some strange reason his daughter remembered it today.

Bleak Rabbits

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
He always left them behind,
Every morning I would find
One of them.
Heydays, even two.

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
He would ogle down to them
With tender resolution,
A pamper touch,
A cushioning nest,
They deserved a good
Long day rest. In
His denim left pocket.

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
I would get dressed
And perfumed in ink scent, I
Would give a cursory look
On the skew, a
Scanty glimpse
Of his stationary jewelry.
Color scrutiny,
Bleak black or dark blue.

Why would he left them behind?
Didn't he care for them?
He was devoted to their shape,
Color and baneful intentions.
I had seen it happen,
Seen them laying abandoned,
On my murky desk,
Waiting for the grasp
Of his right brown hand,
A lift, an elevation,
A jean, a tight warren,
For pens, for they are not rabbits,
Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.

A.

Peasant Patch

"Fold your hands,
Child,
You walk like a peasant"

Going to the vegetable
Patch,
Choosing the right peas to
Carry in your apron pocket.


Pocketing little round
Worlds full of little round
Eyelashes wishes.
Green worlds born
Through your beetle eyes.


Choosing the shiniest
Cockroaches, the biggest
Sluggish slugs,
Sticky and with their tinny
Hearts ticking
Under their tender gluey skin.

So easy to squeeze.
He always cherished
His bugs.


The biggest bugger bug of all,
A king's fruity heart.

He took me to his vegetable patch,
He chose the roundest peas, and
His favorite slugs and marble beans.
A bugger world just for me.
I smiled and put it in my apron pocket.

A.

Sappy. Soap. Soup.

Sappy.
Soap.
Soup.

Sappy, soapy soup.
Tomato soup
In a bread bowl.
In my T-shirt,
Running down my arm pit.

Pita bread,
Playing Ping-Pong
In bed.
A shower pond.

The soapy soup
Of our first shower,
Hot soup
And a spoon of glower.

Running drops,
Soapy soup,
Creamy me,
Sappy you.
The shiny smile,
Of curtailing steam.

A.

In a manner of speaking
I was told
I loved your silence
Beyond words

A