Tea with Leucosia
Speaking of nothing, I think they think I cannot hear what they are saying outside my door. ‘My name is Leucosia’, I hear her say. Well, you are quite loud dear Leucosia. People are trying to sleep. People are trying to rest and you won’t shut up. It sounds like you have a guest Leucosia. Keep it down will you. I can’t hear myself think.
‘The ceiling- it is covered. We have tried to paint over it many times but the artist won’t allow any intrusion. They are grotesque. These lions, some have there heads cut off and snakes pour out of their stomachs. There are Medusas and there is great pain in those images. He screams at them. But he won’t let us paint over them. And there is one more. We have never seen it but know it is there. It is on the other side of his door. We watch him through its window but the room appears empty. You can just make out his back hunched below you though. He is active. I’m sure of it. But every time we enter there is nothing on the door but white paint. It is fresh though.’ Shut up Leucosia. You are like a thorn in my brain I can’t pick out. Shut up Leucosia.
I mustn’t get distracted, even though Leucosia has that effect on me. My name is not Guerrero. Guerrero is the name I have most enjoyed. I am fortunate enough to have olive skin and the deep set eyes that once belonged to my grandfather- although one might be more obliged to blame a lack of sleep. Personally, I blame the Earl Grey, but then I’m also a paranoid prankster when I’m alone. I have to be though. I have had surgery on my nose and have grey hair. The surgery won’t allow a stereotype to be fitted to my character. The dyed hair suggests I am older than I am. People, you’ll find, barely give an old man a second glance in the street. Ok, so I am lying. I just like the idea that you can change who you are through that kind of surgery.
I mean it’s pretty fucked up when you think about it but all the same it’s pretty interesting. So I guess I exacerbate the truth a little. Truth and untruths only matter when you are dealing with people. I have just myself so perhaps you will forgive the untruths. It’s like a fun game I play with my brain. You see if I lie, nothing can be fine. If I lie, there must be a feeling attached to the gross mistruth. I, of course, am wrong. I still feel nothing when I lie so I might as well just tell the truth. The real truth is that there is no sex - only a garden full of flowers that grow and don’t grow. They are my fantastical company and they tell stories grown from ugliness. Some are blue, some pink, and orange, even purple. It is rare to find a purple flower. I mean real purple. Their colours aren’t as bright as I’d like. I have gotten used to my garden not growing the way I want it too though.
Things have been extremely difficult the last few days. It is the nature of the time. My home is not safe any more. It doesn’t help that my last letter was blank. I can’t help but read into it. You see, people don’t know where I am except for perhaps one. That one named me Guerrero and then abandoned me. I have found abandonment to be the ugly sister of absence. Absence will make the heart grow fonder, but abandonment makes it grow dark and cold. Abandonment provides no family or love. It removes the security of home and the warmth of a loved ones arms. Absence provides the hope that one day that love may return. I find the letter confusing. I now believe she is trying to reach me. She is coming home to where we met, I know it. This beautiful place, this town of flowers, has been empty without you. So come back to me. That’s all I’m saying really. That’s all I have wanted.
I hear a voice often but it is not the one I long for. I believe my true love’s voice waits. Today, like most days, however, it is that belonging to Leucosia. ‘I often go and urge him to paint. I want to see this painting below the door. Some of the other nurses believe it his image of our Lord, but I don’t. In the artist there is great love. You can see it in his work. You can see it in his eyes. There is great love there. This love is for a girl. I question and question. He is, how you say, a perfectionist. Truthfully, I think he can’t paint her. I think that is why he is here. I think that is why he stares so. He is lost in time, and he is lost in a difficult love. He was famous you know.’
I don’t know how you’re finding me. It’s not the tea; it’s my process of thought. Goodness though, it could be the tea. Addiction is what it is. I love it so much I can’t get enough. You’ll find I have quite an addictive personality. I think that that is what makes a few meek pains hard to live down. I want to move on though; I mean, don’t all of us? The tea though; they give it to me here like its medicine. I find myself not even trusting my favourite smoky Grey. It’s not that I don’t trust the Earl! But he makes me want to talk more than any alcoholic beverage. Honestly. It wouldn’t surprise me if they put something in the tea to help me talk. Of course, I don’t. At least, I don’t think I have spoken of late. I haven’t anything to say really.
I want to tell you about so many things really. I have this urge to speak. I want to tell you all about the significance of these flowers right now and be done with it all. I want to sleep because I am tired, but sleeping has become a persistent nightmare. There a nightmares of loneliness and more loneliness stems from those nightmares. There are dark filled shadows fighting on these walls, looking down upon the shape on what was once our bed. I tell myself that if I sleep I will sweat her out. If I sweat her out then I will know that this is not a love story. This most definitely is not a love story. It is simply a beautiful setting; an Italian acre filled with thyme, sunflowers and a body finally resting.
