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Array
(
[sid] => 6680
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => Where Eldwulm Left His Papers
[time] => 2002-11-14 17:30:00
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => I remember Eldwulm, remember him
well. He was a soft-spoken man who hailed from the upper states of conscienceness. He'd been to Luxembourg, and he'd seen Madrid. He hadn't a nest to cling to, and he was not the Isle of Wight, and he wasn't Hamburg: he was something else; something apparently nonexistent. Some called Eldwulm a poet, a minstrel, an artist. And his papers! O how his papers could transform any human being into a gawking spectacle squinting in the light of absolute brilliance. You see, Eldwulm refused to call these works his poems or his artwork. You'd always find him refering to them as simply his "papers." He was certainly a traveler. I met him myself in a small coffee shop in Marseille, and if you'd have ever known him, you'd find it strange that he was the one who approached me. We immediately fell for each other as we talked for several hours. Several hours plumped with a manic discourse that has yet to be matched by mortal fiends. When the shop closed we were put out into the cold. I remember it was particularly cold that evening because we'd gone for a lengthy walk to continue our discussion. Though he'd never admit it, I'd always suspect that maybe his main motivation in approaching me was in finding a half-decent lad to live with for a spell or two. Because that's what happened. I invited him to stay with me for as long as he planned on being in town. We quickly became very good friends. We found him a job in some mom and pop diner about five blocks along the way. We were two artists, living up each day for what it was worth, barely getting by with what money we made. Some nights we'd hit the streets with a drum and a mandolin for a little extra cash, usually for coffee and cigarettes. Comfortably we lived this way for a couple of months when Eldwulm finally decided it was time for him to move on. He invited me to come with him. We hastily gathered our things, and from there we moved from town to town, surviving much in the same way we would back in Marseille. Those were the loveliest days; the loveliest times. We met so many great people in the process, hopefully an influence on them all, sharing the happiness, sharing our love. And his papers. I knew that if he wanted to, Eldwulm could've been famous. But he always said he'd never sell himself that way, not even in starvation. Somehow I'd always force the issue, maybe for my own benefit, but I don't know. I just wanted to see him receive that which he deserved. Every day we grew closer and closer as the years past by. But not past like the zombies on the streets. More like that song; that one song that continuously runs its fingers through your hair and into your eye sockets; through your skull and into your sex-ready mind. The day came to move on once again, but this time I couldn't go, because of a girl that I probably didn't love as much as I'd loved Eldwulm. It seemed so normal at the time: to part with my friend as if it were just another end of another long work day; the nonchalant "so long" we'd exchanged; the last embrace and waving "see you soon." Eldwulm would always tell me that I was one of the "worthies." Possibly the only one he'd ever befriended. But this never stung me quite until I happened to discover one of his papers singing in the middle of a fairly prominent literary magazine. This poem, which I had heard so many times from his lips by request, was sitting right there, without his usual presence, staring at me, along with only his name. How hungry had he become? Was this some simple jest, a simple hello to an old friend? It was at this point I realized how much I'd missed him; how much I'd love to share my warmth if even it only meant one more chilled night. I feared that the great spirit withheld in a man we knew as Eldwulm, had found its ceasing of existence. Yes it was the worst. And I was the only bastard on Earth who could fear it. The last time I'd seen Eldwulm was in some mom and pop diner about eighty miles along the way. (A friend and I had stopped there to eat during a trip up north for a small gathering). At least I think it was Eldwulm. He was quite gaunt now, and hardly recognizable. I kept a glance towards the kitchen hoping he'd remember his old friend. "Maybe he'd quit this job and come with us, just like old days!" I continued wishing. But his eyes never grew wide like in the dreams. What was I thinking, "Look at him! He's so beautiful and content!" I knew then that he'd never come with us, so I did not interfere with his glory; I didn't ever want to find out if it was really him there or not; because I knew. I knew that on my part, I'd never be as strong as Eldwulm: strong enough in being able to swallow another goodbye. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 165 [topic] => 44 [informant] => Adam_Gaucher [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Nostalgic )
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