The rain is pouring down from the clouds into the valley below us, taking away the entire town with an opaque mist. Lit candles fill every corner of the room with eternal flames. You and I are refugees left on the couch to piece together the wreckage that the ocean left us with. A bottle of french wine sits next to the King's crown in such a way as though to give an offering of thanks. A final gift for its service of riding around on the head of such a great Man. Because yes, it was good to be his hat. Red and pink roses sit on the corner, pointing down, and expressing that they too know...that their smell was once sweeter.
Just outside the room sits a podium with nuts and seeds our Master left for the birds who moved in to enjoy. Below the podium, there is a trail of fruit seeds that in turn the birds brought back in order to honor their Master. As the sun slowly sets a familiar owl is somewhere preparing a requiem for his favorite audience member. You're curled in blanket next to me and I feel the cold coming down from the clouds swirling beneath our feet. My hand is insufficient for the task of writing the story that I need to tell and yet it moves up and down the blanket trying to comfort you. We both know that the cold has crept in and I can't get it out. I want to protect you the way he did, for we loved loving you together. No amount of barricading the doors, moving things, or shrinking our bodies will now get rid of the cold that came in uninvited and unnoticed.
---
On one of our first of many walks in Costa Rica he took me to a cafe and looked me in the eye, telling me "Welcome to the other side where we do things because we want to and not because we have to. "
For so many years I was afraid he'd send me back but he never did. I didn't know it at the time but the only comfort I needed was him. And it was his to deny or allow. Master brought me into his home, thereby plucking me from the plains of the Midwest and aging my body like the finest of wine. I came to him a girl who was filled with insecurities and desperate for his hand. My Master. I saw my own body as a shameful mistake and his response was to make me dance naked in a waterfall in the middle of the jungle. To tear down my lack of language and build it back up by teaching me the real meanings of each word. To put tools in my hand and break my fingers until I knew how to use them. To make me learn the lessons of the world by going to the oldest parts of it. Each time I tried to run and hide inside myself he humiliated me into the present. He taught me how to make love with a God. If I tried to lie about who I was, he caught me and cut the person from me until I learned to tell the truth. In his hand every bite of food became a taste of history. He hammered me down until I was a piece that he too loved. I lived so many years in my time as his slave. My Master who will never be stuck in just one moment of time and no amount of time will be enough to learn from the man who is always here.
The truth is that what I write will never be enough either.
So, Master thank you for leaving behind so much of everything. I'll forever resent the ocean for giving me the best moments in life with you and then taking them away so fast. Please save a spot for me on your farm. I'll bring goosey boy, the frog, and the Diplomatico. And until then we'll talk here and through my movements. For you blessed me as your bimbo, forever cementing me happily on my knees.
Sweetest dreams, my handsome Master.
The man is still my hero. It probably doesn't matter that he's my hero, especially not to him.
Fuck the ocean. I'll be headed out to the east coast of here in July to try to take some treasures from The Atlantic.
Nothing will be enough. Fuck the ocean! Mircea leaves an unfillable hole in the world.
Indeed. The world was too small for him anyways.
I'm very saddened to read of his passing, my condolences to you.
Thank you.
I call bullshit on this.
no one cares about your posturing
I went to the 9/11 memorial Sunday, a friend/client is working on a project focused on it. The part that struck me deepest and brought Mr. Popescu to mind was a Virgil quote, in the original,
nulla dies umquam memori vos eximet aevo.
and in the vulgar,
no day shall erase you from the memory of time.
Thank you, Dorion.
Indeed. As he says:
Dear Nicole
Sincerest condolences for your loss. I've been asked to write a profile about your Master and his incredible life and achievements and was wondering if I could speak to you in private?
You're inadequate to the task of reporting on Mircea Popescu. Anything you could possibly be curious about is on Trilema. We ask that you please respect His harem's privacy, thank you.
crazy Transylvania shit