She has read the Tao of the Pooh (Hoffamann's supercute and at time hilarious writing on how blind and miserable we are, whereas all is full of Love and all Good..we just...but lets not go into this now.) she has read the Pooh-Tao and right on pp.11 found a though worty of letting the book fall(as it was, damage not considered nor noticed) feeling a huge urge of getting what? paper. yes. and a pen. and lets jot it down...
not where to put? where???? door. re-reading is cool.
no. door is not good. pic. on the wall, exchanged for note? no. not good.
(simple. that's her 'love corner' nicely decorated out of her fatalist belief that as long as that corner is harmonic, alive, green, warm, paired up, and heartshaped...but lets not get into this either).
there was the other pic. the small one. the one she fell in love with in august. the pink kiss from chagall...the painting she has recently put back but now suddenly, or all of a sudden, found very unnerving. she stuck the thought on. stood there and awaited the effect...and effect...(or affect)any...thing...anything.
nothing happened or changed for a long time until one day (having crossed the hills of Buda without swiss guards or a compass /she was great at following her instincts/ and having fixed the wheel of her bike /with the aid of a fixing-set, an old toothbrush and a paintbrush/)she fell to bed with high fever.
when she awoke from her foced-movelessness her feet rushed her throught the rain and into a bookshop...used books' section. first she thought she has to have a scope not to seem silly, but as time passed and her clothes became heavy on her she realized she has to stop searching...and as soon as she did that THE BOOK was in front of her.
the book she has been looking for for weeks before last christmas.
the book that had no title or writer to it in her mind, but which fitted in her pulsing palm as it had always been there.
she laughed loud on the way home caressing and admiring her new miracle.
'that story is in it'-she smiled....but when she flipped thru the pages she could not find the thoughts she was looking for. maybe they disappeared under her seaching eyes. maybe they never existed anywhere but in her heart.
she laughed again.laughed at herself. at her blindness. picturing herself reading the book and forming her own story ...folding it softy and hiding it betweeen the pages of the book. re-placing in on the shelves. forgetting the author. forgetting the title. but never forgetting the stories she read and her heart hidden between the pages of the book now laying in her bed, on her table, all is full of...
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