I have been editing “Faćo: The Untold Stories” here at the edge of Errol Heights, a natural area, NO DUMPING…
I have been debating whether it’s a memoir, a narrative-non fiction that I could turn into fiction by simply changing names…
I can see Faćo in Amsterdam, Paris, Istanbul, New Orleans, Sydney, I know exactly what he did, and how he felt, and it just hit me…it is not me. Anymore.
Can anybody see me in front of The Bulldog – Leidseplein belting out Little Wing?
I could ask Magdalene now to stroll down there with her kids, if she’s not too busy, and just check out if I’m still around. In her memory.
What happened to those times when we smoked that first joint together, and then she went into a shock, her eyes and mouth wide open, and then to calm her down I told her a story about a green/pink/blue elephant walking down a red road under the yellow sky?
The next day she came home with a beautiful painting of it all. Exactly the same.
But she never believed I told her the story. She thought she had a dream.
Maybe we all just have a dream. And we dream it as long as we live.
I am not busking in Amsterdam right now.
Not even in my dreams.
I am sitting here typing these long black lines over a white empty space.
All I can hear is cawing of crows, barking of dogs, and birds chirping for no particular reason at all.
As if they all talk to each other in a language I’ll never understand.
I am not in Paris either, trying to outsing the rumbling of rubber-tyred trains that run underground like blue snakes from one catacomb to another.
Am I at Igor’s Check Point Charlie in new Orleans?
Maybe The Iguanas are still sitting at the bar, waiting for a dawn, champagne and strawberries…
So “Faćo: The Untold Sories” is a work of fiction.
I was there, and it all had happened alright, but it feels like dream.
Life is a dream.