Joris Iven





†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† Letter to Torgeir Schjerven




What I have written about to you are all futilities. I had been given

an ash-tray and a bottle of Bardolino for my birthday by my

daughters, had read several offensively recognisable lines

by Paula Meehan. I wrote that I was looking for a satin dress

in which I could lay down my head. What difference does it all make,

Torgeir, what difference does it all make? At this very moment

defenceless daughters are once more being born from unborn sons

such as you and me. This morning is rain-grey and blood-curdling. I know

the word blood-curdling was not part of our jargon, but part of that

which was unsaid between us. I know, since this morning,

why you did not answer my letter. A long way away you have

taken off your beige jacket, kicked off your cheap leather sandals

on a holiday beach on the Cyclades. What united us was

the knowledge that our need of love knows no satisfaction.

We remain unborn sons who, a cigarette between our lips, a bottle

in our hand, wave to an imaginary mother who we remember

from a black and white film from the fifties. We have

revolvers, weak wounds, grinding brains. What more do we want?

We are all worrying about futilities. Arenít we, Torgeir?




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