Dear Mrs Robinson
Let me start by telling you it’s been quite a troublesome forty-five minutes deciding if I should, or should not, write you this note.
My instinctive love for you whispered you wouldn’t understand and thereby never adress me again; I must admit, the prospect frightened me and it still does. Is this too much raw for you? Am I being too rough already?
On the other hand, my love and desire for absolute truth forces me to rest down these words onto this edgy corner of the blogosphere – Onto the so called O Lado Negro da Lua.
Anyway, since I’m already engaged in the middle of the (raw) proceedings, here’s out it begins:
Dear Mrs Robinson
You’re wrong. Totally, and, what’s worse, Mrs Robinson – oddly wrong.
Mrs R, there’s a saying in merry Ireland, a land where the grass is yellow green and the lassies are smart bright, that pretty much goes like this: Maradona good, Pele better, George Best.
The thing is, Mrs Robinson, I’m merely an enthusiastic of fine Arts, Mrs R, and you’re something different – a role model, Mrs Robinson.
In fact, I wouldn’t dare turn this into a post if it were otherwise.
Talking about that, listen to what I have to say as if I was saying something new that nobody had said before regarding a mild painkiller that you have to swallow either you like it or not.
Here’s the drill Mrs Robinson:
I strongly suggest you go back to your books, your comprehensive grammars, your massage parlour, your soon to be failed marriage, or what ever it is that you do when what you should be doing would be (…) about the misfortunes of applying a Portuguese criteria to the study of “Shakespearian” language.
Mind you, I’m not discussing Shakespeare me self Mrs Robinson; with grief corrupting my emotions and pain overlapping my reasoning I remind thee the poet’s final famous words: “Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that’s gone.”
And thus, someday, who knows Mrs Robinson; we might even share a kiss in a Romeo and Juliet fashion.
Why not? Really, I would say there’s something here that is far beyond comprehension; mine, at least, but I’m drunk and I digress.
You see, there’s another saying – this one Lone Wolf's brand – that goes pretty much like this: You sleep ON the fuckin’ cushioned couch but you dress up IN the fuckin’ squared bedroom.
After reading this, Mrs Robinson, I suppose only a musical fragrance could cheer you up. Kind regards, I do love you very much and you’re one of my Best cronies. A Friend. When I remember you the same song always comes to mind, over and over again –
|