Here lies Martes Flavigula, eternally beneath the splintered earth.

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Treading in bootsteps to places one should never again visit
Tue, 27 Apr, 1999 04.00 UTC

Black is in my head, annoying my restless neurons with how it relates to my situation. The craziness of last night haunts me like a receeding dream at which I try to clutch but recall only snatches that blur even further into grew forgetfulness. Another person with whom I was very close is gone and no amount of insolent kicking of my legs or wailing like a forsaken ghoul into the night will make her come back.

Two weeks ago today I told her goodbye and two days prior to now she said she cannot return to me. My tears have been in vain. All of the thoughts and words and smiles will fade into obscurity. Like with Melanie, Marcie or Kierstinn. The pain is fantastically intense like the cracking of my aorta that steals my life.

She cried for Pavla and Jeníček last night as I nearly choaked to death in our bed. She held me tight and kissed me again and again on my forehead and neck, much like a mother to a deleriously feverish child. We slept as close as we had when we were first in love, on fire with unquenchable passion. The fading flame that killed our love. That prompted me to foolishly kill our love. And now my mind cannot see my rationale, my list of reasons for departing because my emotional energy floods cross my corpus collosum, drowning all logic in its way indiscriminately.

It is much too terrifying to think of what I am losing, of the history that will atrophy, from the smiles she shown that at the moments they appeared, seemed like they could never die or pass inconsiderately into time.


Where are you? Talk to me or I will evaporate. I am going to make pancakes tonight and have them with Univers Zero. -Hela.

Why am I not savoring my moments with her instead of pining over things already eroding? I am so caught up and fascinated with loss and the ensuing despair that I forget the moment and later regret the times I wasted. A very good example of this is Spring of 1996, my pain and emptiness wrought from Melanie’s absence, and the ridiculous events I drug myself and my friends through because I could not let go. So must I let go of Magdalena? If I do not, I shall drive her away for good, but I wonder what is the difference when she is now pursuing a life perpendicular to everything our relationship concerned.

This fact is the knife that twists in my heart.

It is scarily similar to Melanie’s actions (though certainly not as extremist): to discard all that related to our relationship. Gladly, Magdalena will not go to thisextreme end since much of what she has now in her life was the both of ours and she gladly still receives gifts from me with a genuine smile.

More messages from Hela…

Vesele Vanoce … Love, peace and poison for all.

Let me lick your fishy LAP TOP.

The greatest tragedy concerning Magdalena is the fact she is pushing deliberately her feelings for me away – that or supressing them with active (refusing to kiss me on the lips) and passive (not spending much time in our flat) actions.

I feel last night was the final one I shall spend in her arms. It is time for grieving and ultimately catharsis. In a way, these words are my catharsis whilst hers may be discarding her feelings for me or submerging herself in other people to help her forget. Diametrically opposite, baby. I am looking up at the surface of the water knowing I have not breath or the strength to make it there.

It has always been my method of dealing.

I have not changed. So, I must leave her alone or watch her be gone for good. What a silly paradox it is. Fuck. My fire in her eye has flickered and died. Soon another wil rekindle that flame. I want not to write of the ills we suffered as a couple. Here is where I clean my memories. No longer do I with THE HIGH VOLTAGE POWER SUPPLY. Trains encourage me to pen my ideas. I am saddened that I missed the train to Magdalena’s home. Now I may never see it.

Messages to Jeníček from me, now…

Letna, crying, thinking, writing and healing. Where are you?

Thank you, my friend, but I think I should be alone because of my pain :/

I am writing about Magda, of course.

I am writing words to a song for her. It will be the second song for her.

They are mostly the truth. Soon, I’ll be sitting in a café drinking tequila sunrises - a drink that will one day be nostalgic of yet another woman. Yet another, indeed.

My backslide into the relentless sycophant-like behaviour will ultimately alienate Magdalena. I must nip it in the buttock so to preserve and chance for reconcilliation. The sad truth, however, is that I am not sure I can unless I disappear for a while. The emotional flood overwhelms any sort of logical decision maing ability I have in this atrophying brain of mine.

My goal is to visit Katrin on my way to seeing Peter Hammill in Strasbourg 15 May. It is not far away, is it, silly penstroke? There is no reason to call my leg shaven if each pitiful pore exudes a thin strand of useles protein that captures small globules of dirt and sweat to stink up the interior of each of my three pairs of jeans. Extrapolating, I recall Magdalena telling me last night that she would go with me for new jeans today, but, when I spoke to her on the telephone, her resounding NO in reply to my dinner suggestion shows the hallmark of logic over emotions. Sure, the yesterday evening was tumultuous to an extreme degree for her, and the backlash is retreat into her cavern of non-bobitude, dismissing all thoughts of a tentative rendezvous even though in contradistinction, she is obviously in a state of bliss when we banter whilst strolling about Prague.

So what, my dear reader may ask, was the purpose of tagging that bit of prattle with extrapolating? Well, my resulting extrapolation from her actions is this: she will drift further and further until she is over me and it is safe to give me her time again. But then what would be the point since we are not again in passionate thrall? You see, it will depressingly just become what mine and Draža’s relationship is: two people living separate lives who see each other mayhap every two weeks for a cup of java and semi-interesting conversation. There seems to me, then, three sets of friendship or relationship types.

  • Committed, which involves this capricious beast called love. In this sort, two people see each other constantly, share time and experiences.
  • Folk with whom you go out for a beer every few evenings, to a cabin or camping on the weekends, etc. I always blurred quite convincingly the boundary between this and the first type.
  • Friends who are considered (suprisingly) good, but who are only seen mayhap once in two weeks or less often. It is the most dismal of the trio, methinks. I want to run from it.

Fuck this.

Sunday night, Draža said something of great interest to me. I mentioned to her that I hope she and I can still be going on our cynical, scurrilous shindigs even after 30 more years! She replied that we can talk about our problems concerning whomever we happen to be with, about children, job, etc, and why we had never been to gether. Obviously, it was this last bit that hit me not quite unlike a rubber mallet to the testicles.


Not really even thinking about my initial attraction to her back in October, I plaintively overviewed the sad irony of such a future situation. Resigned to age and commitment, I wonder if we would have the nerve to simply run away with each other if our lives were both in a sad state of disrepair. Would it be a possibility to touch once again the spontaneous, impulsive irrationality of youth and tap its vein regardless of consequence? It is the story of my life, is it not? The second tequila sunrise is being slurped affectionately into my tum-tum here in the café that haunts none of my thoughts or dreams (yet).

It is time for Chapter “Bared Dogma” to come to a close before my chest cracks open from the pain in my heart, both physical and emotional. Oouh!

Clammy Underbelly

Left without a clever word to say. There is nothing but čekat now for Sweet Entropy to decide the fate of Magdalena and me. The putrescent past bubbles like bile up the esophogas of my mind and I recll my must too spotless (excepting for the smashed and well placed ZZ Top tape destroyed after Brandi left me) bedroom in Fort Stockton, Texas.

That song Endings comes to mind ruthlessly and, as always, I recall Sharon Weber’s visage along with the lyric endings are only places where all things begin. Ironic, because I really never had any beginning that was not imagined with Sharon Weber. Now it pertains in a much more telling capacity.

I left Magdalena.

Now I am hating paying the consequences of my act. Never before have I actually broken something off with a female without being extremist (cf. Marcie). I need another tequila. As Jeníček would say: It’s good for you. I am about as poetic as a moose in heat these days.

Find your muse, Bob! Find your muse! Where the fuck is that pesky muse, anyhow? Where the fuck, indeed.

Along with martens, goulish goats and the rippling fen -
these writings 1993-2022 by Bob Murry Shelton are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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