I was painting in white-magnolia my flat in Hackney when I had visions of Johanna. We met while myself, son of a poor mother, was off to uni. I was into Mayakovsky at that time and Johanna and her friend, doing classical studies, conversed in Latin to denigrate my poetic soul. Johanna was short but powerful,undulating blonde mane and green eyes framed in pale alabaster-magnolia complexion. I had never seen such long and clever fingers. I adored her as a duty,as autumn loves red leaves.
The phone rang three times last night before I picked it up. After marriages, enterprises and an expanding universe due to my classmates and me giving birth, Johanna called to tell her tragedy. Her sweetheart died from cancer in the 80's. She got three beautiful dogs and makes handmade jewellery with recycled material in a studio overlooking the river Lea.
I am happy for Johanna. Johanna saw too much, she suffered too much,she understands too much. Johanna is tired of emotional battles. Johanna knows that life is not a problem to be solved but a fact to be experienced.
Johanna loves life in Hackney Wick.