Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
It is almost winter and autumn is just beginning to fade away into mid-November. The fog looms over the brown twigs and earth; a thin white veil, transparent enough to allow in only the faintest memory of the bright colors of summer-time. The moment is still as a baby bird. Like a painting it hangs on the wall of a very famous and old museum. People come here often and wish they could jump inside of it. Out of the tired and gray places where they learn to rest their heads. Into the timeless promise of nature, serenity and eternity. Here the people are always smiling, sipping on green tea in tiny porcelain tea cups their grandmothers left in passing. Warmth is never left behind in a fire place built of brick. Not in this place. Nor is it ever left in the arms of lovers or in the loyalty of a dog. It is taken everywhere in tiny containers hand crafted out of tin and glass and wood. It is the most important and necessary element that can be found anywhere in the world. It is the ingredient for life. It is love and it is in every corner of every bungalow and every mansion. It is found in every coat pocket and in every molecule that makes up a rocking chair and a fire fly and a canoe. It is everywhere and easily found if you just open your eyes.
Look for me on the mountaintop, where the Spanish rain pours down like honey dew and mist. I will be the one holding the flame, whistling the song, remembering your name. I will be the one with the rhyme and the music and the white swan. I have not moved from this place in centuries. The books have all been read. The letters have all been sent. The rules have all been broken. But your voice remains as silent and vague as a red Indian summer. The love is sticky, the voices are trapped inside the mirrors. Nothing is going right without you here. The architect builds everything leaning slightly to the left. I lean into you, into your memory, into the wide and open moon. It's dark tonight. It's black and beautiful. It's everything, but it's not you.
It is winter, and it’s summer, then the light fades into autumn. When I see you I am in another story written by another author. But then you pull me out of my shirt and out of my skin and I am in the river again where everyone is dancing. I find freedom in the blue grass and saxophones. I find your lighter and your voice in the latest hour of the night. It is just the two of us in a storm of cigarette smoke and an unbelievable imagination. And I don't know who imagined who, if it was me or if it was you.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I am eight years old and it’s time to go to sleep. The champagne glasses are clinking downstairs in the living room. I can hear them very well but I don’t know if I’m dreaming them up or if it’s really happening. They sound like stars. Grandma is rocking slowly in the old oak rocking chair. She reminds me of the sea and the frosted tips of waves gliding over my feet. She is the safe haven where my childhood is preserved. She is the one who tells me stories and reassures me that, no matter how many times I stain the carpet with grape juice, my family will always love me. Outside the crickets are singing lullabies in the shadows of the thickets. Outside the crickets are dancing the waltz with the fireflies. The night feels infinite and warm. I don’t need a blanket but I keep it tucked under my chin because it feels like an extra pair of arms hugging me, like the entire world is embracing me, telling me that this is where I belong and this is where I will find love. The clinking, fizzing, bubbling and popping of the champagne has faded. Half of where I am is filled with spelling bees, bicycle trips to the ice cream shop and Saturday morning cartoons. But soon all of me will be where the other half is....
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
I don’t know about the world. I don’t know about the creatures that live and love deep down in the ocean. I can’t name all the far away globes of light and gas in the sky and I don’t know about the pearls behind your ears. I don’t know Greek mythology or how many times to water a plant to keep it alive and green. I’ve read many books, but hardly any of the classics, and the only museums I like to visit are graveyards. I can’t taste a difference between organic and regular milk and I still forget to recycle. I don’t know about the promise of wealth and beauty buried miles below the earth. I don’t know how to skip a stone across a pond but I think our love is a lot like those ripples that expand until they become a part of everything and you no longer can tell what is love and what isn’t. I think I know that our love is a lot like that.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Saturday, June 06, 2009
There is a pause that is as threatening as an impending nuclear attack. It floats with menace between the two spots we both seem to be rooted to. Neither of us move, not away from each other, not closer to one another. Or maybe we both desperately want to but don’t know in which direction the other will go.
Then, as suddenly as church bells toll, he takes my hand in his and the distance between us is closed for good. “All right,” he says. It was as simple as that and as majestic as the church bells ring-a-ding-dinging to announce a brand new day.
Outside in the street the crowd is dispersing. People are making their way home, hand in hand, body leaning against body for support, for a closeness that is fed by vulnerability. No one wants to get lost on a dark night like this. One street lamp is out and for a split second I don’t notice that he actually has followed me out. But when I feel someone brush up against me as softly as a feather landing on the pavement, I know it’s him. I can smell his cologne and I recognize it as the same brand I bought him for his birthday three years ago. I wonder if it’s the same bottle. I wonder if he’s going to follow me all the way home.