novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"I sometimes think being shocked when romance lets us down is like joining the military and being surprised when people shoot at you.\" it is one forty-five on saturday evening. the rain is quietly pelting outside, popping on the asphalt, tinkling on the cement, gathering and rushing against the sides of my street. every so often i hear a truck idling on telegraph, a few blocks away. this is a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood, and the only other sound i hear is the static hum of our ancient mustard-colored refrigerator asserting itself from the kitchen. my four housemates are all asleep (their faces slack and childlike) but my cat (the muskrat) wanders wide awake. i'm having stomach trouble. my body set itself against my wishes and i petulantly objected to it as long as i could until i just had to admit defeat. isn't it dazzling, that clarity that comes during a sick day? (and doesn't it suck when the sick day falls on a weekend?) you're stuck where you are, bound by sickness, and suddenly you can plainly see all the things you'd rather be doing. you have focus where in health you are easily deterred by the prism of possibilities; your wants are clear and specific when you are forced to set choice aside and just sit. and today, what did i want to do? i wanted to talk to you. i have stories to tell you, but mostly i want to tell you that i simply miss you. aside from simply missing you for you, i miss you because you're an old lover, someone i've always felt comfortable with, and i've missed feeling comfortable. i've missed having an old lover to talk to. i put off such familiarity nowadays; i'm more nun than i'd like following recent heartbreak. and to talk to an old lover is to recognize the fact that i was once sensual, and that i can be again. does that make sense? �i've been thinking about you recently, and suddenly, serendipitously, your chewbacca impression pops up on my voicemail. i was looking forward to seeing you this weekend. i had this plan to somehow lull you into telling me elongated stories about your daily life. (did you know you could never tell me a story that was long enough? they were always offered so quietly, simply, openly. they were always short. you rarely talked at length around me.) am hesitant to admit this to you, as if you'd take offense. but truthfully i've always been fascinated and inspired by your seemingly sudden leaps, how you'll leave the country for months, live somewhere like mexico, float back to the city, and just as suddenly leave it for the pastoral. i cannot imagine this farm, but i want to see it one day. i want to see you exist on it, and hear your voice thunder softly as you speak. maybe there are overalls, a worn yellow and green striped shirt tight against your chest, but there are most certainly weathered jeans. there is most certainly dappled sunshine as there are dusty roads. i wonder how many people orbit your immediate world now, and how full and silent your life is. i hope you are still doing things like collecting giant stuffed animals and playing in samba bands with instantly familial, old school black musicians and their roughly doting wives. i know you are doing some semblance of these things. i know that whatever you are doing, you are happy; i know that you have consciously developed your life to be as it stands now, and that you have tilled it to a form of satisfaction that is present, salient. this is why i never worry about you when i think of you; always i wonder and smile, and hope we cross paths soon. i hope that i am fully present the next time i see you; it's been a hard, amazing year and sometimes i just don't easily engage like i used to. but the heart is a muscle and i'm learning to be patient. i'm also learning a little german. and i've given up coffee for tea. and i'm writing again. and reading a lot. but i'm still not an academic, and i decided to subvert academia but still spend my life learning. libraries are where the curious end up. and i might live in ireland next summer. and i've been listening to a lot of yes and neil young. and piano music, quietly, slyly, playing it at night. oh the sparse beauty of a solo instrument, how jarring and filling it is? john fahey is a genius. so is sean smith. and yo-yo ma. can you do me a favor and stay in touch with me as we grow surprisingly old? and isn't aging surprising? isn't it amazing that eternal children age anyway? isn't it amazing that buoyancy and passion can stay electric even as such actions, by sheer repetition, gather wisdom? age helps us gather our choices around us like a coat, and we can trace our patterns in this cloth. yours is perhaps more sharkskin. or corduroy. mine might be tweed, or some sturdy linen. i am always young and old at the same time. and i'd like to tell you a secret: the first time i met you, you felt new and familiar at the same time. such is the instant comfort, the clarity of an old friend. you were an instant old friend. how did you do that? it's dirty blond magic. and you were such a rogue male, tearing through women, but i never took it personally. i identified with it, because in a rougher, less predatory (read: male/aggressive/overt/sexual) and more emotive way i did the same thing myself. i always thought you were overtly searching for something, and i admired your ability to do so. the only anxiety i experienced over you was that you wouldn't see my friendship standing there once the smoke cleared. hesitant to admit that one, because it feels like a slight to you; admitting i need your friendship when it is historically hard to admit that i need anything from men. but you always made me feel like a beautiful woman. oh, i am getting caught in nostalgia when i only meant to touch on it lightly, remembering that night i said wanted to paint you, but you took me literally and thought i meant right then. i didn't have canvas. you laying naked on the parquet floor of the wide twenties apartment i shared with nikki, patiently letting me fingerpaint your body red and black. i have too much to tell you on a night when i'm shakingly sick. maybe for now i'll just say i wish you were here, i wish i wasn't sick, and i'll leave it at that. thank you. now i'm going to settle back into my brass bed and watch another episode of "the white shadow" -- a seventies tv show, blaxploitation and basketball and teenagers and after school specials and cheese and the sudden oddly sensitive observation. the rain skittering and murmuring outside. let me know when you're next in town. and if you'd ever want a visitor with a blond mullet. i honestly honestly do want to visit you some weekend. don't worry, i'm not hitching my star to yours; i just want to orbit you and observe your systems, and then i'll shoot away again. as are our natures.
be true to your school, 2:45 am - 11.11.07 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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