tell me now
where was my fault
in loving you
with my whole heart
Early in the morning, before the suited commuters begin their impatient ant trails across the streets, a calm lingers over the city, an air of anticipation but also of regrouping. I stepped out to the sounds of differently suited workers cleaning up the city, preparing for the onslaught, holding together the backbone. The air was blessedly much cooler and I thought, I should always be out this early. Let the jet lags pass and all will be forgotten.
I have shed too many tears in the last few days for the relations around me. It catches me by surprise, and I wonder what has brought about this dust bowl storm. Lives crumble, from age or from love grown sour, and poisoned arrows fly from every direction. Definitions and boundaries have been re-evaluated, stretched, moved, only to be ripped at the seams too soon. You're making me sad, and I struggle to care. We fight with bigger words than in preschool, but the rules remain the same. Pride swells in our brains until pettiness trickles out of our ears and now what do we do?!
You leave without an answer. I couldn't make myself ask for it. The temperature spikes, and somebody pours an entire bottle of bleach on the sidewalk. Another night, washed away. Another bitter aftertaste, that won't go away in a brushing.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Need Not Worry
(anymore)
I'm out of coffee, he said, and within the hour we were sitting in my kitchen with a fresh pot, recapping the long weeks that passed. He told me of the loft that waited for them on the other side of the bridge, of high ceilings and uncovered windows, and we dreamed of fall on the roof, overlooking Manhattan.
By the time he left, my ceilings felt higher, too. The New York streets sizzled with opportunity, the blue skies opening my eyes as though their lids had been heavied for too long. The homeland felt a world away, my thoughts of returning and settling down.
It may just be a revived honeymoon. But at this point, I take what I can get. September lies in wait, with cooler nights and a fresh start. I will live it, if only I can pay its rent.
I'm out of coffee, he said, and within the hour we were sitting in my kitchen with a fresh pot, recapping the long weeks that passed. He told me of the loft that waited for them on the other side of the bridge, of high ceilings and uncovered windows, and we dreamed of fall on the roof, overlooking Manhattan.
By the time he left, my ceilings felt higher, too. The New York streets sizzled with opportunity, the blue skies opening my eyes as though their lids had been heavied for too long. The homeland felt a world away, my thoughts of returning and settling down.
It may just be a revived honeymoon. But at this point, I take what I can get. September lies in wait, with cooler nights and a fresh start. I will live it, if only I can pay its rent.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Re-entry
The days ran quickly, not like sand between my fingers but more like strange dreams and you wake up in a daze. Suddenly it was seven a.m. on a Sunday morning in New York, and it took me a while to orient myself. Realize that I had passed out the night before but still managed to turn off the computer and the television in blissful ignorance. See the sunlight stream in through my window and realize how hot I was, what that felt like.
I had spent so many days shivering, lately.
So much has happened, and I had little time to digest, to put it into words. Mad runnings around the city, navigating through the messes of my interior and the orderly mazes of those around me. New impressions, old reminders. Drifting back into the person I was and lost a little, in the jaded streets of New York. It was nice to see her again. I visited family and saw the building blocks of my own life, but cried behind closed doors anyways for lives wasted and words unspoken. How much in a life can be sad, when it should be overwhelmingly sweet. I ran through woods I have seen since childhood for the last time and tried to remember every leaf, the silence, the beauty of Nature. I turned 28, impossibly, and made sure to leave a great mess in the wake of my departure. Two hours of sleep later, I sat at the airport with a toothache and wasn't sure if I'd remembered to pack my passport.
The trip seems to have lasted months. But it seems to be months since I was there. A world away. I stepped into the shower this morning and it smelled of America. Of cucumber body wash and toxic cleaning solutions. The air stopped being so silent. I met dear friends for breakfast and wasn't sure how I could've ever doubted that this was where I belong.
Your kisses were so sweet. But this city sings me to sleep, now.
I had spent so many days shivering, lately.
So much has happened, and I had little time to digest, to put it into words. Mad runnings around the city, navigating through the messes of my interior and the orderly mazes of those around me. New impressions, old reminders. Drifting back into the person I was and lost a little, in the jaded streets of New York. It was nice to see her again. I visited family and saw the building blocks of my own life, but cried behind closed doors anyways for lives wasted and words unspoken. How much in a life can be sad, when it should be overwhelmingly sweet. I ran through woods I have seen since childhood for the last time and tried to remember every leaf, the silence, the beauty of Nature. I turned 28, impossibly, and made sure to leave a great mess in the wake of my departure. Two hours of sleep later, I sat at the airport with a toothache and wasn't sure if I'd remembered to pack my passport.
The trip seems to have lasted months. But it seems to be months since I was there. A world away. I stepped into the shower this morning and it smelled of America. Of cucumber body wash and toxic cleaning solutions. The air stopped being so silent. I met dear friends for breakfast and wasn't sure how I could've ever doubted that this was where I belong.
Your kisses were so sweet. But this city sings me to sleep, now.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
So I'll Stay
Confusion reigns surpreme on this trip. The highs and lows of my emotional rollercoaster rivaling even the neverending hills of the city I know like the blood in my veins. Such a long walk home, and how cold the wind that swept in while no one was looking. It cleared the clouds, and their bright cotton puffs were white against the Thursday night lights; I saw stars, the deep, dark blue behind them.
The social marathon continues. My mind barely gets enough peace to put words on your pages. Children grow in the gardens and make their way into my friends' lives. The comforts of home, the steady job, the incomprehension of my strange apparition. I get tempted to pack my bags, return to the homeland. I will get a proper job, an apartment of my own, and the rest will follow suit. I assimilate well, it will be no problem, I can put this whole insanity behind me.
But that cold walk home, New York music in my ears, a voice whispered you are mad to think it will be so easy. I always see the opportunity of the next step. This one always leaves me unsatisfied. I long for grimey subway tracks, for people made of stone when they walk home in the late night, for streets never sleeping and stoops that lead to a place where my keys fit.
Literally, too.
The social marathon continues. My mind barely gets enough peace to put words on your pages. Children grow in the gardens and make their way into my friends' lives. The comforts of home, the steady job, the incomprehension of my strange apparition. I get tempted to pack my bags, return to the homeland. I will get a proper job, an apartment of my own, and the rest will follow suit. I assimilate well, it will be no problem, I can put this whole insanity behind me.
But that cold walk home, New York music in my ears, a voice whispered you are mad to think it will be so easy. I always see the opportunity of the next step. This one always leaves me unsatisfied. I long for grimey subway tracks, for people made of stone when they walk home in the late night, for streets never sleeping and stoops that lead to a place where my keys fit.
Literally, too.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Zen
Days pass with me faltering. I walk around these streets, trying to feel nostalgia trickle through the wood work, but I fail. As though these streets were a whole other world than the one I loved and left. Even our regular bar, where we've spent countless drunk nights, fails to move me like I thought it would. (Like I thought it should.) I feel numb and decide not to ponder the meaning of all this until later.
But then I was awoken by my roommate's early morning plans, hours before our normal rising time, and I could tell immediately that something was different. There was sun.
After weeks of gray cold wind and news anchors leaping head-first into words like fall and change and over, a bright sunlight was making its way across the houses, the lush trees and glittering cars, and the entire world looked different.
Before I had rubbed the sleep--or, indeed, last night's mascara--from my eyes, I was on the 11, bound for the sea. The tram hadn't even reached its final stop when it came into view: blue, glittering, endless. I had to force myself not to run the last bit to the cliffs, and then, there it was: the ache in my heart that said This is where you belong.
The way the smooth rock warms up in the August sun. THe sound of the waves softly lapping against the shore. The cool breeze, the white sailboats. The smell of salt and kelp and the color of the sea.
The place was deserted; school had started, vacations long forgotten. I sat there in the near-silence; I was one with the earth. As my shoulders warmed in the mid-day sun, the water turned an even deeper shade of blue. I postpone my confusion a little longer; for this one moment, all is well, with the world.
But then I was awoken by my roommate's early morning plans, hours before our normal rising time, and I could tell immediately that something was different. There was sun.
After weeks of gray cold wind and news anchors leaping head-first into words like fall and change and over, a bright sunlight was making its way across the houses, the lush trees and glittering cars, and the entire world looked different.
Before I had rubbed the sleep--or, indeed, last night's mascara--from my eyes, I was on the 11, bound for the sea. The tram hadn't even reached its final stop when it came into view: blue, glittering, endless. I had to force myself not to run the last bit to the cliffs, and then, there it was: the ache in my heart that said This is where you belong.
The way the smooth rock warms up in the August sun. THe sound of the waves softly lapping against the shore. The cool breeze, the white sailboats. The smell of salt and kelp and the color of the sea.
The place was deserted; school had started, vacations long forgotten. I sat there in the near-silence; I was one with the earth. As my shoulders warmed in the mid-day sun, the water turned an even deeper shade of blue. I postpone my confusion a little longer; for this one moment, all is well, with the world.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
A/Part
Twenty-five thousand people swell out of the wide open gates, racing onward to new destinations, spreading like veins in a river to their respective destinations: clubs, lawns, forest parties where the beer is cheap. I love this spirit, like everyone is going somewhere, and knowing that the city is full of people who normally wouldn't be here, or who would be home watching television, she says. She loves the feeling that the town is alive, that somebody else is sprinting around madly, hoping for fun. I take her keys, begin the walk home. Not tired, but too weary to run alongside her. Too weary to endure their eager eyes and their bleeding hearts singing in unison.
The town's most beloved son returns, ten years after that record, and a sea of his disciples screams every word as tears run down their faces. Holding hands, they revel in the Bigness of it all and the feeling that they were not alone in feeling it. Once the storm has passed, voices proclaim their amazement, and their joy in how far they've come since those teenage years and the endless despair.
I remember when the album came; I remember who I was. Ten years later, and not much has changed. I leave the gig indifferent, or, perhaps, a little further from the masses still. His sad stumblings across these streets and his outstretched hand ended, eventually. He goes home tonight to his wife and his children and his success. How beautiful that is, they say, and leave content, knowing the same awaits them once their beer glasses are empty.
As I walk the last paces to the apartment, the air is so quiet that my footsteps make a dizzying sound in my ears. Far away, the after parties send beats drifting in through the balcony door of the empty house. I stare at the screen, too much to say and still no peace of mind to say it. If a tree fell in the forest and no one heard it, did it make a sound? I bruised my knees, regardless.
The town's most beloved son returns, ten years after that record, and a sea of his disciples screams every word as tears run down their faces. Holding hands, they revel in the Bigness of it all and the feeling that they were not alone in feeling it. Once the storm has passed, voices proclaim their amazement, and their joy in how far they've come since those teenage years and the endless despair.
I remember when the album came; I remember who I was. Ten years later, and not much has changed. I leave the gig indifferent, or, perhaps, a little further from the masses still. His sad stumblings across these streets and his outstretched hand ended, eventually. He goes home tonight to his wife and his children and his success. How beautiful that is, they say, and leave content, knowing the same awaits them once their beer glasses are empty.
As I walk the last paces to the apartment, the air is so quiet that my footsteps make a dizzying sound in my ears. Far away, the after parties send beats drifting in through the balcony door of the empty house. I stare at the screen, too much to say and still no peace of mind to say it. If a tree fell in the forest and no one heard it, did it make a sound? I bruised my knees, regardless.
White Blank Page
So many days, running past me, whirling like autumn winds and it's too soon, too quick, too overwhelming. I tumble along the rip tide and try to stay up long enough for air but I am not allowed the time to digest, to stare at any sort of paper where I may turn the confusion to words, to make sense of the madness, the impressions. I mill in crowds before stages of loud music and have so much to say but no space in which to say it. Nights are late, sleep is instant and I pass too many hours in beds that aren't mine; I am never alone (I'm alone all the time). Up and on to the next. I jot down notes in my phone and hope I will remember after the intoxications have passed, the night.
After a week of clouds and rain and impending mud, the sun broke through and warmed my shoulders as I sat in the grass, keeping beat. It shone undiscriminating on the crowd of my supposedly like-mindeds. But I find no comfort in togetherness. I writhe anxiously as I look over the field, the club, the tram, the street. The closer you are to me, the more I close my skin around me, the further away I feel.
I took a bus across the bridge the other day. For a brief second, the sun shone on the sea, which glittered and sparkled in the distance, at the edge of the city. I thought, I might jump off this bridge, and swim out into the ocean, until I, might glitter, too.
After a week of clouds and rain and impending mud, the sun broke through and warmed my shoulders as I sat in the grass, keeping beat. It shone undiscriminating on the crowd of my supposedly like-mindeds. But I find no comfort in togetherness. I writhe anxiously as I look over the field, the club, the tram, the street. The closer you are to me, the more I close my skin around me, the further away I feel.
I took a bus across the bridge the other day. For a brief second, the sun shone on the sea, which glittered and sparkled in the distance, at the edge of the city. I thought, I might jump off this bridge, and swim out into the ocean, until I, might glitter, too.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
A Little Fall of Rain
Heavy skies eclipse the day's plans. The week's plans. Inside the warm apartment, my head is stuffed with cotton balls and cold viruses; I can barely be bothered to fight them. Sometimes our bodies tell us when it's time to stop. Contrary to popular belief, I am not slow to listen.
An arm full of scars and a mind full of ghosts, she is lost in this world and scrambling to get out. When you've fought for so long, it's difficult to believe there actually will be relief around the corner. Suddenly, my world is filled with people who are struggling for air, each in their own personal hell and I wonder how we all ended up in these places. We had such promising futures, when we were young.
Yet the relief in recognition is short. I feel my body and mind separate, my face smiling, my legs carrying me to another social circle, but my self shrinking slowly and enclosing itself in a thick shell and closing off. I go through the motions, but all I really want is to sit on a rock in the ocean, staring at the ends of the earth.
Outside my window, the sun breaks through the thick clouds. I take my borrowed bike, roll through the streets where I once belonged, feel the wind blow softly through my hair. And rain, will make the flowers grow.
An arm full of scars and a mind full of ghosts, she is lost in this world and scrambling to get out. When you've fought for so long, it's difficult to believe there actually will be relief around the corner. Suddenly, my world is filled with people who are struggling for air, each in their own personal hell and I wonder how we all ended up in these places. We had such promising futures, when we were young.
Yet the relief in recognition is short. I feel my body and mind separate, my face smiling, my legs carrying me to another social circle, but my self shrinking slowly and enclosing itself in a thick shell and closing off. I go through the motions, but all I really want is to sit on a rock in the ocean, staring at the ends of the earth.
Outside my window, the sun breaks through the thick clouds. I take my borrowed bike, roll through the streets where I once belonged, feel the wind blow softly through my hair. And rain, will make the flowers grow.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Carry Me Home
Days rush past; there is little time to dwell near the keyboard and ponder words. I wish this were not the case. My mind a whirl with thoughts and feelings, it longs for typekeys to make it all make sense again. We react differently to the tidal waves: some long for activity without break; I need that moment of silent solitude to regroup, put into words, let the silence wash it all away.
He says he believes in my writing that story; for a second, I am convinced, gladly accepting the confirmation before self-doubt and "reality" strike back. We are all lost, trembling in our insecurities, our disappointments of what this life turned into. I scramble for coherence, even now, even here. People put new decades in front of the zero, and some do not mind. They are at the righ step in the maze. I can't decide if I envy them.
The point is, if I were to give up, on the dream, the life, the city, where would I go when I cannot go back here? There is no place for me here. Rustling trees whisper at me that I will pine for them hopelessly. A million beautiful people pass me, and I know our eyes will never meet. The air is cold as I walk quickly to the tram; I stare straight into the light and hope for a warming ray. Perhaps, tomorrow, the answer will reveal itself. Perhaps, tomorrow, all will not be lost.
Unsatisfied, I close the lid to my laptop, tie up the leathered straps on my journal, turn off the lights. Too much left to say, I twist and turn in my borrowed bed. Perhaps, tomorrow, this too shall pass.
He says he believes in my writing that story; for a second, I am convinced, gladly accepting the confirmation before self-doubt and "reality" strike back. We are all lost, trembling in our insecurities, our disappointments of what this life turned into. I scramble for coherence, even now, even here. People put new decades in front of the zero, and some do not mind. They are at the righ step in the maze. I can't decide if I envy them.
The point is, if I were to give up, on the dream, the life, the city, where would I go when I cannot go back here? There is no place for me here. Rustling trees whisper at me that I will pine for them hopelessly. A million beautiful people pass me, and I know our eyes will never meet. The air is cold as I walk quickly to the tram; I stare straight into the light and hope for a warming ray. Perhaps, tomorrow, the answer will reveal itself. Perhaps, tomorrow, all will not be lost.
Unsatisfied, I close the lid to my laptop, tie up the leathered straps on my journal, turn off the lights. Too much left to say, I twist and turn in my borrowed bed. Perhaps, tomorrow, this too shall pass.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Up For Air
Thin mattress in the corner of a room. I placed my suitcase here days ago but have yet to stay here. The days pass quickly in a daze of alcohol and making up for lost time. As though the time were actually lost. As though it didn't feel like no time had passed since last I walked these streets, since last I saw these faces.
I still react to the voices around me; they speak a language I know but rarely hear on Hudson Street. I react to the fairness of their skin, the familiarity of their ways. But beyond that, it is as though I had never left. This city, so ingrained in my memory, I walk the wrong way home from the bar because I forget that my apartment is not mine, and I am borrowing the sleeping space. We make breakfast together and I forget that I have a whole life in New York, it is a million miles away.
Walking from one under-the-radar forest party to the next, we get lost in the steep uphill climb and find ourselves alone at the top of the city. No lights, no people, not a single sound but our careful breathing as we allow ourselves to be scared by the brief darkness of a Swedish summer. I stand still and listen to the silence; in the absence of sound, my mind hisses, confused. When we walk down the hill again, dawn is slowly creeping in through the trees.
The fifteen minutes of walking home after breakfast today were the first moments of solitude I'd had since my late, whirlwind arrival two days ago. I cannot digest anything yet. I am swept away in the madness of it all, the magic of it all. I fear if I stopped to think, I would not know which way to turn. Jet lag dances across my eyes; I pray for imminent sleep.
I still react to the voices around me; they speak a language I know but rarely hear on Hudson Street. I react to the fairness of their skin, the familiarity of their ways. But beyond that, it is as though I had never left. This city, so ingrained in my memory, I walk the wrong way home from the bar because I forget that my apartment is not mine, and I am borrowing the sleeping space. We make breakfast together and I forget that I have a whole life in New York, it is a million miles away.
Walking from one under-the-radar forest party to the next, we get lost in the steep uphill climb and find ourselves alone at the top of the city. No lights, no people, not a single sound but our careful breathing as we allow ourselves to be scared by the brief darkness of a Swedish summer. I stand still and listen to the silence; in the absence of sound, my mind hisses, confused. When we walk down the hill again, dawn is slowly creeping in through the trees.
The fifteen minutes of walking home after breakfast today were the first moments of solitude I'd had since my late, whirlwind arrival two days ago. I cannot digest anything yet. I am swept away in the madness of it all, the magic of it all. I fear if I stopped to think, I would not know which way to turn. Jet lag dances across my eyes; I pray for imminent sleep.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Departure
All day, all week, I got caught off guard by the Travel Jitters. They surprise me; I have made this trip a hundred times, and still before every trip, at the back of my spine climbs a slight unease, a tickle of excitement, a tremble of uncertain control. And while I should have been abating this restlessness by running my errands and planning my packing, my every night lately has been spent in the company of those I love, whiling away the New York Summer Nights in drops of sweat and echoing laughter. I have no regrets.
And then, now, when the packing has, at last, been done, when my clothes are laid out and my alarm is set, though the hour of departure draws near, I am calm. I fear not the unexpected, I am not anxious nor impatient. I am going Home.
I spoke to a dear friend the other day, and before he'd finished saying hello, I knew something had changed. After years of trudging through a sweet but seemingly harmless relationship, he had fallen completely in love. It shone through his eyes, trickled through his voice. He said this is what it's supposed to feel like, and all the clichés danced around our conversation in the most uncomplicated way. They were the matching puzzle pieces, in the other's eyes they saw forever. And then I realized what was different, what I'd seen before he'd even said a word: he was calm. It was as though he had found a safe place to land, and he was no longer chased by whatever demons, outside or in, that normally haunted his shifty eyes and itchy posture.
If you trust the soft landing, you need not fear the fall. Perhaps that is what love is. Perhaps that, is Home.
And then, now, when the packing has, at last, been done, when my clothes are laid out and my alarm is set, though the hour of departure draws near, I am calm. I fear not the unexpected, I am not anxious nor impatient. I am going Home.
I spoke to a dear friend the other day, and before he'd finished saying hello, I knew something had changed. After years of trudging through a sweet but seemingly harmless relationship, he had fallen completely in love. It shone through his eyes, trickled through his voice. He said this is what it's supposed to feel like, and all the clichés danced around our conversation in the most uncomplicated way. They were the matching puzzle pieces, in the other's eyes they saw forever. And then I realized what was different, what I'd seen before he'd even said a word: he was calm. It was as though he had found a safe place to land, and he was no longer chased by whatever demons, outside or in, that normally haunted his shifty eyes and itchy posture.
If you trust the soft landing, you need not fear the fall. Perhaps that is what love is. Perhaps that, is Home.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Of Two Wholes
I pulled out my suitcase from the closet the other day; it fills half the available floor space, a constant reminder of change to come. I haven't had the time to pack, but it lies there, awaiting my attention, my realizing that mere hours remain before the plane leaves and my backdrop changes completely.
So many years passed when these two continents were completely different worlds, where every trip between the two meant forgetting the other. So many years passed where the same could be said for me. I would spend my time in one country, and there would be a whole other person lying in wait in the other, as though she didn't fit the mold, as though she weren't allowed through customs. Every time I moved, be it east or west, I had to leave half of myself behind. I had to let her die, so that the other half could survive the journey.
Next week it will be 17 years since I first moved to America, to the land of the Great Dream and limitless possibilities. This was the country where I blossomed, but also where my clean slate erased my history. Where I learned quickly to erase any trace of an accent, where I assimilated, but also where I, for the first time, felt like my being different was an asset, not a burden. Next week it will be 17 years, and the incessant back-and-forths that followed have softened my dividing line. I allow American me to bounce around Sweden; I allow Swedish me to nuance the blacks and whites of my American self. I force myself to merge the two. I remind myself to pack them both.
I walked up ninth avenue this morning, and it felt like September. Such a cool breeze, such a sweet scent in the air. I took a deep breath, soaking up America so I could bring it with me on my trip. I'll be back soon, I said, but perhaps it's been 17 years since I was ever, really, gone.
So many years passed when these two continents were completely different worlds, where every trip between the two meant forgetting the other. So many years passed where the same could be said for me. I would spend my time in one country, and there would be a whole other person lying in wait in the other, as though she didn't fit the mold, as though she weren't allowed through customs. Every time I moved, be it east or west, I had to leave half of myself behind. I had to let her die, so that the other half could survive the journey.
Next week it will be 17 years since I first moved to America, to the land of the Great Dream and limitless possibilities. This was the country where I blossomed, but also where my clean slate erased my history. Where I learned quickly to erase any trace of an accent, where I assimilated, but also where I, for the first time, felt like my being different was an asset, not a burden. Next week it will be 17 years, and the incessant back-and-forths that followed have softened my dividing line. I allow American me to bounce around Sweden; I allow Swedish me to nuance the blacks and whites of my American self. I force myself to merge the two. I remind myself to pack them both.
I walked up ninth avenue this morning, and it felt like September. Such a cool breeze, such a sweet scent in the air. I took a deep breath, soaking up America so I could bring it with me on my trip. I'll be back soon, I said, but perhaps it's been 17 years since I was ever, really, gone.
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