Distortion

The days run past so quickly, forgive me. I forget my own name, how can I keep any words at my side? Midsummer madness seems but a dream now, a surreal trip of flower wreaths and sunset swims, of new friends and old ways. Was it really just a few days ago? The days run past so quickly.

And now, a home turned upside down, a life moved into boxes for countless weeks and the summer stretches out ahead of us like pearls on a string, every glimmering jewel an adventure. The sun shone so brightly outside today; busied with packing, I thought wait for me, anxiously. At any moment such blue skies can turn.

How unpredictable, this life. I hold on, as best I can.

In Sweden

It's never dark when I go to bed, now. It's never dark. There's only that hushed blue blanket spread over everything. Modern glassed-in buildings reflect ever-so slightly a greenish tone, a spot of peach, and you don't know if that's dusk or that's dawn. There is no black.

I think if someone asked me, what my favorite thing was, in this entire life, I think that would be it.

Quote

http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/10/13/goodbye-newhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif-york-thanks-for-breaking-my-heart/

Summer Solstice, Revisited

A slight unease crept along my spine today. I forgot it in the downpour, in the return of sunshine. I forgot it in the row of things to do, on the balcony on the South island, in tickets booked. But as I walked home in the soft twilight, the grass so wet but the sky so blue, Stockholm resting, oblivious to the magic, it twinged in my headphones. Today was Summer Solstice.

And how quickly the joy of the longest day of the year is tarnished by its inevitable dark side: tomorrow, the sun will remain below the horizon for just a little longer. Every day gets shorter now. At the cusp of summer in full, I already longed for next spring.

But in my pocket lay a key, to yet another home, a temporary refuge for future days. There are dear, dear souls around me who open their riches, their homes to me when I have none, who take my hand and take me safely to shore, time after time. My cup runneth over.

What's a little darkness, with people like that in one's life?

and Heaven, Too

I bit my lip today, again, again, I forget and it gets worse. Early in the evening, how happy we were, how long the night ahead. We spoke of our youth, remembered. I had forgotten what a bad friend I was, what a good friend you were. I never deserved all this love, and here we are, adults, I still feel the same.

We reached the roof top bar at the city's darkest hour, and with every drink you bought, dawn spread further over the city. It's not a Manhattan skyline, but it's home now. Somewhere, down there, by that church spire, is my apartment, my bed, at least for another night.

I'm sorry I was distant, I'm sorry my mind disappeared. I saw that pink light spread across the buildings, it got too much, too big, too overwhelming. I'm sorry I forgot to listen, to respond. By the time we parted ways, by the time I walked that long street home, it was so light, I had no darkness in which to hide, I felt so exposed.

My defenses begin to crumble, to give in. I remember, I become aware of where I am. It's not that I don't love you, it's just that my heart is in a million pieces, and only one lies here. Place your bets. Accept your losses. Life will still be here for you, in the morning.

House Lights

We sat in the kitchen window, leaning out to keep the smoke from blowing straight in. I couldn't count the bottles on the table. I don't know what was said. My mind is a fog and I just try to keep up with conversation.

Last night I dreamed of my old roommate on Morton, of the puppies; they came on a bus and the hellos were shorter than the goodbyes. Gut-wrenching goodbyes and the bus doors closed with me in them. My subconscious opens the door to what has come, at last. I woke up heart-broken.

There are no rats in the Stockholm subway. It's so clean, the air is so cool. I miss them, their companionship. It may sound strange. But I think of it every time I stand on that platform. It's not the big things I miss; the big things remain. But New York, honey, you were nestled into my every pore, every hidden fold, every dusty corner.

I walk these streets prouder now, than I used to. But I am perpetually lost, without you.

Something Lasting

I take a break, just a few hours, just a few moments to myself and my headphones and I stare into the whitewashed walls that are not mine, that offer me refuge from anything that ever was. Overwhelming waves of words, of thoughts, of feelings wash over me, move me across the shoreline of awareness. Life is long. You were someone long before I knew you. I was someone long before I got here, and so few things are constant.

I admire the dedicated their devotion, the passion that lay in them when their hearts were only beginning to sprout. I envy them and think what the hell are you trying to do?, convince myself it was too late for me to blossom years ago.

When I was seven, I wrote a story. A silly story, it doesn't matter now. I told my father I was going to be a writer. He said yes, I think so. Sometimes we have to lose all we have, to be found.

Partials

Don't you want to just crash on the couch? my sister asked as I gathered my things. But I didn't. I longed for that walk home, home to my borrowed nook in the narrow alleys on another island. When the city is finally quiet, the Japanese tourist gone home, the self-conscious eyes of the homogenous people asleep. I walked across the bridge and the City shone; at the day's darkest hour, the sky was still deep blue. A full moon hung low over the south island, its right side nibbled on by an eclipse. I walked the whole way home sensing something was missing. Interpreting symbolism seemed superfluous.

I turned the corner down the narrow street of my home; how quiet it was. I allowed my steps to slow, I took in the night. Imagined hundreds of years of people walking these same streets, how this church had been a beacon at the top of the hill for centuries, how much life ran through the veins that are these streets and how insignificant my place in them. And yet here I was, a part of them nonetheless. The eclipse passed. The magic remained.

You say all the right things. I'm listening, but I don't know if you can hear it.

of Rain

I stood in the shower until the water ran cold over my skin. I knew I should get out but could not. I shivered.

The rain finally came tonight. Funny, all these days I longed for it, but when it came it washed all the bounce out of my step. I wrap myself in your words for warmth but you are still impossibly far away. They are just a reminder of distance. Doubt sweeps in and pulls the rug from under me; what the hell did we think we were doing?

My thoughts a jumble, I drag myself to bed early. Perhaps, tomorrow, the sun will shine again. Perhaps, tomorrow, it will be a whole new day.

Cobbled

The forecast called for rain, and again it did not come. I stumbled awkwardly over narrow cobblestone alleys in the Old Town, navigating to a door and a key in hiding. A friend away on travels, I land for but a few nights under his low ceilings, perpetually moving to stay a step ahead. The dark sandstorms nip at my heels, my head aches and my body starves. The money runs out, so quickly it runs, but the weekend is unrelenting, depositing me at a hundred sunsets, a hundred drinks, with more lovely faces than I knew I had in this city. I cannot say no, I revel in every moment.

There is too much to contemplate, too much to digest. In the West lies an entire city and carries on without me; my heart burns longing for it but my eyes stay shut to its memories. Stockholm tempts me with its glittering waters, its late-night whispers of adventure on the horizon. The faster I run, the longer I keep this giggle in my heart.

It's just tonight I'm so weary. In a borrowed bed, in the ancient house, I sleep long before the sun sets.

Crane Wife

Stockholm, 3 a.m. and dawn. The soles of my feet so weary, the souls of my feet. Worn. I know where to turn, I know where the bridge is; it's not the one you said but I found it. The city is quiet now, so quiet, and light. All I can think of is Houston street, on one of those mornings, how many mornings there were; this walk is longer. These shoes used to walk those streets; is it always this quiet here? Every minute is closer to morning. It was already morning when we parted.

You said, it will be okay, and I didn't think much of it, but those streets leave me so much time to think and when I digested your words all I had was tears.

I took my shoes off before I reached the bridge. It didn't help. I was still left alone with my thoughts and that ache in my feet. Don't settle in, don't pack your bags. Limbo is eternal.

If you would only hold my hand, I imagine it would be okay. If I would only unpack my bags, perhaps this would be real enough and I would stay. The city is light, now. I will sleep until I wake.

Feel His Disease

The unease begins to settle in my stomach, it refuses to go away. I feel restless, but my moves are so slow. Perhaps reality is beginning to kick in.

How long it was all I could do to focus on the move. Pack your bags, get out alive. Deal with the rest when you know if you survive. Now a whole new life appears and demands my attention, my efforts. People around me ask of plans and road maps; they have years and years properly outlined, how can I not? But I have nothing to offer them, nothing to offer myself. Every night is the end of my foreseeable future. I have gathered my roots in a shopping bag, and the slightest gust of wind may carry me off. I adore the thought. I abhor the thought. I run in circles until my legs are sore.

So many years, and how little you have changed. How the itch still tears your skin into a boiling shelter, how your fear of heights still keeps you from leaping. You wander in limbo until your dreams and your nightmares are one and the same.

One day the awakening will be rude.

Get Used to It

Afterthoughts

Blistered feet and my shoulders turn brown quickly. A trickle of sweat down the small of my back and I go to the grocery store in silence, savoring moments alone, the opportunity to greet this city. You and I, Stockholm, we're going to be friends, I whisper to the streets. When the sun shines like it does today, it's not hard to imagine it whispering back.

My words have changed; I can feel them rearrange themselves and pick their stories from a different palette. I miss the ones that disappear in the move, try not to mourn them, not yet. My body races with adrenaline and a thirst for adventure. I think of you all the time. My heart beats the same fired blood as ever.

South Town

The walk home was long, but lovely, and I knew my way the whole time. Stockholm so quiet but the sun not quite down, a layer of pink and peach and warmth spreading across the old buildings, over the moon. The drink became drinks, the sunlight became dusk and a million possibilities in the making. I will see you Friday, she said and we giggled.

This is home now.

For what it's worth.

(And right now it is worth everything.)

Slussen

At the edge of the Old Town, a pier in the water, and it's my first minute to myself since I arrived. The sudden silence surprises me; I sit in the afternoon sun and let it sink in. This is my city now, my home away from whatever home I supposedly have. An Australian girl sleeps in my bed on Morton Street; it is not mine.

This is all I have.

How familiar it is, and yet how foreign. I try to wrap my head around what has happened, and cannot. I fall short of words. Those New York streets, gone. Familiar faces, familiar airs, gone. I slept with the window open last night and was grateful for the trafficked streets; the sounds soothed me. A new life in the making: mine.

I stub my cigarette in the wooden boardwalk planks, gather my things, go to meet an old friend for a drink in the sunlight.

A new friend now. I can but roll with the punches.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

When I was eleven, my family moved to America, for the first of what would be countless times. I have heard the story a hundred times. How I stepped in through the doorway, into that confusingly large atrium in our new house. How I set my bag down. How I proclaimed Well, this is home now. And that was that.

A million lifetimes later, I drag my heavy bags up unending flights of stairs in an old building in the sunny city, the streets littered with coffee house chairs and holiday moods. I tuck my bags, my only possessions now, my snail shell contents, into a corner of the familiar room. There is no telling what this will all become, what lies ahead. I do not ponder it.

This is home now.

We take our champagne bottle, head out into the day that never becomes night, and go where the road takes us.

The Verge

Happy Last Night in NYC! the text buzzed my phone. People were clearing out, going home, tomorrow is a work day and these goodbyes are better off ripped like band-aids anyways.

I do not know what is going on.

We laugh, we reminisce, we make fun of each other and move on to the next wine, the next meal, the next step, it is all surreal and I laugh through it all. My dear, dear, dearest sit on the stoop and we have nothing to say except I'll see you soon. Just yesterday we were on a porch in upstate New York sipping Gin and Tonics and singing the blues. No wonder life seems surreal.

There are too many words to sum up, too many feelings to dissect and recall. There is no use. I get silly drunk, talk of details and pretend this moment is forever. They slip me trinkets in carefully wrapped boxes; I sleep with the reminders of who I am, where I've been.

Tomorrow, tomorrow I will digest. Tomorrow I will let this all sink in and I will miss you, I will cry for you, I will put into words the feelings that I cannot now reach--I didn't even cry when you walked away, did you notice that? Tomorrow I will cry. Tomorrow I will sit on a plane across the wide blue ocean and I will realize what is going on, and there will be no way to get off. That is when tears will form, when words will form, it will all hit me and that which is now a vague dream will become real.

Revel in this last moment of innocence, dear. You may be in, for a a bumpy ride.