The boat had that Sunday morning feel about it, smelled of coffee, not much talking. Not much of anything, it was mostly me and the German tourists. I sat in the windy sunshine and read my book, passed century-old summer houses in the archipelago before we slowed down and entered the Stockholm harbor. Here it is, here is my city, I thought, My brand new city all to myself and I wondered if it had missed me when I certainly had missed it. Weeks on that island, in such a paradise of warm sunshine, ocean suds, fiery dusk and endless wine, I felt ungrateful to long for streets, but it could not be helped.
We finished brunch at the one spot in town that was not vacation vacant and walked out onto scorching streets, strolled through antique shops and giggling at the stories that caught us up. The concrete underneath my feet soothed me, the friendly voice and familiar streets. I reassured myself that we were in no hurry; when the summer ends, I will have months yet in which to overindulge in them, friends and streets alike. I have had that feeling before. When New York was truly new and the entire adventure lay ahead.
How quickly I tear out the pages that came before. How eager to land on unwritten sheets.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
"But I Hope"
Endless delving in the misery; we read every new article and are appalled. A dear visitor arrives on the island, and over countless glasses we still go over the details, the little scraps of anything we know. We try to make sense, we try to connect. We are but human. We wallow in the tragedy, to try to understand.
When I woke up this morning, the sun was finally shining. A soft, steady light, unmarred by wind or clouds, the sea a blue glass mirror below. I turned on my computer and found a video waiting, just a short clip, just a greeting from a friend. But it was so much more than that. It was you. Since last I saw you, you've come home. Since last I saw you, you've held your babies and found new words. Since last I saw you, you've begun to smile.
And for all that is awful, and hopeless, and tragic in this world, for all that is incomprehensibly cruel, this one thing seemed proof that there is something left to fight for. You reminded me what a beautiful thing it is, Life. You reminded me these tears, could also be for good.
When I woke up this morning, the sun was finally shining. A soft, steady light, unmarred by wind or clouds, the sea a blue glass mirror below. I turned on my computer and found a video waiting, just a short clip, just a greeting from a friend. But it was so much more than that. It was you. Since last I saw you, you've come home. Since last I saw you, you've held your babies and found new words. Since last I saw you, you've begun to smile.
And for all that is awful, and hopeless, and tragic in this world, for all that is incomprehensibly cruel, this one thing seemed proof that there is something left to fight for. You reminded me what a beautiful thing it is, Life. You reminded me these tears, could also be for good.
Monday, July 25, 2011
In Paradise
The day after the ground shook in Norway, everything moved so slowly on the island. What point was there in sun-basking, in happy socializing? I drowned in newspapers and stared into distant walls. We offered to make blueberry pie for the evening’s barbecue and I jumped at the opportunity to gather berries, needed the distraction.
Nature so quiet but the iPod so loud, between songs I would realize the stillness around me and it was only disconcerting. The blueberry patches stretched infinitely around me, it’s a good year this year, and I stood in a sea of blue, plump berries in every direction. Picked one. Picked hundreds. Filling my bowl, I had more than enough. Picked more. One by one, unable to stop, I simply focused on the simple act of carrying each berry to the bowl and stretching out for more. The loud music and repetitive behavior numbingly comfortable in an incomprehensible world. My fingers turned red, dark red, blood red. The pie was made, we still had blueberries for days.
Most of these days have passed in silence. It is too hard to speak of what has been, it seems impossible to speak of anything else. Life will return, words will return, it is inevitable. It’s just a matter of enduring the silence in between.
Nature so quiet but the iPod so loud, between songs I would realize the stillness around me and it was only disconcerting. The blueberry patches stretched infinitely around me, it’s a good year this year, and I stood in a sea of blue, plump berries in every direction. Picked one. Picked hundreds. Filling my bowl, I had more than enough. Picked more. One by one, unable to stop, I simply focused on the simple act of carrying each berry to the bowl and stretching out for more. The loud music and repetitive behavior numbingly comfortable in an incomprehensible world. My fingers turned red, dark red, blood red. The pie was made, we still had blueberries for days.
Most of these days have passed in silence. It is too hard to speak of what has been, it seems impossible to speak of anything else. Life will return, words will return, it is inevitable. It’s just a matter of enduring the silence in between.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
On Wounds Opened
A bomb explodes in the country next door. A street like a war zone and windows shattered. We lay disconnected on a sun-drenched cliff and remarked how lovely it was.
A deranged gunman steps onto an island, massacres dozens upon dozens of children trying to make a difference with the tools of democracy they've been offered. We went for a swim in still waters, not a sound to be heard but birdsong and our own laughter. Not until much, much later, when the sun had grown cooler, the barbecue coals had died down, the wine was finished, did we connect to the outside world, did we hear the disaster that struck so close to home.
Norway, our little brother. A nation we so reluctantly let go a hundred years ago, they fought and tugged to be free and yet not a weapon was fired. Norway, our dear ally, our closest friend, a million ties across the borders and our languages entwined. So many of us welcomed into their land of riches, so many of our dear friends still there now.
We thought we were safe in our sheltered peninsulas up north. We thought we were immune to hatred and insane violence, that we were free. Don't call me, came the texts to loved ones on the mainland. I am hiding, and I don't want him to hear me.
The island is beautiful today, sunshine and a light breeze. It's quiet, calm. Reality is incomprehensible. The words are not enough.
A deranged gunman steps onto an island, massacres dozens upon dozens of children trying to make a difference with the tools of democracy they've been offered. We went for a swim in still waters, not a sound to be heard but birdsong and our own laughter. Not until much, much later, when the sun had grown cooler, the barbecue coals had died down, the wine was finished, did we connect to the outside world, did we hear the disaster that struck so close to home.
Norway, our little brother. A nation we so reluctantly let go a hundred years ago, they fought and tugged to be free and yet not a weapon was fired. Norway, our dear ally, our closest friend, a million ties across the borders and our languages entwined. So many of us welcomed into their land of riches, so many of our dear friends still there now.
We thought we were safe in our sheltered peninsulas up north. We thought we were immune to hatred and insane violence, that we were free. Don't call me, came the texts to loved ones on the mainland. I am hiding, and I don't want him to hear me.
The island is beautiful today, sunshine and a light breeze. It's quiet, calm. Reality is incomprehensible. The words are not enough.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Night Swimming
There were thoughts, and thoughts avoided. There was a long day of plans and words on paper, waiting to be tied together, neatly wrapped, presented. I had them on the tip of my tongue.
But then the sun began to set, a great big peach of fire in the west, and I quickly changed, nearly ran down to the water. The pine trees were on fire, bright orange and red flames trickling through their branches, spreading onto the cliffs, the jetties and boats. The water was still, so still, and bright yellow in the low sunlight. I remembered a film I saw as a child, about whales escaping oil spills and fire on the water. Fire on the water! It seemed impossible in the world I knew.
For a minute, I let the warm rays dance across my skin, my hair in the breeze, and I dove in. Let the cold water surround me, mingle with my skin until I no longer knew where I ended and the sea began. After the initial shock settled, how sweet the moment, and I could not get myself to get up. Swam long strokes straight ahead, saw my fingers lift the clear water, break the surface, while I aimed for the island across the strait, still aflame in the setting sun. There was not a sound in the world but my steady strokes, my breaths, I was alone with the swallows, who skimmed the surface around me.
Eventually I got up, of course, the fire had died in the trees, left a purple shimmer for a few minutes before returning them to their regular browns and greens. The sea was still quiet, but the magic was gone. I carried a piece with me. Everything else had been washed away.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
On Summer
How quickly the clouds disappear when the sun returns, every rainy sense of futility that was so close the day before is swept out to sea and I lay blissful in the bright light, basking. Feel the browning of skin freckle my heart with happiness, the cold water so welcoming against my restless body. Not a care in the world could ruin such a day, such a bouncy step. Another bottle of wine opened before the mosquitoes arrive and the neighbor returns to his home across the blueberry patch. We wash up dishes on the porch against a pink sunset; when I walk back to my cabin, the grass is dewy cool against my bare feet.
Such is bliss. We remember to love it all the more recklessly when the memory of cold rain nips at our heels and hearts.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
In the Country
The key falls down the mail slot and I am reduced to but one small key on my chain. It leads to a storage outside the city; only one box there bears my name. Within an hour, I am sitting in a boat, being rowed across the straight to that small cabin which will now be our home. The evening is cool, but we jump in nonetheless; I will swim every day we are out here, I proudly proclaim. I will hold you to that, she snickers incredulously.
We make friends with the neighbor over a bottle of champagne and wild strawberries. Dinner is all soft cheese and smoked salume red wine lingering cigarette smoke. At ten it is still light, and I am exhausted. I retire to the small guest house in back, a cottage the size of my New York room and four bunk beds stacked against the walls. It’s just me. The walls smell of ancient lives and 70’s patterns. The water from the well tastes of minerals but is cool. I put on wool socks, bring my book (a book! How long has it been since I’ve read!), and climb the bunk on the left. My body unwinds, slowly, reluctantly. I have forgotten where my phone is. The night is impossibly quiet. I drift away.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
College Ruled
I doubt. All the time I doubt, there is so little conviction. It's too easy to take a step back, get in line, march on. Today I reached the end of the notebook in which I work, write lists, brainstorm words, and in the back was scribbled:
Don't make a backup plan.
Have nowhere to fall.
Nothing to catch you.
If the landing is soft,
you will fall.
If the abyss is deep
and dark
and impossible
and impossible
You will leap.
Our greatest enemy is fear.
Our greatest motivator, too.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Mountain High
Just the overnight bag this time, just a temporary displacement. We journey all the way to the top of the hill and it's a whole other world. In the east, the entire city spreads out below our feet, but when we go for a walk around the neighborhood, we could just as easily be in a tiny town miles away. Lush, green forests spread out; we climb a cliff and watch a low-hanging sun over swimming children in still waters. It's funny, I thought that was what I longed for: quiet nights close to nature, soft earth at my feet and silent air in my breath. But now that I have it, I miss busy streets and throngs of people, concrete shadows and unattainable calm. Run, run as fast as you can. The lack will catch up with you, anyway.
The sun sets late in the high rise at the top of the hill. A modest skyline lights up, the waters reflect their dark oil paints and the sky dances its peaches, its pastels. Last night's unrest heavies my eyelids. I lie down on a couch in a room full of windows. I am closer to heaven than ever.
I would trade it for concrete; I would.
The sun sets late in the high rise at the top of the hill. A modest skyline lights up, the waters reflect their dark oil paints and the sky dances its peaches, its pastels. Last night's unrest heavies my eyelids. I lie down on a couch in a room full of windows. I am closer to heaven than ever.
I would trade it for concrete; I would.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
2:56 AM
The hard part
about having insomnia
so close to the arctic circle
is that before you've even gotten tired
of not getting tired,
it's already getting light outside
and you think
Perhaps it's time for breakfast
instead
but you aren't allowed
to get up
until you sleep
at least a little.
What a shame.
about having insomnia
so close to the arctic circle
is that before you've even gotten tired
of not getting tired,
it's already getting light outside
and you think
Perhaps it's time for breakfast
instead
but you aren't allowed
to get up
until you sleep
at least a little.
What a shame.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
New York, NY
It was nothing, it was just a picture. Just a snapshot of Houston street in muggy July weather and god that city was hot in the summer. How everything reeked of steaming garbage and every day was a battle between evaporating skin and freezing machines, and not even the nights were a cool refuge. A man on a bike, cars stalled, a piece of street art, there wasn't much to the picture. No matter.
Something about it reminded me that there is a New York still out there, not a figment of my imagination, but a real city, still vibrant, still alive with all the energy that makes New York what it is, that there are still people walking those streets as if nothing had changed; they will still bitch about it and never leave.
But something has changed. I am not there. Something about that picture reminded me that I am elsewhere, that the city is no longer mine. And tonight, at last, that breaks my heart.
Something about it reminded me that there is a New York still out there, not a figment of my imagination, but a real city, still vibrant, still alive with all the energy that makes New York what it is, that there are still people walking those streets as if nothing had changed; they will still bitch about it and never leave.
But something has changed. I am not there. Something about that picture reminded me that I am elsewhere, that the city is no longer mine. And tonight, at last, that breaks my heart.
July
It's so close I can touch it. If only I wanted it badly enough, it would be here. Yet the days pass, one after the other, according to custom, and the sand slips between my fingers. I am no closer, no further away, than yesterday, but in relation to the goal, I have no perception of distance.
It seems the days will carry on like this, one after the other, according to custom, until sweltering summer turns to yellowed leaves and rainy shivers, and a life will have built itself here, rooted me here. If you look back you won't know how it happened. It's so hard not to know where you stand.
It seems the days will carry on like this, one after the other, according to custom, until sweltering summer turns to yellowed leaves and rainy shivers, and a life will have built itself here, rooted me here. If you look back you won't know how it happened. It's so hard not to know where you stand.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Grenoble, Revisited
It's been over ten years now, since I first moved away from home. Eighteen years and on my way to France, I had no idea what life had in store or what it meant to make plans. I listened to my sister's tales of good times, I heard the fervor in Peter's voice as he spoke of the Road, and I went.
When we reached the town, we were homeless. Another lost soul joined; I still remember her black hair and broken dancer's body at the train station, and the day her hair turned white and nearly all fell out. We were young, we were lost, we went ahead anyway; what choice did we have?
Here's the point: in the many weeks we drifted around before finding our little apartment on Rue Revol, not once did we sleep in the streets. I still remember the feeling of immense gratitude towards these strangers, friends of friends of friends who took us in and lent us their spare mattresses, the Italians who only asked that we water their marijuana plants while they were away, the hair dresser who eventually saved the dancer's hair by an inch and let us stay in his loft and listen to his records. None of them had to bother, really, who were we to them? But they let us in to their homes, and I lay there on their mattresses, thinking If ever I get the opportunity to do this for someone else, I hope I will.
Ten years later, twenty-eight years and I still haven't a clue what life has in store. I am still homeless. And somehow, somehow I sleep in a bed tonight because the dear angels around me take me in and give me a piece of their home. Night after night, asking nothing in return, here they are, saving my life. Year after year. I do not deserve them. I accept their keys, their couches, their securities gratefully. I don't know how I got so lucky.
When we reached the town, we were homeless. Another lost soul joined; I still remember her black hair and broken dancer's body at the train station, and the day her hair turned white and nearly all fell out. We were young, we were lost, we went ahead anyway; what choice did we have?
Here's the point: in the many weeks we drifted around before finding our little apartment on Rue Revol, not once did we sleep in the streets. I still remember the feeling of immense gratitude towards these strangers, friends of friends of friends who took us in and lent us their spare mattresses, the Italians who only asked that we water their marijuana plants while they were away, the hair dresser who eventually saved the dancer's hair by an inch and let us stay in his loft and listen to his records. None of them had to bother, really, who were we to them? But they let us in to their homes, and I lay there on their mattresses, thinking If ever I get the opportunity to do this for someone else, I hope I will.
Ten years later, twenty-eight years and I still haven't a clue what life has in store. I am still homeless. And somehow, somehow I sleep in a bed tonight because the dear angels around me take me in and give me a piece of their home. Night after night, asking nothing in return, here they are, saving my life. Year after year. I do not deserve them. I accept their keys, their couches, their securities gratefully. I don't know how I got so lucky.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
En Train
Such few days of familiarity, of the confusion of normalcy, and I was back again at that train station. The train ride felt like minutes; I forgot to look at the rolling countryside, like I love, and suddenly we exited the tunnel and raced the last bit to Stockholm Central. Home.
It’s odd this life. How quickly we adapt (or not). New realities present themselves, and in their abstraction seem so concrete. Last night on a blanket with those closest to me, a year after last I saw them and it was as though not a day had passed. And now, gone again, but not nearly as far away as usual. The luxury of I’ll see you in a month, then.
The weekend reminded me of a life I left. A life of my own place, a proper job and early mornings. I sleep in a new bed tonight. This is the life I chose. This is the life that chose me.
We seem the perfect match.
It’s odd this life. How quickly we adapt (or not). New realities present themselves, and in their abstraction seem so concrete. Last night on a blanket with those closest to me, a year after last I saw them and it was as though not a day had passed. And now, gone again, but not nearly as far away as usual. The luxury of I’ll see you in a month, then.
The weekend reminded me of a life I left. A life of my own place, a proper job and early mornings. I sleep in a new bed tonight. This is the life I chose. This is the life that chose me.
We seem the perfect match.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
You Can't Go Home Again
Florida weather, she gasped, in ninety percent humidity and unusual heat, and our bodies were sticky as we left the dance floor for a breath of air. At the back of the boat, the sky was turning pink, and I couldn't get myself to stay. I started walking west, and before I was halfway home, the street lights turned off. I turned around to see dawn rise in the distance, over the statue of the sailor's wife, perpetually staring out to sea, her skirts forever blowing in the wind. We all long in vain. The breeze from the sea broke the heat, felt like home. The bridge is being repaired, and all its lights were out.
The walk took hours, I think, it never ended and yet I never stopped. My phone buzzed with illicit invitations to underground clubs I had forgotten, thrilled veins longed to go, but your words kept me company all the way home and I unlocked the door to a moment to myself. My head spins with stories of hearts broken, hearts melded, my own beats wildly and refuses to sleep.
How many times can I visit these streets, indulge in the obsession of home, before they lose their magic? The air smells of roses, of elder flowers and jasmine, but behind clouds, the sun never rises. I rinse the night off my skin, I hear your voice again. Hold on to words; when all the rest is washed away, only ink will remain.
The walk took hours, I think, it never ended and yet I never stopped. My phone buzzed with illicit invitations to underground clubs I had forgotten, thrilled veins longed to go, but your words kept me company all the way home and I unlocked the door to a moment to myself. My head spins with stories of hearts broken, hearts melded, my own beats wildly and refuses to sleep.
How many times can I visit these streets, indulge in the obsession of home, before they lose their magic? The air smells of roses, of elder flowers and jasmine, but behind clouds, the sun never rises. I rinse the night off my skin, I hear your voice again. Hold on to words; when all the rest is washed away, only ink will remain.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Returns
The city looks the same. The streets. I try to muster up an ounce of nostalgia, but the tram passes my old house without incident. It is what it always was. I know it too well to miss it.
The table gets longer, the chairs amass. Beautiful souls at every turn as the noise of the bar picks up. Familiarity such a luxury for the homeless. I know them too well to miss them, too.
I left this city. I left all that I had built, all those years and the foundation I fought so hard to secure. It doesn't matter.
I guess that's the thing about foundations. Once they've set properly, they remain, regardless.
The table gets longer, the chairs amass. Beautiful souls at every turn as the noise of the bar picks up. Familiarity such a luxury for the homeless. I know them too well to miss them, too.
I left this city. I left all that I had built, all those years and the foundation I fought so hard to secure. It doesn't matter.
I guess that's the thing about foundations. Once they've set properly, they remain, regardless.
P.S.
New York, honey. Don’t think for a second I have forgotten you. Don’t think for a second I don’t think of you every day, don’t miss your dirty, smelly streets, your invisible horizons and impossible freedom. Don’t think for a second my heart doesn’t break, all the time, for you. (Because it does.)
Exit
A whole week passes in a fog of moving boxes, of mementos packed and stories discarded. The first days so well organized; by the end, ladles are tossed in with books and curtain rods. We scrub tiles, carry recycling. Friends come by the dozens, shuttling goods down too many flights of stairs; their laughs echo up the stairwell and I love them immensely. We sit in the courtyard and drink champagne, build our histories, our geographies. When I last lock the apartment door, it is no longer ours. It smells of lemons and wood polish, a white canvas awaiting new artists. I drag my last bags to the train; within minutes of leaving the city, of running into the green, still countryside that I’ve known for so many years, I sleep.
It seems all I do is move out, lately. July spreads out before me, a summer of homeless vagabondery, of friends’ couches and traveling adventures. My head swims with words yet unwritten, my heart with gratitude for the beauty of it all. My cup runneth over; I run gladly, into whatever this way comes.
It seems all I do is move out, lately. July spreads out before me, a summer of homeless vagabondery, of friends’ couches and traveling adventures. My head swims with words yet unwritten, my heart with gratitude for the beauty of it all. My cup runneth over; I run gladly, into whatever this way comes.
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