Blowing

times have changed
but fuck it

get a new watch.

Rest Stop

Tonight I am tired. Not weary, not worn. Tonight my limbs ache and my mind treads a thick syrup, my breaths are shallow. Tonight the air went out of me and my eyelids are heavy, oh how heavy, but not despondent, not giving up, in.

It seems a part of me relaxed. It seems a part of me landed.

For what it's worth, this sleep shall be sweet.

Less/Home/Less

Tonight I stood in a new room in an unknown apartment and unpacked my clothes for the first time in three months. It is not forever, it is merely postponing homelessness for a few weeks.
But when I logged into the wireless network, a sign said "This is your Home", and it made me smile. Sometimes, such simple treats are all it takes. I sleep in a bed tonight, in a room with a door and my clothes in a drawer.
Tonight is a good night.

Sun-day.

Clouds of hangover remained once the storm passed, memories of a day waded through the fog and rearranged themselves slowly in my veins. Some pieces already lay softly where they should, sunshine and soulful proximity and gratitude, while others tumbled about with their hard edges and tried to make sense. Distraction came from across oceans and for a moment the question marks stayed silent; my muscles stretched and realized how content they were.

The walk home was lovely, cool, but unguarded moments make way for confused pieces to resurface, kick their jagged edges into the soft lull of the stroll. I saw you in the street and the pieces didn't fit until it was too late.

I falter, sometimes, wobble in my composure and forget my direction. But things are looking up, dear, they are really looking up. When the fog is still so thick, why else would my soul be smiling so?

29

The heart is a very small muscle. It powers our entire lives and yet is no larger than our fist. It amazes me how much it can contain. That within its fragile walls lie all that love and gratitude that make up our existence.

That within mine beats memories of breakfast in bed, of coffee along the water, of summer returning for one glorious warm, sunny day, of Mapplethorped soul old friendship cigarettes, of music and drinks, of parties and presents. Of hurricane phone calls and cobblestoned meetings. Of one moment when all the other worries washed away, and what remained were the eyes of those I love, who treat me better than I deserve, who love me when I don't know my own name, who stay on the line till all the words have been said and I stare out over the misty city reflecting in still waters and think Oh that's how those pieces fit together and see my crooked patterns make sense against the bruised and scarred lining of the very muscle that powers me.

Do you think of her often? she asked me as we sat on the street, too tired to return to the party and drifting into Bigger conversation. And I do. I think of you, and all the years you lost, all the life. I think of me, of all the years I had ahead of me that I did not know would come, that I could have never dreamed.

My heart has grown a million times since then. Getting older is not too bad, then.

On Comic Tragedy

Early morning, we rise in a fog and stow away the beds, the chairs, the bags of clothes. I pack a small bag and trudge through the streets toward the new, gleaming office, already tired, already weary of the days ahead. Another favor asked, another kind hand extended even when I know she should have said no. Just a few more days, I think, and scold myself for my spoiled issues. That my back aches from carrying a heavy laptop, that I leave clothes in my sister’s car so that I will have something clean to wear come tomorrow’s festivals, that I am throwing a great party on Saturday and haven’t the time or place for cake-making.

This is a beautiful city, summer remains in the wind, there is music, and wine, and life to be had, and beautiful friends with whom to share them. What have I to mourn? What pity is there to possibly take on me?

I slap my ridiculous ego for its childishness, go back to work. One day this will all be a romantic memory of my youth, and I won’t understand how it could have been so sad.

Off the Island

The trip out was quick, suburbs so well connected in daylight. By the time I was going home, trains were running on midnight schedules and I sat yawning at every missed connection.

There’s so much air out there, such vast views and long sunsets. Well-fed, content with the company, wine glasses in hand, we retired to the living room and spoke of old New York, of the impossible Charles Street door that threatened to fall apart at every turn but wasn’t that neighborhood the best of all? The new arrival anxiously awaits his time to go, and I can’t help but think of the streets he’ll walk, bring up the subject at every turn. That heart beats perpetually; there is always someone ready to gaze at New York with stars in their eyes.

I didn’t know you before New York. I see you here, now, we share the same city again, speak the same language, but it still strikes me as an aside, an oddity. In my mind I still see you on West Village corners, remember how much we missed you when you left and forget to rejoice in proximity.

Things were not easier then. They just look so pretty, in retrospect.

and Curiouser

We crossed the island, knocked on a glass door. A man our age picked up the barking dog to let us in; we took our shoes off and looked around. We don't know how, but we'll make it work, he said, and his smile was warm, sincere. Perhaps there, in that corner, at that desk, we could create an office for ourselves. We could build our future.

Later, I climbed that hill, the same hill from my first week in Stockholm when the sun shone and old friendships were made new, when the city lay as yet another undiscovered Pearl in my hands. I turned the corner, found the code in my phone, climbed the stairs, narrow winding stairs but not many. An hour later, and I had staved off homelessness for another month. I'll clear some stuff out. I wasn't looking for a roommate, but you can stay here for a while. Tumbling down the hill, how light my steps, how full my heart of gratitude. Another stranger on the list of people who keep me alive on this Mad trek, and my weariness subsides, if only just a little.

And then that voice came down the line, that familiar voice I have heard so many years. It was the same, and yet something intangible had changed. The baby girl had finally arrived, no one could comprehend and yet we all knew things will never be the same. I can't believe she is finally here, really here, with us. I find myself afraid of everything. Life is beautiful in its simplicity.

Today I dared to believe at least three impossible things before breakfast, and somehow they dared to come true. I may be on borrowed time, but it's so much better, than having run out.

Uncertainties

Muscles compressed around an immobile spine. All the time this bright Sunday sunshine beaming through the windows, sounds from the street a constant reminder of a life outside. Finally, in the evening, I put on clothes, boots, music, I go out. Walk around the island and look at the concrete. It is, as ever, reassuring. I sit on a park bench and write, a quiet refuge nestled in along a hedge, unassuming. I never could write in cafés, even though it is the fashionable thing to do. By the time I walk the hill back to the place where I sleep, pink clouds billowing out at the point where the street ends in a sharp drop to the harbor, I feel revived, if only partly.

These wretched spirals into isolation and dread, these long hours of doubt and longing.. Does everyone carry them in their hearts? Do they carry on their daily lives under such heavy boulders and simply bear it? Is this what it is to be human?

Dumbfounded, I creep into my cot. Tomorrow is Monday. The world begins anew.

By Any Other Name

Rained Out

The trickle increased. The block party moved under umbrellas and awnings, anxious hipster bodies huddled tightly together without seeing each other, without touching. We moved between bars, gigs, warm basement spaces where no words were heard, only quick glances at indifferent shoulders, feet moving temporarily to heavy beats. A band played in a window; we stood outside to hear their last giggles. The rain picked up and we pointed our one umbrella ahead of us, in two steps we were home.

I woke up for a second. The rain had turned into a flood, the streets were quiet. The summer party washed away. Tomorrow, we wake late. The morning will be new. The city, too.

Rot

It's not as if I'm on the streets; it's not as if I'm starving. My life is privileged, and I have a million opportunities to fall back on to secure a home, an income, a bearable existance. I've done the rounds this summer, I know how incomprehensible my choices seem and how many people would rather I pulled myself out of this slum and arranged for my civilized life.

But I sit neatly between that rock and that hard place, unable to move, unwilling. Meanwhile, hours pass, days, weeks, I do not budge. What use is freedom when perched on such a precarious ledge? I daren't laugh, or dance, or write, for fear of falling into dark waters. But I cannot take the chartered course, cannot wade in low tide and watch my life lull itself to death. Apathy makes the floor tremble.

In medieval times, did they not pull torture victims apart by their limbs, torn in opposite directions until they broke? Unsure of my crime, I await my judgement.

(And the truth is, I miss you.)

All My Cards

Stockholm, I had so nearly given up on you. Had scuffed the edges of my heart and lost its luster in the ever-growing piles of worry and discontent. Had hung your picture frame next to New York's and found your colors to fade, too fast.

But as I left his apartment in the Old Town, rolling a cigarette along busy cobblestoned alleys and navigating the bridge and the hills of the south, the slightest calm eased into my step. The streets were busy, the air was warm, the city was alive with people and music and life, at every corner lay opportunity in that last shred of golden dusk. There has to be hope in a city like that, there has to be potential within.

Stockholm, I am here now. I haven't the option to leave you, nor you the one of kicking me out. Stockholm, my dearest. Can't we please be friends?

Skånegatan

A concert in the park ends. Floods of people trickle down the hill, past the old wooden houses--this used to be the poor worker's streets, how they toiled through life and died young, how they drank, their spirits line the gutters. Now we are all 25 something and pretend bohemians but we can still afford expensive beers and heavily taxed smokes, it doesn't seem right. I ease into the sidewalk bar nonetheless, it can't be helped. It's too lovely, the friends too dear. The night is warm, the sky blue, who knows how many more nights like this we get. My phone beeps and I make plans for tomorrow, count on another sunny day.

For a moment, everything seems possible. For a moment, my place in this city seems real, sound, I bank on it and pretend there is no earthquake at my every step. I make believe this is my life, and I am grateful.

I count on another sunny day. I will, until the earth gives way beneath me.

Truth.

Discovered,
in letter to self:

Pay back your debts. Re-earn your friends. They are your best attribute.

I can't help
but find
the words wise.

List

To Do:
-Live in big city. Spend days wandering concrete ground, converse with sky high buildings, sleep in soothing traffic white noise, enjoy company at any odd hour of bright lights and lost souls. Revel in dirty, grimey, unending energy, sooted lungs and cynicized heart. Write.

-But for three months of the year, move to sun-warmed cliff along western coasts, let hair white and skin brown, wash body clean in cool, clear waters, sleep in salted limbs and roll of waves, stare blinded into sun and never tire. Dream.

A day such as this,
my slate is clean.

Dylan. Esque.

I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours.

(I said that)

Aside

This city is beautiful
breathtaking
home
How many years have passed
since we first boarded that tram
with our suitcases
and we didn't know where we were going?
Now it is
where I'm from.

And I don't belong
anymore.

Kino

Long slow dusk and billowing clouds in the twilight. A tram in another direction, a bed in another neighborhood, we climb the bridge, and across the water familiar hills stretch west towards the sea. It is breathtaking.

The bar is quiet, Monday night quiet, we nestle in along the counter and catch up. Mere weeks have passed, entire lives have up and overed like eggs flipped in Sunday morning frying pans for breakfast the kind that lasts for hours. Words flow in, out, exploding laughter and profound sentiment trickle between rounds. This is friendship.

I am tired of talking of myself.
These are the people who matter.

and No Return

Finally the airwaves aligned and we saw each other on the computer screens, I heard the few words that had returned to her voice, pieced together the stories while one of the babies fell asleep on her arm. How impossibly long it seems since that Sunday in May when we stood by your hospital bed and thought we might lose you; how difficult it was to remember a moment before.

You said you can't sing anymore. There is no pitch left. You haven't tried your fingers on a piano, but I should; maybe something you once knew well will still linger in them, if you did. You had such a beautiful voice. We spent so many hours around that piano, and I don't know who I'd be without that.

I saw a concert with Regina, she was in London, I saw her warm up against that piano and it was hard to hear where her body began, where the ivory ended. I remembered hours, days spent by the piano when I had one, my entire wretched youth wrapped around that wooden box, released through a tapestry of notes, of songs, of music. I would not have survived my youth without it. It amazes me I survive adulthood.

If your voice can be taken from you, the music ripped from your fingertips, do you not owe it to yourself to play like hell while you can? Do not I? I resolve to unearth my piano again, to raise my voice. Perhaps I feel I owe it, to you.

L'Assassino

It wasn't till later
much later
on the tram home
when we were drunk
and that guy came
and invited us
to his after party
and we laughed
but we loved
that he invited
us

that I realized

the point of this
whole evening
was to remind me
that the best
and dearest
and nearest
friends

are
mine.

Question

Do you ever feel
like that ball of lead
that yarn of anxiety
just grows
and grows
and spins out of control
and you sort of let it
and you sort of encourage it
because you figure
you'll deal with it soon enough
anyways
and then you don't

and then it becomes
this immense shadow
in the corner of your eye

until you realize
that yarn is
mostly
thin air
and you should get your act
together
because grown people
aren't afraid of the dark
and you really
really
ought to stop
making such a
big
deal
of something
that was not
that big
to begin with
?

I do.

Who Are You?

Gothenburg, Revisited

Last night with a suitcase rolling behind us as we made our way through the city, waving our hellos at every street corner, how comforting the little city seemed. Later, at the bar, he told me he had lived in a total of three places in his 31 years and I could do naught but stare at him wide-eyed. My little black book of addresses inhabited has become too scribbled in to count, any more. Tonight I walked home through our old courtyard, and I swear the grass there is greener now. It was so quiet, eerie. I knew it so well but it is not mine, anymore.

We spent the day by the sea, and wasn't it a little warmer, didn't the sun shine a little brighter? I came home with the slightest tingle of salt sprinkled on my skin, reveled in running water, showered so long I nearly forgot my appointments.

The night ran long; our conversation refused to end. We sat in the courtyard, rolling countless cigarettes, and at every turn in the stories, my eyes filled with tears. Such is life, when you put words to it. I walked home with the same music in my ears, but the streets were entirely different. So dark, so empty, and yet endlessly familiar. These streets which were my streets, this city that was my home. I think perhaps it's a different place entirely.

I suspect I am not the same, myself.