2012.

You rise, in my opinion, he said, as I rolled a cigarette. And I don't even smoke. Still the corner came, and I left him. I don't want to rise. I don't want to look good in your eyes. I returned to an empty apartment and filled it with ghosts. My new year's letter told me stories I did not want to hear.

It dreamed of travel, of adventure, of love. It dreamed of excitement and owning what was yours. How every year is a clean slate once, and how quickly it becomes the same.

Tomorrow is no different, when the numbers have changed. Beware doll, you're bound to fall. Your throat is dry, your eyes. Nothing changes, this night like any other, such is life. Such is life.

New Year, New You. You promise things will be different. Keep your hands to yourself. There's a splinter in mine. Happy New Year. Happy. New. Year.

p.s.

When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose

the Ride

Push and Pull, up and down, it's an incessant roller coaster this life. Do you realize that a year ago today I was in Oz? Every New York day was a snow storm and I thought I'd never get out. Another year ends, a new one beckons, I am as clueless this time as everytime I stand on that threshold: this is the life I chose.

My landlord calls; 6 days before homelessness and he says maybe we can work something out; do you want to stay? A job application lies in wait. Three weeks of America and then I don't know anything, it doesn't faze me. You didn't want to go home tonight; there is no home; it breaks my heart to see you. Another year dawns. This time it will be different. A dear friend cries into the West Coast sun; I wanted to surprise you all by showing up. All the world is a stage; it is easily crossed.

This is the life we chose; don't you see? You with your poverty, your two houses, your three weeks of vacation, your creative genius. We made this bed. Let us lie in it till the sheets are crumpled and the numbers forget to matter.

The new year arrives. We are already here.

to Button

My days and nights twist; I sloth through the mornings and sprint through the nights, no matter. Disease rips at my veins and my patience, I do not care. It is time to pack, the months of relative stability come to an end, I tear at piles of papers and notes and reminders of seasons past. A small voice at the back of my spine whispers pack carefully, you may not return, and I laugh at the silly notion. My roommate said long ago she suspected I'd stay out there, that wanderlust would grasp me and I'd be lost to the moment. A craigslist ad appears in my News Feed, a friend of a friend, corner of Jones and Bleecker, decent price. I giggle again into the night.

I will be back, of course, I have promises and obligations, haven't I? (haven't I?) But all the time, that voice, helping me pack, one bag for summer suits, one for things I can live without in the coming month. things I can live without, period. I resist the urge to throw everything away. Who needs it. I caress Ginsberg on my dresser; he is so heavy, but I would carry him anywhere. What else is there? There's the clothes on your back, the letters of your loves, the machines of the modern world. Everything else you can do without. You are weightless, you are free, I am happy.

I will be back, of course. I have promises and obligations. I have. Just give me this moment, give me this breath of air, give me this smiling soul. I am happy.

Slate Clean

The infection slowly releases its grip on my body. My breaths are strained, slow, like those of an aging man, but my body begins to unfold itself, to awake. I sit in the living room in a yoga pose and let the pieces fall into the puzzle. With each stretching muscle, the picture becomes clearer: what must be done, what life this is to live.

I long for security, I do. I long for exactly the same stability that you carry with you, the savings account and predictability and control that you cannot live without; I am not inhuman. I am overwhelmed by the continuing support from those around me, who pick me up when I get too close to the edge, who feed me in every sense and who do not tire; I am ashamed of my continued need for them and inability to repay what I owe. I am not ignorant.

But I slip into the bath with Henry Miller, and he speaks of Greece and strangers who instantly feel like home, he bubbles with adventure and paints dinners like were they masterpieces of art. He speaks of home as a place one loves but itches to leave. You long to break out and test your powers... to make friends... to look beyond walls and cultivated patches of earth. You want to cease thinking in terms of life insurance, sick benefits, old age pensions, and so on. My toes began to wrinkle in the hot water, but my soul was young anew.

I ache now. But were I steadily confined within the walls of a job, a house, a savings account, would I not ache worse? I should come to my senses, I hear you. But I fear if I let go this dream, this itch, this fire, then I let myself give up, and I die.

I ache now. I am alive.

Completely Unscathed

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, and the lights sparkled like never before. We sat exhausted on a late night couch, our bellies full, our hearts warm, our senses satisfied. A call sprang to life on the screen, six hours back across the ocean and dinner was only starting. We joined them in their meal, told stories of the season, of the future, sang songs and toasted to the wonder. I walked home later, in the stream of holiday revelers returning to their beds, and remembered what I try so hard to forget.

Isn't it time you stopped whining about missing New York, he said weeks ago, before the beers grew too many. Isn't it time you got over it? I wanted to agree with him, I wanted to move on, because that is what people do. But when New York is the only place that has ever made sense, is the only place where none of the heartache, or fear, or sorrow matters, how can I? My every step in this life is shaky, and only those streets steady me. Please be patient. I am trying, as best I can.

If I were not here,
I would be nowhere.
If I were not here,
I would be no one.

And next year,
all our troubles
will be out of sight.

To Stay That Way

When they come to count the words
too much is still left unsaid
We scramble with pennies
I wish I had told you months ago
But the time will never be right
and I don't know how to make it.

I busy myself
with other tricks

It doesn't help.

Turbulence

How quickly the days pass. What a treat with upcoming festivities, parties, plans. Around each bend another treat. The research study continues, I spit in cups, I put numbers to feelings. All day, energy 8, 9, stress level 1, 2, sleepiness, 3. I leave my last sample when I am so tired I can no longer see straight. Sleepiness, 9, energy, 2, stress level 8. Numbers to the undefined, the knot in my gut, the unease. There is too much to be done. and every moment is precious.

Your words, they stir me, they remind me there is something I'm supposed to be doing.

I write a million lists. They're not it.

Vows

The Brooklyn winds are cold
sometimes
but the Brooklyn love
moves oceans
and lands
and weathers the storm
like it was inevitable.

I saw your faces
on the screen
so happy
like little kids
like this was the first day
and a million more would come
each better than the next
and every one was yours.

I don't know if there is
forever
but if there is
it always belonged
to you.

All Kidding You

The morning was early, alcohol still steeping slowly in my blood, when she packed up her bags. By the time I awoke again, she was gone. The apartment was quiet, the rain relentless. How lonely freedom feels, when it arrives on your doorstep uninvited. When you are left behind and nothing is the same anymore. The day became a steady stream of visitors, instead, to fill the void, to chase off the storm. For a minute, as we laid tangled on the couch, it snowed. That'll never last.

Later, wine bottles amassed and eyes grew hazy. Ears ringing, the silence made her quiver, we had no answers. Advice tossed around like question marks, not sure we'd know the target if we hit it. Castles build themselves in the sky.

I spend my days looking for ladders.

Substitute

My muscles are sore, my body tired. It is long before my bed time when I creep under covers and fight to stay awake. The days find me at a job long abandoned, it takes my every ounce of energy, I adore every minute.

That there is something at which one is intrinsically Good. That there is a spot where the pieces fall into place and something from the back of your spine steers. One of the children fell asleep on my arm while another nestled at my side; discomfort could not make me move an inch. Hours passed with little lives hanging on my hips as we went about the tasks at hand. As though there were a nook where they were meant to fit.

I stumbled weakly to the office, another shift to work through once the first was completed. Remembered the feeling of being good at something, and how many mornings I would wake exhausted but every time happy about the job to which I was about to go. My father told me it wasn't good enough; I know what he meant, and I know he was partly right. But to these children, all the world is new, every laugh is a clean slate. They look in my eyes, I am cured.

Who You Are

It creeps through me, unlocking secret passageways and doors long closed. It trickles through rusty veins and cold eyelids. A person too long forgotten, a laughter too rarely heard.

We sit on the couch, tipping random Rieslings and catching up the passing months since summer was young and the water was warm, and we built a friendship over bare feet and other bottles still. When we part ways at the train, our shoes are cold with rain but my heart is warm with reminders. A million post-its fly through my head with things that are wrong in life, but when he asked how things were, I said good, and at some point I realized I meant it. The list of people to adore grows long; it pins me to the city when I am not looking.

There is a force in my step again, I remember it from before; there is a smile in my eyes. It climbs up my spine, a winding course, I know what this is. This is happy, and the person forgotten, was me.

About Last Night

Sunday afternoon and the light lasts an hour but the coffee many more. As people traded, one after another, on the tables around us, we sorted through the definitions of our beings. Tell me about yourself. But there is no answer, to such a non-question. Choose your colors, paint your picture, this is the moment when your slate is clean. Your answers rehearsed, you've been practicing your social resume for months, they sound decent enough. You applaud yourself your ability to smile that genuine smile, blissfully ignorant of what lies behind it. Cold hands grow warm along the body of another, things begin that were not, before.

I don't know, I said later, on the couch with the roommate. I don't know, she replied. I don't know is not no. I don't know is not nothing.

Perhaps that, by default, makes it something.

M.R.I.

The morning after is always cruel in its daylight and in how clearly the colors arrange. You try to tie together the yarn that unraveled, salvage what escaped your yielding skin and sew it back into a person again. You cannot quite remember words, or reasons, or how the night even got so long; the edge of a winter storm whips at your feet as you stumble to work, but on the ground lies only cold water.

By the time I arrive at the hospital for a brain research study, the streets are dark again, yet my mind no sounder. But as I lie in the scanner tunnel, unable to move, or speak, or hear, only focusing on staying still and letting thoughts stream past unnoticed, a sense of calm descends through my veins.

I remember what you said. I heard what you didn't. I tie them in, when I put myself back together. And my brain looks just fine, in pictures.

Of Our Lives

My phone died before I'd even started the trek home, it was a long and silent walk, the bars closing. I focused on keeping feet straight and thoughts straighter and no worries tomorrow will be another day, the deadline will circle your drain as it does.

It was a perfect bar, it was. Nestled into its bureaucratic walls, only a small sign revealed its safe space of old men and rows of whisky. The bartender shook his head disapprovingly of my company; I loved him in an instant.

Secret stories make their way through my innards. How quickly the cab pulls over when you call it; it's just like New York and do you remember? I stumble over cobblestone streets numbly, reach my door, count down the minutes to my alarm.

How different these eyes will align
come morning.

But I Can't Change Time

Sounds of winter struck the pipe outside my window this morning: sleet dripping heavily to the ground, undecisively. When the movie was over, we ran through uptown Christmas-lit streets to catch the bus before the cold entered our hearts. What pride struck my senses as the curtains closed, and I remembered what it is like to surround oneself with creativity. Everyday they sit at desks around me, as though that were all there was to them, and suddenly credits roll with their names and I am in awe. How light a heart inspired.

Back on the south island, we squeezed in to the back of the crowded, little bar, all warm soft wood and ancient dusty details along the walls. Ancient dusty details on the bar stools, at that, with thick beards and tobacco packets in a row. I felt at home.

You have to give it a shot, you know. You can't make a home when you have been here mere months, she said, and was right, of course. I must sit on that wooden bench, drink my beer, and let Stockholm sink into my every limb.

How new the friendship and already how dear. I anxiously await the dust to settle. Become a regular. I have to give it a shot.

For the Long Run

I dreamed last night
that my family
were all running a marathon
together
and it was long
and hard
and we stopped along the way,
I needed to change my shoes.

And when I stepped out from that room
-what a long break I took-
how much faster my feet
we ran
my steps so light,
the hills green and
sun shining.

There was a fork
you could choose
the long and flat road
or the shorter
harder
hilly terrain
I said
wouldn't it be more fun
to take that one.

I woke up
with the delicious feeling
of adventure
and joy
and lightness of being
in my limbs

The symbolism
seems too obvious
but there must be
something to it.

St Eriksplan

Two nights exiting at that same subway station, in a whole other part of town. Both nights too tired, too weary, too sick, and both nights returning home with a smile. So it goes, when you leave the reins for a while to rest in someone else's hands. How easy to take old friends' softness for granted, the ease of a Saturday night in unseen places when the eyes so familiar. How much unknown dance floors remind you of the corners you try so hard to avoid, and you wake up with that headache again.

There is much City left to discover, much Life left to live. November behind and adventure ahead. The chapters are all new, we forget that the pages turn but they do. Grab a pen. There's work to be done.

Correspondence

We are almost 30, Peter. How did that happen? Perhaps this is why our fire cools, our inspiration goes lacking. Or is that merely a poor excuse? I don't know any more. I who used to have so many answers.

I carry a headache with me everywhere I go, lately. I never had headaches before. I cannot sleep at night, and toss between watching tragic television shows on my computer and journalling endless pages of regret and confusion, until I pass out. Morning comes too quickly, I am perpetually a step behind. I cannot wait for January and America, even as it terrifies me, how quickly time passes, and how come January 1, I no longer have an apartment, nor an office. I start all over. It might mean I am free to go anywhere again, do anything. But I don't know where to go, anyways, so it hardly helps me. Am I living in Stockholm, now?

Every day is such a mad roller coaster. The highs convince me I can do anything, take on the world, have come such a long way and will make it through this bit, too. The lows drag me through strange streets I never loved and remind me only of my worthlessness and the futility of my actions. Better then, to give up and move on. Get a job, get a life.

I know it would be good for my mental health to get a job and a stable life. I know that. I have therapy bills to prove it. No matter, Peter, it is not what I want. I know I will push myself into the ground, I will look back on a life lived in such sorrow, but God, is it not better to be sad and free, to be overwhelmed with emotion, rather than complacent and restrained, underwhelmed and numb? Surely, I knew all along this was my life. I spent years after my grad school degree unraveling all the stability I'd created. I wanted none of it. I feared therapy had softened my madness, had taken my inspiration from me. I am not, without these demons, and I missed them. I have no choice but to bring them along.

Tail Spin

Back at the apartment, there is no falling asleep. The headache returns. Business as usual, and I don't know what it's trying to tell me. The afternoon escalated into playdates and friends from yore, all bringing babies and discussions on house buying. The little town remains, safe for another generation. By the time I packed up, my head was spinning.

Quick stop at the other end of the pendulum and they were already downing shots of Jack Daniels; I was not late in joining. Some sorrow to drown, some victory to celebrate, no matter. I had forgotten what it was like to be with people who spoke my language, to be with people in whose eyes I had talent of any use. He walked me to the train and told me all the hidden things when it was too late. I had to stand inside the train to listen, so it would not leave without me. Spent three hours trying to focus my eyes and passing out just before the call for Stockholm Central.

This is a long life, and confusing. We hold on, that the train does not leave without us. That we are not left on the platform, bags in hand, spring in our step and nowhere to go. We hold on, because one day we will be glad we did.