Some dates stay with you. They creep up on you when you do not expect them, they lure nearby for days ahead, attach themselves to the season, the mood, the memory. And in that uncertain moment between winter and spring, when the sun is warm but the winds freeze you right to the bone, that's when it arrives. In the back of your spine, you know. Another year has passed, and it's March 31 all over again.
I only remember how sunny it was, how lovely. How spring was just around the corner, we could taste it on our tongues and for the first time in a long while, I sensed a grain of hope in the weary useless days that had gathered around me. How at least there was that to hold on to, to smile about. A day later, in that classroom, with your picture, with that silence, how different the world looked then. I could have never imagined. I could have never guessed.
It's a long time ago now, memories fade and get washed away in the white noise that is our lives, it's not unusual. Too much you did not see that we did, that we added to our hearts, our minds our synapses. But not a day goes by when I think of you and do not stop, if but for a second, in my cerebral tracks. Remember your blond hair, your infectious smile, remember the darkness in your eyes that day when you walked out alone and how could we have known. Mostly I remember what you left when you went away. Life is finite, you have but this one. Your family has but this one, your friends. You do what you will with it, of course. But it seems wisest just to live it, after all.
There may come a day, when you won't regret it, and that day is worth all the wait.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Purged
If I can only make it through this next week, it will all be okay, I had heard a voice say, as though it weren't my own. So few moments of stillness, of solitude, and only fewer on the horizon as plans and promises amassed. This was not the time to be incapacitated.
All this I contemplated, as I lay in the dark night, yet again purging whatever evils had nestled their way into my belly. As though the fates conspired with my body and gave me the break I needed but for which there was no time. Shame called work, cancelled evening plans, apologized for deadlines missed, and promptly collapsed in a heap until night became day became night again.
When I finally come to, in the late afternoon, snow flakes trickle carelessly outside the window, the apartment is a mess, the to-do list endless. Regrets of meetings missed float through me, stab me in the gut at regular intervals, I cannot bear to think of them. There is only looking ahead, now. In me grows a restless energy, sprouts a tiny seed of madness, as though whatever sickness came and went took winter's dreary tiredness with it, cleaned house, opened the door for a new start, another spring. Unsteady legs make their way out of the stale refuge. New Year, New You. We can only hope.
All this I contemplated, as I lay in the dark night, yet again purging whatever evils had nestled their way into my belly. As though the fates conspired with my body and gave me the break I needed but for which there was no time. Shame called work, cancelled evening plans, apologized for deadlines missed, and promptly collapsed in a heap until night became day became night again.
When I finally come to, in the late afternoon, snow flakes trickle carelessly outside the window, the apartment is a mess, the to-do list endless. Regrets of meetings missed float through me, stab me in the gut at regular intervals, I cannot bear to think of them. There is only looking ahead, now. In me grows a restless energy, sprouts a tiny seed of madness, as though whatever sickness came and went took winter's dreary tiredness with it, cleaned house, opened the door for a new start, another spring. Unsteady legs make their way out of the stale refuge. New Year, New You. We can only hope.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Nevermind
Suburban mall, rainy day, nothing out of the ordinary, the subway runs on rush hour schedules, it's seamless. And at the end of the row of clothing chains, on a couch, such a bright collection of shining faces, such a strange scene, New York arrives to the old motherland, and it feels as not a day passed since I saw you last.
Dinner continues, conversation drifts from updates to adoring jabs to dreams of a future together again. For a second at a time, I allow myself to remember feelings long suppressed; they lunge at my core and stab my senses, I tremble at the edge of the wooden table, cannot look at your face. This will all end in tears, you said, I never forgot that, and you had no idea how right you'd be. Nor did I.
Only moments ago, we sat in that whitewashed factory in Brooklyn, then too as though not a day had passed, the JMZ rocked comfortably across the Williamsburg Bridge and carried me home, always home, always reliable, steady, that city does not disappoint in steadfastness, and there we built our dreams. I assembled my bricks, my mortar, with you in it, with brownstone and cab yellow streaks, with ruthless winter winds and glittering forty-second street lights. Around this wooden dinner table I lose my breath, I forget the motions, my lungs pierced by desire long denied, but so barely forgotten, I stumble.
Who would have known
how bittersweet this would taste.
I swallow it whole. Should I ever forget, the way my eyes giggle, my stomach turns, thinking of you, there'll be nothing left of me, at all.
Dinner continues, conversation drifts from updates to adoring jabs to dreams of a future together again. For a second at a time, I allow myself to remember feelings long suppressed; they lunge at my core and stab my senses, I tremble at the edge of the wooden table, cannot look at your face. This will all end in tears, you said, I never forgot that, and you had no idea how right you'd be. Nor did I.
Only moments ago, we sat in that whitewashed factory in Brooklyn, then too as though not a day had passed, the JMZ rocked comfortably across the Williamsburg Bridge and carried me home, always home, always reliable, steady, that city does not disappoint in steadfastness, and there we built our dreams. I assembled my bricks, my mortar, with you in it, with brownstone and cab yellow streaks, with ruthless winter winds and glittering forty-second street lights. Around this wooden dinner table I lose my breath, I forget the motions, my lungs pierced by desire long denied, but so barely forgotten, I stumble.
Who would have known
how bittersweet this would taste.
I swallow it whole. Should I ever forget, the way my eyes giggle, my stomach turns, thinking of you, there'll be nothing left of me, at all.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
His First Time Around
Sunlight returns, life, people long hibernated in hiding emerge from their dark depths and stare blinking into the sunlight, congregate in open areas, mill about, unsure where to turn but smiling, all smiling, all amazed at the awesomeness of nature and spring. Same procedure as last year, same procedure as every year, but we never tire, we never learn, and it is beautiful.
I wake early, these days, I cannot get myself to pull the blinds at night and the sun rises so early now, but it is too sweet, like being woken by a gentle man impatient for you to open your eyes and you cannot be angry at him for that, can you? My blood bubbles, brain waves long frozen begin to thaw, begin to remember where they are and what they thought they were doing there. My empty pocket book gapes at me vacantly, I feast on cabbage at 7 cents a pound and contemplate apartments far beyond my budget. It's all a big joke. This is the season when you can live under a bridge, you'll be fine.
This is the season when you realize it's ridiculous to worry; it's only life, it's only your life, keep your head above and you're doing it right. My muscles begin to itch, roads stretch to the horizon in every direction, the sun sets late. Now is the time to do it right.
I wake early, these days, I cannot get myself to pull the blinds at night and the sun rises so early now, but it is too sweet, like being woken by a gentle man impatient for you to open your eyes and you cannot be angry at him for that, can you? My blood bubbles, brain waves long frozen begin to thaw, begin to remember where they are and what they thought they were doing there. My empty pocket book gapes at me vacantly, I feast on cabbage at 7 cents a pound and contemplate apartments far beyond my budget. It's all a big joke. This is the season when you can live under a bridge, you'll be fine.
This is the season when you realize it's ridiculous to worry; it's only life, it's only your life, keep your head above and you're doing it right. My muscles begin to itch, roads stretch to the horizon in every direction, the sun sets late. Now is the time to do it right.
Re:mind
“...because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”
Thursday, March 22, 2012
as You Knew It Would
The hangover crept slowly through my system in the early morning commute, like sludge through the tunnels of the city's underground, how pale the weary travelers, how long the day ahead.
But eight hours later, stepping out of the office into mild air and fiery sunlight on basking brick walls, how defenseless I was against the magic of spring. It creeps into every corner, the scent of cigarette smoke and earth, the delicious feeling of a squint, the sea gull screech you had forgotten to miss.
The crowds thronged onto pedestrian streets, swelled over crosswalks and meandered through impromtu outdoor cafés and bars. The sleeping city wakes, murmurs, begins to shake the heavy weight of winter off its shoulders. In an instant, forgiving citizens agree to forget there was ever such a dark season, remove thick winter coats, peel off thick winter layers surrounding shivering hearts.
Spring. It's Spring.
And for a short, sweet moment,
we are invincible.
But eight hours later, stepping out of the office into mild air and fiery sunlight on basking brick walls, how defenseless I was against the magic of spring. It creeps into every corner, the scent of cigarette smoke and earth, the delicious feeling of a squint, the sea gull screech you had forgotten to miss.
The crowds thronged onto pedestrian streets, swelled over crosswalks and meandered through impromtu outdoor cafés and bars. The sleeping city wakes, murmurs, begins to shake the heavy weight of winter off its shoulders. In an instant, forgiving citizens agree to forget there was ever such a dark season, remove thick winter coats, peel off thick winter layers surrounding shivering hearts.
Spring. It's Spring.
And for a short, sweet moment,
we are invincible.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
March 31
(and it's that time of year again
the birds, how sweetly they sing,
the sun,
how brightly it shines,
the world,
how immense it lies
at your feet and all is well.
I think of you
all the time.
See your face
under trains
under buildings
under headlines.
No good comes
of a life ended early.
The lesson learned.
You are still gone.)
the birds, how sweetly they sing,
the sun,
how brightly it shines,
the world,
how immense it lies
at your feet and all is well.
I think of you
all the time.
See your face
under trains
under buildings
under headlines.
No good comes
of a life ended early.
The lesson learned.
You are still gone.)
Ring the Alarm
And for a moment, I fell.
Not like that second
as you drift to sleep
and your body jumps
and you snap awake
but like treading
quicksand
and deciding
it's time to give up.
Knowing there are mornings
ahead
that you do not wish to face
is the most dreadful part
of an evening.
This is not the time
for you to sleep.
This is the time
for you
to wake up.
Figuratively,
mostly.
Not like that second
as you drift to sleep
and your body jumps
and you snap awake
but like treading
quicksand
and deciding
it's time to give up.
Knowing there are mornings
ahead
that you do not wish to face
is the most dreadful part
of an evening.
This is not the time
for you to sleep.
This is the time
for you
to wake up.
Figuratively,
mostly.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
to Dust
The road lay long ahead, the skies darkening, twilight spreading its pale blanket over the fields, the woods, the little towns. My father and I rarely get alone time, but on that road we had a few hours, a short moment outside the real world. He didn't turn on the radio. We spoke of the life ahead, of what would become of us when we grew up.
We both have trouble doing it right.
Later, at home, catching up on the piles of dishes that did not magically take care of themselves while I was away, it hit me. It struck me straight in the gut, started in the dark depths and crawled vilely through my tissues.
The truth is, I miss New York so much it hurts. I miss its noisy, dirty streets, its toil and struggle, I miss the person it lets me be. I miss my home. I miss me.
My father heard those words, though they weren't properly spoken. His eyes looked at me sadly, even as he stared at the road ahead. I go to sleep on time. Tomorrow is Monday, again.
We both have trouble doing it right.
Later, at home, catching up on the piles of dishes that did not magically take care of themselves while I was away, it hit me. It struck me straight in the gut, started in the dark depths and crawled vilely through my tissues.
The truth is, I miss New York so much it hurts. I miss its noisy, dirty streets, its toil and struggle, I miss the person it lets me be. I miss my home. I miss me.
My father heard those words, though they weren't properly spoken. His eyes looked at me sadly, even as he stared at the road ahead. I go to sleep on time. Tomorrow is Monday, again.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
In Conclusion
This cannot be
All There Is.
This cannot be
All
for good.
This cannot be
an acceptable
time
to give up.
and as much
as I miss you.
I miss me
near you
more.
All There Is.
This cannot be
All
for good.
This cannot be
an acceptable
time
to give up.
and as much
as I miss you.
I miss me
near you
more.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Snap. Shot.
I don't know how many hours passed, a whole new world had opened, and it drew out of me all that innocent curiousity that lay dormant for so long. New discoveries, new magic to create, new tricks to discover. I unpack toys of the trade I didn't know I missed, and already I feel them grow along my spine, attach themselves into the habits of my daily wear. I long to clear the path of its obstacles, work away the Real World tasks and dive straight into uncharted waters.
New is always a little more exciting, unsullied, possible. I know that.
But for a morsel of the energy in me now.. I would forget anything.
New is always a little more exciting, unsullied, possible. I know that.
But for a morsel of the energy in me now.. I would forget anything.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Let Us Be Lovers
The friend goes west for a working road trip through the South. He asks for a song, a soundtrack, a melody to carry their wheels across America; I am nothing but thrilled to oblige. The lazy Saturday morning melts away, until I spill out onto a hundred thousand miles of American roads, wheels rolling, the world at your feet.
Do you remember the boiled peanuts of Alabama road stands? The way the air was warm and wet like a perpetual shroud, the way the highway lay dark and endless ahead of us, with nothing but that white line guiding our adventure. How we clung to the westbound 84, always near, always a comfort. A bluegrass beat carried us across state lines, dreams of America simmered along the sides of the road, we had nothing to stop us until the coast, and we didn't rest till we reached it.
In me beats an American heart. In my veins, in my lungs, in my soul, that dream of what unknown adventure America promises flows undisturbed by realities of the outside world. I am far away now, I have been far away before.
Restless hearts always come home, in the end.
Do you remember the boiled peanuts of Alabama road stands? The way the air was warm and wet like a perpetual shroud, the way the highway lay dark and endless ahead of us, with nothing but that white line guiding our adventure. How we clung to the westbound 84, always near, always a comfort. A bluegrass beat carried us across state lines, dreams of America simmered along the sides of the road, we had nothing to stop us until the coast, and we didn't rest till we reached it.
In me beats an American heart. In my veins, in my lungs, in my soul, that dream of what unknown adventure America promises flows undisturbed by realities of the outside world. I am far away now, I have been far away before.
Restless hearts always come home, in the end.
Friday, March 9, 2012
TGIF.
I just get sad when I read your words, he said. I had nothing to retort. Another man looked me straight in the eyes and reminded me the dirt, the grime, the nothing-left-to-lose were what I had wanted; I've abandoned them whole. I'd gladly take sad words. The clean, clear silence is so unbearable in comparison.
A lone orphan lives in the Paris gare, and wasn't everything more beautiful so many decades ago, all steel locomotives and small-tabled bistros? How I miss Paris in the Spring, how I miss a good ticket to somewhere. Do you remember that summer in Spain? We didn't know a word of Spanish; I never wanted to leave.
I wept when I told him your story. I always weep. If I were half the person I pretend, I'd be by your side and never leave. You'd have no fears; I would carry them all. Instead we are oceans apart; my tears do you no good.
These words... They do no one any good.
Forgive me.
A lone orphan lives in the Paris gare, and wasn't everything more beautiful so many decades ago, all steel locomotives and small-tabled bistros? How I miss Paris in the Spring, how I miss a good ticket to somewhere. Do you remember that summer in Spain? We didn't know a word of Spanish; I never wanted to leave.
I wept when I told him your story. I always weep. If I were half the person I pretend, I'd be by your side and never leave. You'd have no fears; I would carry them all. Instead we are oceans apart; my tears do you no good.
These words... They do no one any good.
Forgive me.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Brief
Another beer will solve everything. Staying in that dark corner, that sweet song, that sense of knowing how many steps will take you to the bar, to the street for a smoke, it will solve everything. You relish in the moment that you know, it carries you.
Tomorrow the bell will ring, you will need clean clothes, a smile to put on your face. That's fine. You have seen worse.
Worse has seen you.
Tomorrow the bell will ring, you will need clean clothes, a smile to put on your face. That's fine. You have seen worse.
Worse has seen you.
Cut Your Hair
Stay another month, he said, maybe stay much longer. He closed the door with visions of spring time drinks and pleasant conversation, the apartment felt more like mine than any one has in ages.
I spent the afternoon, camera in tow, being reminded why I loved that and why I let myself be an unemployed bum. Yesterday those children laughed when I came in, they made my heart leap. Tomorrow I go to my Real Job, entertain the feeling of being a proper adult with my shit together.
The problem isn't not knowing what to do, it's wanting to do too much.
That doesn't seem like a problem, at all.
I spent the afternoon, camera in tow, being reminded why I loved that and why I let myself be an unemployed bum. Yesterday those children laughed when I came in, they made my heart leap. Tomorrow I go to my Real Job, entertain the feeling of being a proper adult with my shit together.
The problem isn't not knowing what to do, it's wanting to do too much.
That doesn't seem like a problem, at all.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Moonshine
It's almost full now, every day another inch swelled, it shines a little brighter. This apartment is dark, the trail of the sun somehow evades the kitchen window, it's a shame, really, but still. At night there is always that beam. On the walk home, steady, reliable.
I sat at the table, staring up at its moody shadows, its crisp contours. Reflection of sunlight. Generations of questioning faces looking to yours for answers. How silent your response.
A million seeds of hatred grow in me, the sun's warm rays do nothing to appease them, only gloss them over, attempt distraction, that's fine. The moon does not look away, does not pretend not to see nor encourages the wild tangles of angry fruit. It stays steady, swells by the inch, watches coolly.
Holds my hand.
I sat at the table, staring up at its moody shadows, its crisp contours. Reflection of sunlight. Generations of questioning faces looking to yours for answers. How silent your response.
A million seeds of hatred grow in me, the sun's warm rays do nothing to appease them, only gloss them over, attempt distraction, that's fine. The moon does not look away, does not pretend not to see nor encourages the wild tangles of angry fruit. It stays steady, swells by the inch, watches coolly.
Holds my hand.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
On My Sleeve.
Night before the first day of school, the end of soft warm grass underneath your dirty feet, the end of greeting dawn before going to sleep, of life without restraint. Order restored, schedules in ink and always knowing what's around the bend.
Stability has snuck up on you, you are not unaware. Little steps toward the expected, toward the straight and wide, they are so happy for you because it makes sense to them, there's a label for that box. You thought there'd be more kicking and screaming.
I miss New York. This town is dragging me down, it extinguishes my fire, I get too tired to fight. I see normalcy creep up, like a soft lullaby, like ether, how comfortable to rest in its hypothermic blanket, I am too tired to fight. There was another me, once, do you remember? Can you see her?
I go to bed early, set my alarm. My demons sleep soundly. Their job is being done for them.
Stability has snuck up on you, you are not unaware. Little steps toward the expected, toward the straight and wide, they are so happy for you because it makes sense to them, there's a label for that box. You thought there'd be more kicking and screaming.
I miss New York. This town is dragging me down, it extinguishes my fire, I get too tired to fight. I see normalcy creep up, like a soft lullaby, like ether, how comfortable to rest in its hypothermic blanket, I am too tired to fight. There was another me, once, do you remember? Can you see her?
I go to bed early, set my alarm. My demons sleep soundly. Their job is being done for them.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Warming House
But if I got a good job offer in New York, I'd go back in a heartbeat, he'd said. Ten years of Stockholm and the depths of his heart still beat for that city, that island. I relished the company, but feared the same future. This city will never be my home, as that one is.
But my heels clicked, clacked, all the way up the street, the same street as always, how straight, how reassuring the incline at the end, and I think that come spring it will be the perfect location. Weigh your pros, your cons, drink your wine. Your smiles will seem genuine enough, if you make them.
But my heels clicked, clacked, all the way up the street, the same street as always, how straight, how reassuring the incline at the end, and I think that come spring it will be the perfect location. Weigh your pros, your cons, drink your wine. Your smiles will seem genuine enough, if you make them.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Nada
Well we can't go here again for a while. Early in the evening, what a neighborhood joint, what everybody-knows-your-name potential and later you get kicked out for being too drunk. Harrison Ford sits at the other end of the bar but is married. Accents mix and mingle, can't find their way home even when trying. You tried to keep it together but failed, bricks fall apart at the corner of fail and failure, how close your home. The phone rings halfway up the hill, you melt in its soft voice comfort, let it carry you home.
The blood courses drunkenly through your veins. It is black now, but you know the light has returned. You know it will wake you tomorrow.
How all will be better, in the morning.
The blood courses drunkenly through your veins. It is black now, but you know the light has returned. You know it will wake you tomorrow.
How all will be better, in the morning.
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