MayDay

The train leaves in ten. Are you sure you want to walk? The question repeated itself in my periphery. I had no doubts. In the street, a stumbling man needed help with a taxi; once sent on his way, the city was empty, quiet. I trundled along the water, dark deep water turning slowly into still blue seas. I wanted desperately to dive in. Do you remember last time I saw May arrive on these shores, I did, how cold it was, how much I wanted to soak in the last of the country before adventure caught me?

By the time I reached my south island, my new home, my small corner at the end of the stairs and the stone church looming with its sunrise rays around the corner, how awake my senses, how glad my steps. Cherry blossoms, birds a-singing, the sun rising in the distance, how close it was. The apartment smiled as I entered; such new aquaintances and already such good friends.

My father lies dying, he whispered, and no one cares. But the truth is not always what we perceive, the party not always what we expected. For a short, silent moment, Stockholm was mine. My heart bleeds infinitely; morning trickles in through the blinds. May is here. We will all be saved, in the end.

Sofia

I dropped the keys in the mail slot; in half a second, a rattle, the apartment was gone. I lie in a new bed now. The subway underneath has gone quiet, the floor doesn't shake as it did. There is a church outside my window, its bells ring, every hour, on the hour, great big giant bells tolling down the street. May runs through my dusty corridors, rattles every bone, stirs pages long sleeping and writes stories anew.

The window open, I sleep sounder than I have in ages.

the Old Apartment

This is the last time I'll walk this way to my sister's. This is the last time I'll trundle this hill on a Saturday night. This is the last time I'll have breakfast on this balcony (it's the first time, too, so I may not remember to miss it). This is the last time I'll close my eyes and sleep to the rocking of the subway trains below. 

Spring exploded in the city today, in an hour the trees had popped, the flowers washed the lawns in color, the birds busied themselves with six months worth of gossip. May lies on the tip of our tongues, restless May, May that tickles my every nerve and I want to go. There is never a better time to move than May.

(You should know.
You have done it enough.)

Always that restless inability to sleep, the night before. Always that excitement, and apprehension, and stir of emotions. Tomorrow I drop off one key, I pick up another. Another home. Another life.

A clean slate.
A white, blank page.
May,
and a whole new world
for the taking.

of First Positions

and it occurs to me
that this is *exactly* what life is like.

Katarina

(There was a post here
about spring
and the flowering cemetery
and the loveliness of it all, 

but none of the words came out right
and if it takes too much work to write,
I figure they weren't good to begin with
so I scratched them
and moved on to do something else.  

There's a metaphor for life 
and how one chooses to live it
in there
but I will feign blindness to it.)


"It could be worse," she said,
"The ship could have sunk and
we could all be treading water."

Ours

It's here. It's here. It's here. 

Early morning wakes me, sunlight sifting through every weary crack in the foundation, birdsong streaming through the speakers, that certain scent in the air and you know, you know, it's here.

The music in my ears couldn't be loud enough, my steps couldn't be quick enough, enough air could not fill my lungs, I was insatiable, I danced down the street, no matter the obstacles, the tasks at hand, I am invincible.

Another winter has passed; it dug its claws deep into my soul and dragged whatever Life was in there through gutters and drains until there was not a shred of light left, but it has passed. I may lie panting on the curbside, but I breathe. I forget, how easily I forget, every winter that this is what it does.

And yet, how easily I remember what lies waiting on the other side. My insides bubble, laughter bursts through every hollow cell in my veins, evaporates into the late twilight, my mind races in the night, unable to sleep, unwilling. What is sleep, when there has been nothing but, for months.

Now is the time for living.

In The Country

The bus took such winding turns, our Saturday morning bodies queasy on unknown roads. It dropped us at a quiet intersection in an unassuming village: church, grocery store, coffeeshop, quiet. Another bus through sleeping countrysides, a waiting car, and we landed at the house at the top of the hill, with nothing but wide open space ahead.

The sea is beautiful this time of year, all grey and moody and inviting. At every turn in the weather, every glimpse of sunlight, it twinkles in gold and reminds you of warm summer afternoons and unending nights, of green, green leaves just aching to burst into being, of that special softness the air has when you bike ever so quickly through it on your way home at dawn. It makes you young, again.

Wine bottles emptied, one by one they lined the kitchen counter as conversation drifted through the usual stages of indecency and liberated laughter. I went outside for a smoke, sat in the dark silence and watched the embers glow, listened to returned birds tell their stories of travel and brighter futures. Spring is so close I can taste it. I forgot, again I forgot, how naively I abandoned the knowledge that this is the changing of seasons: that winter kills every last breath in you, it tears apart your defenses and extinguishes your sparks, and that spring always returns to remind you of who it is you are.

I can feel it, stirring my insides, waking my heart strings. Any day now, the long dark winter will be over, and I will forget there was ever night. Any day now, I will be alive.

at 23.

Journal Entry,
Fall 2005:

I vow, when I turn 30, to be Alive,
to have it all but Everything left to gain, 
to live my Passion. 
And to love somebody else who does all of the above. 
Even if it is not you.

Youth is endearing,
in its grand elaborations,
in its straightforward curlicues,
in its fantastical determination.

But she wasn't entirely wrong.
It occurs to me that I have four months to get my shit together.
Because would you not rather be endearing and Mad,
than reasonable and dead?

Instinct Blues

...and yet.
It is no wonder,
I cannot write
here.
There,
my every step
every crossed railroad track
every late night stumble
every mundane breath
was poetry.
I did not write there,
either,
the words wrote themselves
as I sat idly by
and let them.

I am no writer.
For a while,
I suppose,
I just got lucky.

The Valley Below

Something buzzes in my ear, a distant alarm, such a warm sun shining in my face and I fell asleep with this thick sweater on, how uncomfortable. I reach for the phone, find my bed full of computer cords and glasses, my head creaks like an old tin man and what time is it anyway? The night got so long, and yet not nearly long enough, I never wanted it to end, I didn't want to go home, now here I am with this headache and I don't regret it one bit.

Last night, we stood on that square, with different directions home, reluctant to go. I thought a few weeks from now it will be light at this hour, and I could feel my body smile in remembrance. We had another cigarette, listened to the quiet of the normally so busy street, that quiet is always my favorite part of any night, how glad I was that we didn't have to part ways, just yet, that I did not have to go home.

What have I done? she said, as the bar began thinning out, the soundtrack turning up. If we had gotten married eight years ago, I could have been happy now. Different, but fine. The train of thought goes nowhere, we stare into our drinks and know she is right. There's a million uses out there, who made the other choice, who took the other road, we can't hold them responsible that we are here, at this bar, in this empty apartment, in this cold city, with no money in the bank, with a head full of ideas, full of ache, with this tightly wrapped heart, we cannot blame them.

We are here now. Let us make the most of that, instead.

Bridge and Tunnel

Late shift uptown, and when I left the office, the air had that special hum to it. Despite the hunger, the tired eyes, the late hour, I decided to walk.

I passed the apartment where we once lived. It seems ages ago now, when this city was new and the adventure was just beginning. When it was summer out, and warm, and everything was possible because nothing had been proven not. I turned on that same album, walked that same route where I'd stroll every day while I stayed at that friend's apartment in the Old Town. Not a year later--how many beds have I slept in already? The soundtrack felt the same now: Stockholm, this new city, this sad, beautiful, light, cold city. We started out in such a tempest of emotion, Stockholm, where are those feelings now? I feel numb. Perhaps it is preferable.

I crossed over the bridges to the south island. The sun was setting behind that long bridge in the west; gulls filled the harbor, sang their songs of the ocean. The city spread out, climbed upward, sparkled in its hidden corners and cobbled courtyards, we played pretend that there was still adventure and coy infatuation to be had, that we could still play those silly games with one another and believe in a future together. Dusk lay pink along the water. Your voice sang a hundred stories worth telling. I'm still trying to know, which one is mine.

Molt

A quiet wind swept through the apartment this evening; change is picking up speed. I feel in me the prickles of jitters I know so well: the beginnings of shedding skin. The change is slight, the move short, but my couple of weeks in this apartment turned into months upon months, and it is home enough to count. Pack up, clean out, move on. A brand new start appears on the horizon, smiles beckoningly at me. New pavement to accustom my feet to, new sounds to sing me to sleep.

For so many years, I thought this constant motion made me restless, made me unable to commit, to rest, to live. It occurs to me now that it is what makes me free. That I do not perish, at the shaking ground, but that should I jump, I know to land safely on my own two feet.

Omnia mea mecum porto.
All my things I carry with me.
Within new skin, still beats an old heart.

The Greener Grass

I awoke to a barrage of pictures in my news feed, astonished question marks and snow covered courtyards. Heavy flakes fell carelessly to the ground, ignorant of calendars and impatiently thawing souls down below. I waded through the slushy cemetery, impervious to the cold. Promises of a new foundation lay giggling in my memory, the day behind me seeming an impossible treasure. Birds sang in the trees, I knew they knew something that had been knocked out of the rest of us.

By evening, the sun returned, the snow turned to floods along the sidewalks; I saw the power of warmth and longed for waters in which one could swim, could be washed cleaned.

It is not what you had expected, this life. But it is yours, and yours alone. You must claim it, reclaim it, make it the best damn life you can.

The grass will be greener, it will. And I will run barefoot through it.

Just you try and stop me.

I Know From Here The Lights Look Pretty

Sharpen your teeth, he said. Your dreams are more than worth defending.

To My Head

A day full of bookkeeping, numbers float around and cold sweats constantly break out around my trembling nerves. Addition was never my strong suit.

And yet, by the end of the night, the red wine bottle half drunk, the calmed nerves likewise, how the future still appears in the distance with promises of brighter futures and that thing you meant to be doing. It can still be done.

I can't stay here, she says, and you know what she means. The world lies there, waiting. It isn't going anywhere.

But you will.

But you will.

Fresh Starts

And if you caught
this disaster,
I'll point you home.

Odd how it's only been a week; it feels like years since you were here. You returned so quickly to your old world in the new world, your life that carries on there as though nothing had changed. Life is funny that way. It moves, whether you do or not.

We reveled in the late dusk, in the throngs of people, in the scents of spring. Glad to have one moment, just the two of us, just like it was. She paid for dinner; some things never change.

And at one point in the evening, she looked me straight in the eyes and said, If you know what it is you want, you do it. You do it, and the rest works out. The rest always works out, because it has to. But you have to do it. She has such bright, round eyes, they pierce deep into your veins even when you didn't expect them to, you thought you had your guard up but you were caught completely unawares. Her words went straight into my blood stream. I knew she was right, of course she was right. And I loved her for it.

A week later, walls reerected, the obvious falters, emotion hides away, the sea is calm. Dead. Reality will eat you alive.

But only if you let it.

Perhaps.

Is this what life is, then? No more than an incessant roller coaster of elation and despair? Of hopeful futures with inspired madness crushed by harsh office lighting and nine to five subway traffic? Of constant, constant apathy over having given up?

For so long, I declared it must not be so. I fought the forces around me, as they shook their heads and waited patiently for me to grow up. Is that what it is? That I simply held on to childish notions of what our lives are for much longer than others, painting my naive delusions in creative shimmers to fit my rationale? That at last it is time to give that up, cut my hair, start a pension plan?

My soul shrivels like a raisin. Lies in my chest shaking. Refuses to believe the tale that paints itself before our eyes.

Is that all there is?

Struck II

Call me. We went and got her out of there. A short note, a busy night at the bar, weren't we just saying how everyone is going through so much and here's that. I stepped into the street, held tightly to my phone, the miles between us were excrutiating.

I called her later, on my way home, and had to stop at the little park at the top of the hill, froze my fingers on the curb as we both cried helpless tears into each end of the phoneline. I had to go. I know it's not him. I had to go. A home smashed to pieces, glass strewn across the life that fell apart. The babies are safe, the remains of a family carried away and my heart swelled endlessly that there were people around to carry them. Unbearable obstacles, unimaginable pains, still her voice came down the line and spoke words I didn't know she had. Family is more than who is in your blood.

Hearts will weather this storm,
as well.

Please

When.

Feel This Real

It was a mistake, I should have known, I knew. You open a door, the wind will catch it, blow it wide open, you haven't nearly the strength to sneak just a peek. Memories, long buried in the panic of departure, seep through your rigid defenses and prick your every nerve. It was too hard to go, you simply forgot you had ever been anywhere else.

Years ago, New York City beamed like a jewel on the unattainable horizon. It was a place I would never reach and a life I would never live. But somehow, fates smiled upon me and took me there, gave me a West Village street and a Manhattan soundtrack, gave me days and nights and a place where I could finally recognize my own face in the mirror. That city let me bleed all over its concrete and steel, gathered me up when the night grew too long, carried me home, and kept my body warm another day. I trusted New York like nowhere else and, in return for its safe walls, sang it endless praise and showered it with adoration.

The end came too quick. Adventures beckoned, May itched with change, I don't know what happened. New York stood quietly by and let it. Its veins run quick, I was soon washed out of its system. My veins run slow, my memory, though kept from the light, keeps every trace, every whispered smile.

And the truth is
I don't know who I am
without you.