How

Bright sunlight and the last ravenous chapters of a book, I sit on the veranda and let my skin sizzle. The halter straps of my bikini folded down around my back, I don't realize till later I am a replica of my mother in the late 1980's. Cheek to shoulder, my skin is not the youthful plump expanse of softness it once was; we fight the inevitable demise of our bodies by maximizing sun exposure, by painting our bodies that fresh, golden color as far as our modesty allows. While I ran around the sea shore, picking shells and excavating ecosystems, my 35-year-old mother would sit, just like this, staring at the sun patiently until there was none left to be had. My chest freckles now like hers did then. We will never be 15 again.

The thing is, writing words is the only way I could ever make sense of this world, of what it is to be alive in it. I said once I'd sacrifice my unborn children for it, and the years that have passed since then haven't quite managed to wash the reality of such a thought from my veins. The proximity of Real Jobs, of normal lives and steady incomes, of proper housing and vacation plans for the coming year, may have made them less threatening, more imaginable. But they carry no less the scent of defeat than they did before. I am not ready to give up.

I guess I know by now,
that we will meet again,
Somehow. 

Baby, Sometimes

Vacation days and you forget there was ever a time of early mornings and busy days of someone else's bidding. Shuttling to the train station, picking up and dropping off angels from other cities, other lands, every day is a parade of lazy meals in green grass, unmentionable amounts of coffee, drifting conversations and hysterical laughter. You show them the city as if it is your own and it makes you adore it as you never did. Look, there across the water, there's my church, do you recognize it? They never love its beacon like you do. They have not seen it burn in the midnight sun after drunken stumbles homeward, like you have. This affection creeps up on you, catches you unaware, softens your violent adjectives.

Still, the phone seethes with friends unseen, nights unlived. Your heart weeps at missed connections, at the endless time remaining until your paths may cross. You try to balance your commitments and fail. There aren't enough twilit nights in one summer to satisfy your social heart.

It beats steady, now. You enjoy its vitality, while it lasts.

4:43 a.m.

A ferry that left in the middle of the night, and we arrive the mainland at dawn. A quiet bus ride through sleeping countrysides, the grass is covered in ethereal mist. Folklore whispers that these are elves dancing, and I am comforted in the memory of what magic such stories held in my childhood. That there was a way to explain the world without a god, without a fury, but with spirits in connection to the earth, to the cycle of things. I watch the thin veils drape the landscape, while sunrise casts a tangerine glow on the resting houses, the still trees.

We cross the bridge at the south end of the city, my south island spreading out before us like a giant in repose, the churches, my churches, standing tall at the top of their respective hills, keeping watch. We dive into a tunnel and emerge at the other end, in the old town, with its ancient buildings and narrow alleys, and for the first time in all these months, in all this treacled anguish, I love Stockholm and am grateful to be here. The sun continues its steady gait across the spires; I rest.

Gammelgarn.

The tent is cool in the night breeze. I stand outside it looking at the stars, no sound but that of the sea, comfortingly rolling to shore with the repetitive hush it has. We hadn't planned on swimming tonight, the evening was windy and cold, but as we stood and stared at the crashing surf, we couldn't help it. The brackish waters poured against our naked bodies; we laughed like children and rolled along the waves.

Later, in the bathroom mirror, I saw new tan lines had formed. Soft white streaks against scarlet collarbones. Tender skin, I couldn't help but smile.

Summer has arrived, at last.

Delirium

Just make sure to pull all the plugs before you go, the hostess said. Early morning, the party was winding down, she was leaving the old barn to go to sleep. We weren't ready. We turned up the music, ignored the rising sun, and danced until our legs gave out underneath us.

Hours later, the sun warm across the wheat fields, we stumbled giddily to our tents. The remains of the party lay scattered around us, bales of hay upended on the floor, empty liquor bottles strewn across the tables. We felt 15, as though the whole world had stopped for a while and there were only these bodies, our bodies, beating steadily into the night and laughing. My tent-mate said she had never seen me look so awful as when I crawled, limp and expended like a ragged balloon, into the tent that morning.

The day after passed in a cocoon of agony and manic laughter. I lay in the grass for hours bemoaning my existence and the shame of my frivolity. But in every painstaking breath, I knew. Madness is always worth the aftermath to come.

Pitched

This is the way, I remember it now. There is the farm, there's the house, here we are. We crossed the sea in black of night and by the time we arrived, dawn was creeping across the island and into the fields.

There's a silence about the country. It makes your nerves unwind, but it makes me restless. A calm that does me no good. Before we had closed our eyes, the roosters were up. A thin mist crept along the grass, the homestead seemed perched, waiting for mad things to come, preparing by keeping still. We closed the tent, my wide eyes staring into the blue nothingness an inch away. She slept in an instant.

Morning without night before is a most delicious occurrence. When the world lies quietly waiting for your next step, when it belongs to no one but you who are awake to see it. We must savor those moments; we own so little, once proper morning returns anew.

Lights On

We stood outside a convenience store and looked in. Dark July night it feels like autumn, but inside shone a bright, cold, icy light and shouted its wares to the street. Tragic coolers stood half empty with bottles, screaming colors painted themselves against the window canvas, and in a corner hung a sign saying Send Your Faxes Here! The scene perfect for a camera lense, I missed mine, I wanted it there to help me tell the story. To help me say that the picture made me inexplicably sad, at the blaring white inside, at the peddling of unneeded items after hours when the kids are drunk. My words cannot say them, enough.

Green grass grows slowly in my lungs. With every breath I melt into the bed and let the inadequate letters slip off my tongue. They matter little now. I will get you the picture, instead.

the Itch

I got a letter on a lonesome day
It was from her ship a-sailing
Saying I don’t know when I’ll be coming back again
It depends on how I’m a-feeling

Well, if you, my love, must think that way
I’m sure your mind is roaming
I’m sure your heart is not with me
But with the country to where you’re going.

Vacation

It wasn't quite time for me to go yet, there was still half an hour left of my shift, but all the work had been done, the chairs were all stacked on the desks, there was nothing to do but leave. Summer vacation. Outside it rained, but no matter. Freedom is not what appears on the skin; it is what sings in your heart. The bike ride home has never been so quick.

The phone buzzed with opportunities for celebrations; my lazy summer senses regarded them with lackadaisical indifference--Can't be bothered to go so far, I'm on vacation--until a text came from a few blocks away, and I rolled down the hill to see them.

We first met years ago, do you remember? I was 21, you gave me all that tequila and I passed out in an unknown man's lap, I swore my revenge and never got it. The years passed, you smoothed over the rough edges of my dizzy family and moved into my father's speed dial. We spent 14 hours on a bus and you were better company than I could ever have made for myself. We sat in a stranger's apartment, after that concert, and listened to the limited release, you said I think you'll like this one, and I did.
The relationship changed. We refused to let you go and you never made us. You brought home that girl, I loved her instantly, she took all those fights with you I never could bother to, she made you laugh and it made my heart smile.

On your wedding day we joked that she married us all. But biking home those three short minutes, it didn't seem a joke at all. Family is more than who is in your blood; it is who is in your heart.

My life is better, with you in it.

Urban Deli

Shall we have just one more glass? he says, and we are powerless to disagree, never having been good with turning down alcohol. The night feels like a thursday; my alarm clock looms heavy over my head as I stumble home under deep blue skies. It was supposed to rain tonight; this is the summer of no prediction. Summer.

Has it already been a year, Stockholm? Am I already spending a second summer here, the adventure fading, the comforts amassing?

If the landing is soft,
you will fall. 
If the abyss is deep

and dark
and impossible

 

You will leap.

It occurs to me
that my days are spent
on such soft cushions.
It occurs to me
that the leap
is mine
to take.

of the Ostrich

An entire day of endless hours spent in bed, spent in stages of undress and disarray. Incessantly distracted by the computer screen, drifting in and out of sleep, letting the remains of alcohol seep out of my system. The hangover carries uncomfortable questions my mind is not yet ready to handle; the apathy allows me refuge for a few hours still.

You know the questions will catch up with you eventually. You know the night will leave dents in your seamless composure and haunt you for days yet to come. Short film reels of jagged moments will play themselves on your inner screen and you cannot close your eyes to them. So if now, for one rainy, cold Sunday when the world expects nothing of you, you decide to close the drapes to your inner turmoil... perhaps you can be forgiven, still.

Stockholm Nights

Apathy is the most vicious foe, he said, cold smoke wafting from his lips into the night air. We spoke of other cities, of new horizons to open our minds again, I had forgotten what magic lies in madness, and adventure tickled my senses again. Stockholm is washed away in summer rains; he asks me of New York and the walk home is flooded with images of steamy streets I hadn't remembered in ages.

My words are no good here, the days add up, one onto the next, and the literature that trembles out of these uncertain fingertips amount to no more than random scribbles, a library of post-it notes, it is ridiculous.

Across the street, the apartments rest. Dawn seeps into the neighborhood, the season is relentless.

Perhaps it is time to move on.

Sparrows Nests

A man stood near the top of the stone steps leading up to my street. He had only three or four left; I sat in my third-floor window and watched him wait, rest. His tired body leaned on double crutches as he struggled with motivation to carry on. A young man came up behind him, raced up the steps two at a time, passed him without giving him a second notice. He carried a carton of milk, and a large brown package he must have picked up at the post office. The older man gathered his strength, mastered the last few steps. I wondered if he would have accepted help, if offered.

Dark gray clouds rolled in. The light rain turned to hail in a second; I saw my neighbors rush out onto their balconies, bring in cushions. Some stood, just like me, gazing at the force, breathing in the newborn air. I counted seconds between lightning and thunder and didn't get far; it rumbled right over our heads and out across the city. Södermalm, the epicenter of angry weather gods. When I looked south, past the church, it was nothing but blue skies and sunshine, quietly biding its time, quietly promising miracles.

I saw a ragged man last night, a thin hobo with a gray beard, walking his equally ragged hound along the streets to destinations unknown. He rolled a cigarette as he walked, his tired eyes awash with sadness, and with peace. How I wanted to stop him, to walk alongside him for just a little while, ask him where he was going and why he chose such a destitute life when we have every chance to make it. How I wanted him to reveal the secret of a life at peace, of the meaning of it all, the sage bum, how I felt the spirit of Allen swim above our heads and smiling. The rest of it is only stuff, after all. We must remember to be in awe, of the Everything.

Feel Just Fine

It must have been the wine, I went to bed so early, that turquoise twilight still reflected against the windows across the street. I lay with the windows wide open; it is not warm out, not summer, but sleep is much deeper in the cool, crisp air and at night I do not complain.

On a balcony on the top floor of the building on the other side, hipsters were enjoying their youth (or their cigarettes, it was hard to tell). The window behind them was covered in some light installation; it sent a pale blue light into the night and silhouetted their faces, perfectly framed in my view, as I lay in my bed and watched them move.

There is so much life unlived, so many minutes lost to apathy and fear. Time flees and we spend our days chasing superficial images of the successful people we thought we were supposed to be, forgetting that behind the makeup, Disney characters are only figments of our imagination. Summer is washed away in a cold rainfall and the dirty remains of our youth flood the storm drains. My to-do list despairs in a corner; I am forever playing catch up.

I am
forever
losing.

Side Notes

It's no use.

I go through the days, sticky warm summer days and rainy cold mornings, I stand with his soft arms wrapped around me, I giggle at illicit proposals from new acquaintances, it's no use.

At night, when all the lights are out, when the city sleeps and I am wide awake, it is your eyes that keep me from sleep, your words that saunter slowly through my mind and leave crooked patterns in its interior. I know you walk these streets; I sense your solitary insomnia, the eternal summer that will not set you down, let you rest.

My windows are open.
You can climb in anytime you like.
We can be solitary insomniacs
together.

and a Consequence

That familiar tingle, the comfort of intoxication, countless bottles lined up and I want you to try this one, I need a writeup on it, but it's all milky and gross. You come back to it later, when flavor matters less; you are predictable in your carelessness, yet. He calls it bronchitis, but you insist it is merely a cold stuck in your lungs and rue your lack of cigarette paper. Summer sinks its teeth in the city, finally you can rest in its reassurance.

Once again at the train station, once again regretful departure tenderness and you know you adore separation more than togetherness. The searing pain of airports more a comfort than all the hours of regularities combined. We lay in the park, sweating under a summer sun, and I thought this moment is better than anything we can create willfully. But it is summer yet, and you do not worry, you do not know how.

Everyone knows
You're gonna get hurt. 
But at least 
You'll get hurt
trying. 

But I Don't Want to Be With You

Band members trickled onto the makeshift stage, instruments littered on the floor like confetti. Somebody's birthday party--I didn't know her, but I knew I had to be there. This is our first gig, bear with us, she giggled into the microphone, as countless phones lit up in wait. A beat, a riff, a song took shape, nervous glances under straight black bangs, but there was no other way to go but onward.

I left the party drunk; I hadn't realized. The borrowed bike made curlicues in the pavement, the uphill battle an impossible foe. My head swam with images of the night, of a melody that refused to leave my eardrums. A text message came from across the land: tags of a concert much larger, much grander, of backstage passes and summer in its prime. But this small stage, this trepid stake, how much more important it seemed. The beginning of something new, the advent of great things to come. I will say I knew them when, was the joke, but it was said in all earnest.

The little things will move you, when they are given with heart. The melody continues; my pride knows no limits. Live your passions, the rest will work itself out.

Hospital beds

Nine-thirty a. m. and not a soul around. I made my way down cliffs I've known ten years under my bare feet, the steps as satisfying now as then, picking the best rock upon which to perch oneself, computing proximity to water, direction of sun, of wind. My skin already warm with morning rays, I dove right into the chilly water, kicked off the dirt and grime and worries and fears. Long strokes carried me further and further out into the glittering sea; with my head under water I heard the monotone buzzing of boat engines leaving for open pastures. I was, for a moment, completely content.

Returning to this city is always such a strange homecoming. A twilight of security and alienation. I do not belong here, but it is my home. I know this shortcut, I've loved that brick building. This ocean has the right degree of salt to it, this sun turns my skin the right shade of nutmeg. This dialect has the most comforting song to it, and this tram follows tracks and trails I've loved a decade. I know this city, and I love it unconditionally. Despite its monsoon chills and dirt, despite its small stature and humble means. The days pass, long rows of difficult hours in a quiet hospital wing and I am exhausted, but when each one ends with a ride through streets that saw me grow up, I am revived anew.

I love this city.
But you can't go home again.

aSpire.

At the end of my street is a church. Great spires of oxidized copper cover stones a hundred years in their puzzle. It sits at the top of the hill, at the top of the island, it looks out over its worker's quarters of old, over the teeming city at the bottom of the hill and across the strait; its bells toll through the days, through the nights, every hour on the hour, on the half hour, at weddings and funerals alike, it is steadfast.

We lay in a park at the foot of the palace, at the other end of the city, letting summer paint our skin, letting time etch the other's eyes into our memories, the moment so sweet in its lack of questions. I looked up at the south island and saw that church--everywhere I go in this city I see that church--and it made me smile, knowing that just below it lay the place where I live. That there is a place where I live.

I walked the long way home today, heavy feet dragging along sundrenched shores, a million commuters racing past me, children gone mad with the season. I looked at the church then, as it rose into view across the islands, and it offered me no solace. This is not my city, it is not my church, not my Home.

How, when I need to fall helplessly, these are not the arms that will catch me.

It's not you.
It's me. 
I've only been playing pretend.