Winter Winds

It occurs to me that this blog is nothing more than a record of a love story, the unending tale of a beating heart. That I have spent the last three years here obsessing, relishing, pining, and dreaming of the same one love, for days and nights on end. For good times and bad, when near or far apart. Every morning I think of it, every night when I lie in bed. I mourn the loss of it, as I rejoice in the slight tremble in my heart everytime I think of returns.

This was never my intention. My intention was to write a story of my life.

It simply turned out that the two
were one and the same.

Echo Park

Do a cartwheel right here, right now, he said in the empty lobby of the subway entrance. My hiccups had finally receeded; my last remaining brain cell convinced me that no, it wasn't a good idea after all, and we parted ways on the platform, later. How drunk I was on the train, and with no long walk home to sober me up.

The moon is full over the church tonight. It seems ominous, but I remain too hung over to see its symbolism.

As long as I have a home, you have a home, she said into the closing bar. Come with me in the Spring; come to California and it will all be alright. The promise of New and Shiny on the horizon; I leapt and smiled. The sun always shines, on the west coast. And the rest, will work itself out when it needs to.

Chaperone

(But I needn't fear. In the dark, in the night, I am reminded. There are rules, and trodded paths, there are expectations, this is life. But as long as you are with me, I am exempt. As long as I lie in your arms, in your velvet night, I can be whoever and do whatever; I am invincible. How easy it is to doubt, when the light of day glares at the flaws in my logic, but I mustn't. We mustn't.

Once you have found your purpose,
hold on to it
like your life depended on it.

Because it does.)

Enfin

There has to be
something more
than this.

There
has
to.

( )

Take this silver spoon
from
between
my lips
please.
It is
perpetually
choking me

and I cannot
digest it
to satisfaction.

In the Crowd

There's a glitch somewhere in the windows; cold air rushes in and makes the room unbearable. I took a hot bath and nearly drowned myself lying under the surface for too long but you can't tell now, considering the chill of my fingertips.

The apples I picked in their garden are rotting on the counter. The grapefruit that only cost 6 SEK. The flowers in the window. Everything rots. My body. I make myself a drink but it does me no good; I make myself a life but I don't live up to it so what the hell. You lose some, you lose some.

He writes poetry, I devour it and want always more, always more. When we were young we would tap our teeth to know when we were intoxicated; I tap, tap, tap now and don't know how it's supposed to feel. I think I take these pictures to be able to stare unabashedly at people for hours on end, to look you in the eye and not look away. Perhaps the same goes for everything I do. Don't be scared. My camera won't bite.

I imagine I could steady your trembling hands, but I can't make promises.


...I'll be yours
if you'll be mine. 

But I can't promise that, either.

and I Will Wait

The rustling room came to rest, dark curtains covering afternoon sunlight and hiding the morning's toys and distractions. I laid at the edge of a small mattress, little fingers running across mine, soft eyes looking at me as they contemplated life and the arrival of the Sandman. He wouldn't let me move even an inch from his side, and we lay there quietly, together. Soon, the whole room slept (and no place is as calm as a room full of sleeping children), and there was not a thought left in my head.

Because oh, how the essence of children erase the demons from my side. How their bright eyes and eager curiosity break my egocentric circles and discard my self-conscious chill. We ran through the park laughing, exhausting our every limb and still asking for more, always asking the world for more, our desire for it insatiable.

Sometimes I don't understand this battle I wage. This incessant need to ruin everything that is beautiful and simple about life and make it difficult.

But if you take my war away, as well
I fear there'd be nothing left
of me
at all.

So I fight.

Equinox

The road goes east again. The rain has stopped but the night is blacker than before. Conversations are lower, slower, the remains of a late night and an open bar weigh on our senses. Counting the hours to home, counting the hours to Monday morning.

The church was enormous, a canopy of ancient valves and stained-glass windows, we only filled the first few pews, the brides like tiny figurines at the altar. They stood nervously fidgeting, stealing glances and keeping a somber face. A steady voice trembled at the piano, it echoed through the giant church, the moved congregation, and I was glad no one could see my eyes quiver. There is weight in the moment of forever, it gets you every time.

The party was long, we stayed till the end and laughed in the taxi and fell on the floor. They left earlier, their life brand new, their dreams official.

When you've promised forever,
forever can't start soon enough.

Eve

The stars have returned; I thought their absence was the result of urban living, but it was just the summer un-nights that rendered the galaxy invisible. We sit on the long road west and hope for the rain to end, each preparing our individual duties, speeches, gifts for the upcoming day. Tomorrow in an old church in the old town an old love says I Do. It's been so many years, we've lived so many lives since then, I almost can't remember who we were when we were us.

We were never meant to be, you know. I was already always somewhere else. You always wanted to be right there, half of a whole, safe in the arms of another. Tomorrow, and from then on, you will be.

There is no begrudging anyone that.

We finish our speeches, collect our thoughts. Winter is long ahead; the stars will grow brighter, yet.

Are Just Trees

My father searches through cupboards for ingredients, tools; he asks about linens and shakes his head in concern about my lack of the pieces that make up a proper home. I tell him proudly I can stay another few months and he sighs. Is any of this furniture yours?

But he asks when I plan on returning to New York and it seems the day cannot come soon enough in his eyes. Make it work, make it happen, I think it's where you need to be. I was 16 once, I was angry and lost and had no idea that my biggest supporter lived in my very house, had the very same blood coursing through his veins. We seem to understand the other, even when we do not understand ourselves.

In his years, I see my life unfold. Crooked, crumbling, narrow lifelines etch their way into my skin and do not end in rainbow treasures. No matter. I had the choice once, to take the straight, wide highway through life, to coast along that white line and sleep soundly at night. I chose otherwise.

An dark path leads into the woods. There's nowhere to go now but forward.

Do You Wrong

The landscape changes shape, changes colors. It is fall in the country. A terrible cold grabs hold of my head and rattles my lungs, but my mind rocks content along the railroad tracks: on a train you are always moving, always immobile, always safe.

In my dream I held his hand and somehow it was okay. They speak of houses and watching their children grow up and I don't know who I am in their eyes. Sometimes I fear there is too much truth and not enough veiled filters. The maple trees are red now. It is fall again and no one knows where it ends.

Homecomings

Sweet hearts
Grow dearer
With age
And years
Behind us

No matter.

This town
Still tears
The will
To live
From my veins

And makes
Me wretch
In gutted aversion
And hopeless
Allergy

She asks
"well isn't this home
Then?"
And I cannot
Begin
To tell her
How much
It isn't.

En rêves

They've set the clock in the church bell tower right again. I had gotten used to its four minutes' eagerness. He writes and says perhaps I can stay another couple of months; I had just started to tremble at the ground giving way beneath me. I don't know how I got so lucky. This apartment breathes in my stead.

Last night in my dream, a body floated to the surface in the water. The ocean became a swimming pool. I knew all along, didn't I think it all along?, that this was just for show, it wasn't real, but I don't know now who the audience was. They want me to rescue her, I have to rescue her of course, even if it's fake, I thought, and looked around in hopes of assistance. None to be found. I forced myself to jump in the water. I know it's fake, I have to save her, why aren't they yelling cut? 

How long does it take for a body to rot? She was dark blue, I knew the skin would be spongy, sticky, dissolving into its watery surroundings.  How reluctant to reach out and touch her, how certain there was no other way. Finally heaving her up to the poolside. Knowing it was too late to save her, but again as convinced I could not escape putting my lips to hers. I have to know I did all I could, even if it was to no avail.

I don't know when the act became Real.

Be So Bold

The fruit flies in the kitchen have died. The nights are black; I had to leave my bicycle in their courtyard because I had forgotten the lights. There are new houseboats in the harbor, all with renovation materials and paint buckets stacked along the decks. They seem like great migrating birds, resting here now, preparing for many miles ahead, the cold winter. My carefully weaved threads begin to unwind with wear; I consider packing my bags, painting my deck, and joining the migration.

Have you unpacked your bags yet? Have you settled for winter? My skin trembles in your wake. It seems we should be living these miles, together.

Blunderbuss

Jack White comes to Stockholm, Jack White with his black curls and razor fingertips, with his elven band members and one hundred guitars, Jack White and his fire. I leave my simmering word processor and screaming playlists on legs trembling with hunger to feel just a moment of his passion.

This is what I've chosen to do, he says, I can't help myself, and the stadium walls explode. You owe it to your art. I close my eyes and breathe in the violent dances of music, revel in the pause from my own feelings and woes. Does it not seem exhausting to carry one's own emotions around at all times, to air their dirty laundry in tired breezes of indifference? Perhaps that is the point of all this deafening music, lately: not to ward off the demons of my interior, but to silence the voice that manically binges and purges on them, that rehashes them to the perverse.

Perhaps it's time for a different beat, a blank page, a new story to tell. Because I want my chest to always vibrate as it does now.

and the Bogeyman

I wake ravished with hunger, but the day progresses as the last. The music so loud I cannot be distracted even by my own mind, hours passing without my leaving this spot a single moment, without food, or smoke, or thought. Words sift through my line of vision, build themselves into monuments of fairytales, of Unrealities. I read others' words and am glad at their bleeding flesh, their psychotic melancholy; it makes me believe in a place of belonging for everyone. The world outside my window falls away; it is not the Reality. We choose our Stages.

A dear friend asks me to submit material to their magazine; the latest edition's theme is fear, and I have nothing, I reckon, never being much for horror films or the tickle of terror. Until it occurs to me: life is nothing but fear. Every step is carefully choreographed to protect our fragile hearts and sensitive egos. Life stabs you at every opportunity with gut-wrenching loss and unpredictable mires. The incessant, ear-numbing song and frenetic activity are not distractions, they are a method to keep the demons at bay.

The monsters hiding under your bed
have got nothing
on what it is to simply be alive.

Flowed

Back in the apartment, the nights have turned black. Windows and lives light up across the street like a dollhouse; I see every move, every lonely endeavor. Life is sad, when you look at it.

The suitcase still stands in the hallway, the pantry is empty, when I turn on the music and land in front of the word processor, feel limber fingers dance lightly across its long abandoned keys. Suddenly, it is twelve hours later and I haven't moved an inch. I haven't eaten, dressed, so much as looked up. My kidneys ache, my muscles. The music is so loud my head is numb and my eyes play tricks on me from fatigue.

No matter.

When the Flow catches you, you ride its wave. You dive through words, you travel the stories. You build the pages you came here for, to begin with. And it's a good reminder.

If you peel everything else away, every pile of money, every lifestyle magazine trinket and notion of what you are supposed to make of your life, every meaningless rat race stressors nipping at your heels, this is what remains. The word is your purpose, your joy, your first love. 

Whatever means you employ to maintain that, it is fine. When you find love, you never let it go.

Place Camille Julian

Crooked streets and the dinner is superb; the wine does not end. We loiter on the cobblestones as the others return to their beds, reluctant to follow. A newfound friend brings her bicycle and velvet accent to show us the better quarters, the Friday night. We follow giddily, the summer night is warm and where else would we be going?

Hours later we stumble home, and aren't the streets just as warm, the night just as young? I know there are plans for tomorrow, I set my alarm. But my head still simmers with a language I begin to remember, a comfort I too easily forget.

Life on the road is exhausting. It is worth the every heavylimb.

Bleed

"So how is the writing?" she said, and I knew I should not have answered. Narrow cobblestone streets confused us, we had to look at a map and the streets were so dark. I never know how to lie at the right times; being polite trumps protecting my words, she is my boss, and what is the right answer anyways?

Speaking of these words, it is like opening a solid door to unprotected flesh. They are the children I must keep close to me, and not toss them around haplessly like summer flowers. I begin to speak and secrets seep from my veins like sap; I pray the walk will end and I can return to silence.

The Bordeaux night is black. We cross the mighty river, glittering under street lights. Perhaps it is a whole other world. Perhaps if I bleed straight into this river it will not matter. Scatter your words to the wind: at least then they will go somewhere.

When In France

BBC world news because all the other channels are dubbed; my French holds fast in the streets but I'm tired. It is early yet, still the miles under my feet are countless. The air outside is warm, humid, it smells of summer and foreign lands.

Because it is.

And how quickly the traveler in me returns. Drawing maps in my head, practicing accents silently. Walking without rest, resting without care, sinking into the everyday life around me. Always pretending, what would it be like to live here? What is a life, in Bordeaux?

But then, don't I already know the answer to this question? Haven't I already asked it before? Did I not walk these streets a mere year and a half ago, finding the currents of the street agreeable?

It's funny. That was a whole other trip, in a whole other life.

I am still the same.

Fevered

The alarm clock by my bed ticks louder, beats faster. The hours, minutes, until rising time disappear into oblivion; it will not be morning when it rings, but no matter. In the center of my room stands an open suitcase. In my pocket is an airplane ticket. Tomorrow the sun shines warmly again, tomorrow the tongues will speak a different language and the streets will lead to places unknown.

Tomorrow, we travel.

And 30 years of airplanes and trains, of homes in faraway lands and suitcases packed and lost and filled with treasure, have not diminished the jitters that course through my body the night before takeoff. Always that rush of nerves, that giggle of excitement. Always the gratitude for rubbing the eyes of your outlook, receiving a new vision of what life is. I do not go far; I do not stay for long. But even the swiftest journey shakes up my body, rattles my senses.

These jitters are perhaps the most familiar of all. I recognize myself in its comfort. I sleep with a smile on my face.

Unchanged

2004-09-02
...but your friends, these Angels, they make your life better...
They are the answer. 
The question is irrelevant. 

Years pass
and bodies change.
Sentiment,
does not.

Blue Moon

Can you spare a homeless man a cigarette, he asked as I was just about to step in the front door. I can roll you one, I said, but it'll take a second. What is it about purses that always leaves the things you need therefrom in unreachable corners? He sat down on the step, we began to talk as I rolled. Filter, or no? He told me he was on the run from a jail sentence across the border, explained the long gash across his face, pinpointed my accent. I grew up right here, in SoFo, he scoffed at the word, but hell, I've never even had a caffe latte.

He can't have been much older than me. His lines were clean, his eyes kind, his hair mussed the way men his age spend hours perfecting. In another world, he would have been far out of my league. Now, instead, I was the one turning him down for continued company; I was the one with an agreeable night ahead. He offered me a beer; I told him to take care of himself. I usually spend winters in prisons, he answered. That's one way to do it, I responded. We shook hands; his grasp was firm, strong.

Hours later, when I came down the steps and out the door again, the curb was empty. I looked for him in the dark streets leading me home, but they were empty. And I missed him.