Saturday, September 10, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Out Loud
We talked for hours, I suspect. I walked around the living room table fifty times; the carpet is so soft underneath. I stared into the neighbors' across the street; they were watching television; I should have watered the plants instead.
The point is, after all the little tornadoes of contempt and regret had twirled through our conversation and into the air, finally the right words came out.
There, she said. You said it. And I knew she was right.
It's funny how you knew all along what to do. How that light always shone and you followed it, on crooked paths perhaps but you always knew what you hoped you'd find at the end.
Sift through the madness. You'll get there, in time.
The point is, after all the little tornadoes of contempt and regret had twirled through our conversation and into the air, finally the right words came out.
There, she said. You said it. And I knew she was right.
It's funny how you knew all along what to do. How that light always shone and you followed it, on crooked paths perhaps but you always knew what you hoped you'd find at the end.
Sift through the madness. You'll get there, in time.
My Dear Disco
A jumble of thoughts in my head, unidentifiable emotions swirling around like angry bees through my insides. I stand, sit, pace, trying to let them sink to their respective pockets, or storm out of me and at least make sense. I trip in limbo and wait for the days to pass. Today I left the office early; five hours later I'm still waiting to resume my work day.
I suspect I paint a much prettier picture of my past than how it really looked. As though there was a time when I could properly feel things, instead of wading around in this thick soup of ignorance, that I could put words to them and know them and live them. This heart beats so heavy, how does all the blood sink to my knees? I had a home once, filled with things that were mine, I had invoices with my name on them and keys and routines. It seems so pretty in retrospect; the truth is, when I think of it now, does it not make me a little queasy?
There was a point a few weeks ago, when I stood at the edge of having no place to go, and I seriously considered a park bench in a quiet nook south of Hornsgatan. I remember standing there, looking at it, and thinking, wouldn't it be a relief to just give in, lie down, be free. The nights were still warm then, the world still kind. The days are an incessant toss between two extremes of longing. The soup thickens, my heart grows numb.
I think I miss clarity, most of all.
I suspect I paint a much prettier picture of my past than how it really looked. As though there was a time when I could properly feel things, instead of wading around in this thick soup of ignorance, that I could put words to them and know them and live them. This heart beats so heavy, how does all the blood sink to my knees? I had a home once, filled with things that were mine, I had invoices with my name on them and keys and routines. It seems so pretty in retrospect; the truth is, when I think of it now, does it not make me a little queasy?
There was a point a few weeks ago, when I stood at the edge of having no place to go, and I seriously considered a park bench in a quiet nook south of Hornsgatan. I remember standing there, looking at it, and thinking, wouldn't it be a relief to just give in, lie down, be free. The nights were still warm then, the world still kind. The days are an incessant toss between two extremes of longing. The soup thickens, my heart grows numb.
I think I miss clarity, most of all.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
I'm Not There
How long a Tuesday night can become, such an innocent day and laundry waiting in my sister's basement. One glass in and I was too tired, the world still seemed impossible, where do you go when there is no place that is yours, what do you do when there is no pocket of life in which to toil?
We said goodbye at that same street corner, do you remember, it was months ago now and Stockholm was an unknown adventure in the making. I only barely knew my direction then and now the streets were so calm, so comforting. My heart bubbled with pride over you and I forgot the words for it.
The bar was quiet, Tuesday night quiet, it made the glasses hum at the music. There was a moment, perhaps it was just the beer, where I thought, this is better than a concert, when Bob Dylan vibrated heavy along the old wooden bar, and I wanted to lie on it, sleep until the songs were still and dawn was new, no intrusions to disturb my slumber.
New York, honey. I miss your heavy bars and humming sleep. Your warm Tuesday nights and comforting streets. New York, I miss that place which was mine.
We said goodbye at that same street corner, do you remember, it was months ago now and Stockholm was an unknown adventure in the making. I only barely knew my direction then and now the streets were so calm, so comforting. My heart bubbled with pride over you and I forgot the words for it.
The bar was quiet, Tuesday night quiet, it made the glasses hum at the music. There was a moment, perhaps it was just the beer, where I thought, this is better than a concert, when Bob Dylan vibrated heavy along the old wooden bar, and I wanted to lie on it, sleep until the songs were still and dawn was new, no intrusions to disturb my slumber.
New York, honey. I miss your heavy bars and humming sleep. Your warm Tuesday nights and comforting streets. New York, I miss that place which was mine.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Playing House
The wind picked up tonight. It swirled around me as I made my way down dark, quiet streets. I had forgotten to notice the summer night light has gone. The air is still so warm, my bare legs trick me, I retain the fearlessness of a whole other season. Is it fall now? Is it time to board the windows and hibernate our hearts till spring? I cannot conceive it; my heart burns much too hotly still.
As I made my way up that last part of the hill, around that last corner, followed my confident footsteps through locked gates to which I had the keys, I giggled slightly at the simple pleasure of going home. And I know this is not real, I know this is only just pretend, but sometimes games are just as good as the real thing, if you believe them bad enough.
When I lie in my bed, I can hear the subway trains run underneath me. Under this building, under the earth, at a steady pace on a regular schedule, the green line trains run underneath the bed where I sleep. The thought comforts me infinitely. I vow to believe, however much it takes.
As I made my way up that last part of the hill, around that last corner, followed my confident footsteps through locked gates to which I had the keys, I giggled slightly at the simple pleasure of going home. And I know this is not real, I know this is only just pretend, but sometimes games are just as good as the real thing, if you believe them bad enough.
When I lie in my bed, I can hear the subway trains run underneath me. Under this building, under the earth, at a steady pace on a regular schedule, the green line trains run underneath the bed where I sleep. The thought comforts me infinitely. I vow to believe, however much it takes.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Re:turn.
That last bit, I know it so well. Past the shoreline, past reeds, and trees and bike paths. Past the sliver of an island where I first got drunk. Past the old stone bridge, wasn't there a story of the architect plunging to his death from its edge to save him the shame of seeing it fall? And then the train had stopped at its final destination; like a bad holiday rom-com, I was back in the city where I grew up.
Anxiously navigating familiar streets; I know them by heart and still they are strangers to me. Avoiding eye contact for fear of recognition. Past my old high school, the town square, the orange buses. The twang of the voices around me like an untuned piano in my cringing ears. Such a friendly dialect. My old hairdresser and the concrete slab library relic from the 70s, a reminder of happy childhood summers and it is a beautiful city to grow up in. Another shudder, down my spine. Turning the corner and climbing the elevator, I entered predictability, comfort, a world entirely according to expectation and plan. The world we grew up in, regenerated.
And yet the goal was worth it. Three days spent holding this baby, this new child in a family without blood ties. The magic of shallow breaths against my own, of impossibly small fingers wrapped around my cynical limbs and warm weight sleeping soundly in my arms. Of an entirely new person in the making, and the way the world stops revolving around us when we find ourselves part of a greater whole. I held on to her curious gaze, the soft smell of her blond locks, the innocence of her trust, and swallowed my pride.
That city is not mine. I left it long ago and perhaps it never was to begin with. While it twists and turns through my innards like shrapnel from a war I thought I'd finished long ago, it wraps people I love in soft down and whispers to them sweetly of a life just like they always knew it.
How glad I was when the time came to leave.
Anxiously navigating familiar streets; I know them by heart and still they are strangers to me. Avoiding eye contact for fear of recognition. Past my old high school, the town square, the orange buses. The twang of the voices around me like an untuned piano in my cringing ears. Such a friendly dialect. My old hairdresser and the concrete slab library relic from the 70s, a reminder of happy childhood summers and it is a beautiful city to grow up in. Another shudder, down my spine. Turning the corner and climbing the elevator, I entered predictability, comfort, a world entirely according to expectation and plan. The world we grew up in, regenerated.
And yet the goal was worth it. Three days spent holding this baby, this new child in a family without blood ties. The magic of shallow breaths against my own, of impossibly small fingers wrapped around my cynical limbs and warm weight sleeping soundly in my arms. Of an entirely new person in the making, and the way the world stops revolving around us when we find ourselves part of a greater whole. I held on to her curious gaze, the soft smell of her blond locks, the innocence of her trust, and swallowed my pride.
That city is not mine. I left it long ago and perhaps it never was to begin with. While it twists and turns through my innards like shrapnel from a war I thought I'd finished long ago, it wraps people I love in soft down and whispers to them sweetly of a life just like they always knew it.
How glad I was when the time came to leave.
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