Wednesday, 26 October 2011
There were a few moments tonight when my heart was tugged by the kind of invisible wires Jake used to talk about; the ones he said connected people at parties with subtextual undercurrents, or even across wider distances, like state lines.
So, in a satirical confessional, in a stare-down of the the bare facts--yes, I dreamt of Jake last night. But even that was not enough to immediately make me sad. At first it was just odd, like seeing another side of the moon. But then later the next night I was cleaning my room and listening to standards like Nat King Cole and Ella and Billie. The music, even the sappiest or simplest songs, overtook me like a thing underwater. The sounds unfurled languidly until it surrounded all of my self and all of my environment, that cumulus nature of music. It filled the crevices of those old places that I thought were erased or dried beyond resuscitation. I looked at my bed and like an echo it said, "Empty. Empty." And I could so imagine him there. I could so see myself through his gaze, watching me as I picked up my summer dresses, packed them in my suitcase, and awkwardly jammed it under the bed.
I missed the security of a presence that I had known romantically for three years, friend-wise for eight, and all that soul level shit that's not shit for infinite years. At least, that is how we discussed ourselves with ourselves. That's what we believed. I become melancholy when I think of belief as something so malleable that time and place dis-harbor it. I looked down at the suitcase, a coffin or a tree limb under the mattress. The weightiness of absence lied down in my belly then too, with such specificity and purpose. It was as if it had been nestled in my thin golden curtains all along. Starting from the place where the fringe is torn across the valance, it meandered down the serpentine way.
I was mistaking bread for a kiss. I was trying to capture the meat of someone's pupils like two birds' shadows. It was a frail thing but it had an endurer's heart, and I felt it pumping for years, tracing across so many widespread veins as if viewed from an airplane. What comes to mind? The black studio theater. The cough syrup. Go Home #2 and the sweater you gave me years ago, which I saved, and the first time you frightened me (your eyes were black, your grin went too far). Your poetry, those words, the timber of your voice--I was honest about that. I always told you how I loved that. The bedroom in my parents' house where I was excited over you and, you know, you know, I cried, too.
Orange goo low as a brow. We both liked The Misfits t-shirt and Howlin Wolf records. We thought it would be cute to the point of nausea to get our mothers together for an embroidering club.
I was a dog circling back twice, not knowing his name. The love, whatever it was, a contamination.
Do you ever dream of your exes? How do you react?