i love you, i love this music you will never listen to

this morning as i was walking through the crunch of the elm leaves--too early for them to be soggy and limp--i made the decision that there would just be space between us for a while. yes, i thought, there needs to be a complete revision before autumn drifts quickly away and is replaced by an unending slate sky. i stopped at the junction and bought a morning paper and lamented this unfortunate yet inevitable revelation.

how will she take it, i wondered as i waited on the platform for the stratford train. well, regardless, it must be done. things can't go on like this, i considered, acknowledging a bright and breezy sunday afternoon spent sitting by the phone. you never called.

in the crowded carriage passing the backs of houses, a compromise. alright, well, maybe not complete separation. but these plans we've discussed, those will have to wait. something for the future. at the present we'll just have to take things as they come. no more investing ideas into next weekend or the following evening, or any of that.

crowding to the point that i tuck the newspaper under my arm. an african woman shuttles her two children--quiet and staring--to the sliver of space between me and the doorway. the train lurches forward, blue sky disappears as we go underground.

ok, fine, i say. we'll still have all these plans. some of them will happen, many of them won't. i'll be disappointed, then elated, then disappointed again. i'll spend nights across from you just so sure i've done the right thing with my life. i'll spend other evenings wishing we'd just passed when introduced so many years ago.

how many more years will this go on? small child looks up at me with wide eyes from under his wool cap. i force a knowing smile.

secaucus junction

if there is a rule for 2009 it is that when i ride back on the train from newark airport it is the dawn of some enormous chapter in my life. in spring it was the same as fall, high white clouds dotting the robin's egg sky, a slowly dwindling afternoon, sun just high enough that you won't get that sunday melancholy; those thoughts of being at your desk at work the next morning.

at least in spring i had no idea what was ahead. she was like a storm far off the coast, with a path leading directly to me but no one could forecast it. i didn't even know she existed.

in fall i knew everything i had to. i knew where i was going. i stood in the breezy space between cars and stared at the passing tall grass, fingering my mobile phone in my pocket restlessly.

she calls as the train sits in newark penn and we speak briefly. she never sounds emotional on the telephone (maybe even in person) when she speaks. there's no lilt, no sweet goodbye. i mean she's not like a telephone operator or anything... i just don't hear the sounds i'm used to.

i know in an hour i'll be at her house, with my bags and my jacket. sitting on her porch in the nascent autumn cool. it's still warm enough to pretend it's summer, but the sunlight is different.

i remember one evening we stood in some darkened corner, close. we wondered why the sunlight in autumn looked a certain way.

the train pulls off and again we're sprinting across the industrial wasteland of north jersey. first sun i've seen in three days.

it's going to be beautiful when we go for a walk, i think.

storms

she buries her head into her hands. everyone else around us drinks beer and eats meat. this is as close to crying as she gets. if the tears fall, it's ok, i'm used to it by now.

enough of this shit. "i think i'm done listening to you," i say. but that's a lie. i'll listen until i go deaf, which will be never; i'm always hearing what she has to say.

we go up and down like a seismograph. one second i want to scowl at her and stand up, walking off with two fingers up. then i take a sip and all i want is for a smile, just give me that.

everyone is miserable. L sits with me on the porch, sunny day, soft clouds over the tasman, saying "i just don't know what i want." B walks up kingsland at midnight, telling me no one here does anything but shag randomly. not as a brag, more forlorn than anything.

what the hell is it going to take to get away from all of this? i've gone to every corner of the world to try and find something different. maybe time is the only axis that counts, not distance.

let's all go back to when we didn't know any better.

may 2014

she came home from whole foods, sunglasses perched on her forehead, standing in the elevator humming the chorus to a pop song she heard in the market.

i heard the front door, then her solid heels on the wood flooring. i heard the rustle of the paper bag as it hit the counter top. soon she was in the study, standing in the doorway.

she found me crying silently. she didn't say anything. the book was open, upturned on my lap.

she walked over and stroked my shoulder.

"fucking sherman," i said. and she smiled and i love when her eyes and mouth begin to laugh, but it's laughter inside, warm laughter, when she finds something touching, intimately funny. an inside joke between the two of us.

she sat on my lap and the book fell to the floor. sunlight streamed through the side window. a faint horn sounded from the west side highway.

let's just sit here like this for a long, long time.

her laughter through the trees

these things are known:

1) a crunch of gravel as the dark sedan pulls up at exactly 9:47, he knows because he looks worriedly around the kitchen for a knife and glances at the green LED clock of the microwave

1a) the kitchen is a mess, there are two cats and a dog watching him as he paces from sink to table to counter; old newspapers, used coffee mugs, an umbrella. the clutter is incongruous with the luxury of the house he is in

2) looking up, past the wrought iron chandelier, lights come on in the 2nd floor alcove above him. panic increases

3) the windows are streaked with droplets, leaving his reflection akin to a watercolor left in the rain

3a) thunderstorms are ravaging this area throughout the evening

3b) he is in socks, no shoes

4) the front door is open now and muffled excited conversation can be heard, along with the stamping of wet boots on the foyer tile and rumbles of thunder from a distant neighborhood

4a) he contemplates hiding in a utility closet

5) she walks into the kitchen in a flash, removing one earring and smiling

5a) her husband follows closely behind, also smiling. his shoulders are dotted with wet spots

5b) an older fellow passes by via the hallway and waves cordially

5c) he makes small talk with the couple in slow motion and with very deliberate and leaden gestures of intimacy: arm pats, waves to recall details, rubbing of the chin

6) she enters the kitchen burning away all viscous material slowing things down; no smoke present. she wears a light blue blouse

6a) parents retreat to den with bottle of wine

6b) they stand by the tall windows, joke about him sleeping in the treehouse

6c) leaves one shade lighter than the midnight sway in the wind

6d) treehouse is illuminated by lightning

recovery

we alight from the bus on oxford street and i start walking straight ahead. you're a few steps behind me and you shout out "where are you going?" in that clear canadian accent, not really angry about it but maybe a bit defensive. i stop in the middle of the pavement with drunken and hurried folks streaming past and say "this is the way to tottenham court road, i've gone this way for years." and then you jog a few steps in your heels and grab my arm lightly and say "oh, you're right, my fault." more sing-song accent that i could never hate.

we meander through the streets and come upon the premiere and i'm at a loss for what to do; the press area and the flashbulbs and the ropes and security, it's all alien to me, i let you take the lead. you do so in a way that suggests i am not the first clueless male you've led by the hand through this sort of environment.

we walk through the double doors behind all the madness and it dawns on me that i've been in this building, years ago, as a teenager. it was with jennifer and we were going to see some play for class credit. this is a fleeting memory and before i can really think more about it we're dodging oncoming assistants and stagehands and then i am plopped into a chair right smack in front of vanessa redgrave, cbe. well, this is something to write home about, i think. she is very pleased to see you and strikes me more as the kind, older woman down the road rather than international acting legend. we make small talk about the weather and so forth. she has a few drinks in her, i can tell.

our shoulders touch as we sit there. miss redgrave asks how long we've been a couple. you look at me, hair falling in front of your eyes and cheeks. i turn to her and respond "only time will tell..." she smiles a grin of "good luck". i brush your hair to the side and kiss you on the lips, lips the color of clouds just after sunset.

some italian model with huge poofy hair walks by and you two catch up in quick bursts of foreign conversation. i redirect my attention to miss redgrave and we talk about obama and unemployment before she makes a hasty exit towards a group of autograph seekers and harried-looking producers.

later that night we walk back to the goodge street tube arm in arm. but the intoxicating buzz of what's filling our hearts is not present for some reason. like the looming dark sky above us, i know it's her, back in the states. a sinking feeling. i can't escape. here my life has changed, i never thought i'd have someone like you just bursting forth with affection, but it does nothing.

the dreadful realization that if i walked a few steps off into the night, you'd cry out in your cheerful accent and ask where i was going. but i wouldn't be able to tell you, and i'd have to leave you there, on the pavement, in your heels, crying as the drunken people stream past.

lost weekends

River Card - Atlas Sound


river so clear and blue
i'm so in love with you, but you'll drown me.
you'll drown me.
river so clear and blue
what it takes to ignore you
how many boys have you drowned?