It had been twelve years since I woke up to the 4th of July here. I woke up tired and lazily made my way through the morning, wondering if I'd muster up the social energy to make calls and arrange to engage in 4th of July-ing with others. But it was a solitary day for me so I stretched my mind as far as it would go for the first two hours doing what I always do that early. Then it was time for my body to stretch and that meant a walk to the nearby parade. I had no idea what to expect. It was a charming small town sprinkle of a parade. Charming I guess. More so for the parents of the kids in the marching band, the brownies, the boy scouts led by a red Tesla, the police chief that was cheered on by overly enthusiastic folks who were saying more than happy fourth of July when they said it. The trumpets and drums were cool. The long empty space between one group and the other made the parade seem like it had ended over and over. That was odd. Then I walked over to the park a few blocks away where the marching band kept on going and families spread out their blankets while kids ran everywhere feeling more free than usual. Or so it seemed. I sat in the shade until I got cold and then ordered a cheeseburger from the eager boys whose job was so easy and still their young little hands fumbled the paper plates and raced when there was no rush. I went home after a while to pick up my new book (The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields) and strolled back to the park where I spent a long while collapsed on the spongy grass reading one awesome line after the other with occasional interruptions from a nearby couple who talked to their dog as if it were a person, with questions and everything. Then I walked to another park to continue reading but I didn't read at all. I scribbled an almost poem onto a loose sheet of paper that I found because I didn't have anything on me except for my book, wallet and fortunately a pen. My almost poem wasn't half bad. The day went like that... I bounced around a bit... observing. I walked into the supermarket on my way home but it was super crowded and the lines were way too long to bother with so I walked out immediately. I was at home for a long while doing at home things until I started to hear fireworks going off. It reminded me of how I used to spend new year's eve. Alone in the desert in my tent with a book in my hands until the silence was suddenly broken by countdowns at midnight in the distance. I went onto the rooftop of my apartment and could see fireworks in every direction. Then the little chatty old man who lives in my building came up to the rooftop as well and we 4th of July-ed together. Not bad. Not bad at all for my first one in twelve years.
............................
I bounced off the walls and I couldn’t be happier and you couldn’t be happier and it was mine and yours and his - the man in the reddish green tie that said his name was Albert but he lied because I overheard the shopkeeper call him Lou. Black and blue and yellow too. His tie. His dark brown eyes just sitting there watching my dark brown eyes just standing there. Hey, the roof is too low where those neighbors added an addition without permits. Cracks between the wooden planks of his thoughts. Whose? It doesn’t matter… what an idea… to have cracks between the wooden planks of ones thoughts. What gets out? What goes in? What floats in between? The lines of light that fall in are long, they stretch far and so does the straight line I’m on, it stretches far beyond what I may reach, but I still see. I see it in its infinity.
............................
When a woman cries, and an old man smiles, and a leaf dances along the street, and a ray of sun peeks behind the stubborn grey, and a thought begins and ends before it lives and there you are waiting in vain, and eyes stare and you wonder why, and the song is perfect but you only hear the very end, and you think you know and laugh because you know you don't, and you hear the river even when there is none, and the only yesterday is tomorrow, and the night lasts too long so your eyes blink and blink and blink, and the walk seems endless and you hope so, and the room doesn't exist beyond what does, and you give because what else is there, and you fall in and fall out and sleep it off with a smile on your face, and you feel loved in an empty room, and the sky is sparkling and they move but they don't, and birds sing in a frantic chorus that begins and ends abruptly, and a row of ants makes you look twice and three times until finally you just look once and never stop... to wonder, and the delicate sprinkles of rain say hello before they turn into drops that say goodbye, and the scent didn't stay on your scarf but you thought it had so you checked, and the day was empty and full and happy and glad and short and long and weak and strong, and mine.
.............................
Whisky sprinkled evenings in a place that feels like home. The other one. The one over there on the other side of the world. The feeling of home there is in the streets and in the old buildings that hide years of stories and heartache and joy in their crooked frames and layers of plaster with portions of frescos revealed to show off wealthy beauty as they were meant to. Over there, where the streets are made of stones and the bars are full of smoke. Where the music bounces off a 15th century wall and travels like a wave along a street whose name I never learned, where the shopkeepers don’t smile or say hello and make you feel like you’ve intruded because the radio-free environment makes the silence loud and your movements feel magnified and you feel more on display than the objects on display. That place where the river moves steadily and lazily under the bridges, and the even lazier ducks let it take them ever so slowly from one place to the other as they dunk their heads in for treats. That spot where the old wooden picnic tables covered in layers of fermez look alive in their rich, dark, used up way and are uncomfortable but the view is worth it; the view of a castle with a tower that looks like a person staring down at the town, a guard, an observer. And that restaurant that has a fire burning crazily in the first room where everyone is eager to sit but it’s full and then it’s full and then it’s full and it’s good but it’s not that good. And the bar that was once an apothecary that I loved but rarely went into because I couldn’t endure the cigarette smoke parking itself on my coat. And that other bar, the secret one, that had smoke instead of air but I ate it with or without company because its artful existence was enough to justify the pollution entering my lungs; what entered my eyes cleansed my soul. And the marionettes who live like ghosts in an attic of the oldest building on that side of the river, which is not visited enough but is marveled at by those who do buy the five dollar ticket and go up the steps and up the steps and up the steps until they reach that attic that they wish could be their home but it’s already a home to the dangling wooden characters in their resting positions… because the show doesn’t go on anymore and dust has settled into their hair made of old brittle string. That place where the hills go up just high enough to make the big white clouds feel low when you stand at that special viewing point, the one where everyone suddenly becomes an architect and describes what they would do if that house were theirs, or that one, or the one over there with the terrace facing the river. And that museum that reminds me of the gallery in Bratislava where the old lady with bad eyes sat behind a tattered table serving as a desk, handing out hand-made tickets for two euro…she couldn’t see us when we went into one of the rooms with old, dirty paint and art covered walls and I put my hand there and we didn’t stop until we finished. That world over there where a person glances around with travelers eyes and feels a greater I than they ever felt before. I dreamt of it last night, that other world, and woke up happily disoriented…
...............................
I read the words scribbled in capital letters on a scrap of paper that I found in my coat pocket. It had been months since I’d had those thoughts and felt those feelings. I wrote them on a Monday. I remember it well because I had something to celebrate and because it was Monday I didn’t consider inviting anyone along. I walked to a little dive nestled deep behind a wall of green in that alley that is easily overlooked. It’s a narrow alley with little purpose. But one important part of its existence is the entrance to the dive. It doesn’t have to be a dive but it’s so beautiful that being a bit disheveled is its best feature. Some women are that kind of beautiful. The kind that wear thin tan sweaters made of linen with loose pants and hair that is careless with strands falling down, caressing the edges of their cheeks and causing them to blow air from the corners of their mouths to push the messiness away from their eyes. Those same women can wear a gown and look like a million dollars but they are most beautiful when they wake up in the morning. I loved one of those for many years...
...............................
I learned many things about death after my mother passed away. Many of them I knew already even before experiencing them, so I merely learned that they were true. Toni Morrison writes that it is sheer good fortune to miss someone long before they leave you. That rings entirely true for me because I mourned my mother’s death when I was twenty. I had a moment of realization and it was that my mother was going to die. Whether it happened during or after my lifetime was not the point… it was that she would die and it pained me, so I cried. I cried a lot. My roommate at the time found me and asked what the matter was, to which I replied “my mother is going to die” and naturally she gasped and wondered what had happened. Nothing, I said. But something did happen. It happened later. I knew to enjoy her. I knew to ask questions. I knew to spend time with her. I knew to share my thoughts with her. I knew to travel with her. I knew to make her laugh, to sing for her, to discuss authors we loved, and to share an admiration for a wonderful musician... it was a big part of our friendship. A man from Argentina worthy of mentioning now or whenever who didn’t speak until the age of eight. A man who lived on the street with his mother and siblings. A man who eventually met Eva Peron. A man who became a poet through song and a philosopher like no other…my favorite philosopher to be sure. A man who shared my mother’s birthday, same year and everything. A lovely person who spoke gently and intelligently…like my mother. I knew to pay attention to my mother’s life during her lifetime. For sure the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Lately I walk on hills with amazing views and find that the ground I walk on is my mother now. I walk for hours up and down and spread my arms apart as far as they will go…
............................................
There is a kiss that has planted itself on my lips and waits. It moves around impatiently wondering why it’s still just sitting there. It knows where to go. It has a home and yet here is stays… in its temporary waiting cell. If it had eyes it would look at me with disbelief. It would say that a kiss has never had to wait this long to go home. It would shake its head, raise its eyebrows and wonder what has become of my impulsive nature. If it had a voice it would whisper, let’s go...come on, let’s go. Then it would say it a little bit louder until finally it would realize that I’m not listening, so it would yell. And if it had arms it would grab my shoulders and shake me a little. It would assume I’d fallen asleep and would shake me until I woke up, got back on my track and released it. Until I set it free. But the kiss doesn’t know what I know. It doesn’t know that it must wait and perhaps even die. It doesn’t know that my impulsive nature is wide awake, alive and alert...that it has taken a step back to observe and to question and to wonder. So the kiss that has planted itself on my lips must wait. It must wait and then it can go home wonderfully or die easily. But it doesn't know what I know so it moves around and I feel it lingering in anticipation.
It had been twelve years since I woke up to the 4th of July here. I woke up tired and lazily made my way through the morning, wondering if I'd muster up the social energy to make calls and arrange to engage in 4th of July-ing with others. But it was a solitary day for me so I stretched my mind as far as it would go for the first two hours doing what I always do that early. Then it was time for my body to stretch and that meant a walk to the nearby parade. I had no idea what to expect. It was a charming small town sprinkle of a parade. Charming I guess. More so for the parents of the kids in the marching band, the brownies, the boy scouts led by a red Tesla, the police chief that was cheered on by overly enthusiastic folks who were saying more than happy fourth of July when they said it. The trumpets and drums were cool. The long empty space between one group and the other made the parade seem like it had ended over and over. That was odd. Then I walked over to the park a few blocks away where the marching band kept on going and families spread out their blankets while kids ran everywhere feeling more free than usual. Or so it seemed. I sat in the shade until I got cold and then ordered a cheeseburger from the eager boys whose job was so easy and still their young little hands fumbled the paper plates and raced when there was no rush. I went home after a while to pick up my new book (The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields) and strolled back to the park where I spent a long while collapsed on the spongy grass reading one awesome line after the other with occasional interruptions from a nearby couple who talked to their dog as if it were a person, with questions and everything. Then I walked to another park to continue reading but I didn't read at all. I scribbled an almost poem onto a loose sheet of paper that I found because I didn't have anything on me except for my book, wallet and fortunately a pen. My almost poem wasn't half bad. The day went like that... I bounced around a bit... observing. I walked into the supermarket on my way home but it was super crowded and the lines were way too long to bother with so I walked out immediately. I was at home for a long while doing at home things until I started to hear fireworks going off. It reminded me of how I used to spend new year's eve. Alone in the desert in my tent with a book in my hands until the silence was suddenly broken by countdowns at midnight in the distance. I went onto the rooftop of my apartment and could see fireworks in every direction. Then the little chatty old man who lives in my building came up to the rooftop as well and we 4th of July-ed together. Not bad. Not bad at all for my first one in twelve years.
............................
I bounced off the walls and I couldn’t be happier and you couldn’t be happier and it was mine and yours and his - the man in the reddish green tie that said his name was Albert but he lied because I overheard the shopkeeper call him Lou. Black and blue and yellow too. His tie. His dark brown eyes just sitting there watching my dark brown eyes just standing there. Hey, the roof is too low where those neighbors added an addition without permits. Cracks between the wooden planks of his thoughts. Whose? It doesn’t matter… what an idea… to have cracks between the wooden planks of ones thoughts. What gets out? What goes in? What floats in between? The lines of light that fall in are long, they stretch far and so does the straight line I’m on, it stretches far beyond what I may reach, but I still see. I see it in its infinity.
............................
When a woman cries, and an old man smiles, and a leaf dances along the street, and a ray of sun peeks behind the stubborn grey, and a thought begins and ends before it lives and there you are waiting in vain, and eyes stare and you wonder why, and the song is perfect but you only hear the very end, and you think you know and laugh because you know you don't, and you hear the river even when there is none, and the only yesterday is tomorrow, and the night lasts too long so your eyes blink and blink and blink, and the walk seems endless and you hope so, and the room doesn't exist beyond what does, and you give because what else is there, and you fall in and fall out and sleep it off with a smile on your face, and you feel loved in an empty room, and the sky is sparkling and they move but they don't, and birds sing in a frantic chorus that begins and ends abruptly, and a row of ants makes you look twice and three times until finally you just look once and never stop... to wonder, and the delicate sprinkles of rain say hello before they turn into drops that say goodbye, and the scent didn't stay on your scarf but you thought it had so you checked, and the day was empty and full and happy and glad and short and long and weak and strong, and mine.
.............................
Whisky sprinkled evenings in a place that feels like home. The other one. The one over there on the other side of the world. The feeling of home there is in the streets and in the old buildings that hide years of stories and heartache and joy in their crooked frames and layers of plaster with portions of frescos revealed to show off wealthy beauty as they were meant to. Over there, where the streets are made of stones and the bars are full of smoke. Where the music bounces off a 15th century wall and travels like a wave along a street whose name I never learned, where the shopkeepers don’t smile or say hello and make you feel like you’ve intruded because the radio-free environment makes the silence loud and your movements feel magnified and you feel more on display than the objects on display. That place where the river moves steadily and lazily under the bridges, and the even lazier ducks let it take them ever so slowly from one place to the other as they dunk their heads in for treats. That spot where the old wooden picnic tables covered in layers of fermez look alive in their rich, dark, used up way and are uncomfortable but the view is worth it; the view of a castle with a tower that looks like a person staring down at the town, a guard, an observer. And that restaurant that has a fire burning crazily in the first room where everyone is eager to sit but it’s full and then it’s full and then it’s full and it’s good but it’s not that good. And the bar that was once an apothecary that I loved but rarely went into because I couldn’t endure the cigarette smoke parking itself on my coat. And that other bar, the secret one, that had smoke instead of air but I ate it with or without company because its artful existence was enough to justify the pollution entering my lungs; what entered my eyes cleansed my soul. And the marionettes who live like ghosts in an attic of the oldest building on that side of the river, which is not visited enough but is marveled at by those who do buy the five dollar ticket and go up the steps and up the steps and up the steps until they reach that attic that they wish could be their home but it’s already a home to the dangling wooden characters in their resting positions… because the show doesn’t go on anymore and dust has settled into their hair made of old brittle string. That place where the hills go up just high enough to make the big white clouds feel low when you stand at that special viewing point, the one where everyone suddenly becomes an architect and describes what they would do if that house were theirs, or that one, or the one over there with the terrace facing the river. And that museum that reminds me of the gallery in Bratislava where the old lady with bad eyes sat behind a tattered table serving as a desk, handing out hand-made tickets for two euro…she couldn’t see us when we went into one of the rooms with old, dirty paint and art covered walls and I put my hand there and we didn’t stop until we finished. That world over there where a person glances around with travelers eyes and feels a greater I than they ever felt before. I dreamt of it last night, that other world, and woke up happily disoriented…
...............................
I read the words scribbled in capital letters on a scrap of paper that I found in my coat pocket. It had been months since I’d had those thoughts and felt those feelings. I wrote them on a Monday. I remember it well because I had something to celebrate and because it was Monday I didn’t consider inviting anyone along. I walked to a little dive nestled deep behind a wall of green in that alley that is easily overlooked. It’s a narrow alley with little purpose. But one important part of its existence is the entrance to the dive. It doesn’t have to be a dive but it’s so beautiful that being a bit disheveled is its best feature. Some women are that kind of beautiful. The kind that wear thin tan sweaters made of linen with loose pants and hair that is careless with strands falling down, caressing the edges of their cheeks and causing them to blow air from the corners of their mouths to push the messiness away from their eyes. Those same women can wear a gown and look like a million dollars but they are most beautiful when they wake up in the morning. I loved one of those for many years...
...............................
I learned many things about death after my mother passed away. Many of them I knew already even before experiencing them, so I merely learned that they were true. Toni Morrison writes that it is sheer good fortune to miss someone long before they leave you. That rings entirely true for me because I mourned my mother’s death when I was twenty. I had a moment of realization and it was that my mother was going to die. Whether it happened during or after my lifetime was not the point… it was that she would die and it pained me, so I cried. I cried a lot. My roommate at the time found me and asked what the matter was, to which I replied “my mother is going to die” and naturally she gasped and wondered what had happened. Nothing, I said. But something did happen. It happened later. I knew to enjoy her. I knew to ask questions. I knew to spend time with her. I knew to share my thoughts with her. I knew to travel with her. I knew to make her laugh, to sing for her, to discuss authors we loved, and to share an admiration for a wonderful musician... it was a big part of our friendship. A man from Argentina worthy of mentioning now or whenever who didn’t speak until the age of eight. A man who lived on the street with his mother and siblings. A man who eventually met Eva Peron. A man who became a poet through song and a philosopher like no other…my favorite philosopher to be sure. A man who shared my mother’s birthday, same year and everything. A lovely person who spoke gently and intelligently…like my mother. I knew to pay attention to my mother’s life during her lifetime. For sure the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Lately I walk on hills with amazing views and find that the ground I walk on is my mother now. I walk for hours up and down and spread my arms apart as far as they will go…
............................................
There is a kiss that has planted itself on my lips and waits. It moves around impatiently wondering why it’s still just sitting there. It knows where to go. It has a home and yet here is stays… in its temporary waiting cell. If it had eyes it would look at me with disbelief. It would say that a kiss has never had to wait this long to go home. It would shake its head, raise its eyebrows and wonder what has become of my impulsive nature. If it had a voice it would whisper, let’s go...come on, let’s go. Then it would say it a little bit louder until finally it would realize that I’m not listening, so it would yell. And if it had arms it would grab my shoulders and shake me a little. It would assume I’d fallen asleep and would shake me until I woke up, got back on my track and released it. Until I set it free. But the kiss doesn’t know what I know. It doesn’t know that it must wait and perhaps even die. It doesn’t know that my impulsive nature is wide awake, alive and alert...that it has taken a step back to observe and to question and to wonder. So the kiss that has planted itself on my lips must wait. It must wait and then it can go home wonderfully or die easily. But it doesn't know what I know so it moves around and I feel it lingering in anticipation.
..............................
The wind blows and I am tempted to go where it goes, to move just like that - impetuously, unaware of anything other than the movement of now crossing over into more now, so I do. Living in a straight line with no full circles, no back to squares, no left or right, no long list of detours - only one never ending detour from non existence to now and to now and to who knows where if anywhere. I missed the green light yesterday because I was daydreaming about Friday's girl who stole my thoughts. The little red numbers were blinking their annoying countdown and I watched them... even counted them down...but no part of me thought to cross when the number still read something greater than five. I just watched with my head in the clouds, leaning up against a pole with my face happily taking in the warm sun. Six, five, four, three, two... fuck. I missed the green light.
...............................
I sit at my desk and I like what falls into my eyes. Some things from before this little perfect flat, some things meant especially for it. Few things altogether. The desk in front of me is better than the one I had before. If better means bigger. If better means sturdier. If better means more practical. If better means solid walnut vs. old soft wood with grooves along the surface that make writing on it impossible without first placing something on top of it. If better means more storage space and a place to set a lamp without feeling like you’ve lost valuable space. If better means I can rest my hand on the surface when I reach across for something and the weight of my body won’t cause it to make a sound, to move a little, to show off its unstable too many years of life. If better means a young lad, polished and ready to live vs. an old man ready with life as a wave under his feeble but experienced frame. If better means its story begins with me, unlike my old desk which had stories that live well beyond my imagination. My old feeble desk annoyed me but I loved it. I could pick it up and move it around my office and change things whenever I wanted. I wanted often. But no matter where I moved it to I had to be sure I could still see the little broken attic window across the street at the abandoned house. I don’t know why it charmed me so much. I would have died if one day I found it had been repaired. I remember once long ago I conveyed something to a darling of mine… I don’t know if I read it somewhere, heard it somewhere, or if someone told it to me, it was: everything must have a crack in it, that’s how the light gets it. It meant so much to me and still does. That little broken window always brought those words to mind… and my love for the crookedness of things was there too. I am drawn to the perfectly imperfect. I live in a perfectly imperfect flat. The walls need new paint. The plaster from previous repairs was slapped on like paint gets layered onto canvas, like frosting on a cake before it gets smoothed out to look uniformly flat. I love it just like that. I noticed cracks on some parts of the paint before I moved in and the gentleman in charge of showing me the place and tending to repairs said he’d fix them. He did. Some of them. Some of the cracks that are a bit too high got ignored. I didn’t ask why. And the cracks he did bother with were painted in a slightly different shade of paint. I think it would bother most people. It doesn’t bother me. I look at these details and I whisper… ghetto… and I smile. The man is seventy two years old. His arms shake and when we chat sometimes in the corridor he has to lean against a wall to keep the movement of his upper body a bit more steady. I see the patched up wall in all its imperfection and I think, he did that. With his old and tired hands, he did that.
............................
My empty chair is at an angle pushed back... waiting. My cup of coffee is in my head but my head is still on the pillow. Four something is too early. I wait. I squirm around my soft Egyptians to settle into those little while longer minutes but I don't need them. I don't want them. Not lately. I rise quickly, make my bed hurriedly, let the darkness from out there come in through my windows until it isn't dark any longer... until the light of day starts to say something but not before the birds start to say something. The wild songs of morning always makes me pause. Sounds are invisible to my ears usually. My thoughts are loud as I dream and leave now for a different now... that's as in the moment as I ever want to be. It's their job to make us pull apart our eyelids and say here we go again - except that I'm already going again so they make me pause. I love to pause. Who doesn't? Who doesn't love to have a moment stolen away by something beautiful so that you have no better choice than to stop everything in order to have everything.
.............................
I don't have a shadow. Mine is an echo of wrinkled paper unfolding slowly like a budding flower until it is still. Silent. Motionless. Plain wrinkled paper. Scattered folds. Permanent chaos. Neat. Precise. I don't have a shadow. Mine is an echo of unfolding paper until it is still...
.............................