I had a dream last night that I bought a house with the sea on the northern and eastern sides. I lived there alone and all my neighbors hated me.
A., I’m dying inside. The wee small hours are my poison.
Why have I always, in my vision, known you as a dancer? Didn’t I write once, perhaps in your birthday letter, about a young prince in a borsellino hat? Well, a young prince I’m not and moving towards you I’m not but at least the hat prophecy came true.
These are things I miss about you – most of all your kisses. The only time when you ever seem really, totally unguarded and open and true is when you are kissing me. You know that if you ever truly want me to surrender, kiss me. I melt and daze in strange and unpredictable ways. I miss your voice, deep and European, husky with its wants, and haughty with its business. I miss your pride, your fierce steel. I miss admiring you for the way you absorb every slight and insult the world threw at you the way you marshal the pain of the losses, let them sting on your skin for just a second and then suck them in and defy them . I miss your skin, sweet and smooth and cool and perfect. I miss your dark eyes. I miss you rubbing my shoulders and pressing your breasts into the top of my back when you know I’m blue. I miss the way you mock me. I miss the fact that behind all of this there is, occasionally, a frightened little girl who needed to be held. And that you me to do it. It may sound awful, but at least someone you can rely on knows it.I miss those moments when you trust me enough to just drop the facade for a moment. When you become girlish and defenceless just for a minute.
It’s hard to reconcile a God that made a hummingbird, the Bay of Biscay and the rudimentary ingredients of red velvet cake with a God that delights in cancer, war and torment. But that’s what we are. The choice was free will v God’s will, and we chose the former. Good for us!
The photograph which is passed to me is different – one of some erratic erotic off beat of the iris – some rimshot of photons, of her, in shimmering summer…
Why do your fingers play at your white blouse, the buttons parted, so inviting, yet when I reach to touch you, you wither like old flowers? Whose is the voice, so feint, that echoes here In corners of you I can’t reach to. That ancient sound of a stranger – his footsteps on forgotten stairs. Let me take this cloth from you and reveal to you your body. Let me put my hands in you and show your shining heart. Give to me your knots of thoughts, your rough, splintered dreams- we will polish them in daylight.
You should know what I felt that first night, in the tiny lights. You should have wanted the way I did. Not burning or raging or slavering in lust, but calmly, quietly and from somewhere very deep inside myself.
Grammar is so much more a matter of taste than morality, isn’t it? So don’t apologize. Bad form is like a bad haircut – you grow out of it in a week. So don’t apologize. And don’t ever apologize for being mad, bad and impossible to please. That’s how I love you most fondly.
We are taught as children not to want, that it’s better to get without asking, that there are seven deadly sins which all spring from wanting – but I think the greatest cause of unhappiness is not so much not having but not knowing what you want. Want is decision and definition. It’s visualization to want is to have the power to compel. If a woman wants to make herself irresistibly attractive to me, she will trust me enough to say what she really wants.
The graffito artist used the tag “Joker”. I’m not worried, but I will be if he teams up with the Riddler.
By now you have learned what we are doing here is not turning the book into the one I want written but showing you how strongly you feel about the one you want written.
Everything you put together falls apart again.
You? You’re a woman who can kill me just by walking across a room.
An unkindness of ravens is speckled in the sky,
black on blue in the mercy of night.
Kerosene lamps shine behind the twisted she oaks,
in the still air, choked so thick with summer
you smell them before you see them.
We’re grown-ups these days. We sit in the front of the car.
That’s such a near-universal experience, both for those waiting and those traveling. When you’re moving towards someone, you learn to count off the objects that mark the distance, you start to build up all of the things that delight you in arriving in your mind – what dress will she be wearing, how will the light shine off her eyes, will she rise and walk towards you or will she sit and wait for you go come to her, do you stop, for just a moment, by the car to gaze at her or do you move to her with surety and purpose, do you kiss her, do you make small talk, and do you tell her she looks lovely, or beautiful or bewitching, you choose your words; you hear your own voice in your head, all the time compressing time as the markers to her closeness pass you.
What’s keeping me awake?
The swollen moon.
A pair of green eyes,
wheels of fire,
the rock of Gibraltar
and the ceaseless ticking off the clock.
I had a long conversation with my hat.
Such things, great and small.
You know what bothers me? Old Seb, back when, may have been able to deal with this. Old Seb could have cut and run, so cocksure was he, so powerful in himself. Nowadays Seb can feel his balls in the woman’s hand and is sitting shuddering, waiting for the squeeze and twist. And maybe he likes that.
Why not somewhere with some romance,
some mystery, some danger.
Meet me in Barcelona, in Bordeaux, in Cesena,
in Rio de Janerio, in Mumbai,
in Castro Verde –
in high summer, with a garland in your hair,
walking slowly towards me, on a street,
where no one knows us, and there is a room,
two floors up,
where the light is dim,
and we can listen, listen, listen, to the day hiss and slink away
and watch stars shoot from the window
and marvel at thunderbolts and cry at silver beauty of the moon
I don’t love you silver trays. I love you kitchen table. I don’t want you Monet afternoons. I want you Matisse nights. I don’t come courting parlors and flowers. I come courting your secret name, whispered to a bedroom window. My fire is not a mannered ballad. My fire is Patsy Cline.
I am the hunger in your doorway.
I am the dust, thick on your shelf.
And certainly I’m confused, enchanted, horrified, bemused, struggling, bewitched and challenged. I search myself, like a crash victim just coming to his senses and realizing he is a) alive and b) miraculously no bones have been broken, and find that to my huge relief, “humiliated” can’t be added to that list of adjectives. Maybe I could add encouraged, but encouraged maybe is not the best thing to feel right now – and perhaps I am not the best judge of what is encouragement and what is the rosy eye of hope at the moment.
I have never been attracted to ambivalent women, why now? I have never been drawn to women who tease me. Why now? I have never been bewitched by witchy women. Why now?
I know there is something in you which you cannot trust – I wonder, is it the thunder or the rain?
Thanks for….. Whatever miracle it is you do for me. I can’t name it, but thank you. It really does mean so much.
Now, having met with equal doses of hope and rebuttal, having no clearer idea of how I am going to form my hopes – What I do know is that, if we are not together, my life will not be as good as it could be, and I owe it to myself to try. I could never tolerate myself for not. Because I know how bad it feels to wake up one morning and know, deep in your heart, that you didn’t try.