And so as the sun sets on another exhausting week, I throw aside the homework and pick up Bukowski- allowing my mind a chance to thaw for the first time in what seems like an eternity. There is nothing and everything here on this beautiful coast. There's no escaping my mind, but there are thousands of miles worth of distance between myself and the memories. Memories of effort, memories of being misunderstood, memories of feeling as if I am the most problematic friend and lover on the planet, memories of knowing that my very existence made a tremendously positive impact, memories....so many memories.
Ryan leaves Chicago for California tomorrow afternoon. His heart is in shambles and it is once again that we unite on this front. There's nothing like being in love and no comparison to the hole left inside of you once it's discarded, removed, erased, negated. There are cracks in his voice when the moment, the memories, are swallowing him whole. There are gaps of silence in his communication when he is lost in deep recollection. We love and lose the same and find solace in the others adventure. There's no telling if my experience will provide him with the peace he seeks. I don't know that California would have been as peaceful to me 5 years ago, 2 years ago, even 3 months ago, as it is in recent times. There is an incredible comfort in the anonymity of a city this large. No one to recognize your face, no one to tell you they've heard all of your lines before. No one who's seen you naked in any regard. It's just you in your overcoat, pacing the city streets, eyes grazing the shops and potential infatuations, just you and your thoughts and an expression no one can read.
The Poet and I celebrated Chinese New Year in Chinatown last Sunday. Brightly lit lanterns and disarming blasts of firecrackers shattered the slowly drifting sun. She quoted Kundera and told me I was perfect. How little she knows, how hard she tries- masking all the insecurities and the uncertainty, though I see it in her bowing knees, her pocketed hands, her questioning glances. None of us are perfect nor perfect for one another. There is only the moment and then, eventually, only the memories. I am lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and ambition, per usual. I am solidified in regret and hopeless in expectation. Reality has finally approached me and will not leave. There's so few ways to be honest and yet, no way around it. I'm just waiting for someone to see my trap door, my cellar of secrets.
I listen to children screech relentlessly as they run down the cement trail next to my window. Their parents follow slowly, patiently, dying for a single uninterrupted sentence. I wonder what brought them here, what their regrets are- if Ryan and I will become as so many before us have- full of resignation and won over by the security of no longer making an effort. I'm not passing judgment but I can see it in their stance, their glazed over nods, their jogging suit, tennis shoes coordination, the absence of a glow. Is that what happens when you accept that you have no control over your fate? Or is it that he and I belong to a rare group of galactic miracles, burning nearly as bright as the sun and longer than the identified planets? Are we destined to be orbited but never landed upon, deemed hopelessly beautiful but untouchable by observers? Will our love and lovers be as meteors, our loneliness allowing them to gravitate into our atmosphere. From a distance they appeared gentle and we drew them in, but their closeness proved destructive; the mark they've left will resonate for all of time- our surfaces are pocked with the damage of unearned trust. Do we burn too bright, too long, too intensely? Are we the reason our lovers are incinerated before intimacy can be achieved?
I've been alive long enough that my scars have become visible. The damage shows in the lines under my eyes, the squint of my mouth as I lift the familiar wine bottle to my lips, the drag of my walk as I count the cigarette butts in the gutter. This isn't the destiny I had in mind, but heed my warning- never fall in love with a writer. Whether you're the antagonist or the protagonist, we never let you forget our fickle remembrances of the time shared. Everyone becomes a character warped by our indecision, our hope of changing the course of fate through the editing process. In writing we can be the hero, we can save the day, take away the pain. When you're written down, everything can be erased and revisited, time can heal and characters can steer the course of fate with a single line. I don't think anyone ever walked into love thinking "this is going to ruin me," but a writer knows better and perhaps that is my detriment. I want the fairy tale I can't foresee, the great love that hasn't been written. I want life to surprise me rather than cynical arrogance blockading revelation. There have been years without surprises and then a moment filled with thousands of unexpected shimmers.
As much as I try to write about the complexities, there are no words to describe the heaviness that lingers from Kansas City, to Chicago, to San Francisco. We are all in love with the idea of love and we are all tainted by its majesty. The most I can hope for is a Western wind that carries on it serendipitous encounters, midnight inspiration, city light poetry. Actual love can destroy but the intended love of broken-hearted writer can save the world. Wait for it. It's only another moment or two before we supernova.
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