And then there is this....
This is my post #1 with a photo,...
When I first met him, he was on to his pot smoking and Wild Turkey drinking phase and through with his newspaper owning phase. He was all of 29 at that point. He owned the table and was writing a novel, “Eternal Summer” or something like that. I tried not to pass judgement. I was the Carraway to his Gatsby. We went to the house at the beach in July, two years, that I liked to say belonged to his family, on the beach just down from the architect’s place. I don’t know. I drove the convertible back to college town that week. His sister brought him back later. There was a kiss. Me and her. 25 and 18 (or 17, shhh). Atticus me Laurie at a coffee shop by accident. That’s the most I remember of the details. It must’ve been summer. Blonde and sleek, red and freckled and pasty. Once he figured that it wasn’t going to work – a few years before he met Jehovah – he would buy the table where they sat when the kids in town turned from caffeine and coffee to whiskey and revolution. He would buy the table where we played cards and drank the kids’ whiskey, and we likely got high, and we stared out over the small city, through the arched windows, onto the streets where she once walked. He would talk of her in that way that we remember the actress (mind you, not the character) where you learned things about women right at that cusp of puberty. But that was before the war. That was before she...
Get married. This is the beginning of what was.
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Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson. Especially “Who’s Laughing?” I know it’s too many names, but I figure a girl that goes by the second name could get behind it. It will change your life.
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Strange days. Haven’t seen you in forever. New car. New house. New band. Same banjo. Still a little ringing in the ear. Even after facebook love and marriage requests. Even after bed time, when we should be with our others.
To the extent that you wanted me to quit drinking, I probably should’ve, if it meant I could’ve really had you (if that was possible). To the extent that I should’ve played in a band all along, it was always on my mind. To the extent that you would sound good on (at least) one new song, it’s true – like Neko Case, like Neko Case. To the extent that I miss you, infinitely, infinitely. To the extent that I realize it was all wrong, infinitely, infinitely. To the extent that I want you and Ramon and Travis to be happy, infinitely, infinitely. And the glasses. And the bully pulpit. And the children. And the screen door. Great American novels. 23 minutes. Grocery lists. Saturday sandwiches. I can cook. You cannot. If we had fallen in love under a democratic regime, i am sure it would have all been different. Right? You would’ve kept your hair short, and had no reason for fear nor lent. No reason for retreat nor fear. Sometimes I wish this was a text message, and that you would come running, but that’s just wrong. When/if you cry, I (want to) taste the salt in your tears, or for the salt to be tasted, married, children, screen door, you singing that...
Too many images tonight reminding me of forgotten (and thankfully so) desires. There’s the hair that hung down and the hair than didn’t. I guess there’s just less hair altogether now – shaved pubes, balding – but there’s more of us: bodies consistently expanding. Then there’s the creepy thing that she cut the 5th grade version and the 12th grade version out of something, possibly even a larger photo, and montaged them together. All runnerly and jaw-thrusted – everything was ahead. Now Franklin-stove-esquely, waiting for something to happen. Off my meds for three days. Should be in bed. Get back to the gym before the gig. Drop a few. Fit into spandex bodysuit. Live...
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