| everDearest,
It must be awful of me to write
to you at this time of the night – or morning, as it were, and wear my
heart on a sleeve. First things first.
All indications point to a certain
inadmissibility when as you say, one who’s awake at very odd hours tends
to lose all coherence and it must only mean that it is unnatural for one
to sustain one’s actions for so long. It may not be a point of endurance
at this juncture. Doubtless you’re already whirring and thinking, presupposing
what utterly shocking news I have for my dearest friend. I have nothing
of the sort. I am only slightly aware that I am under scrutiny – this choice
of writing materials; and of course my handwriting. At this early hour
I daresay I cannot think of a better way to nudge at over analysis and
pointed vanity. When it is hardly vanity, but memory. The margins are skewed,
that’s obvious. My hands hurt when I write letters. Sometimes I send recorded
cassettes of personal scrutiny to far away friends – the ones I haven’t
shaken my head to in disagreement or wagged my tongue at for their discourteous
behavior. But that’s the written me. The spoken person tends (at times,
you’re familiar almost…) to rant against very imperceptible matters. This
pencil dances on its own accord, you see. The last of the consort of this
year whispered (and none too in a hurry) that I draw words.
What’s that last figure, she said.
All the while thinking about our latest familiar mishap. Sometimes when
I feel that sleep is almost near (sneaking… very quietly at dawn) I turn
over the most pressing concepts and figure out the reason why these things
did happen.
I’m this close to mentioning our
conversation involving an idealized video game representation of our initial
meeting.
So but appropriately confrontational.
In the carpe diem scheme of things our fictionalized history would have
included a pleasant stroll along a quiet beach at sunset with friendly
beverages I tow, my coffee and your non sequitur tea. In a perfect world
where some say, but then again in a perfect world I would not have to justify
anything either you or I say. And there are a hundred questions I’m waiting
to ask you. Your name and the distinct sound it makes when worked into
a song that somebody wrote for you: but then quite ill-advised the wheels
turned and this person caused your will to rise in the offset manner
of all displeased children of the Moon. So this person no longer has any
ties with you. If there ever were. Sacrifices must be made and the creatures
call out often. I have a song for you, but it is not in your name’s manufacture.
And the oddest hours when I’ve run
out of thoughts I laid down at earlier moments, I’m drawn back to you.
Consider for the meantime our most pressing detail, our distance. But comfort
is where one finds comfort. And I cannot bring myself to ask you any more
questions – when there are no distractions. I’ve written miles and miles
of these squiggly lines wondering about the color of your eyes. I’ve asked
you once and kept your story, your laughing, your hidden smile of a light-hearted
flirtation in my mind.
They’re not blue, my dearest friend
says. And so I think more on other hues depending on your mood.
Have you ever played a Game
of You ?
When there must be at least two,
and the game is played under the auspice of a full Moon. A fire must be
well tended, and matters of import when one’s (or with you, that makes
two’s) deep in the heart of the nearest woods. We begin by turns, and ladies
go first. As you tell of yourself, of what or when, or who you are in the
same breath within the span of a riddle. I need not guess, not yet. But
if Luck finds you for me an easy mark then your turn is lost. And you and
I are realized – if I guessed correct: you Become what you Are, whether
object, animal, happenstance, or song. Knowing some part of you I’ll keep
near a dance. As I might as well be.
... to be continued. |