emma b. says

Monday, October 17, 2005

Still hot

I've got the windows upon and there is a ripe, but waning moon over Haight street. Some enterprising neighbors have dragged their TV out to the side walk for what sounds like a game, what kind of game is mysterious, but the season tells me it is the confluence of baseball and football, but I only have ever cared about hot dogs so what do I know.

A hot wind has set the leaves skittering down the sidewalks and I'd like to take a bath and listen to the leaves but my flesh is already poached. God bless we San Franciscan, we are nothing if not capital about bitching about our seriously mild weather - I can say that now that the fog has receded....


  • We two who are so similiar.

    Here is me in mid-October.

    In this new age of minor upheaval and petty complaint, I am alone a lot. I think on this often and marvel at my clipped wings and stupid little cage. It seems to be a common enough affliction – loneliness. I see the yearn and burn in friends who live with lovers. Sort of brings me back to the age old question, “Is there really such a thing as not being alone?” Maybe it is more appropriate to consider whether my idea of love is possible.

    But I know myself. I know right where I am in this world. It is a question of time, really. All that feels immediate and relevant now is just a matter of time. I was conceived thirty-one years ago. In thirty-one more, I’ll be sixty-two. Who will be who and what will I do? I can’t help but feel paralyzed. It just goes. With or without me. It just goes. Desire, pain, and joy are all the same. It just goes. Like it could care less. And the paradox is this: The more a person gives in to the gravity of time, the more momentum a person gets. Things actually speed up. There is the joyful exhilaration of speed and the illusion of freedom. (I remember how my calves burned as I tried to pump up the steep that was Crystal Wells Rd. I couldn’t make it all the way up. I practiced zigzagging and sweeping the plain of the hill to diminish the pull of gravity. Finally, I conquered the small hill - sweat dripping off my boyish frame. My tiny yellow and black BMX turned sideways, one foot down as a kickstand, shoulders back as I surveyed the view. Pride welled in my eyes. The pavement glistened a little with moisture. It was a crispy autumn day, pine and pungent damp earth. The air had that quality clearness that comes with cool and clean rain. I saw a lot. The half rotted stump by the side of the road covered in ants. The bulging drop of dew tentatively clinging to the end of a pine needle gleaming in the middle with a miniature sun. The wet-slap of pitter-patter forest splatter on the wide dry oak leaves across the forest floor. I smiled and felt the flush of physicality color my cheeks. I exhaled a cloud of steam and angled the bike down the defeated hill. - - - There was a rush of air in my ears and a pleasant hum from the knobs on my tires. I gripped hard on the handlebars. A stop sign. I applied the brakes and skidded to a halt. That is all I remember of the descent.) The letting go doesn’t last very long and what is remembered is fragmented at best. It just goes. There are only moments. Particles that float through infinite space - some kind of matter in the void - these moments that we create somewhere in between the climbing and the freefall of time.

    So, back to being lonely. I wonder if, in the end, love is really just a shared collection of moments in space. “We were there together. We are here together.” Love is a mutual remembrance. Love is some kind of validation that there is space between two points. Maybe the rest is just fucking and fighting.

    Besides, desire doesn’t just go away. Satisfaction is only temporary; it’ll leave you after a while. It won’t matter what hill you are standing on. It won’t matter the view. You’ll still want more.

    Still, I long for touch on the back of my neck. The furtive hand on hand. The warmth of Sunday morning with another. The hotbreath. Le petit mort. The expectation of a full report. A petname. A parental secret. Perfume on a pillow. An understanding about silences. Us against the world.

    I long for the giddy delirium that love brings, despite its impending deception. I’ll climb again and again the small, but daunting hill, in order to see just for a moment before the fall. This is the great Sisyphean joke of love, desire, pain, and all the rest.


    PS - Coming to visit for Thanksgiving. You better get ready to cook, beaaaach. Oh, the friend I'm bringing thinks you're hot.

    By Anonymous Anonymous, at 6:49 PM PDT  

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