emma b. says

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Almost Home, Life on Mars

A week from now I'll get another set of keys, just a set of ordinary keys. A set of keys to bulk up my key chain, to fumble over in the cold, to lose.

The keys to the house with a yard, the keys to a different kind of life, the set of keys to fill the lock of a bungalow in South East Portland, a set of keys to fill an absence. A set of keys stuck in the front door of a house that I can't quite imagine myself in, not yet, I am fearfully superstitious.

I drive by, swathed in rain and darkness, I note the light and the vulnerability of the lit windows. I think the house has a nice face, hidden beneath the long porch that I intend to sit upon and nurse weather-appropriate alcoholic beverages and maybe smoke cigarettes and maybe not, nurture friendships to fulsome, slough off my winter skin for a spring blossom and a summer ripening, spy on my neighbors and languid day dreaming all by my lonesome. I can nearly allow myself to see it, just nearly.

I've let old friends and new friends go gaga over this house, me, I have been holding my breath. It's been months now, since I've gone invisibly purple, short gasps of this cold, dry Portland oxygen, freezing my streaming eyes as I sprint to make the bus that carries the green eyed boy, I am rich in unguents and cash poor, cash poorer by the second... Here comes the bawdy parade! Mortgage! All the shit that you never had to pay for when you were a renter! Water! Trash! You want HBO, my girl, suck it and pay!

It's been awhile since I have been beholden to the bus. Apparently it takes an arsenal of pills and money to park on Pill Hill, which is sort of fine with me as I have become terrified of these dark and narrow, biker infested wet and icy streets - my point just up and deserted me - the bus? the bus flirtation? that all departing bus riders thank the driver, and the driver is cordial when you board, or that you went to some strange grocery sort of outlet/store to fetch cigarettes for the ladies and the 87 year old checker covered you for the .69 you were short.... and you wonder if it's the thick cloak of dark, if it's the hats and gloves and the good air and starkness of bare branches, or the surplus of mulch, who are these aliens anyways, and where do they get their water/beer.

anyway, this house.
Built in 1919, bungalow with a basement and an attic.
galley kitchen -- needs some paint.
two bedrooms, one and a half baths, bear claw tub.
I've a japanese maple in my front yard.

with a little luck and a little prayer to the gods of providence and of love, maybe all the rest will fall disjointedly into the slots, into me, into my yard, through my heavy, almost, door.

I'll have the keys, then. I'll unlock the doors, straight into the naked face of ambivalence and all of the honeysuckle sweetness of guile.

It'll be just like MTV, just like 1983, movers and money for nothing.


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