Reenactment

I. Will. Use. This.

Back to a daily grind, a routine, responsibilities, and, hopefully, writing. It's time.

Back soon. V. V. Soon.

I saw Hamburg tonight. Like a ghost, like an ex, she popped up when I least expected her. I saw Hamburg and it left me weak in the knees.

"Are you sure?"
"Is he really worth it?"
"Use protection!"
"It's really not all it's cracked up to be."
"Just lose it already."
"Honey, you're going to need a lot of lube."

A girl can only listen to just so much unsolicited and inapplicable sex advice before she wants to scream.

I used to be a junkie. I was all strung out on your love.

I went running blind and crazy from day to day, chasing a mirage, an illusion of yourlove. I went running and screaming stop-stop-stop-let-me-love-you-let-you-love-me but you never heard.

But then I stopped, as you skidded around a corner out of view. My mind was pounding, my heart was pounding, my pulse was poundingpounding --for you. When the dust I had kicked up settled around my feet I saw the spin I was in and stopped, but the world kept going spinningspinning.

Your face allaround everywhere. Your name pounding in my brain.

I was all strung out on your love. I was a junkie.

The highs were dizzying, blindrush of smiles and laughs and arms slung casually about each other.

But then there was the runningscreamingrunning Stop.

I was a junkie. I was all strung out on your love.

But now I'm leaving all that behind. Leaving all the runningscreaming spinningblindrush smiles and skidding to a stop.

Skidding as your mirage skips a frame and falls out of focus.

I was a junkie. I was all strung out on your love.

And I hear Look I'm standing naked before you, don't you want more than my sex Tori singing and I think, yeah. Sometimes I would just settle for the sex.

I was a junkie. I am allstrungout on your ... your love.

For Shakespeare, as I met him in London

Oh, marble eyes of greatness past, stare on-
in chilly hall of monuments, and stone
and cold, and rigid statues here, stare on.
Your poet's eyes, in life your spirit's throne-
In death unblinking, shiny, stony, still.
Whose eyes in dimness here have your eyes met?
My own young eyes met yours and, strong of will
your face perused, your poems praised, my debt,
my artist's homage paid. I bowed my head;
You, yours, did not- but on you gaze and all
and nothing see. How bold, with life still wed,
my eyes do yours dare meet. I heed art's call
and Write- a path to you to clear,
Your verse to praise, Your grace to hear.

Sonnet II

Tick-tock the clock keeps marching on, her pace
does race, her hands spin round, her face so still -
the face of Lady Time reflects. "Oh, chase
me not, sweet Lady Time" cry I, in chill,
so frightened tone. She heeds me not but, light,
runs on. Through silver ghostly leaves and groves
of shining phantom pines. Her dress of white
trails threads of mem'ry, cloaking thoughts of loves
long lost and scenes of passions yet to find.
I flee, and run and leap, near fly. Escape
escapes me; I am lost, while Time her kind
of magic strews. My past is past, her cape
of gauzy mem'ry closed and days
to come fly fleetly on their way.

A sonnet for the last day of the next-to-last month

Does Absence aching hearts then fonder make,
which in their pain no fonder-making need?
How callous slith'ring Absence as a snake
disguised, or spider-like her web does seed
with bait- a tender gaze or touch of hand-
then springs her trap. She rips the pair apart
whose fate she as a game does play. They land
divided, seas apart- heart torn from heart.
One wanders, wails in pain new-found. Her love
lies quiet, stunned, unsure- then finds the strength
to wait, and to his love his love to prove.
If Absence in her plot succeed, what length
must travel love, her home to find?
O, Absence wins her game unkind.

He told me one day about their first kiss. They had been walking along the water and the sun had been winking every few minutes from behind the swiftly passing clouds. Suddenly, a cloud paused, then decided to stay put. Wind, a sheer drop in temperature, rain. They ran to the shelter of a very large, very leafy willow tree and stood very close together on the bridge that ran underneath the wind-whipped branches. She cuddled against him and after an anxious pause, he turned her face toward his and kissed her, softly.

That was almost six years ago.

We went out once for falafel and sat on the rickety bench outside the cafe. While we ate and talked and laughed, the sky clouded over and it started to rain. The lip of the roof covered our heads and we were protected until the hail came. Then it bounced off of passing cars, off of the table in front of us, off of us. We ran inside to finish eating and the proprieter of the cafe gave us free tea for our trouble.

A few weeks later, we were walking along the water and came to that familiar tree. "One year ago, today," he said. One year ago, what? I wondered. Then we went to sit on the dock. While we ate our ice cream and talked and laughed, the sky clouded over and threatened rain, but held off while he told me about their last kiss. They had been out dancing and she had driven him home. They talked quietly for a few minutes, holding hands, and watching the sky. He kissed her and started to leave, but she held on to his hand as the first drops spattered the windshield. "We have to talk," she had said, her voice very soft and still. The rain fell harder and streaked down the windows as she calmly explained why she would never kiss him again, never see him again. He slammed the door behind him as he walked the last blocks through the rain.

That was one year ago.

We had just finished dinner. It had been raining since we sat down at the table. As we finished and washed the dishes, it stopped and the purple of a late sunset stained the receding clouds. When it was dark, we went to stand on the balcony and watch the sky. "What star is that?" he asked.

"Venus, I think."

"And there's der grosse Wagen. What do you call it?"

"Big Dipper. Or the Drinking Gourd. There's a song about it... Follow the Drinking Gourd. The slaves sang it on their way north. Follow the north star." Follow the sky? I thought to myself, pausing. "Random thought, sorry."

"I thought it fit very well, just now," he said.

We stood in silence, watching the sky. We stood very close together, but I did not cuddle against him. He did not kiss me.

Some nights, that office is his.

Mornings find the crunched basement office rather quiet, just a piano sitting, top closed, keys covered, in an empty room while next door two diligent men taptap away at their computers. One is older, grey at the temples and most everywhere else. He types slowly, picking out every letter ever so carefully. The other is young, his curly black hair bobbing to and inaudible beat-- maybe headphones? maybe imagined music? His fingers fly-- he jams to his personal soundtrack and the mechanical clacking of his typing.

Evening. The younger one's pace slows as he surfs into the end of his workday. The older fellow moves next door where his fingers move much more deftly over the piano keys that have been aching all day for motion. He conducts his dignified, if small ensemble-- seven Asian women whose voices aren't quite as well suited to Brahms's subtle harmonies and they might have been a decade ago. They sing Brahms nonetheless.

The young one clicks around, surfs his favorite websites, winces when a chord goes particularly sour. Lights are turned out, piano keys recovered, windows closed, shades let down, and they all go home.

Friday evening. "Sure, I'll lock up... just leave the key... I've still got a couple things to fine-tune here."

The older fellow plunks down a keychain-- a treble clef in brass-- wishes his young colleague good night, happy weekend, and leaves. The curly-haired one surfs a bit longer, to be sure boss is out of sight, locks up and leaves.

All day Saturday, the office sits quiet. Dust collects and the sun moves quietly in stripes through slatted shades across the piano-- top closed and keys covered. Sunday is also quiet-- until evening.

The young one comes back-- To retrieve something forgotten? Does he want to make use of a superior internet connection? Is a change of scenery necessary? He opens the windows wide, uncovers the lonely keys and takes to them like one starved and half-mad. He has been waiting all week for this.

As he plays, he rocks back and forward, bending so that his glossy locks touch the keys, then back again, eyes shut. He wails a particularly plaintive lyric with his chin thrown up to the sky and eyes still shut-- then the rhythmic head wag that accompanies a determined stride piano returns-- left-bass, right-treble.

I stand Sunday evenings at that window, watching in silent awe, for it is not often one sees pure joy.

If musical value is to be determined by the happiness derived from its complex tones, this pupil has far outstripped his master. The choirmaster is quiet, competent, and consistent, but the curly-haired boy-- for all the jagged edges in his voice and locomotive halt and sway in his piano-- creates music that lives.

I lke the idea of a constitution, a set of rules to keep myself on track here. To preserve, from the beginning, onward, the idea that this is Something I Will Take Seriously, even if it is Something Not To Be Taken Seriously.

So, rules.

1. Daily Posts.

2. No posting about silly personal drama.

3. If silly personal drama must be the topic of a post, I will write about said silly personal drama in either a satirical or (at least) nebulous manner.

4. My primary goal is to practice writing with an audience in mind. I've mastered intensely personal writing, recording the things I couldn't ever share with anyone else. Now I want to learn how to write without paralyzing fear of anyone ever reading those... personal things.

I will do these things. I will. Starting tomorrow.

So I set out to discover Europe, to discover myself again. Lovely to do that without a sense of urgency. I don't feel lost—I don't feel defeated—I don’t feel as though I’ve got to go searching…

During this little excursion from reality, I'd love to remind myself how to write. Not how to whine, complain, or vent on these lovely blank pages, but how to Write. I want this to be the journal that divides the volumes of my journals into before and after. I want this to be my turning point.

This post brought to you from the pages of my lovely blue journal, so that for the moment my lovely, new, blank blogbaby won’t feel quite so naked.

Hello, Blog. It was only a matter of time, after all.