okay. lets have a talk. let's hunker down (i've always loved that word) at the table and have a sleeves-rolled halfway, tie-askew, glass-jar-full-of-sharpened-pencils to-go-along-with-the-yellow-lined-legal-pads-of-paper, "jeannie, hold all my calls--it's gonna be a long night" talk. call me a cynic. go ahead...i'll wait. okay, there is a REASON why the romantic movies are engineered the way they are. the audience gets a washroom attendant's view of the protagonist aaaaaaaaaaaaagonizing over his or her lost love. we get to see the soul-searching, questioning, rationalizing, second guessing, finally having an epiphany, then heading for his beloved at breakneck speed. sidenote: why are these montages always set to the tune of bands like snow patrol and sheryl-fucking-crow? my pain always feels like a tom waits set after he has been touring for six months and living on a diet of cigarettes, bourbon, grey flannel, and nostalgia...
...but i digress.
once our protagonist reaches his destination, seemingly not able to spot his love until she is RIGHT in front of him, he stands breathlessly, and delivers what will no doubt be the impassioned speech that is equal parts "i know i was an idiot, but..." and "you have no reason to trust me..." and "but we can't deny this feeling inside...", mixed with a pinch of self-effacement and breath-holding hope. of COURSE the intended has a moment of hesitation...perhaps we even have to wait an entire scene's length before she hilariously declares, "i love you too, you idiot!" (insert sigh, tear-wipe, and head-shaking-"it's so true!"-giggle here)
aaaaaaaaaaaand...credits. we don't get to see what happens later. we don't get to see the argument about his farting in bed. we aren't privy to his reaction the first time she calls him "just like his father". and there is no way we'll be witness to the first time he can't get an erection because he's been fantasizing about the barista at starbuck's and is CONVINCED that she found out somehow. such a movie wouldn't sell, of course, because we all neeeeeeed to believe that just the epiphany is enough. it isn't, and this is why i always feel so...so...deflated after a romantic movie. i know that the wry smile and turn of phrase are not enough to sustain a carbonated heart. i am painfully aware of the fact that loving "what's inside" isn't enough either if one grows to find the exterior repugnant.
however...
the palimpsest left behind by a story left unfinished 10 years ago has sneaked up behind me, slipped the mask over my nose and mouth, and sent me ether-tumbling backwards into an age when daisies could dictate romantic success based on an odd or even number of petals. the montage is "heartbeats" by jose gonzalez, "transatlantique" by beirut, "run" by hal hartley...look it up.
today's word of the day is peregrinations, for reasons obvious to some.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
we are, we are, we are mature children, finding our way around indecision...
for you. you know who you are
a train. punctuated by cold and bookended by the howl of a train. i watched the reflection of the engine's smoke filter across your irises. they were dark, almost black. i wanted to believe that the smoke was actually drifting in your eyes. the gauze shifts as you look from train to sky, and the grey becomes black. punctuated by the cold, between the howls of the train, we have the opportunity that silence provides. the vibrating ground chatters up through our feet. the things i could reach, the touchable world projected on your eyes, miniaturized, controlled, not through them, like the cliche says. it doesn't keep me any warmer than your shirt does. cold tongues lap down the too-big neck of it, and i wish you'd finish your cigarette. i know it's a prop, but we have no dialogue, and i'm cold. i want you to run your fingers through your hair in an act of shy discomfort, or else through mine in one of gentle romanticism.
you transfer your cigarette and put your cold hand in your pocket.
again, the howl of a train and no words.
i remember now...you want to talk big talks with good intentions about serious things. inhale.
exhale.
blink.
the tiny world on your eyes changes from blue-white light to red pulses as you look from streetlight to neon sign. inhale. pause.
you turn and exhale, and my reflection is bathed in a pale, blue-black veil. even though it rained today, the ground is dry. leaves that have long since forfeited their green and bled into yellow and brown sound like tap shoes, and i'm reminded of the music i heard in my head when you used to kiss me. they spiral, twisting faster, upwards, away, and i lose them in the black, blinded, instead by a lamppost i'm positive i can hear. when i look back to your face, only the dark remains.
inhale.
cold.
the howl of the train and the sandpaper of the leaves. inhale. exhale. the rhythm of machinery. the cigarette. your eyes. i want to go inside. i'm willing you, silently, counting the stripes in your shirt. green. say something. brown. say something. black. say something. white. please say something. by the time i get to your collar, the wind licks me again. shiver. a long neck, scattering of freckles. brown hair. warm eyes. shiver. your eyes narrow and the tiny world is destroyed as you cough.
"i wish i had an explanation." and your smell--soap, tobacco, my imagination. arms. a warm hand braces the back of my neck. gone. my reflection is blinked, blurred, cleared, and replaced. instead, your eyes reflect the street, the stoplight at the end, and the sign entrance that will become the stairs, the stairs that will become the subway, and the subway that will become the train that will take that tiny world away from me forever.
a train. punctuated by cold and bookended by the howl of a train. i watched the reflection of the engine's smoke filter across your irises. they were dark, almost black. i wanted to believe that the smoke was actually drifting in your eyes. the gauze shifts as you look from train to sky, and the grey becomes black. punctuated by the cold, between the howls of the train, we have the opportunity that silence provides. the vibrating ground chatters up through our feet. the things i could reach, the touchable world projected on your eyes, miniaturized, controlled, not through them, like the cliche says. it doesn't keep me any warmer than your shirt does. cold tongues lap down the too-big neck of it, and i wish you'd finish your cigarette. i know it's a prop, but we have no dialogue, and i'm cold. i want you to run your fingers through your hair in an act of shy discomfort, or else through mine in one of gentle romanticism.
you transfer your cigarette and put your cold hand in your pocket.
again, the howl of a train and no words.
i remember now...you want to talk big talks with good intentions about serious things. inhale.
exhale.
blink.
the tiny world on your eyes changes from blue-white light to red pulses as you look from streetlight to neon sign. inhale. pause.
you turn and exhale, and my reflection is bathed in a pale, blue-black veil. even though it rained today, the ground is dry. leaves that have long since forfeited their green and bled into yellow and brown sound like tap shoes, and i'm reminded of the music i heard in my head when you used to kiss me. they spiral, twisting faster, upwards, away, and i lose them in the black, blinded, instead by a lamppost i'm positive i can hear. when i look back to your face, only the dark remains.
inhale.
cold.
the howl of the train and the sandpaper of the leaves. inhale. exhale. the rhythm of machinery. the cigarette. your eyes. i want to go inside. i'm willing you, silently, counting the stripes in your shirt. green. say something. brown. say something. black. say something. white. please say something. by the time i get to your collar, the wind licks me again. shiver. a long neck, scattering of freckles. brown hair. warm eyes. shiver. your eyes narrow and the tiny world is destroyed as you cough.
"i wish i had an explanation." and your smell--soap, tobacco, my imagination. arms. a warm hand braces the back of my neck. gone. my reflection is blinked, blurred, cleared, and replaced. instead, your eyes reflect the street, the stoplight at the end, and the sign entrance that will become the stairs, the stairs that will become the subway, and the subway that will become the train that will take that tiny world away from me forever.
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