| 9.14.98 |
|
I'm moved in. I'm enchanted by the womanly fragrance of the house. Late afternoon when I arrived home. Brought two extension cords with me which I used to attach the computer to a grounded outlet. This house is old and the majority of outlets are two-pronged and the ones that are grounded are in rooms more recently added on, not in the room where the computer is. Well, I guess it was 5:30 or so when I walked through the door. The sun was dropping, casting thick light through the front windows and causing the red living room to glow. I fixed up the computer, checked my mail: didn't miss much. I had turned on the CD player - already loaded with five discs - soon after I got here. First it was Natalie Merchant, then Sarah MacLachlan, then Tori Amos. The light deepened. A wind chime spoke to me through the open door to the garden. It was so peaceful, so beautiful. I got out the camera, attached it to the tripod. I set it up on the dining room table so I could capture the early evening brilliance happening in the living room. Later, I just wanted to be a part of it, so I went in there and lay down on the leather sofa. Thin lines of light and shadow eased slowly over me and I pretended they were long slender fingers. Alone. The neighbor and her baby boy brought over fresh corn for me. Four ears: a lot of corn for one woman. I boiled two of them, not sure of how long to let them cook. I collected all the greens from the fridge and made a giant salad. I ate it with half of some kind of loaf that had crossed that line into "stale" and the two ears of corn. I was happy to find M&M's too. I will have to wash dishes tonight. I don't mind. I don't mind being here alone. I don't mind pretending that I am alone. I can pretend anything now. I can want for anything. I will read aloud, walk around naked, have conversations with myself, dance to music with my skirt held high in my hands. Thumbing through the available CD's, I found Dire Straits: Making Movies. I had to hear it; it's been years. It's on and I'm there. Oo, I'm so there again in the darkness, on flannel over warm water with my body wrapped around his thin form. Blue Eyes. I have not loved anyone else with clear blue eyes. This was his CD. All of the music was his and it played perpetually on his stereo system against the wall across from the bed. Within reach of the bed was an old metal government desk in the corner where the two windows were. The bed itself was pushed up against a wall covered entirely in cork and upon it he'd hung various posters, none of which I can remember. My earrings there. I'd always slide in wearing earrings that would come off and occasionally puncture the mattress. Sometimes I'd lose them in that void between the mattress and the frame, but mostly I just left them there on the headboard where they'd stay, collecting in numbers until I took them all home. And all that. All that was in the dark with the music playing. His parents, where were they? Not there or not bothering us. Mostly, they just didn't bother us, but sometimes, sometimes we were out in the dark world traveling too fast in his mom's sedan with the tape player filling the cabin with his music - this music. I'd unclasp the seatbelt and lean over across him with one arm around his neck and the other coming up under his arm. He supported me with that arm, drove with the other. Lights of the dash, of the stereo. So much dim light in my memories. I love the darkness, love how it's so isolating and being in it with one other person under a moon or in a traveling car is being free from all other claims on ourselves. It seems that we were always in the forest; the limited light distance of the headlights led us to nothing but dark trees. Deep into dirt roads we parked and the music played and played. Safe inside the car, the opaque windows sealing in the warmth. One day he said the song Hand in Hand reminded him of me. I accepted it. I was just too flattered to have someone think of me in the midst of a song.
|
future past index |