Maine has started getting some very heavy snow. My friends are surprised yet pleased. The soft velvety snowflakes are a newfound pleasure these down easters are not often given. Growing up in New Mexico meant snow was a mirage far far into the midwestern heart of our mighty nation. But I got to learn snow inside out in Massachusetts. At the heart of snow - water. And water, really, is what I needed now.
I decided to visit Maria in San Fran.
As soon as I got there, I knew the array of clothes I had packed was completely inappropriate. Maria, despite having a 6-month old, was definitely still in the party mood. The kind where you make friends outside restaurants and then go to an after-party only if you promise to attend the after-after-party. And, you know, although this was fun when we were in college pretending to be rad, it was now exhausting.
San Fran was polluted with the goddamned. Yes, with the goddamned who travel from the East to do tons of coke and rest up like iguanas under the sun a while.
I went out with Maria one night. Her greasy husband stayed home with the baby. She bought a gram with pocket money from him. In fact, it was of the utmost importance I test it out first since living out in Maine with all the new englanders meant I was now close enough to NYC to have a valid opinion on the stuff.
Scoffing, I told her to take a hike. She did and rubbed a gorgeous amount of powder into her gums until she looked about ready to have a wisdom tooth removed. Maria - silly and gorgeous and Norma Jean'ing into oblivion while keeping a nosebleed at bay with perfectly manicured red nails.
God, this is boring stuff. I could be making a snow man.
Snow, blow, what's gotten into me?
The Night
Enter Ricky - the most ridiculous creature I have laid eyes on. Greaser galore and would-have-been-handsome-save-for-the-gel. What the hell. We were in San Fran not Vegas. Or Queens.
"Eyyy gorgeous girls. Traffic opened up last week and two broads means free entry" He snickers and kisses Maria on the lips. Swiftly. I don't get it but I wear faux fur and a sparkly skirt and possibly look livid.
Maria giggles and tells me he's legit. She skips down the sidewalk and hangs off the freezing lamp posts.
"So uh you from nearby or what? How come she's never brought you out with us before?"
I yawn and tell him I'm visiting.
I imagine Paul sitting at his desk writing. Smoking a cigarette. So sexy. Maybe he's reading.
There's a huge trash pile shimmering underneath a telephone post. Fiery orange pieces mingle with blue shiny wrappers and green bottles smashed in smithereens. Every piece of glass making up the bottle exploding with the primacy of its design. Here, it says, this is my design. Do not touch me. But look at me - here is my design.
Traffic is as disgusting as it is interesting. A blur of bodies writhing sweaty with one heart. One bloody messy heart belonging to a fallen god. Pulsating above them, stitched through their godforsaken flesh that bears no sadness no remorse just now now now now. Here, this behemoth is showing, this is my design. Watch my design.
"Ricky" buys us beers. Can you feel my eye roll?
"Oy! Adam. Mate I tell you. It's been so hard these past months. The winter settling' in. You haven't seen this winter here in the new world. Cold cuts to the bone and the wind howls like between the slabs we putting up. You look to see wind and there ain't nothing there. Just slab. Just work. That's all New York is you know? Just slab. Just work.
I spun right around with the beer bottle in my mouth and tripped over someone's foot. I lose balance in getting up and a hand takes me.
The concrete floor kissed my tooth. Chipped the angle off.
I feel a tiny thread ripping deep underneath my heart or stomach or something. The tiny thread pulls away something and I am left bare. The stranger who gives me her hand has a shimmer to her. It's dark but I just see so much kindness. All at once, kindness floods my life and I don't know who I am or where I've come from or where I'm going.
I see a long stretch of desert at midnight with so many bright stars that don't stop like how me and Bobby got into an airplane hangar in Albuquerque when we were 13 and the rusty metal sparkled below to answer the dizzying acidic shine from above. Bobby's eyes - large black pools swallowing light from above, steadying his gaze to understand the metallic buzz from below. Putting the two together. Marrying these two distinct pieces of light with such softness before me. In his eyes, allowing both to find canvas. To find velvet, to find cloth to nestle their ancient sun driven godgiven light in. To embed with light, never stopping not now not for another hour or maybe two hours this process of reflection that soothed my teenage heart and that now soothes my adult heart into a pacifying and very clear strand of thought: that, in the end, we are not slab. We are not light. In the end, we are velvet. We are the velvet that invites touch, that surrenders with softness and speaks in rows. Rows upon rows upon rows of carefully constructed fabric where the imperfections are made to be hidden underneath so we can emblazon our busts and headpieces with an imperfect yet permanent movement of symbol. We wear our hearts inside out and when they're matted we tuck them back in.
The long stretch of desert closes upon itself and is replaced with a mirage. Plato's cave. Some shadows on the wall, some hungry gazes looking for the tear in the fabric. The cruel machinations of the quotidian. Of the formulaic.
I am not upset the desert lasted so little. I am upset it will be so long until the rain forests open. Because then I won't see light. I'll see her calm and enlightened brother - truth.
No comments:
Post a Comment