2004-10-14
You know, again...
Memories sometimes entwine themselves within the silence of lonely, humid
nights...it's such a sad thing. To remember the muted, black & white moving images of things that once were, and of feelings once lost...that's lifting and painful all the same.
I saw his face when I last closed my eyes--the green eyes staring at
me. I haven't spoken to Roger since last September. Numerous times, I can whisper at the wind, asking, how he could do this. I will ask...continuously, until coming to some pause, or better yet, some answer.
Of, "how could he do this to me" over and over, I can shout and scream
and sob and affirm that, no, I didn't deserve that and it wasn't at
all part of the plan...
not at all...
I've asked it over and again on lonely, rainy nights; on vibrant
afternoons, bathed in the afternoon sun's gentle-golden sunlight--"why
am I here?"
Because this was not the place I was meant to be--it was never part of
the plan...you know the plan
It rained that night, heavily, and we went to the wedding
regardless--the chatter and laughter...the champagne and wine.
The sound of violins and the smile of the bride.
My cousin was to be married...Irene was to be married, and, so I
went...I was one of the bridesmaids�giving congratulatory smiles.
It was a satin dress--bare shouldered, and a lovely, deep red, making
contrast with the bride's white dress. Wisps of jet-black hair hung down,
caressing my shoulders.
I saw him during the mass at St. Martha�s Cathedral�
"oh...he's the groom's best friend," Sunny whispered in my ear, �Not a bad piece of work, if you ask me��
�Not at all�� I tell her, smiling.
I kept staring, although, deep within the muted voices and fragile
echoes of my head or conscience (my own Jeremy Cricket), there was a �no�. In one minute, I was given the story of the suffering that was to come from looking--making eye contact. At the dinner party, sitting near him. We looked at one another shyly, I took his hand when he reached it out, asking me to dance.
Though I didn't mean to fall in love the Polish boy with the dirty-blonde hair, and green eyes...I didn't mean for that to happen (you did, don�t lie). I write for him most of the time�
I didn't mean to make him smile and laugh and for him to call me
beautiful...and I didn't mean to go out with him the next day...
In one minute, I was told the tragedy that would come--beware of the
Ides of July
But I went towards that warm, inviting smile and took his hand--fate
sealed...and I this lonely heart went towards that--fait accompli. And I would have asked on those numerous nights what I did to make him leave...what did I say, whether or not
it was hurtful...and I was to say: "Roger, I love you...or it feels as
if I do", yet the words came out all wrong�
"Let us go then, you and I when the evening is spread out against
the sky. Like a patient etherised upon a table...Let us go through
half-deserted streets��
Perhaps I had wanted to say that, incorporating a you and I, as if such even existed�the genuine �you and I�.
December 26 2003: I remember that night well. The night�s sharp breeze is still lingering outside my window, and the fog still stains the glass. Leaves dance and shiver in the night. I awoke that night from the heavy visions of some dream, and up until that time, I still couldn�t admit--voice aloud--the confession.
Hester Prynne on the stand, with the scarlet letter on her bosom, holding tightly onto Pearl.
�Tell us Hester Prynne! Who the father is!�
The townsmen shout, luring Hester Prynne�s lips to give shape to his name--Reverend Dimmesdale�
�Tell us��
The breeze that night came upon my window--the jury. The moonlight was the interrogator. Winter acted as judge.
�Tell us, Libet�for whom your heart aches! For whom tears boil! For whom you sob, late into the nights��
The scarlet letter throbbed upon my heart--I released it all�
�I really have lost him�� I must have said to myself--something to that effect.
Here comes the moment of a painful epiphany, when all senses come to life; finally, we are able to find the poetry which we seek�a strange mixture of pain and bliss. Proudly realizing that you are human (I know), and lamenting such a situation�
And last night, I turned off the Presidential Debates, not expecting to see his face again in yet another dream. But my eyes shut, refusing to open until the early hours of dawn. The watchmaker came and offered me a last traverse through time, and I traveled back to that night in July�
And that day at the beach--it was perfect. Moonlight Sonata�Pollock.
I�m supposed to forget�I think.
Somehow, I am to take everything--every picture within the dusty cobwebs of these memories, and hit �discard�--like that�just like that.
In my dream, I could feel the slight chill of the night�s kiss. He stood with his hand out exactly as he did the night we met, �Would you like to dance?� he asked, with sparkling, green eyes.
Only this time, �What were you going to tell me?� His voice echoed amidst a yawning river of burning stars.
�I think it got lost--carried by the breezes of the seasons�maybe you should ask them.�
�All four?�
�No, only one�� I begin, �There�s only one winter�it just seems to change, that�s all�like the movements of Vivaldi.�
The end. The dream ends and the picture fades away as I close my eyes, greeted by the darkness in my room. I have to turn on my lamplight.
I need to see him, one last time. I need to tell my heart, �here he is��, and finally, put this mind to rest. My hopes of hearing his distant voice on the phone, telling me that it was all a mistake, that he did care--vanished. Those hopes have been torn out of my heart.
Now, I seek to piece everything back together, and I have--since last night--been debating with myself over whether or not to contact him again. Finally, to properly say �bye�.
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