the heart set
a sophisticated theory of maturity, of professional musicianship, might dictate that i shouldn't let you see me looking over at you, practically, all the time. come on, come on, eyes on the page, on the conductor; ears in the air and feet firmly planted, lock it down, lock it down. don't laugh - it's not polite! no, no, not polite. we'll talk about it later, won't we? so i shouldn't wink, nudge, or giggle with you about it now.
but i do.
all the time.
a lame projection of responsibility, of moral uprightness, might dictate that i shouldn't tell you i love you, just, all the time. there are better things to do, more valuable hours in the day. there are more mundane realities. we've discussed it at length, haven't we? on and on and off and on. so i shouldn't waste breath getting into it all over again.
but i do.
all the time.
wanting to see you, wanting to be near you.
i shouldn't...but i do, all the time.
these are "poems"; they're expression of my feelings in a loose prose form even more loosely anchored with a bit of structure and gimmick. no rhyme, only reason. still, they have for the longest time been more of a faux-artistic journal than a series of letters.
but they're letters, aren't they?
love letters, aren't they?
(is that right? is that allowed?)
always have been. always will be.
and if i admit this, well, it doesn't belong in my portfolio for my peers to read. obviously. it's not about what absolutely anyone else thinks. it's just for you and me.
as is that eye contact. as are those affirmations.
(well, not quite. everyone i know knows i love you dearly, and more and more every day)
and so, if it's just between you and me, why shouldn't i look? why shouldn't i say?
possibly because i'm not sure i ever quite could.
i keep trying, though! and going it alone, i'm not always sure i succeed.
what evil, effusiveness. what dread, naïveté.
childish, selfish, and misdirected, are we?
so let me ask something of you. no hints, just honesty. are you game?
(it's effort, isn't it? it's so much effort. and it's so, so worth it. that must be why.
when it's effortless, well, in fact, even better yet. i think - i think! - that's the goal.)
show me your tenderness. show me your arrogance.
(these things no one else is supposed to see)
call me late in the evening, loopy on cold medicine, and tell me about just how much you love your best friend, without a single inhibition. tell me how you love my friends, too, and let me wax loyalty and admiration to show just how much i agree. talk nonsense to an adorable, attention-whoring, asininely slobbery dog, and then tell me how he's the one being silly. your high notes and your low notes, and the cracks in between. tell me, tell me, tell me. anything at all.
i would listen to you talk about anything forever. hours on end, at least. we're working on the comfortable silence, i know. see it this way: i would do anything for you, but since there's not really much i have the power to do, i'll settle, for sure, for listening. for just plain being there (as if it's only altruistic; as if it's all okay, in fact, just so long as you need me).
i'll smile. i'll simmer. i'll laugh. and you'll know, if i know you, that i mean it.
those people you hate? i hate them too. oh, simply cannot stand! i only mention it for completeness' sake, of course, since there's not really room for very much gross, grimacing annoyance, when i'm with you. but we're both petty. we're both snarky. we're both far too observant for all our individual, joint, and collective goods.
those poor, poor trumpets. oh, give me a break! read upside down and sideways, blown up or scaled down, fast or slow as you please, they're still just asses all. and still, and so, annoyance can yet inspire an intrinsic bond. with me, with them, with anyone. so call it love! no choice but to be a little bit of a hater with you.
so hate is indeed a strong word, just as mothers always say. why, then, is it so much harder to use, freely and with human impunity, its supposed opposite?
that "catholic" perspective on relationships, and everyday joy - i read once, on the topic of some specific strain and branding of christianity i cannot recall, that the opposite of love is not hate, but fear. to always be looking over your shoulder, for the one who knows, and knows, and knows.
who's here? who's looking?
just us two.
our memories themselves are elephantine, and we never can return to that faraway, longago world where we ourselves don't know. where and when we are not learning and growing but only suppressing and regressing, and suffering silently for it.
do we do ourselves only a disservice by acting as if it isn't true, and true, and true? two people so lost in coping mechanisms that they cannot allow themselves the bravery they have all but found?
only if it really is that important. not everything that is true is all that idiosyncratically, idiomatically, inextricably important. is this? am i? are you?
it is also said, more commonly, that the opposite of love is not hate but indifference. i find that i cannot be - after all, here we are, for a thousand words at least. and on the topic of fear: the opposite of hatred is certainly not safety. hatred, even when motivated and driven by jealousy and a distinct insecurity, is a supreme security. absolutely, a conviction.
i, too, have a conviction. i laid it out right at the top of this letter, if we allow for a little semantic rearrangement of examples. no salutation - i don't use your name very often, do i? so maybe they're not true letters after all.
letters and poems, even emails and texts, can be messages of love. i think they should be. i hope they always will be. as silly and stupidly idealistic as that is.
(do you see, perhaps, what i'm getting at here?)
however, they carry an implicit finality. all missives end, don't they? and when the thought is over, i can go back to being responsible again. i can avert my eyes. i can shut my mouth. i can carry on with my life, again.
we are still two separate people, regardless of any engendered, enamored, ever-encroaching closeness. you are you, and i am me. there is an inherent, inexorable space between us which begs at least a dreg of dignity. violently, it does so.
but then i go back, and i set my heart to my keyboard (just as my head on your shoulder; just as my arm on your arm), choosing what feels like an equally violent act of reclamation.
"when did i forget - why did i never learn - that people are for loving and being loved?"
something like that, i think. something deeper than that, or just sappier. attemptedly personal, and real, and true.
this is my tenderness. this is my arrogance.
to assume that you even want, through these thoughts, to be told
to presume that i even know you, through all you have said
i am tenacious. good lord, am i jittery. i just want one more try.
(not that i always or ever believe it will truly be the last)
because i cannot resist another look. i cannot resist making contact. i cannot resist telling you, again,
i love you.
so much.
all the time.