It was me and you (then)
And The Vineyard
Week before Valentine’s Day
I waited for this since late November…though honestly, much longer than that. You were worth waiting for (then).
On the ferry from Falmouth, I held you against the icy winds
You kept me from the rocking waves.
When we were close to each other there was always heat, though seldom warmth.
When we hit the Island, we drove to all four points, giddy, giggling
We hit Tisbury, stopped by the beach….you wrapped your scarf around my eyes
When it was revealed, the blue, blue water crashed into my soul.
I loved you at that moment…though honestly, much longer than that.
And back to the room.
Come dark, we went out for supplies
And I drove to the water….moon illuminated the rolling waves, rocks, the horizon that showed the sensual curve of the earth
And I asked you to dance with me in the sand. You laughed.
But I meant it.
And we did, radio up loud, headlights shining on us, we spun and laughed and kissed….
We said things we could never live up to (well, one of us did)
We were in love (then)
My screen saver watches over me.
While I rest. While I play.
My screensaver watches over me.
A slideshow, filled with the digital pictures from this trailing year, all post Collinsville.
Pictures I receive, of anything, ultimately pop up in random order and strange juxtapositions align: a picture of four drunk girls in Mexican hats doing the can-can next to a smoky picture of myself, haggard looking, lighting a cigarette with the Meriden sky behind….hot red writers and the cool blue water of the New England Coast….assorted nude pix of a hot blonde mixed with measured, precise pictures of a dilapidated tower in East Hampton…pix of Mary Lou Lord melt into my dog, Wyatt, who met a young couple and moved to the country (the dog American Dream)…
But even random things have themes, at least in my definition of random.
It’s ivory and deep blue (waters and skies), green soft cotton lingerie, sand and muted reds. It’s all her; It’s always her. Damn it. Damn it.
Knowing her for a bit, I was shocked when she told me she had a tattoo. Actually, she didn’t tell me, it was one of those online surveys that asked a million small questions to divine the larger answers…and the question was: ‘Do You Have A Tattoo?’
‘Can I see it?!?’
‘Eventually….’ And the way she said it, I believed her.
And when I did, when I slid her jeans down for the first time, her hip wore a flower, faded, of many colors, each petal a mood in her, each petal a soft place to fall or jagged rock to throw myself on. I followed her jeans down to the floor and kissed it, stared at it, tasted it, ran my fingers across…
That was the first time I saw it, but not the last. I saw it in many ways, many angles, I rested my head there some nights.
And once, in the bed with an ivory cover and steel frame, with the soft noon light falling in the skylight, I took a picture….
Blue petals, red petals (all faded)…impossible to tell what it is, without the knowledge of it.
Impossible to forget.
My Screensaver Is My God. But it’s a cruel God sometimes.
I look outside today, this 28th of May, the lush greens, the blues, the air sensual to the taste, and remember 9 years ago to the day.
I bought you the perfect present (at a time I could scarcely afford food, but priorities…); I plucked it from my soul: Van Morrison ‘Astral Weeks’. I sent a note flirting with the idea of whether this was a romantic gift (this was not a romance, you reminded me, you always reminded me….but the way you smiled as you said it, it was a lovely contradiction. And one that came close to breaking me).
But it was a romantic gift, even without the oversized valentine style heart attached…it was the distillation of my heart and soul in that record….it was more personal than anything else I could give.
And I gave it to you willingly, happily…because I wanted you to know me. I wanted you to know when my heart beat and skipped, when my body creaked and moaned. Where my soul took its summer residency. I wrapped it with paper and a bow (something I never do).
And met you at the picnic tables, a brief 10 minutes before the show began. It was a beautiful Yankee spring day, before the humidity started to dot our clothes, before the sun turned much green to brown. The tables were in the shade, and I got there first, looked at the scene, and posed my self appropriately.
I didn’t think you would come, which says more about me than you.
But you did, work clothes on, and beaming. You always were a dark little character. When I made you smile, I felt like I was moving mountains, drinking oceans.
And you opened it, confused, but smiled just the same. And looked me deep into my eyes…and we kissed for the first time: sweet and yielding, hot…I felt every emotion in me flame up at your touch. I felt the day collaborating with my heart, painting perfection in only the way love and good New England weather could do.
I wrapped my arms around you; I felt your body advance into mine, hungry…
That was before that terrible summer. That was before we brought in November together. That was before the weekend in Tisbury.
And now, nine years later….a note sent: ‘Happy Birthday ______, I hope it turned out like you wanted’
I don’t expect a reply. Which says more about you than me.