'No, keep playing. Are you sure it's okay for me to write this?'
'You feel like writing. It'd be fun to see what you write.'
'Play some more Bach.'
It's 4:30am and Clyde is playing his classical guitar by the windows as I am writing in his studies. Clyde calls me at any hour of the day when he comes into town on a business trip or to see his family. In the morning, waking me up to go to a wildlife park; late afternoon for an excursion to the island; late at night for music and conversations. We have been close friends for so long that he knows I do not say No to people I like, or they can bring out the best in me as long as they ask.
Tonight we watched a Cassavetes film. One moment I looked outside the windows. The trees on the hill were swaying in early summer breeze. After the film he played music. I sat in a bean bag to watch him. Soon the world grew dark: both Clyde and I have had to cut people off in recent days. His story is his so I will not tell. Mine is mainly a close friend of five years who was once the stability in my life.
It makes no difference how long I held these people close to my heart: I was there for as long as I could be. The moment they pushed me over the edge my affection for them was dead. It makes no difference how much I understood their pains, how much I wanted to leave room for things to fall into places because I hate to judge. They turned into a blur: I still see their faces, but they are devoid of meaning.
'Do you still feel sorry for them?' I asked Clyde when we were in his lounge earlier.
'For misreading you. Yes.'
'All my good friends think the same...when I talk to them these days.'
'Always!'
'That's you, Clyde.'
Clyde has suffered the accusation more than I have. But Clyde is a rationalist and he does not try to overcome himself. ('What a nice way of putting it,' he says.) I envy him for his attitude towards things. If I could only have some of his resolve, I would be making much better use of my time. ('If you're that girl you wouldn't be here right now,' he says.)
The light is breaking.
Tonight we watched a Cassavetes film. One moment I looked outside the windows. The trees on the hill were swaying in early summer breeze. After the film he played music. I sat in a bean bag to watch him. Soon the world grew dark: both Clyde and I have had to cut people off in recent days. His story is his so I will not tell. Mine is mainly a close friend of five years who was once the stability in my life.
It makes no difference how long I held these people close to my heart: I was there for as long as I could be. The moment they pushed me over the edge my affection for them was dead. It makes no difference how much I understood their pains, how much I wanted to leave room for things to fall into places because I hate to judge. They turned into a blur: I still see their faces, but they are devoid of meaning.
'Do you still feel sorry for them?' I asked Clyde when we were in his lounge earlier.
'For misreading you. Yes.'
'All my good friends think the same...when I talk to them these days.'
'Always!'
'That's you, Clyde.'
Clyde has suffered the accusation more than I have. But Clyde is a rationalist and he does not try to overcome himself. ('What a nice way of putting it,' he says.) I envy him for his attitude towards things. If I could only have some of his resolve, I would be making much better use of my time. ('If you're that girl you wouldn't be here right now,' he says.)
The light is breaking.
I think I am starting to figure out what you're doing, Nicole. One thing you're doing is keeping me looking for the next piece.
ReplyDeleteHmm...recently I've had to deal with a couple 'shitty' episodes and the only choice I have, when it comes to venting, is to write in code. then it becomes a performance, and it serves a good purpose i suppose.
ReplyDelete