Recently, my ex-lover wrote me an email. He said he had been in the States and wanted to give me his impression of them. I could tell from his tone that he did not love me anymore. Still, I asked him to come and see me; this I did for closure; this I brazely proposed because he never asked to see me again after we met in Amsterdam. All the time, he said he loved me, but seeing me was not part of that sentiment. At frst, I did not mention it. Then it bothered me. Then I blamed myself for his lack of interest. Then I tried to justify it. When we broke up I regretted never mentioning it. Then, when he wrote me last week, I gave him an ultimatum: come see me or never write me again. a proposal he must have considerd bizarre for our lack of relatonship these last several months. But, like Eliot's Alfred J. Prufrock I "forced the moment to its crisis." And, unlike, Prufrock I would now be free of regret. Then, as all things in love go, I followed my ultimatum with this message:
F --
By the way, thanks for sharing your impression of the US with me. Now you have more evidence of this American life.
I’m always amazed at how much you “see” from your skies. To notice the land stretched beyond its means at the southern point of Canada and the most northeastern point of the US reminded me of Mccarthy’s apocalyptic world, where people hunt each other for food and the hunted have no shelter in a dry, crusty and barren terrain. I could also appreciate your letting your “bad boy” out in Arizona when you bought that scope and the heat was so unrelenting. That is why there are so many con men in Florida . There is something about how the constant heat makes you rabid, confused, and trapped in a vortex of your own worst self.
Well, I’m away from all that now. Yes, I’m living in New York City . Sorry for being so forward in my email the other day. I’ve learned recently from reading Jack Kerouac’s "Open Road" that I might be one of the “mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn of say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like the fabulous yellow roman candles exploring like spiders across the stars.” At least, I aspire to such and only want to know those who do the same. So, my apologies. Sometimes, I lose the thread of it all - when things start or end. Sometimes, when I'm lucky, it doesn't matter.
But, I missed you and wanted to show you NYC, especially Ulysses Grant’s Memorial, the quietest place in town.. I walk in Riverside Park, alongside the Hudson River, every morning to his marvelous Greco-Roman place of rest. And, he lies in this monstrous red-ceder coffin right alongside wife, Julia. I wonder about her all the time. What did she know? Was she strong and patient? Was she his confidante or simply the woman he married? Then, there is this very quiet rotund room with all the busts of generals who helped him win the Civil War. And, they have the same large wise, intense and, brillant eyes, as yours. Even though they are in cast in bronze I stare at them all the time, because I want to get them right. The last room is painted in light peach and on its walls is an outline of the bloodiest battles in the south, traced in a vein of white thread, that makes the whole thing seem pretty and harmless.
Yes, there is so much to see. I hope I can see it all before I move to Maine.
Anyway, it was great to hear from you.
No comments:
Post a Comment