Magic phrases.
I met someone.
Mom said yes.
And then he kissed me.
Dinner and dancing.
Remember:
you could have avoided this.
It’s 3:30 in the morning,
and I am currently working on a big freelance thing that will be heard and read by thousands of people across the country one day. Probably next year. And that’s weird.
But what’s weirder is that when all these ordinary people climb into their cars and hear my words, they won’t give them a second thought. They will never know that they were written by a moony twenty-something in the middle of the night, with an ice cream bar in one hand and Beach House on the radio.
They won’t know that I blush too easily, and that I get hung up on le mot juste. They’ll certainly never know that I was scared to say yes to this project, or that the words of Robbin Phillips danced in my head and pushed me forward.
I shouldn’t be surprised by now. So far, 2012 has been the year of deep breaths, gritted teeth, eyes shut tight, and terrified leaps. Most of the time, the soaring is fantastic. I’ve only had the wind knocked out of me a few times. And then, I stand up blinky and slow, dust myself off, climb back up for the next jump.
I have to.
Spring is a time of transition: the weather gets warmer, the sun shines brighter, the sky is clearer, windows stay open, and smiles are in abundance. Whether you’re moving forward or moving out, it’s a time of growth.
This Spring transition is incredibly significant to me personally. My…
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
under all the folds of your dresses that you wear
there’s an ocean and a tide and a riot in the square
over are the days that the congas made your hair
sway around to the cadence of your hey ho hey ho cheer
Classified.
All whisper and fog in the morning.
And I drive by the courthouse shivering
each day, watching the government employees
trudge inside with their lunches.
Someone packed those lunches. Maybe they did
lonely this morning, with tired eyes; maybe their lovers
folded sandwiches late last night while you and I
were busy altering government documents.
Secrets are a stimulant. We swallow a few
with half a bottle of wine, let them sail through our blood,
bloom on our mouths, grow fields of narcissus behind
our ears. And in the morning, our secrets dissolve
into fog. Heavy with them, we go to work quietly.
It is why government workers never look up.
It is why you and I will get away with it, altering
fact in the middle of the night.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
This is a moment I’ll remember for a long time.
Sometimes, you recognize this on some elemental level, even while the moment is happening. So it was with this song, swelling in the speakers and floating out our open windows sharp and full in the fleeting dusk.
Disappointment in springtime is rose colored. In 2010, I was terrified and didn’t know it, resigning myself to the constant sting of little cuts. I can’t explain what connects ten minutes from last night with some unsteady April evening in 2010—I am neither terrified nor hurt anymore. But for a few wobbly seconds, I looked out the window, wishing for a face that let me close the door.
We kept driving.
The horns were both wistful and triumphant. I stretched my pale legs, twirled the curly ends of a messy braid. Life gives us little ceremonies, sometimes. And this one marked a moment I can’t quite articulate, the crossing of a shadow over my face.
