“Kevin. . . .” She was crying openly now, the sting of minute, crystalline miracles dropping onto hands he looked down to see were clasped in hers. “Kevin, let me help. Let me go with you. Or stay with you. You DO need me, because I need you. I love you.”
And there it was. Like an electric jolt. All the hours spent pouring over innocuous words, searching for distilled hints, leading him here. And maybe it was that sense of liberation that gave him resolve, cards on that table that whatever else she did love him, empowering him. And because he loved her, he went back to the house alone.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Concerning the Poem
Kevin cringed the moment his lips stopped moving. He’d said too much, revealed more than he should have, and Ivy was just looking at him. He started a faltering apology, promise to never bring that up again, then stopped himself. He saw saline gathering at the corner of her eyes. He didn’t know quite what else to say, so much needed to be said. And like relaxing a muscle he let it flow.
“I was here earlier,” he told her quietly. “The other waitress said you had traded days, so I left, but anyway.” He made the effort to look her in the eyes, but between the rivules cascading down her cheeks and the army of emotion he always battled when he looked at her, he had to focus on the untouched plate of beignets instead. “I. . . . I wanted to ask you to come with me. I needed to. . . . go away. And more than that, I need. . . . I need you.”
“Kevin –“ was all she got out before he cut her off.
“But I don’t feel I can do that now. Leave, I mean. Or ask you. I mean, I need to work this out. Because you mean this much to me. I want you to have more than I am.”
“I was here earlier,” he told her quietly. “The other waitress said you had traded days, so I left, but anyway.” He made the effort to look her in the eyes, but between the rivules cascading down her cheeks and the army of emotion he always battled when he looked at her, he had to focus on the untouched plate of beignets instead. “I. . . . I wanted to ask you to come with me. I needed to. . . . go away. And more than that, I need. . . . I need you.”
“Kevin –“ was all she got out before he cut her off.
“But I don’t feel I can do that now. Leave, I mean. Or ask you. I mean, I need to work this out. Because you mean this much to me. I want you to have more than I am.”
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Concerning Rilke
Andrew the waiter appeared as if summoned, bestowing coffee and beignets. “Someone sent these back so you might as well have them.”
“You’ve been well-trained, Dublin,” Kevin said with the ghost of a social smile.
“Look, this kind of relates to when we talked earlier,” Ivy told him as Andrew left. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have the words I wanted to say.”
“It’s okay,” Kevin said, and he meant it.
“Rilke says you’ll live your way into the answer,” she continued. “Without realizing it.”
“Nothing like a good German existentialist for hitting the nail.”
“But it takes living in the question now, and the point is to live in everything. And that’s not something you see, just something you know among everyone’s interpretations. Like, well, like with love. I don’t really have a better example. There’s no destination, you just recognize where you are, and whatever lines other people draw don’t matter.”
Kevin was silent, not from a lack of words but too many, jostling for a purchase in his mind. Then a sliver of poetry fell into his brain like a shaft of pure sunlight, and maybe he no longer feared but he felt his lips forming the words into quotation. Nerdua.
“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved:
“In secret, between the shadow and the soul.
“I love you as the plant that never blooms,
“But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.”
“You’ve been well-trained, Dublin,” Kevin said with the ghost of a social smile.
“Look, this kind of relates to when we talked earlier,” Ivy told him as Andrew left. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have the words I wanted to say.”
“It’s okay,” Kevin said, and he meant it.
“Rilke says you’ll live your way into the answer,” she continued. “Without realizing it.”
“Nothing like a good German existentialist for hitting the nail.”
“But it takes living in the question now, and the point is to live in everything. And that’s not something you see, just something you know among everyone’s interpretations. Like, well, like with love. I don’t really have a better example. There’s no destination, you just recognize where you are, and whatever lines other people draw don’t matter.”
Kevin was silent, not from a lack of words but too many, jostling for a purchase in his mind. Then a sliver of poetry fell into his brain like a shaft of pure sunlight, and maybe he no longer feared but he felt his lips forming the words into quotation. Nerdua.
“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved:
“In secret, between the shadow and the soul.
“I love you as the plant that never blooms,
“But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.”
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Concerning du Monde
He wasn’t really expecting Ivy to be there when he went back to Café du Monde. It was like letting the phone ring that one last time, on the off-chance it gets picked up. Hopeless, he knew, and he browbeat himself for indulging, but when anyway.
And was surprised to find her sitting alone on the terrace, reading a book by the insect-swarmed lamp.
He stood there, staring at her for an eternity, in amazement, in admiration, in adoration. Then he shook himself and hopped the fence like so many mornings, taking the chair across from her.
“Hi,” he said sheepishly as she glanced up from her book.
“Where have you been?” she asked, stealing his words. Her face was concern; not worry, but like God in the Garden at the Fall. As though she knew where, only wanted to hear him say it.
“I was having. . . . a talk with someone,” he said.
“You wanna know something?”
“What?”
She brushed a lock of hair from her face, twisting in his stomach like winding a clock. “Sometimes the questions are more beautiful than the answers have the capacity to be. Sometimes. . . . sometimes the truth is more complicated than an explanation can clarify.”
“That’s what he said.” Kevin helped himself to her coffee mug. “I just don’t know how it’s done,” he told the tawny swirls.
And was surprised to find her sitting alone on the terrace, reading a book by the insect-swarmed lamp.
He stood there, staring at her for an eternity, in amazement, in admiration, in adoration. Then he shook himself and hopped the fence like so many mornings, taking the chair across from her.
“Hi,” he said sheepishly as she glanced up from her book.
“Where have you been?” she asked, stealing his words. Her face was concern; not worry, but like God in the Garden at the Fall. As though she knew where, only wanted to hear him say it.
“I was having. . . . a talk with someone,” he said.
“You wanna know something?”
“What?”
She brushed a lock of hair from her face, twisting in his stomach like winding a clock. “Sometimes the questions are more beautiful than the answers have the capacity to be. Sometimes. . . . sometimes the truth is more complicated than an explanation can clarify.”
“That’s what he said.” Kevin helped himself to her coffee mug. “I just don’t know how it’s done,” he told the tawny swirls.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Concerning the Park
Pale blue angels loitering about park-benches along the concrete lake shore; pale devils cupping cigarettes against the breeze, faces vanishing in the orange flare. Wan spirits of children staring as unabashed as only the innocent can, led into darkness by the hand of preoccupied parents. Ghostly lovers reclined on blankets spread across the damp grass and beneath the occasional glimpse of Orion flexing dimly on midnight blue. Faded winter captured in a glass of wine caught flashing in a moment of moonlight and revenants in evening supplication. Dew, tears, rain, absolution. Perhaps we stress too much over definition.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Concerning the Response
Maybe God does move closer to the earth on holy days. Maybe he senses more minds and souls receptive, seeking. Weeping without words. Or maybe he is always close, and we are more in tune. The gap of accessibility shrinks, lessening the reaction time before encounter. Whatever it is, what Kevin saw when he looked into the face of the crucifix was a blending of emotion, a gamut of indescribable pain, sorrow, hurt, and somehow a sense of resolution. Of need and fulfillment; of emptiness and meaning; of water and wine. Of Gethsemane understanding.
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, maybe protest, like struggling to cry out in a dream. He was as inchoate and mute as when the Ghost reminded him of the one scar among many, shaking, face flushed and wet. Finally the words made it from his throat to his lips. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed, not caring who heard.
The echo of his boots chased him from the sanctuary, whipping candles, down the saturnine steps and the mindless circle of the park outside.
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, maybe protest, like struggling to cry out in a dream. He was as inchoate and mute as when the Ghost reminded him of the one scar among many, shaking, face flushed and wet. Finally the words made it from his throat to his lips. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed, not caring who heard.
The echo of his boots chased him from the sanctuary, whipping candles, down the saturnine steps and the mindless circle of the park outside.
Concerning the Response
Maybe God does move closer to the earth on holy days. Maybe he senses more minds and souls receptive, seeking. Weeping without words. Or maybe he is always close, and we are more in tune. The gap of accessibility shrinks, lessening the reaction time before encounter. Whatever it is, what Kevin saw when he looked into the face of the crucifix was a blending of emotion, a gamut of indescribable pain, sorrow, hurt, and somehow a sense of resolution. Of need and fulfillment; of emptiness and meaning; of water and wine. Of Gethsemane understanding.
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, maybe protest, like struggling to cry out in a dream. He was as inchoate and mute as when the Ghost reminded him of the one scar among many, shaking, face flushed and wet. Finally the words made it from his throat to his lips. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed, not caring who heard.
The echo of his boots chased him from the sanctuary, whipping candles, down the saturnine steps and the mindless circle of the park outside.
Kevin opened his mouth to speak, maybe protest, like struggling to cry out in a dream. He was as inchoate and mute as when the Ghost reminded him of the one scar among many, shaking, face flushed and wet. Finally the words made it from his throat to his lips. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed, not caring who heard.
The echo of his boots chased him from the sanctuary, whipping candles, down the saturnine steps and the mindless circle of the park outside.
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