a new season

Last night I walked out of my apartment and it felt like as hot and humid as a summer night. I was sticky within a block and thankful for the air conditioning when I sat down at one of my local hangouts just a block after that. I was restless and didn't stay long; I haven't been drinking much and hanging out at the wrong bar when you aren't with the right people or aren't really interested in drinking for the sake of it, it isn't very much fun.

Jenny, the bartender is a friend of mine; we'd gone to dinner earlier that evening and had often used each others shoulder when things were going awry. She was watching out for a friend at the end of the bar who was being hit on by two drunk men and flirting with a guy at the other end that she's taken an interest in. Sitting in the middle of it all, sipping a second rate absinthe that wasn't appealing to me wasn't very much fun, so I decided to go after paying my tab and leaving the half full glass on the bar.

I walked back outside and the humidity was gone completely and it had cooled down dramatically. It was almost hard to believe it was the same night as when I'd left the house. I had a moment of feeling that I'd stepped into a different day, a different time entirely. I wandered down to Flanagan's and felt immediately more comfortable. I always try Jenny's bar first, out of loyalty to her as a friend, but as soon as I walked in, I wished I'd been there all night.

Erin came in to see Huggy (the bartender) and ended up sitting with me when she saw that I was there. We talked for a long time about all the usual sorts of things; laughed about the ridiculousness that seemed to plague the lives of friends as well as our own. We left the bar together, which is always reason for talk in a small city

Erin and I parted ways back in front of Jenny's bar; she went inside and I went home. I walked into the night, enjoying what felt like fall and was home and in bed in no time at all.

I woke this morning to the feeling that it was cooler outside than inside, so I opened the french doors that lead out onto my balcony and found it to be true. It's a beautiful morning;fall having finally arrived in New Orleans, so I'm laying in bed, typing out my disjointed thoughts from the night before on my laptop. I'm not a morning person, not a breakfast person, but I'm thinking of going to get banana's foster french toast at Stanley; something I've been meaning to do for a while. I have an appetite early this morning, as though somehow I know i'll need my strength today, need the nourishment for some sort of change that the fall will bring.

Today I'll take my laptop out into the world and I'll work from wherever I can find a seat. I'll use fall as my inspiration and change scenery often, moving about through the french quarter and enjoy the weather, but I think i'll allow myself to linger here in bed and enjoy the cool air blowing in, at least for a moment longer....

you are my sunshine

I was singing to you, in my dream, as you packed the things of mine you'd found in the boxes that had arrived at your new place. I knew that it was over; this was the last commitment to you and I never being together again, and I was a little sad and yet happy for you.

I sang:

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away

I'd started singing it thinking that it was a happy song; one that would cheer you up, but as I sang the words, they took on their true meaning for me and it made me blue.


When I'm awake, I can reason with myself, tell myself all the reasons why it didn't work and every one of them makes perfect sense. When I sleep though, my waking mind isn't there to intervene on my behalf and I'm prone to fits of missing her terribly.

open letter

Dear S.

Lets not be sad that life has taken us in different directions, let's be happy that ours ran side by side while it did. I'll always wish you well, no matter if our paths cross again or not (I hope they do).

Hope; now there's a word. Hope, for me, means feeling something is possible, even when I can't see how. I have hope that you and I will always be a part of each others lives. I have hope that we will cheer each other on, comfort each other when we need it and always be the friend that the other needs.

Even if I don't say it often enough, I will miss you. Even if I don't say it loud enough, I'll always love you. Wherever I am in the world, I'll be wishing you well, cheering you on and wanting nothing but the best for you.

Yours,

J.

hit or miss

I hadn't heard a word all day, after a very long discussion the night before. I sent her a message, wishing her a good day.

"All done. Missing you. How was your day. I miss you." was her reply.

I was surprised at the emphatic admission of missing me and was moved, for just a moment, at the idea that she might, actually (miss me). I know the way these things work though; an admission like that will inevitably bring some form of destruction later.

The movers had finally arrived at her house and she was with them, having trouble with the company she hired to ferry her things (our things) to San Francisco. We'd been sending messages back and forth and then she called me to tell me more about it.

She knew that I was at a show with a friend, which is part of this cycle. She was home while I was off doing things that she would want to be doing and she didn't know who I was doing them with. This is the sort of situation that's most prone to make her text and in this case, even call (a rarity).

We spoke for a few moments and she assured me she'd be in touch when they were done and had left the house. When they left, she sent me a message saying she was going to have a glass of wine with her friend and I asked if she was still planning on calling me.

"For sure we are just a couple blocks form my house"

I continued on about my night, taking into consideration the time difference, and when I went home, I laid down ont he couch and fell asleep with the phone on my chest. I woke at eight in the morning to no messages, no missed calls and I called her, to make sure she was alright. She didn't answer, but she called me back moments later.

"Is everything ok?" she asked

"Yes, I wanted to make sure you made it home safe. You said you'd call and never did".

"I forgot".

We'd gone from an astounding admission that she missed me to (supposedly) forgetting that she said she would call all in a few hours with no issue's arising between us in the meantime. I wasn't surprised, mind you, but being right brings less comfort than one might imagine. At least this time, I hadn't waited up.

Music

There are certain song's that will ever be associated with moments in my life, just as I'm sure there are for you, for everyone. Song's that never fail to take you back to a place, a time a feeling that you had when you heard it and it took meaning for you.

In a Lounge with Broken Wings wasn't a song that I'd ever remembered hearing before, but that night it made it's mark in my memory. It was my last night in New Orleans before heading back to Las Vegas (i'd been there almost three months and it was time to go back to face the music). I was with friends, trying to hold on to the moment, sad to see it slip away and feeling like I had unfinished business. I knew my time was over; I knew that everyone else knew my time was over as well, but it didn't stop me from wanting to linger a moment longer.

Every time I hear that song, i'll remember looking around One Eyed Jacks, listening to the band play, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, saying my goodbye's. I remember listening to people promise me that I wouldn't be gone long; I'd be back, and I knew I would. i wouldn't be coming back to what I was leaving behind though, that I knew. As much as I was going to miss it, I was really saying goodbye to more than just New Orleans. I was saying goobye to the moment that I was in and mourning the moment I was going back to end at the same time. I was saying goodbye all around, to people, to places, to things that i'd miss. There was no sharing that moment with anyone and I knew that. Sometimes it doesn't matter how many people you are surrounded by, you are the only one really hearing the music that's playing.

"I sat down, by myself...in a lounge with broken wings...."

This week I went back and saw The New Orleans Bingo! Show and I fell back into the first time I heard the song. I'm back living in New Orleans just like everyone said I would, and I'm a happier person for it. For the course of that one song though, I was back in that moment. I've moved in a different direction in my life and when I heard it it again I was with someone that tragically missed the show the last time; we were laughing about life today and then I was there again, in that goodbye moment.

Despite what i've written here, the song doesn't make me sad. It's bittersweet for me and feels like the long ways that I've come between then and now, but it's not sad....well, at least not always.

Rêve

What's important to me is that I not hurt anyone needlessly. I don't like to suffer people that are reckless with my heart, so all of this introspection comes from my not wanting to be reckless with anyone else's.

I dreamt that she came here to New Orleans and asked me to marry her. I had all the sort of questions and need for answers that race through a dreaming mind and are so fleeting that you can't articulate any of them. I didn't answer her, I just looked at her, holding her hands in mine.

No one can ever accuse me of under-thinking a situation, that's for certain. Over think it, almost certainly, but under-think it; I wouldn't dream of it.

waiting up (a cautionary tale)

I told her that if she wasn't up for it, we didn't need to talk again last night. I told her that if she wanted, we could do it some other time. She texted me and said she'd be in touch after she had a glass of wine. Three and a half hours later and she's on her way to bed, but wants to know if we can just chat tomorrow. It wasn't that we didn't talk. It was the waiting up.

That’s the part I couldn’t ever take. The waiting all night long for her to call, come home, come to bed.

For some people, how long you’ll wait up for them is a measure of how much you love them, how much they mean to you, what lengths you’ll go to in order to make them the last thing that you say, see, do.

The problem is, for the person waiting up, it’s not a fun game. It’s the opposite side of the coin; why wouldn’t they come home, call, come to bed already, to be with me.

There is no winning that game. There was no winning that game. She played it with me again as soon as I let her back in my life even a little bit, just to see if I’d still be willing to play. I’m not. I can’t. I won’t.

At the end of the night, you can either have stayed out all night or you can have come home to the person waiting for you. You can’t do both and you can’t be sad when you come home late and the house is empty; there isn’t anyone waiting for you any more.