Thoughts from an evening of listening-- curled up, chin tucked on knees, hearing music spill out in tinny waves from laptop speakers. Feeling, just the sensation of lyric pushing clumsily at my skin, trying to wrap itself around my fingers. Memories, wrapped up, things I don't want in my brain or heart. Lilies snapped in half, broken-hearted in a bowl of pale water. Weary sighs, and I think warningly to myself-- it's just tiredness, this craving of departure. A full tank of gasoline, the chill of keys tucked in my hands, folded bills in my pocket. See how far I would find myself before turning around.
Wanting to float, motionless for a few minutes. Driving down a desert road, looking for the line of blue that snakes around the horizon. I remember, I remember flying. The silvery hush of skipping across the lake at sundown, the warmth of a hand around my elbow. Just patient understanding for me to pace, watching how my feet slide down into the sand. The cool peace of washing my hair at dusk, the thick, pearly liquid of soap. My fingers, scrubbing and raising, pouring a handful of water down the hollow of my throat. Pushing backwards off the white enameled surface. Mud, flush and loose underneath my toes. Just the hedonistic pleasure of living, too brilliant and painful and sensual to endure forever.
Soft kisses of voices I heard once, a long time ago, reminding me. I ignore Alanis Morisette when she asks me: what part of your memory is selective and tends to forget?
The strange thing about moments like that is we want to hold onto them forever.
