Cheers

Like any good sitcom, we have a group of "regulars," a cluster of immediately identifiable (sp? fuck. used to be good at this.) characters with signature hairstyles and, admittedly, lots of black turtlenecks (ginsberg lives!)... everyone knows our names. Any day now, I'm convinced, either Woody Allen or perhaps Rhea Perlman will come prancing in and make a predictable, albeit comical comment. You'll have that.

It's been home to discussions of life goals, sketchpads and wrinkled cocktail napkins littered with scrawled dreams, and the best and juiciest gossip sessions. Meaningless flirtations, drinks bought and accepted across the room from strangers, uncomfortable encounters with a drunk or twelve (and, inevitably, all of his lackluster friends. who should know better.)

We never get carded, which is still somewhat of an honor at this phase in our lives. It's the after-work watering hole, the ESPN dream zone, and the beer flows like ambrosia from Mt. Olympus itself. Have never been someone who enjoys repetition or predictability, but something about this place, "our place," has its comforts.

Was writing my holiday thank you cards today in Starbucks, in a much different part of town, enjoying a warm cafe with others who share a similar appreciation for muted music and a good read. [Side note: Despite popular belief, some people in Indianapolis are, in fact, quite literate.] Was a relaxing break, a respite from laundry, work, humdrum details that so often clutter my life and clog my mind with their endless frustrations, those "small things," as some put it.

Am reading Truth and Beauty, the most recent (I believe) work of writer Ann Patchett of Bel Canto fame. Not a fiction work, surprisingly, but a memoir in memory of her beloved friend and fellow writer (poet) Lucy Grealy. Am often reminded, as I plunge through the chapters, of my relationships with my nearest and dearest... Patchett describes a life so familiar (in a distant, somewhat surreal way) of my college days, that moveable feast of my past life... every day I watch it receding from my immediate existence, friends succumbing to "normalcy" and men and engagement rings and professional ladders to god-knows-where. Lives I do not myself lead, nor wish to at this point... the cheese stands alone, I say.

Fatigued. And weary of the time tomorrow when I again say goodbye to a dear companion and bid her farewell halfway across the world.

The Tree, the Lamp

The tree grows old in the tree, it is summer.
The bird leaps beyond birdsong and is gone.
The red of the dress illuminates and scatters
Away, in the sky, the lading of old sorrow.

O fragile country,
Like the flame of a lamp carried out-of-doors,
Sleep being close in the world’s sap,
Simple the beating of the shared soul.

You too love the moment when the light of lamps
Fades and dreams into daylight.
You know it’s the darkness of your own heart healing,
The boat that reaches the shore and falls.

– Yves Bonnefoy