If I Could Be Who You Wanted, If I Could Be Who You Wanted. . . All The Time

Entry 1

Sunday mornings are as hard as Kris Kristofferson warned they could be. I'm listening to Anna Scouten cover John Hartford's Tall Buildings. It's a sad song about giving up childhood dreams and succumbing to the drudgery of typical American life. I remember when I was excited about that prospect, when I realized I could actually do such a thing. I have missing years. Not

Somewhere in Oregon, 2014ish.

like Jesus, more like a low-rent Lazarus, some denizen of the original skid road. A particularly apt description, given my Seattle origins, my preteen retreat into drugs and the attendant abandonment of same nearly 10 years later at the ripe old age of 20. 

These Sunday mornings are all the more brutal with the advent of spring and daylight savings time. In the darkness of winter mornings, it takes my brain longer to wander into memories and suppositions about what was, what is, and what could have been. In the cold light of early spring, pain shines like a beacon.

I'm not proud of my bitterness, or the state of stuckness I find myself in, and which I fear may last until the end of my days. I feel guilty because, despite all I write here, I know that I own much  more than I care to relate with regard to the sinking of the relationship with my beloved. I'm not holding back. I'm not embellishing her role in the catastrophe that left our love shattered. The destruction of the bridge in Baltimore's harbor is such a perfect metaphor, such a simple reenactment of our failure, my failure. We were the immovable bridge. Outside appearances made us look stable, unbendable, implacable. People could see disaster approaching. Like the bridge, the span of our relationship had lasted decades. Not many, if any, would have guessed it would all come crashing down in seconds, leaving wreckage that would take years to retrieve. I am pretty certain that in this metaphor I am the catastrophic engine failure of the ship that ran into the bridge, not Jenny's mental illness or choices. Those may have been the weight pushing the barge forward as it crashed into the bridge. I am not free of blame in this metaphor, nor does she bear most of the blame for the failings. I'd say a 50/50 split would be doing her an injustice. I dredged the channel that allowed the ship to drift forward with choices I made long ago. 

I've fallen into a rabbit hole on YouTube. I watched a video of news coverage of 9/11 in New York a few weeks ago, and the algorithm in its majesty, sent me more. And more. And even more. They fill me with horror each time I see the smoke, the moment that the second plane hits forcing the newscasters to admit what they had been so desperately trying to dismiss-the fact that it was an act of terrorism. The buildings fell and Jenny and I, despite being 1000 miles apart, stood together more firmly than ever. I think that this is why I keep watching--it keeps transporting me back to a terrible time, but also a time when we were together, getting through terrorist attacks on buildings, anthrax in NYC mail, my living in Alabama, our baby growing inside her and (Gods be praised) the terrible chalk poetry of de la Vega that was everywhere in the Village like little mental land minds. 

A perfect song to end this post with just came on, Sarah Jarosz wandering through the Upper West Side and the Park, singing Columbus and 89th. It's a wistful recollection of being in love in the City, in a neighborhood Jenny worked in and lived in and in which we spent a lot of time when we lived there together. Sigh.

I've been told
That you don't know what you've got
'Til it's gone
That you'll recognize the real thing when it comes along

And you can only see as far as the crow flies
And sometimes love leaves you tongue-tied
And once in a while the stars will align
At the corner of Columbus and 89