The Wall

Ah, yes.

Remember one day in a basement when we built a wall and painted it pink? That thing kept falling over and we kept reinforcing it and wedging it between the painted-concrete floor and the exposed floorboard ceiling, nailing and stapling until it stayed.
Remember weeks afterwards when our lives began to fall apart in some ways, and we'd sit in our respective places at the Duck and toast to 'we fixed the wall'?


This is a true story. There was a wall. We built it, we broke it, we repaired it, we hung it, we watched it fall, we drew pictures of it on coasters at the bar--but finally one day, we painted it pink and said that it was good. I was at work the day the wall was torn down; but Samantha brought to me all of the carefully scavenged pink-painted canvas drop cloth that was once stretched around it, and I hung it all over my new room in our new apartment. That apartment my friends, was the Loyalty Building--two blocks from ampm, ten from the Game Room. Most importantly though, I lived across the hall from my entire world.

Most surprising to me about this story is that I had completely forgotten about it. The line 'We fixed the wall' was once thrown into the conversation at least a couple times a day to express the sentiment 'We can do it. We can do this together'; now, I'm not even quite sure where to start when all the walls have fallen and the great big open sky and tall tall buildings and miles and miles and miles serve as no comfort.

I made a gift for Sarah the other day. It's a little booklet of all of tthe pieces I wrote about 525 and Haight @ Fillmore, plus a new one. I think it is apt to tell you all now.


I say us like it means
more than she probably believes.
I can still feel the way that us once was,
still remember what we as us
have and had hoped to do.
Our plans mapped on unmade beds,
our dreams developed in rough sketches
of favorite colors and pajamas and
jewel colored martinis.
There are photos that prove what we have made,
our histories deserving of some title
yet there are still such long ways,
those single file lines
that are now how we queue.
Our means in different directions than
we mean to be.

Thanks to all of the tremendous brunettes in my life. It is all of you who help me remember how strong I can be, and how trivial some blond filmmaker is.
I love you.

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