2.28.2012

Rhapsody in Blue, Part 2.

There is this quality of light indoors at sunrise; it has been explained to me that there is a reason, something about the way the light bends through the atmosphere and only a limited amount of that actually crosses into your home. Look, I don't know what it is, but it's cool and transformative, and it is most definitely my favorite time of day. To look at, that is.

I love the sunshine, don't get me wrong--but there is something off-putting when this calm and collected light of morning turns to a garish, almost oppressive, sunny day. Those first couple hours seem strange to me, especially in the winter when sunny days seem out of place for a transplant Seattleite.

I remember this happening to me in Miami too, especially in the summer when the temperature is only really ideal at night and an hour longer at the bar can yield a walk home in a hot and humid 90 degree morning. Which is gross, by the way. Especially after a long night of surpassing last call with high-octane trappist style ales from Tampa.

This is the part where I transition to the "in the light of day things seem different" portion of this little post, but it's not exactly like that and yet it's not exactly not not like that. That was my plan, yes, that I could equate all of this to a sunrise, but I'm still processing exactly what all of this is and is not.

I am sure of a few things. There is a very darling, very interesting boy here locally, and then there is also a very intense, very charismatic boy far away and I can't seem to divorce the two from each other. And I, I mean me--Young[ish] Moxie Moure--am starting to feel increasingly guilty. Guilty! For what? Nothing. We all know the rules and none of them have been broken, but I can't help this, and it's not going away, and it's killing me because I know I wouldn't be offered the same courtesy by the parties involved.

No, wait. That's not entirely true--I don't mind that I wouldn't be offered the same courtesy by them, meaning they are not what's killing me--this is an invention of my head, and like the cigarettes and the not eating, this is slowly doing me in.

It is oppressive how much I miss him, but it's in this Cinderella-esque way that I know a huge portion of it is that I'm hanging all my hopes upon it. I daydream of what it would be like if he called me from the train nearby or from JFK to let me know that he arrived safely, and I know it's all fake because in my head it all looks so technicolor and posed: my arms around his neck, feet off the ground, knees bent and ankles intertwined with each other. It's all bullshit and it's happening only in my minds eye where I am not guarded and he is communicative and neither of these things are true. Just like always.

I want one of those transformative sunrises, but maybe it could turn into one of those blue-grey days like in my hometown, and maybe instead of holing myself up indoors during this somewhat inclement weather  I'll go out, take a walk, experience this change. Maybe make a change. Maybe not. Maybe this time will be different, maybe New York will make him different, them different.

Maybe I'm already different.
--M

edit: 10:59p
P.S.--I left work and descended into the 8th Av ACEL station and there was, I shit you not, a three piece playing Rhapsody right at my favorite part. It was so New York and so me and I had the quite certain (yet somewhat fleeting) feeling that there are some more things that I think I'd like to let go of. There are songs that remind me of other places like San Francisco: In the City, Journey and Sitting on the Dock of the Bay, Otis Redding. These songs are great--they invoke positive memories in more people that just me.  The songs that remind me of Seattle? Lost Highway, Angry Samoans; Rhythm and Blues Alibi, Gomez, christ, even Louie, Louie (the unofficial Washington State rock song) and all of these songs have to do with chasing after things that are gone and getting lost, leaving, even demanding to leave. I'm just saying that this should be my Blue Period, and I'm ready to traverse the distance from the clarinet glissando to the booming brass. Every day. --M

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