It was never a violin. It was a viola. In the middle. The middle sister with her own clef.
I didn’t intend to think of you. I don’t, but there was suddenly a reason to think I might accidentally happen upon you and I thought I should be aware. Wary, maybe, but at least aware. I still don’t know, it seems odd to ask that in a company of tens of thousands, if the compatriot of the man who asked to help would be you. It won’t be, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see the connection and think of you.
It isn’t a good feeling, really. A desire to clench, cower, clutch. We are, at this moment, at the furthest distance we have been since our parting. We have never been further apart than this so long as we have existed in one another’s universe. Our souls have relinquished one another. Fate has intervened. Choices have been made. And yet, if I was not asked to learn the gift of acceptance and instead, to make the tarte tatin of spoiled knowledge, I would want to know, need to know, what the everloving fuck?
It is the pea under the thousand mattresses. I am just enough royal to wonder why I don’t sleep soundly so high in the heavens. It isn’t you, of course, it is only the hard little nut of your ill opinion which I garnered and grind, not a pearl, not hardly. You don’t love me, oh well, some one else shall and he will be as good as gold, as soft as silk, and if not, he will be as gone as you, as far as you, as long as you.
I do sleep, though…and I do dream.
Last night I dreamed the setting of a story and I will write it down here because I don’t want to forget the tower with the picture window that framed the image of the roiling sea with the water so clear and blue against the gray, storm-brewing sky with all sorts of ships in the harbor. The ships struggling towards the sand of the shore as though they had tongue depressors stuck to their hulls to lift them over the painted waves. It was a Turner painting in motion out that window.
I recall climbing the tower that overlooks the harbor, with some difficulty, and the guide telling us the nature of the territory – it was not a land I’ve ever heard of. Wending his way up the stairs was a faceless figure, though he was greeted by the guide, at the mention of the name, one of the tour fell to the floor of the staircase landing and threw a blanket over him so as to look homeless.
At the top of the tower, a psychic met with us and was just on the verge of explaining something of incredible importance to me before she exhaustedly had to leave. Her husband, the tour guide, apologized to me. I realized that this was because I bought the entire giant compound, which, upon exiting from the top floor of the tower onto the possibly floating piazza, was extraordinary. The tower was but one little peninsula of an enormous building. It had a remodeled top layer that was serving as a hostel/hotel. It was like a squashed, mediaeval-looking St. Paul’s Cathedral, only shabby and by the sea. Walking outside was like walking through a Zapruder film of a Maxfield Parrish landscape with a jungly, gray, monsoony atmosphere.
I miss this place that never was, in all the meanings you can make for it.