The Response

S,

I’m glad you wrote. I’m glad you’re doing well.

Of course I remember the night on the trail. And the next morning at Rosie’s. Rosie’s, where the waitress with the blue eye shadow kept bringing us cups and cups of coffee and I just kept filling it with bourbon. I think she knew. She kept winking at you. You were always the good-looking one of the bunch. That was the bathroom where I first noticed the lines around my mouth. I’ve never told anybody, but I panicked. You talk about feeling old, I know I’m old. It’s written on my face for everyone to see. I got over that soon enough, though. Just a momentary slip I guess. It snowed faster than I’d ever seen that night on the trail. I almost started to regret our vow for a sober evening when it started piling up around us. Turns out that was a good decision. I can’t even remember what we talked about over that plate of eggs (over-easy!) but I remember the smell of the whiskey on that dark wood table. Damn, it smelled like warm brown sugar and molasses. I know I’ve never been warmer.

I don’t know what to say about your new lifestyle. A man can’t live on words and thoughts alone. Or even green tea. I know because I’ve tried. Soon that empty feeling you’ve got will turn to paranoia and plain worthlessness. The void can feel like home for a good while, but it will turn against you if you depend on it too much. Keep a mixture of black coffee and Kentucky bourbon somewhere inside of you and you’ll always be warm. Everything happens for a reason. I’ll tell you everything someday.

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da,
J.L. Brannon

Letter to the Mentor

Dear J-

I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and going back and forth, ya know. Living off of stale saltines and green tea the past two weeks. It’s not that I can’t afford to go buy myself something decent to eat, I just don’t really see a point. Not hungry. It’s helped me see things clearly. So don’t go and start worrying about me. I talked to Ed about what we talked about. He said he’s fine with that and to just go on ahead like we said. I think he’s sad about something. I can’t tell what, though. His girl left him last April, but it shouldn’t take a man that long to forget someone. Gotta be something else. I tucked my undershirt into my pants for the first time today. I feel like my grandfather. Old, I’m getting old. I got a postcard from Danny. He’s up in the North Country with his father. I’d like to go back up there sometime. I haven’t been since I was at the university and then it was only for a couple a days. I need to see the people more. I just know there’s something different about those folks. I accidentally bought a book of poetry in Portuguese from the used bookstore down on the corner. Portuguese for chrissake. I can’t make any sense of it, can’t tell the front from the back to save my skin. But I think if I keep looking at it it’ll start to make sense. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. I have to tell you, I’ve never felt this pure! I’m on some kind of flat plain looking out. I feel deep and empty but so whole. Just, ah fuck. Clean. Void. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying. I just felt like I should tell you because it’s the kind of thing you’re always talking about. I think about you from time to time. Most of the books I’ve been reading lately have characters, well, I just think you’ve been acquainted with a lot more authors than you ever let on. You’ll have to tell me about them sometime. I hope we run into each other again soon. Maybe when you’re back in the area we can go to Rosie’s. I think the table in the back room still smells like the whiskey you spilled on it. Remember? You were spiking your coffee the morning after we stayed up all night out on the trail. I hope you remember that.

Write back when you can,
-SK

The Walk Down Memory Lane Always Leads to a Bookstore

I sat across from him, noticing his knobby knuckles and five-o'clock shadow.  He ordered coffee with his pizza--his first cup of the day.  I told him about the time I'd downed 22 cups in one day.  We both admitted to our dependence.  The image of us in fourth grade, dressed as angels in the all-school Christmas pageant came to mind for no reason at all; I was a head taller than he was even then.  Then I thought of the picture the yearbook staff had taken of us for our senior superlative.  My sash and his crown said the same thing: Most Musically Talented.  I couldn't believe I'd been dreading our lunch reunion, worried we wouldn't have anything to say.  I should have known better.  The more we talked the clearer it became that we had done our respective maturing in separate spheres but had somehow met up on the other side, now running parallel in the lifelong race.

After the plates were cleared and the bill had been payed we walked to his car for my Janis Joplin shirt and his cigarettes.  He asked me to explain the writing process to him and to suggest a good book, one that would make him want to keep reading.  As I waited for him to finish his cigarette I explained that I wrote mostly about my own life--moments, events, and chapters more so than day-to-day occurrences.  I didn't say it, but I was already writing this in my head, well before the reunion was concluded.  

We walked around the shopping mall, laughing at the gaggles of teenagers, relieved that that era of our lives was behind us.  We discussed passion and music and passion for music.  He told me matter-of-factly that writing music came before work and money and he has no problem with living poorly.  I smiled: he was the same boy I've always known, a bit more serious and thoughtful but still the same.

Our wandering led us to Borders where he again challenged me to find him a book.  He promised to buy whatever I picked out, trusting me completely to supply him with inspiration.

With my mission in mind, I set off.  I considered inspiration and passion and the fact that he was not a reader.  I was well into the K's before I realized I'd passed what I was looking for.  Back in the S's I cringed at the over-abundance of romance novels.  I started to worry I wasn't going to find what I was after.

"I hope my life is never so pathetic that I have to resort to trashy novels for excitement, ya know?  Ah, here it is!" I squatted down to look at the selection.

"I don't have your address, but can I send you angry letters if I hate it?"

"Oh, for sure.  Just leave them with Andy, he'll get them to me."  He laughed.

 

Triumphantly, I stood up and handed Luke a copy of Nine Stories.

Una canzone per dormire: the Sun, the Moon, and an Exploding Heart

Mentre io dormivo, ho visto nel mio sogno tu.  La faccia era bianca con due occhi che sa tutto.  Le labbra erano rossi e incrinati dopo un lungo giorno della solitudine e senza acqua.  Nelle mani tu portavi il sole e la luna piena.  Mi hai dato la luna mentre cullavi il sole tra le braccia; il mio cuore ha scoppiato.  Poi hai gettato la luna su al cielo.  Nella tua tristezza hai cantato questa canzone ai pezzi del mio cuore:

 

Io vedo la luna,

La luna vede me.

La luna vede il qualcuno vorrei vedere.

Dio benedica la luna,

Dio benedica me,

Dio benedica il qualcuno vorrei vedere.

 

Con quello hai volato alle stelle.  Tu brucia e brucerai durante tutte mattine e giorni così  fuochi d’artificio favolosi e gialli ma la luna gelerà tutte le notti per sempre.