you wouldn't believe it, even if I told you.
scene:
I'm reading rilke in a parking lot, waiting for The Boy (you remember The Boy, don't you? of stalking and ray lamontagne fame...) and I'm engrossed in a letter about irony. in my brief recollection, rilke is sending this young poet a message of not forcing irony, to seek where it is natural and if that place can't be found, to go as far away from what it isn't as you can, and only there will it present itself, if it is meant to. fascinating, a tribute to all the times when we say, "you know, you just can't make this stuff up!".
ring. ring.
me: hello?
TB: it's jon. (keep in mind, there is yet to be any verbal communication between us since the dozen words in paradise.)
me: whoa.
TB: (laughing)
me: I'm here, I got up here a little bit early.
TB: um, that's unfortunate, there was a guy in an electric wheelchair on the T and I missed the train. the next one won't get me there until two.
me: good, I can finish this book. it was just talking about irony and funny, that's right when the phone rang.
TB: alright, I'm going to try and not freeze my fingers off while I'm waiting by holding on to this dunkin donuts cup.
me: I found a little coffee shop before, I'm going to go back there and hang.
TB: I'll see you around two?
me: keep your fingers warm and hurry up...
I sit there, stunned for a moment, because I had worried for the absence of an opening line. stunned at the irony, at the sound of his voice. smiling in the sunshine. I pick the book back up, figuring I'll read and go back for coffee and clean up before coming back to the T stop. perfect. only I'm giggling and distracted and I drive back towards the way I came. must write, then book.
as I pull into traffic I can't turn back the way I came and I follow the road looking for somewhere to turn around. scanning the landscape, smiling at ice cream stands closed for the winter, and nobody knows what to do with all the snow... then I look up:
and I need to call kristin but I know she's sleeping to tell her that the cricket lover girl has the best eggs in town. I stumble into the parking lot in a grinning daze, and find my way to the door. upon entering I'm greeted and welcomed (it seems as though everyone in rhode island is happy today). I open my mouth to speak, and almost say
if I told you, you wouldn't believe me, about what's happening today I mean, see I woke up and went to seattle to see one of my soulmates, and I cried with her into my blue notebook and all of these doors have opened and I've been catapaulted through them for three months now, and I went up to boston just for a show I bought tickets because the music brought me to my knees and I met this boy and we've been sharing our stories, but he's running late and there's all this irony so can I sit here and stare out your window ingesting it all and writing furiously over some of your coffee, and that soulmate I just mentioned she's got this cat named neva so you see, I just need to be here.
instead I smile at her and say, it's been such a morning, too much to say but my friend, his train is late, he won't be here until two and would it be okay to have some coffee for a while? (as composed as I manage to stay, I still think I look like when you're tripping and you're just positive every person going by you knows exactly what you're doing and I'm waiting for the sparkles to follow my fingers...)
so here I sit, and I feel like pieces of kristin in a blender, when her world started exploding and she stood in seattle and said, "john in the morning, in the morning" with sparkles in her eyes and the wings of her soul stretched out and I'm blown away by soft jazz and the neva cafe. and I'm smiling like an idiot with the songs following suit and I'll wait for you at the halfway point where the corner turns with a big orange flower and nothing to lose...
I Am In Rhode Island made to just Sit and Be and it's like being on vacation, where you couldn't clean your house even if you wanted to, and you can be there at home but there's laundry and cats calling sometimes and you try and you pick up rilke and flee to the coffee shop and you're asked to ask if you must write, if you must write, and I scream at the top of my lungs, YES.
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