Local Weather IX

The drive home is quicker than the drive there — the ticker tape of trees and cars isn’t new, so I’ve stopped paying attention. I’m too used to the terrain, the thoughts, the things that trouble me. Your hair on my neck, my head on your chest. The way I speed through things now that we know each other, how this always happens, and it’s so typical. Go slow, she and I both implore.

There’s this poem by Li-Young Lee, “The Undressing,” that begins with the speaker and beloved in bed, in the space before foreplay:

Listen, she says.

I’m listening, I answer
and kiss her chin.

Obviously, you’re not, she says.

And the poem continues from there, the speaker tying to make love to his beloved, her, patiently resisting, trying to explain to a him a deeper thing about the universe, while he ignores and undresses her. What happens when we typecast a person, a thing, a scenery? This is something I’ve been working on. Letting people be themselves, speak for themselves.

To be friends with someone requires a certain suspension of disbelief. To be lovers, even more. But to be partners? I don’t see how other people do it. Similar to claiming a religion, claiming a partner for life seems like the healthy choice, but an impossible one. What room is there for doubt, skepticism, a healthy, academic outlook on the world?

Do I only value skepticism because it’s all I’ve known? Is there an actual virtue behind looking at the abundant miracle of life and saying — prove it.

It’s getting hot now, and I’m packing my things mentally because it’s too soon to actually get the luggage out before I take off for the summer. I’m leaving for a cooler climate, a breeze in the trees, cool ground. An endless forest to the replace the endless summer this close to the gulf.

It’s very easy to get trapped in the endlessness that is New Orleans between May and October. Staying up too late to avoid the heat, sleeping through the day, the deafening air conditioner — or the stale and humid heat, a heat that works similarly to deafen me. And how do you fill something that’s constantly draining? Work, then the bar. The bar, then work. I’m trying to avoid all this.

I’m trying to avoid the road I’ve traveled for so long I’ve forgotten to look out the window. I want attention, newness, a steady drip of sincerity. I think if I give this to the world, I might receive it in return. I’d like to add something to my world rather than fail in my restraint. I don’t have faith in any of this, but I’m willing to try.