Bluebirdy

We were in Florence. You leaned away from me on the Ponte Vecchio at dusk, and behind you the lights glittered along the river, reaching out towards a fiery horizon. I put my hand on your arm, but you were a thousand miles away from me, away from this town, away from the laughing couples relaxing in the arches of the picturesque bridge. I wanted to say “You’re here with me now, you’re safe, you’re loved,” but I could not; I didn’t know if any of those things were actually true except that we were together. I wanted them to be true. I didn’t want to be the substitute. I put my arms around you and you hugged me in return.

*

We were in Lugano. I steered the boat out and away from the dock onto a lake shimmering in the Swiss summer.

“Does it go faster?” you asked, and leaned over me to push the throttle forward. The little motorboat hummed along leaving a frothy white wake, and we cruised between green mountains and alongside grand mansions and ancient cypresses overhanging the shore. In the distance the colorful triangles of a hundred flitting sailboats darted, turning their sails and changing directions.

“Let’s go look at that house,” I said, pointing. We motored up close to a fortress of a home and slowed, perusing turrets and spires and a walled garden trailing ivy fingers through the water. I wondered who lived in that house. Was he alone, or was he lucky enough to have someone who would ride with him in a petite motorboat on Lago di Lugano?

*

We were in Florence. I squeezed your fingers between each of mine as we navigated the forest of leather handbags, iridescent glass, and cheap trinkets. A woman on a cobblestone side street sat among her miniature paintings, reading a book in Italian.

“Oh, I love that one!” I said, pointing to a tiny square acrylic of the Ponte Vecchio. You picked it up for me and I examined it closely, a series of small strokes and loops that appeared as nothing but a smattering of colors up close, but from a distance was unmistakably the famous bridge over the Arno. On a whim, you bought it for me with swift adoration, handing it to me in a small paper bag and tugging me quickly through the crowd as if to pretend it never happened. I glanced at you as we swept between the souvenir stalls, and the corner of your mouth turned up in a smile.

*

We were in Granada. A tour guide with a lyrical accent explained to us the Arabic on the walls of the Alhambra, told us the stories of the sultan’s wife and her lover in the cypress garden, and described the sacred water leading towards the seven levels of heaven. I photographed the fountains and the Moorish architecture, and you photographed me. You secretly bought me a book, Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra, a collection of legends involving sultans, sorcery, bandoleros and astrologers. In it, the palace through which we strolled was alive with magic, talking animals, and princes in love.

We sat on a terrace at dinner overlooking the Alhambra awash in a yellow glow beneath the night sky. All around us, lovers sat, whispering quietly, clinking wine glasses and sighing amorously. One sharp English accent rose up above the rest, and I realized that the couple at the table in front of us was arguing. Arguing petulantly, seethingly, and discreetly, but undoubtedly arguing. The woman was mean, abusive. The man finally stood up, tossed his napkin to the table, and left. She sat alone, drinking her wine and staring at the luminous palace. Eventually she cried, and you pointed out her sorrow to me. In my book, hidden treasures abounded in this magical place. If only this woman could see that the best treasures here were never hidden – that she had them all along but threw them away. I held the hand of mine, under the table.

*

We were in Zurich. Running, we caught the last tram to the Hauptbahnhof. You grabbed an abandoned newspaper from the seat before sitting next to me.

“This says this artwork was painted by children,” you said, pointing to a caption under the photo of the day, proud of your German translation.

“I can read that one,” I said. You blushed. “Read one that I can’t read,” I asked, turning to the horoscopes.

“Which one is yours?” you asked.

“Libra,” I answered. I pointed to Waage. “The one with the scales.”

“Libra? I’m also Libra!”

“Do you know your Chinese sign?” I asked.

“No.”

“I’m a Dragon, born in 1976.”

“Me too!”

“Read my horoscope,” I said, pressing into your shoulder.

“It says something about you meeting your ‘Love Coach’ today. I can’t really read it, it’s too difficult,” you answered, holding your finger over the small paragraph.

“What’s a ‘Love Coach’?”

“I don’t know. Do you believe in these things?”

“No,” I said, and laughed. “I just like reading them.”

*

We were in Florence. I put the spoon of ice cream to my lips and stared at you. You eyed me from the edge of your Spanish newspaper. Throngs of tourists passed behind our spiraled white metal table, melting in the August sun, blurry as the background of a vintage photograph.

“You won’t be able to eat lunch, if you eat that,” you said lightly. I laid my postcards across the table and wrote, Gelato in Florence and the best time of my life. David is a hottie, but my company is better. You leaned forward, as if to see my private message, but I gathered the postcards to my chest and kissed you.

“I’m not reading them,” you responded. It didn’t matter. You already knew what they said.

HOPE is the thing with feathers–
That perches in the soul–
And sings the tune without the words–
And never stops–at all–

And sweetest–in the Gale–is heard–
And sore must be the storm–
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm–

I’ve heard it in the chillest land–
And on the strangest Sea–
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb–Of Me.

- Emily Dickinson

me: well anyway, this woman is a lunatic
halffull: is she rich?
me: no. totally not
halffull: man, how has she not died yet? where is darwin when you need him?

I read an article entitled “Ten rules for writing fiction” today. Various authors were asked to provide their writing “tips” in a numbered list. Most of it was advice I’d heard before, however, this set of five by P.D. James gave me positive pause.

1. Increase your word power. Words are the raw material of our craft. The greater your vocabulary the more ­effective your writing. We who write in English are fortunate to have the richest and most versatile language in the world. Respect it.
2. Read widely and with discrimination. Bad writing is contagious.
3. Don’t just plan to write – write. It is only by writing, not dreaming about it, that we develop our own style.
4. Write what you need to write, not what is currently popular or what you think will sell.
5. Open your mind to new experiences, particularly to the study of other ­people. Nothing that happens to a writer – however happy, however tragic – is ever wasted.

me: don’t argue with me papaya
papaya: oh like i havent learned that by now
arguing w/ you is futile
me: it’s not only futile, it’s infuriating