Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Wrecking the Expectation of a Windmill
I once went on a "study date" with a girl to a place called "The Acoustic Cafe". I immediately knew the relationship was doomed when I realized she actually came to study, but all I wanted to do was talk to her.
"You're gonna need my help, Sweetheart. You can't make love all by yourself."
A long time -- longer than you are thinking, right now -- after the breakup of another relationship, I left the house and wandered across the river to walk among the green lawns and spacious yards of that mixed neighborhood. I knew this girl lived on that side of the river, and I would walk down the streets, looking in the lit windows, guessing which house was hers. I imagined her life was not much more impressive than mine: full of cigarettes, bars, books, and timely gossip. Maybe not. Maybe she was Wonder Woman after breaking up with me. A chain-smoking Wonder Woman.
I wandered over there more than I should admit, but I never looked up her house, or found her, or did anything remotely interesting, except sit on a bench in front of the river, and weigh my own drunkenness.
Some nights, I'd stop in at the local cop bar and drink, but that never provided much comfort. There was no one in there that I could fit in with, so all I really had was the television and the beer. And the place was usually too loud to hear the TV. So that left the beer, and with no one else to talk to, it went down too fast. Then I'd end up on the park bench again, or home.
But it was never cold. And I dimly remember feeling as if I was making some sort of progress, not unlike an artist who keeps expanding the canvas, bringing more into the frame than he ever originally intended. It got to be that some nights, I'd look forward to the wind over the bridge, my hands in my pockets, the buzz in my head, and those inviting, warm lights shining out of the closed, locked windows of random homes.
"You're gonna need my help, Sweetheart. You can't make love all by yourself."
A long time -- longer than you are thinking, right now -- after the breakup of another relationship, I left the house and wandered across the river to walk among the green lawns and spacious yards of that mixed neighborhood. I knew this girl lived on that side of the river, and I would walk down the streets, looking in the lit windows, guessing which house was hers. I imagined her life was not much more impressive than mine: full of cigarettes, bars, books, and timely gossip. Maybe not. Maybe she was Wonder Woman after breaking up with me. A chain-smoking Wonder Woman.
I wandered over there more than I should admit, but I never looked up her house, or found her, or did anything remotely interesting, except sit on a bench in front of the river, and weigh my own drunkenness.
Some nights, I'd stop in at the local cop bar and drink, but that never provided much comfort. There was no one in there that I could fit in with, so all I really had was the television and the beer. And the place was usually too loud to hear the TV. So that left the beer, and with no one else to talk to, it went down too fast. Then I'd end up on the park bench again, or home.
But it was never cold. And I dimly remember feeling as if I was making some sort of progress, not unlike an artist who keeps expanding the canvas, bringing more into the frame than he ever originally intended. It got to be that some nights, I'd look forward to the wind over the bridge, my hands in my pockets, the buzz in my head, and those inviting, warm lights shining out of the closed, locked windows of random homes.
