So Far, Yet So Near

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Abstract

got the place; I said. She had those sleepy eyes. Tonight she’s a blonde, the other night a brunette. I remember things were still going on in the street, wild as ever, other drunks whooping and hollering, their pockets full of money.It was a mad dream, played out on the wet streets of San Fran. I was wearing a t-shirt, Sausalito written across the chest. I dread these dreams, so real, so awful. Somewhere, I think on the Embarcadero; I was arrested. The cops took me to a swank restaurant in wrist restraints. I sat with them while they ate. When we left, the fog was streaming in through the Golden Gate until it shrouded downtown in white silk. I spun around till I was dizzy, and in falling, woke up.I sat up in bed, grabbed my notebook, and at once started making notes of what I could recall of the dream. Jenny was sleeping. I didn’t touch her. I couldn’t, but I sat on the edge of

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the bed for what seemed like hours, looking at her while she lay there. I looked at the ring on my finger, the most precious thing I own. Down through my life, I must be conscious of repayment — of trust — of trusting.As a man who lived, loved, and lost, I found it easy to hate — hating came easy. I went to beds that held boredom with perfume. But I went to those beds willingly. I deserved the ill attention I received under the covers. I don’t know when such dragons left — when windmills arrived. Perhaps when finding love again, leaning on someone, but still trembling on the edge of something sinister.Jenny’s eyelids in the mornings are of a different hue than at sunset. I think I have never been more in love than now, sitting on the edge of our bed, pencil in hand, waiting to do familiar things. I think I have never missed her more.Wake up, I’m here.</article></body>

Notes from a dream

I remember the streetlights started to come on all the way down Market Street, flickering, as if about to blow out, and then glowing, shining on the wet road. I remember I was going to meet some drinking friends of mine. Yes, I remember all of that. The gold on my finger didn’t mean a thing after midnight, or the way she said, go out and die, but I’m staying home. I felt like I had all the power. The first woman called my cell phone — my name in her phonebook. I got the time if you got the place; I said. She had those sleepy eyes. Tonight she’s a blonde, the other night a brunette. I remember things were still going on in the street, wild as ever, other drunks whooping and hollering, their pockets full of money.

It was a mad dream, played out on the wet streets of San Fran. I was wearing a t-shirt, Sausalito written across the chest. I dread these dreams, so real, so awful. Somewhere, I think on the Embarcadero; I was arrested. The cops took me to a swank restaurant in wrist restraints. I sat with them while they ate. When we left, the fog was streaming in through the Golden Gate until it shrouded downtown in white silk. I spun around till I was dizzy, and in falling, woke up.

I sat up in bed, grabbed my notebook, and at once started making notes of what I could recall of the dream. Jenny was sleeping. I didn’t touch her. I couldn’t, but I sat on the edge of the bed for what seemed like hours, looking at her while she lay there. I looked at the ring on my finger, the most precious thing I own. Down through my life, I must be conscious of repayment — of trust — of trusting.

As a man who lived, loved, and lost, I found it easy to hate — hating came easy. I went to beds that held boredom with perfume. But I went to those beds willingly. I deserved the ill attention I received under the covers. I don’t know when such dragons left — when windmills arrived. Perhaps when finding love again, leaning on someone, but still trembling on the edge of something sinister.

Jenny’s eyelids in the mornings are of a different hue than at sunset. I think I have never been more in love than now, sitting on the edge of our bed, pencil in hand, waiting to do familiar things. I think I have never missed her more.

Wake up, I’m here.