“Oh, lovely,” O murmurs.
“What I’m noticing, as never before, is not how white they are but how gray—a wonderful bluish-gray—pewter-colored.”
“Like osmium?” O asks, hopeful, delighted.
I chuckle. “Yes, just like osmium—clouds of osmium.”
“Oh, I have to look,” O says and steals a hungry glance at the sky.
We had come to the roof, as is our custom, to have some wine. Normally, we take swigs straight from the bottle. But O, to prevent tilting his head back, has brought a straw. He takes a long sip from the bottle then passes it to me. It’s funny—drinking good cabernet through a straw—and even funnier when I finish my sip and the straw bobs back into the bottle—irretrievably.
I go back downstairs for another straw.
Returning to the roof, I find O hugging the rooftop railing.
“What do you see?”
“Oh, I’ve just been looking at the colors, and shapes, and shadows,” he says.
“Nice—show me.”
“There”—he points down to a pink-colored building. We watch the colors and shadows for a long while without talking. Then, O says what I have been thinking: “This is the perfect thing to do when you’ve had eye surgery and can only look down.”
We watch people walking down sidewalks, across streets, and we anatomize the different ways people walk: “There is striding. And scurrying. And rushing. And loafing. And ambulating …”
That last word sidetracks him, and he goes on: “Ambulating. Ambulate. Ambulation … I wonder if that comes from … ? Let’s go look it up in the OED.”
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7-10-10:
O, in the car, on a drive back from the Botanical Garden—reclining all the way back in his seat (because of sciatica); two pairs of sunglasses on (because of his eye)—suddenly speaks, startling me (I thought he’d been sleeping): “I’ve suddenly realized what you mean to me: You create the need which you fill, the hunger you sate. Like Jesus. And Kierkegaard. And smoked trout …”
I: “That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me—I think.”
O chuckles, then adds: “It’s a kind of teaching, in a strange way …”
Later: I thought he was gazing at me lovingly as I drove, but then realized, no: “I’m watching the odometer and thinking of the elements,” says O.
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8-17-10: I stop by O’s to bring him an ice cream bar. I mention I saw fireflies in Abingdon Square Park—fireflies!
O: “Did you keep your mouth shut?”
I: “What do you mean keep my mouth shut?”
O: “They say three will kill you—luciferase, dangerous stuff.”
I am laughing, but he is not. I really cannot tell if he is serious.
O: “I don’t want you to die of fireflies … a luminous death!”
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12-27-10:
Palace Hotel, San Francisco—Over Christmas: In bed, lights out:
O: “Oh, oh, oh …!”
I: “What was that for?”
O: “I found your fifth rib.”
In the middle of the night: “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could dream together?” O whispers.
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1-1-11:
To Do:
- Rent check, etc.
- New phone?
- Apartment!
- Call Mom
- Buy/Start journal
_____________________
1-4-11:
On the word list:
I: “What do you list toward, Oliver?”
O: “Other than libidinal listings?”
I: “Those go without saying.”
O: “I want a flow of good thoughts and words as long as I’m alive … and you? What do you list toward?”
Man Waiting to Get Into a Fashion Show
A POEM WRITTEN ON THE STARS
I went out for a walk at about six thirty. Someone said it was supposed to rain but the skies looked clear to me. I headed up Eighth Avenue, crossed over at Twenty-Third Street, and at Tenth Avenue saw a stairwell going up and took it. I was on the High Line. That much I’d expected. What I had not anticipated was how crowded it would be, like being stuck on a moving sidewalk at an airport. But the night was too nice to begrudge anyone anything, particularly a chance to experience beauty.
So I imagined I was a tourist, too, headed for a distant gate to board a plane to a place I’ve never been.
Somewhere along the way, I lost my hat. I didn’t realize this until I had exited the park at Thirtieth Street, by which point I couldn’t imagine going back up to retrace my steps. I chose to take the lowlife route home, in the shadow of the High Line, instead.