It's afternoon and I cannot concentrate, lost in a time loop of every loss ever, a sadness that feels real but is more likely exhaustion from staying out late so I decide to take a nap. But the dog upstairs is barking, barking, barking, barking, howling, and after about twenty minutes a neighbor opens her door and shouts SILENCE! The word reverberates in the hall, louder than the dog's bark, I can almost feel the vibration against the wall, which is against the head of my bed, which is the end of nap time, and I get up, and make coffee against the sleepiness that I have failed to kill naturally, and I feel like I've been tired forever but of course that is not true, it just feels true.

And the dog upstairs is barking again now after about ten minutes of silence, barking and howling, and twenty minutes of barking and howling pass and I've finished my coffee and started to work and the neighbor opens her door and shouts SILENCE and I think the whole day will be loops like this. I remind myself that every moment is really just a moment, just standing there alone, disconnected by time and space from other moments, even if it looks the same; I also remind myself that those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it, and I have to think about that, the same as I do every time this thought loops through my brain: the truth of now and the truth of history. I don't even have time to think about the future.

And in the time it has taken me to forget to work, lost in pondering, the dog upstairs is barking again, barking and barking and howling, how can they leave him alone all day, and the neighbor shouts again, and I consider posting a sign in the building vestibule pointing out that the dog does not probably understand the language of humans, or in any case, doesn't understand or remember that silence now means silence forever. I often pretend to not understand the language of humans as well, although I am terrible about forgetting or pretending to forget, because I always remember.

Of course in addition to forgetting that someone told him to stop barking, he also forgets that his owner is coming home ever, which is why after a brief pause he is barking again, barking at the wind, howling at his fear of being alone forever, barking and howling. I had an interesting conversation with his owner, who swears it is not her dog who cries all day, not her dog being shouted at, but one of the other dogs in the building. And to be fair when this one gets really frantic he can set them all off; if for example you come home late and drop your keys in the hallway the whole building erupts in terror and defensive maneuvers. But right now it's just this one dog, barking and howling at his absolute abandonment, because he doesn't remember how this morning he was loved and I think that maybe living in the moment has greater disadvantages than living with a brain full of memory loops, and the neighbor opens her door and shouts SILENCE and I get my earplugs out and go back to work. 

This is the language they speak in the open spaces between them, the spaces formed by their outstretched arms, the language of emptiness and wishes, the things they want, the same things spoken into the same vast vacancy every time, because the wants are never satisfied. I want to see you, touch you, dance with you, variations on the theme, over and over, the Greek chorus of longing veering dangerously close to lamentation.

And the language they speak when they face away from that aching void? They are casual, code names, dismissive humor. I mean seriously, she says, I'm more picky who I watch movies with, and it is true, and the knowledge that what she says now is truer than what she says into her own empty arms helps her feel less hollow, filled with the stone she has rolled in front of her heart. 

This game is about stacking. You start with the top priority which is pretty predictably a man but you cannot find him unless you get all the little numbers out of the way first. In that step you have to start small and work up; once you get into the steps with people you start big and work down. So you're stacking in two different directions, basically. Like work, as soon as you manage one thing you have a new thing to manage, over and over, but unlike work eventually you clean up everything right and then it is done and there is a moment of satisfaction before shuffling into the next round. You have to remember that when you're dealing with people the rule is that opposites attract but when you're dealing with the little things you have to put like with like, which reminds you both of feng-shui and your pointy-headed approach to legos. Work to work, money to money, the satisfying snap of one thing on top of another. Meanwhile the people: a space clears for a man and you slide the mismatched woman on top of him. In this game it is possible to cheat but you are only cheating yourself so it is not as satisfying as cheating can usually be though it has the same weight of guilt. You can play this game on the computer and then it even cleans itself up afterwards and disappears when you want it to, like when someone comes in the room and thinks you are working, click once to minimize or twice to make it disappear. Anyway this is not a game to play when you have other people around and interestingly if you play it long enough those people will magically appear, which is why it is also called patience.  

This metaphor likes to go for walks on the beach. He probably likes sunsets, too, and holding hands. Long slow kisses. But anyway the beach. Walking along collecting pebbles and looking for precious stones, maybe something somebody else threw away. Every step there are more pebbles and he turns them all over, it's a slow walk is what it is, so much attention to be paid, and he's trying to pay attention, although it's hard with so many things to look at. Not this one not that one not the other. In the morning light the water on the pebbles makes so many glint with promise and he picks several, dries them on his sleeve, throws some back, puts others in his pockets. His pockets now heavy with stones he's collected, thumping comfortingly against his legs as he walks, honestly he can barely keep his pants up but he keeps walking, turning, tossing, collecting. He's not even sure what he's doing any more; his attention now entirely on collection rather than on possession. The bowls in his house fill with pebbles, stones, gems too, all neglected, and the beach empties, and he cannot stop looking for what he might already have. 

Mind and Body pass each other on the stairs. Mind pauses, a little winded, well not really because Mind doesn't breathe, that's more Body's thing, but anyway. Mind wants to have a look around, a reflective moment. Mind says: Hey be careful down there. Body just looks back at Mind wordlessly; Body doesn't talk much. 

Mind says: Down there? Where I was? It's crazy. I was so innocent. I didn't have any perspective. Like from here I can look down and see where I've been? But down there, I couldn't. Body nods and looks down the stairs, and thinks of falling. Body looks up the stairs, where Mind is going, remembering. Body knows that it used to be able to touch its head with its foot in two or three different directions. Body did ballet, Body was graceful and flexible. Body had all the time in the world.

Mind says: I used to think I was nothing, you know? And anybody who told me that I was nothing, I thought they were smart for seeing the truth. I used to think it was important that I was smart, and tried so hard to be clever and witty and knowledgeable, and if anybody said I was stupid it crushed me. Body is thinking about dancing, the crush of bodies, sweaty limbs tangled. Crushed in someone's arms. It's been a while, but Body remembers. Body knows this is not the kind of being crushed that Mind is talking about. Mind says: I was crushed, as if the external validation of my intellect was more important than the thoughts I had. Hey are you listening? Body is thinking about being crushed at the foot of the stairs, which seems more probable.

Mind says: It's very interesting at this point on the stairs, you know, in the middle. Where I can see how far I've gone and how far I have to go. I used to think back a few stairs ago that I had the best perspective but now I know that this is the best. Now I can see things clearly. Mind says: I used to stumble around at the bottom because I couldn't even see to the top, I thought I could but I couldn't, but now I can see everything, I'm sure. Body sees a lot too, and also knows that some of the stairs are longer than others, that Body took a stair's length for granted recently and fell, bruised, weeping. Body sees that it can't count on itself anymore, that Body is no longer graceful and flexible, and there are stairs ahead that creak and groan even more than Body's knees do, these days, and Body is a little afraid about that.

Mind says: Well anyway nice talking at you. Miles to go and whatnot. Mind is exceedingly cheerful. Mind thinks it can go miles. Body nods, numbly, grips the banister, slides out a cautious toe. Takes the next step. 

Did you see the movie Moonstruck? Cher and Nicholas Cage. I remember very little of it, but there was a scene when an older man, distinguished university professor type, was out to dinner with a young woman who threw her drink in his face and stormed out. Olympia Dukakis* was watching and they started talking, she and the man. They were the same age, a little intellectual sparring, if I remember correctly, and he asks her to have an affair with him. It would have been a step forward for him, initiating a relationship with an equal, not some pretty young thing but someone who could challenge him without resorting to theatrics. And she refused. Why? he asked.

Because I know who I am.

And I thought: Oh, how much I would like to be there. To know myself so much that I don't have to save anybody. It seemed sort of impossible. At the time I was nineteen and very much in love with someone who told me at regular intervals that he didn't love me but seemed unable to let me go if it meant losing my friendship. Instead of breaking my heart in a good clean way he tapped away at it at intervals, breaking off slivers, until it was small enough I could hold it on the palm of my hand and even then I kept offering it to him every time he asked to see it. I could not imagine a future in which he would not be eventually redeemed by my love, I could not imagine a world in which knowing myself would come ahead of this consuming desire to love and to be loved.

And yet here I am, years later, and I have loved since then, have loved as much (though not as hopelessly, I think) and yet every year I have come closer to accurately seeing the situation so that I can walk away from just about anything that looks like it's going to hurt. And now to the point where I can even sit down at the table where water has been thrown, have a pleasant conversation if it seems like a good idea, and still walk away when it's time, even if it hurts a bit, because I know who I am.

Finally.

*trivia: I voted for Dukakis and even worked on his campaign because I figured anybody related to Olympia Dukakis had to be decent, silly military photo op or no.

A long time ago, we used to be friends

Well what is a long time ago? Less than half a lifetime. How we talked late into the night, stretched beside each other or whispering into the phone, or email with its glorious disregard for time and time zones. A friendship that ended and started and ended and started, each time sweeter, each time like finding something I'd given up as lost, my silver necklace returned to me on the tide, the sparkle through the water, the glint and hope and the waves pulling back to reveal what is more precious for having been lost.

But I haven't thought of you lately at all

This is a fallacy, since obviously I'm writing about you so I am thinking of you, lately. The late you, reverof enog. I think of you when you occur to me: hear you sooner or later on every eighties station, the smell of almonds from a roadside stand, hotel soap, the particular taste of coffee in the morning of a day that is not yet hot, but will be.  

If ever again a greeting I send to you

Don't worry I won't, though your birthday comes and goes and my lips itch with what I want to say, the words that would unlock you, the key I could pass with a kiss. The only way to get blood from a stone is to cut your hands on it and my hands have scars enough. I have been one to hang about graveyards, rubbing my name off the grave, pressing forehead to headstone, but those days are gone. I only visit what I've buried in my heart, now. The dead don't know you're there, anyway, and there's no point in talking to them unless you're asking them to keep a secret, and you already have mine.

Short and sweet to the soul I intend

And what would I say, anyway? That I loved you then and still? You knew it then and probably now, too, if you think of me where you are; I remain consistent. I said run away with me then and I meant it, but if you had said yes we wouldn't have been running away together, we would have been running away from home, badly packed suitcases thumping against our scabbed knees, and every time I thought of it the suitcases became heavier and filled with more abstractions: partner, child, mortgage, responsibility. Finally they couldn't be lifted at all and it became almost impossible for you to even talk to me until almost was perfectly.  

Come on now honey

My mind is a constantly hungry acquisitive thing, wandering about in search of new and more information. It's nothing personal or not usually, it's just the desire for knowledge. When I was little you could be excused from the dinner table only to look something up, brussels sprouts turning cold while I turned the pages of the New Book of Knowledge to prove my point or, less satisfying, to have the chance to stop being wrong. 

It has always been hard for me to imagine what it is to not be curious, to not want to know more. Read all the books by an author, have all the albums by a band, know everything about anything. Now that we have the internet I really don't understand – you don't have to collect anything, because it's all at your fingertips all the time. Child's play. I do not understand video games but the thrill of looking up something obscure, the juvenelia, the B side, the cameo, is just… oh my.

Also of course the snooping, which you could call stalking but I would be hurt because it's really not about A person, it's about ALL people. I found the guy who stalked me in college, just to be sure I know where he is (unsurprised to read on ratemyprofessors that he still gives college girls the creeps), both of my closest high school friends (one more beautiful than photoshop and quite successful; the other almost as fat as I am now and on her second marriage), the girl who lived down the street from me growing up has adopted a Chinese orphan, etc. I have no desire to talk to almost anybody, I just get that weird little itch of "whatever happened to" and I scratch it. 

If I do know you in person you have had me listen to you with what may have seemed like half attention, but I promise I was recording. Storing, cross-referencing, remembering. Over time you have an archive in my mind, and I build an idea of you that is as close to you as I can be, not a mask of who I wish you were but truly what I see, collectively, together, layers. I have been told that for some people it is unpleasant to be seen this way, past and present together, that I should only see the beautifully plated self before me at the moment. I have also been told that it is unfair to have your past repeated to you, like someone trying to squeeze you into baby clothes (though this is my metaphor, but I am trying to understand what is unpleasant, truly). But I think most people like it, this being seen, the charcoal pencil of my mind tracing over your outline, filling in the shadows from your eyelashes, the curve of your cheek, the little birthmark on the back of your neck, the small constellation of freckles. 

I am sometimes surprised to be reminded that not everybody is like me. Not for everyone this endless acquisition, the storage, the desire for more so absolute it feels like need. But it does seem that very few people think about things like this to the extent that I do, and learning to understand and respect that one woman's exhaustive is another man's exhausting may be a thing that I also have to acquire, one of this year's "better living through empathy" triad I'm working on. I'm not planning to change who I am, and I'm still probably going to memorize poems and read your back catalog, but I will try to keep it to myself a little more.