Love Song: Mid-August 1995
In my dream there is music.
Having nothing else to do between fixes—no job, no artistic motivation, no television worth watching—I have taken to long naps in the afternoons. My dreams are strange and vivid, full of ephemeral dangers and memories of things that never happened.
This afternoon there is some sort of crowd in my dream, some sort of willful looming mass of people in which I am only one insignificant soul, unnoticed and tiny. I am on some nameless downtown street, I sense, although I recognize no landmarks, and there is nothing there to guide me home.
And then in the middle of this crushing mass of indifference, a tiny strain of music rises. It is the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard; sparse and mournful, a little, and wise; just single notes and small chords, hesitant but growing stronger. I am amazed by this song in a way I have not been amazed by anything in a very long time.
My eyes open and the song is still there. I lie there listening for a moment, not sure of whether I’m sleeping or awake, and finally I realize where the song is coming from.
I move the bedroom curtain aside. JP is sitting in the living room on the blue couch, playing his guitar, and the song is his. I stand in the doorway and watch him; he does not look up although he knows I’m there. And I am listening to this incredible song, knowing that the man who is making this wonderful music is also in love with me, and for no reason at all I start to weep.
He plays for a while longer, then looks up at the door to see me standing there, crying.
“Awww, baby,” he says, and motions me over to the couch beside him. “Come here. What’s wrong?” he asks.
And I cannot even begin to tell him, exactly, how much nothing is wrong.
Having nothing else to do between fixes—no job, no artistic motivation, no television worth watching—I have taken to long naps in the afternoons. My dreams are strange and vivid, full of ephemeral dangers and memories of things that never happened.
This afternoon there is some sort of crowd in my dream, some sort of willful looming mass of people in which I am only one insignificant soul, unnoticed and tiny. I am on some nameless downtown street, I sense, although I recognize no landmarks, and there is nothing there to guide me home.
And then in the middle of this crushing mass of indifference, a tiny strain of music rises. It is the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard; sparse and mournful, a little, and wise; just single notes and small chords, hesitant but growing stronger. I am amazed by this song in a way I have not been amazed by anything in a very long time.
My eyes open and the song is still there. I lie there listening for a moment, not sure of whether I’m sleeping or awake, and finally I realize where the song is coming from.
I move the bedroom curtain aside. JP is sitting in the living room on the blue couch, playing his guitar, and the song is his. I stand in the doorway and watch him; he does not look up although he knows I’m there. And I am listening to this incredible song, knowing that the man who is making this wonderful music is also in love with me, and for no reason at all I start to weep.
He plays for a while longer, then looks up at the door to see me standing there, crying.
“Awww, baby,” he says, and motions me over to the couch beside him. “Come here. What’s wrong?” he asks.
And I cannot even begin to tell him, exactly, how much nothing is wrong.
posted by GJC at 12:22 AM
1 Comments:
Hi Gladys,I've just read your entire blog and have REALLY enjoyed it.I'm going to keep an eye on it now,keep writing,please.I'm wondering where your life is at now-is it over?The H I mean?Your writing took me right into Chicago,it's kinda the same all over the world,isn't it?
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