eyes blue as the wind

I’ve been sent a very sweet acoustic cover of Heartbeats, by The Knife. It’s unexpected, the taking of a crunchy bouncy makes-me-dance-no-matter-what and turning it into a rather soothing song about a one night stand.

One night to be confused
one night to speed up truth
we had a promise made
four hands and then away

I was young when I met him. I liked his golden hair, his wicked twist of conversation. He made me laugh, and I claimed him. That night I felt his hands around me and knew that he was mine. I used to think it was a quirk of happenstance, I used to think it was a strange accident that I met so many of these malleable people. I was young then, he was the first one. He’s still there, in love with me. His hands are waiting for my waist again, his eyes searching for mine in every crowd he dips in. There was a moment when I realized he would never go away, but it was years later, when I started channeling my emotions to call out and take souls.

both under influence
we had divine scent
to know what to say
mind is a razor blade

The plan is to move in and conquer. Take over the host for a moment and plant the seed of need with a twist of hair around the fingertip, a touch brushed against the shoulder. Cult of personality, they called it. Devoted at minute five, there’s a trick to it, knowing who’s available for desperation. Everyone is susceptible at some point, it’s as easy as finding out who’s lonely. And lovely? Everyone is alone inside.

To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn’t be good enough for me

It took me a long time to bloom. I imagine a black rose, unfolding stop-motion, when I think of what I used to be. How clumsy everything was. The time came when I could flick my passion out and snare the young men I wanted, and that was the blossom. I’m left wondering what I’m training for, how this skill can have some use now. In the days of castles and courtships, I’m sure it did a girl good to have her choice of Lordly husband, but now the castles have crumbled to be replaced by citadels of frame and glass. Change overwhelming my talents with shiny eyes and plastic coated deception.

One night of magic rush
The start: a simple touch
One night to push and scream
And then relief
Ten days of perfect tunes
The colours red and blue
We had a promise made
We were in love.

now I’m ready to feel your hands

Richie finally did it. Walked in front of an ambulance on Boxing Day, died a few days later. Dan Hughes told me over the net-lines, so I don’t particularly have the details. It’s a shame striking a hollow chord within me. Last I’d heard, he was doing better, out of the hospital. Bill and I stayed with him when we went to the Island second summer back. We sat on the back porch in the dark and talked about politics and music and the swirling moments that make up the world. I was on a porch swing and there were cold beet bottles in their hands, something golden. Plastic covered seats behind a upper class house, he had a room in the basement with framed Metropolis posters. We curled up there and watched The Muppets, drumming the walls with laughter. His mother collects fairies, there was a room of them upstairs where we slept. Little framed pictures of flowers. He drove us in his VW van on a search for Bill’s crazy mother. Apparently rumour had it that she was feeling better, but we never found the cabin. Instead we spent time at the bookstore and I bought a book that he sold to them only a few weeks before. There was a letter inside from somebodies mother, thanking him for giving her son music lessons. One Thousand and One Nights, he was wretched at answering his e-mail.

I wonder how Bill is doing. Richie was his best friend. I imagine he called Trish about it, but he never told me. I’d never have known if it weren’t for finding Dan on-line a few months ago. It’s a habit I get into, thinking that I’m going to be important enough to be remembered, but I really should quit as much as he needs to finally quit smoking. I’d like to tell myself that I knew Richie better, but I didn’t. It’s not as hard for me as Jon hanging himself, but it adds a sorrow to my day. The empty space is getting bigger, though it’s being filled with bodies. Jon I loved and will continue to. I’d like to send my condolences but I don’t know what to say.

I suppose this is part of being older. Friends kill themselves or die in accidents. It’s a Fact of Life like everything else. Relationships, affairs, how the neighbor steals your newspaper daily. It’s poison gas to think about, a miasma of “my friends are killing themselves”. I can’t think of Jon without crying, so I think around him. I think of his big hands and the way he got his hair cut, but when I think of how he would phone, I hold his voice to my heart like burning sand. We had a game of flirting too seriously. His hands would inch up my thighs until I stopped him, I would hold his eyes and claim something outrageous, severely physical, until he laughed. It was a terrible game, terrible like formidable, terrible like intense. He would scare me, I loved it. Warm heat in his hugs, it was ridiculous and charming. I wrote a letter to his mother, but never sent it. It sits in an envelope, stamped, ready to fly from my room, and I look at it. I hold the rectangle of paper and glue and consider sending it, but somehow I never do.

When I get back to Vancouver, I’m going to. My silence is a crime.