Making Tea for Ghosts
I ended up sick, like pretty much everybody does after several weeks of breathing recirculated air and working without rest. I woke up sweaty and shivering in my bunk.
Momentarily disoriented, I was in a different time and place, on a bus that looked very much the same. I was in the front lounge, kissing an Australian (or was she kissing me?) I was sitting on a curb in London, penniless but happy. I was letting my hands find the knots in her neck in another anonymous hotel room. I was weeping on my bathroom floor, pressing on the bruises the car bumper left on my thighs in an effort to feel anything at all. I was standing in my loft for one last time, doubting that I would ever use the word "home" so effortlessly again.
In the moments before I opened my eyes and the present day became clear again, I could feel the ghosts of people who are still alive. One laughed in the passenger seat on a long car ride; another snored in the bunk above me. This one was busy taking photos while that one scribbled in a tiny notebook. One who was almost real enough to believe was laying in bed next to me, telling me her secrets and nodding along with mine. Ghosts playing guitars and pianos, ghosts making toasts, ghosts drinking tea with lemon and ginger, ghosts all bickering and shouting over each other for my attention.
I stood next to a ghost I'd rather see more of, wishing he could fold me into his arms like he had that day in March, but of course that was not a ghost at all but a person who sat in my apartment and listened while I cried. His transparent counterpart is a good listener, but the embraces just aren't the same.
Am I somebody's ghost? Those nights when I dream I'm floating and falling, maybe I'm sitting next to you on the train, joking about Ugg boots before anyone told me they were fashionable. Perhaps that me-not-me keeps you company when you're on the search for the perfect New York bagel. I bet my ghost tries to fix things for you, but her hands become nothing when she tries to pick up the pieces of the glass bowl you broke the last time you were drunk. I can see her, hovering around the edges of rooms like I used to, wondering when she'll get to be a real live girl.
My ghost wonders why you haven't called, but I know.
I haven't called either.
Love,
Beth
ps - I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that the title of this piece is a reference to a song called "Tea with Shadows" by my friend and fellow artist Abby Ahmad.
Momentarily disoriented, I was in a different time and place, on a bus that looked very much the same. I was in the front lounge, kissing an Australian (or was she kissing me?) I was sitting on a curb in London, penniless but happy. I was letting my hands find the knots in her neck in another anonymous hotel room. I was weeping on my bathroom floor, pressing on the bruises the car bumper left on my thighs in an effort to feel anything at all. I was standing in my loft for one last time, doubting that I would ever use the word "home" so effortlessly again.
In the moments before I opened my eyes and the present day became clear again, I could feel the ghosts of people who are still alive. One laughed in the passenger seat on a long car ride; another snored in the bunk above me. This one was busy taking photos while that one scribbled in a tiny notebook. One who was almost real enough to believe was laying in bed next to me, telling me her secrets and nodding along with mine. Ghosts playing guitars and pianos, ghosts making toasts, ghosts drinking tea with lemon and ginger, ghosts all bickering and shouting over each other for my attention.
I stood next to a ghost I'd rather see more of, wishing he could fold me into his arms like he had that day in March, but of course that was not a ghost at all but a person who sat in my apartment and listened while I cried. His transparent counterpart is a good listener, but the embraces just aren't the same.
Am I somebody's ghost? Those nights when I dream I'm floating and falling, maybe I'm sitting next to you on the train, joking about Ugg boots before anyone told me they were fashionable. Perhaps that me-not-me keeps you company when you're on the search for the perfect New York bagel. I bet my ghost tries to fix things for you, but her hands become nothing when she tries to pick up the pieces of the glass bowl you broke the last time you were drunk. I can see her, hovering around the edges of rooms like I used to, wondering when she'll get to be a real live girl.
My ghost wonders why you haven't called, but I know.
I haven't called either.
Love,
Beth
ps - I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that the title of this piece is a reference to a song called "Tea with Shadows" by my friend and fellow artist Abby Ahmad.