I could drink a case of you.
I remember the time you told me,
You said, "Love is touching souls,"
Surely you've touched mine.
Because part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time.
I've been listening to Joni Mitchell a lot. Her voice resonates with me. She's special.
I miss San Francisco. I miss that enormous red bridge, and how it revealed itself to us for a special while, just before the fog rolled in and it got lost. I miss the sound of the sparking cables overhead, and the fact that no one litters. I miss good breakfasts and the sailboats along the marina and all the bicycle commuting. I miss the way that every home is different--a different color, a different shape, open windows. I miss the throbbing in my feet after an entire day of foot-travel around the giant city. I miss cheap liquor and drunken strolls near the bay, beneath a giant dim-lit rotunda. I miss hopping into bed with two people that I love, that know how to love me back.
Mostly, I miss the anonymity. For a few days, I got to exist somewhere as just another person, among thousands of other people. I got to throw my baggage into the Pacific, and exist without a name tag that reads, "crappy friend," or "lousy daughter," or "shitty student" or "sister", or "good friend" or "wonderful daughter," or "significant other", or "babe." I was another body. True, I went to San Francisco with my story, we all travel with our stories. They burn like a fire inside. And perhaps it's about uncovering them a little, letting the smoke out. Maybe letting that fire breathe is better. Maybe love extinguishes it a bit, so that it does not rage and thrash and we do not self-destruct.
Maybe I am so nostalgic now, counting down the days until another escape because this name tag is back. My anonymity is gone and there are ten thousand pairs of shoes to fill. I have this fear of sinking.
I think this fear is what drives me so far away and clear of love. It is what sets off the mechanism inside that renders me unreachable--or so I think. I still do not know if this is the best way. If treating romantics like the ships in that ocean--distant and at bay--is right. I wonder if I will ever be able to hear anything but lies when someone confesses to me their love. I wonder if I will ever be able to look deep into the eyes of a man and see the truth.
But we all wonder if the choices we make will carry us to where we want to go. Most of us still wonder where that is. I know that letting go is okay and right. I know that sometimes it is easier to believe in holding on. The "when" is the hard part. It is a sea-saw, an incredibly sensitive game of teetering between too much and not enough. And it seems that it is time to step off of the sea-saw and walk away. Sometimes that hurts. And sometimes it feels like a deep breath.
I wish I were in a car headed North back to that bay, beneath the Rotunda, stumbling through the streets in a serenely, divinely, painfully aware bliss. But I am here and that is there. And I see, now, how much waits for me when I am ready for it.
You're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh, I could drink a case of you
And I would still be on my feet.
You said, "Love is touching souls,"
Surely you've touched mine.
Because part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time.
I've been listening to Joni Mitchell a lot. Her voice resonates with me. She's special.
I miss San Francisco. I miss that enormous red bridge, and how it revealed itself to us for a special while, just before the fog rolled in and it got lost. I miss the sound of the sparking cables overhead, and the fact that no one litters. I miss good breakfasts and the sailboats along the marina and all the bicycle commuting. I miss the way that every home is different--a different color, a different shape, open windows. I miss the throbbing in my feet after an entire day of foot-travel around the giant city. I miss cheap liquor and drunken strolls near the bay, beneath a giant dim-lit rotunda. I miss hopping into bed with two people that I love, that know how to love me back.
Mostly, I miss the anonymity. For a few days, I got to exist somewhere as just another person, among thousands of other people. I got to throw my baggage into the Pacific, and exist without a name tag that reads, "crappy friend," or "lousy daughter," or "shitty student" or "sister", or "good friend" or "wonderful daughter," or "significant other", or "babe." I was another body. True, I went to San Francisco with my story, we all travel with our stories. They burn like a fire inside. And perhaps it's about uncovering them a little, letting the smoke out. Maybe letting that fire breathe is better. Maybe love extinguishes it a bit, so that it does not rage and thrash and we do not self-destruct.
Maybe I am so nostalgic now, counting down the days until another escape because this name tag is back. My anonymity is gone and there are ten thousand pairs of shoes to fill. I have this fear of sinking.
I think this fear is what drives me so far away and clear of love. It is what sets off the mechanism inside that renders me unreachable--or so I think. I still do not know if this is the best way. If treating romantics like the ships in that ocean--distant and at bay--is right. I wonder if I will ever be able to hear anything but lies when someone confesses to me their love. I wonder if I will ever be able to look deep into the eyes of a man and see the truth.
But we all wonder if the choices we make will carry us to where we want to go. Most of us still wonder where that is. I know that letting go is okay and right. I know that sometimes it is easier to believe in holding on. The "when" is the hard part. It is a sea-saw, an incredibly sensitive game of teetering between too much and not enough. And it seems that it is time to step off of the sea-saw and walk away. Sometimes that hurts. And sometimes it feels like a deep breath.
I wish I were in a car headed North back to that bay, beneath the Rotunda, stumbling through the streets in a serenely, divinely, painfully aware bliss. But I am here and that is there. And I see, now, how much waits for me when I am ready for it.
You're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh, I could drink a case of you
And I would still be on my feet.