Making eggs this morning I started talking to you. I think about you thinking about me thinking about you, and wonder if those moments ever happen at the same time. I think about how many people in the world are making eggs right now. You’ve never been where I stand, and mostly likely never will be. No, you never will be. I can’t imagine the kind of circumstance which would put us together again in my new life, in this old house, on these wood floors. But, rivers flow north on every continent. I write about you now more than I ever did before, but things are only good looking in the past tense. They say, you have to move to a new place to write about an old one. I suppose it’s true about love as well.
Few things I do as an adult are things I learned without you. It’s a part of the contract. One third of my life. How much do you learn? You learn everything. I can crack the egg with one hand and when it’s time I can flip it in the air and I rarely break the yolk. Every time it works I think about what you think about, and wonder what sort of order things have in the world.
I put on a Patrick Park record. The one we both bought the night we played a show with him. And we both asked each other, why would we ever need two, and we both thought, just in case. I think about the possibility of our knowing the entire time, the chance things would break. The lines in which they were already broken. Stress fractures along the important bones and columns. In California houses crack down the middle because fault lines force the foundations to move. Love needs to be handled carefully, you have to learn how to have soft hands and nimble fingers, the right touch. Is it’s something you can learn in one third of your life?
I don’t know how you take your eggs anymore. It doesn’t matter. I’ve been raking my fingers against the past lately. Past, is a very vague word, but what else can I use to discuss everything that came before right now? I keep on buying indoor house plants because I read somewhere, while they clean your air they can clean the mind too. I don’t know if it’s true because it seems like every door I open cobwebs have grown over the entrance. It gets harder by the day to remember how things were, not that I need to and not that I want to.
The way I see it is someone is always censoring someone and I shouldn’t have put that on you. I should have put it on me. Is there a box I can check for confessionals? When the record runs out and the needle goes home it’s time to go back upstairs and work.