when kisses collide

Hello darling. I'm writing from an aerie in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, the top floor apartment of our former upstairs neighbors. For the fifteen years that we lived on the parlor floor I kept windowboxes in our tall front windows, and when a caretaking downstairs neighbor moved away, assumed charge of a pair of stone planters and molded urn in front of the building. I kept them filled with seasonal flowers: pansies in spring, pastel impatiens or light red begonias for summer, followed by richly hued mums, and for winter, an arrangement of evergreens. The guy who bought our apartment doesn't keep windowboxes (he's randomly stuck a potted palm on one ledge) and the planters are in neglect. Across the street though, as ever, a neighbor's flower box is lush and going strong, this summer an abundant mix of lavender blossoms. We never exchanged hellos but over the years I came to feel a sense of subtle communication with them nonetheless. From either side of the street we signaled seasons' greetings and cordial regards with floral displays. Streetfront plantings are, after all, a public gesture. I took great pleasure in my own flowers. Lying in bed or sitting ensconced at my desk I'd gaze out at the charming sunlit blooms, and after a day's work, returning home from the subway and coming up the stoop, noted with gratitude the first sign of tranquil domestic order that greeted me. Oh well. The planters did take quite a bit of work, especially watering them every day. But still - the state of that urn. There's no excuse for bleached violas in papery death throes in July. I entertain a fantasy of doing up the planters during my stay, but I won't be able to water them, not even while I'm here, let alone after.

Happy to have arrived. I was going to come down tomorrow, but the anxiety of impending departure was getting to me so I floated the idea to D - why not this afternoon? Which worked out better for him. So we sailed down the Taconic and the Saw Mill on this perfect sunny day, comfortable, 80ish. A heat wave is impending. It's going to be in the mid to upper 90s, maybe hotter for the better part of the week, starting Sunday. I will mentally borrow some of your cool temperatures. I checked your weather on a website this morning. It mentioned "areas of smoke" - ? Is there a volcano? Forest fires? Tires burning? I just checked again - the references to smoke are gone. Maybe there's an intern on foreign exchange - ah, you call it fog!

So how cool is this - I'm listening to KZE on my friends' Mac, and of course sipping rose. Home sweet home away from home. I'm easy. I brought groceries down with me, but tonight will be take-out Lebanese - grilled marinaded lamb, hummous, baba ghannoush, stuffed grape leaves, and pita.

Outside are the usual neighborhood noises, voices wafting up from the street, someone aimlessly thwacking something against something or maybe it's a skateboard, occasional cars passing, a car horn. D's left already. We leaned against the car on Smith Street waiting for the takeout and he said he felt like a cab driver on a long-distance gig. He was cheerful and smiling when he said it but independent of tone the words conveyed their meaning. It was fun on the way down, listening to KZE (almost to the Westchester line - amazing) then FUV. But it's not the same and won't be again. Not clear what to do. D understands that, which doesn't make it less difficult. If I knew what to do I would do it. I am doing it, what I feel I can. Is there anything in the city for me even? We talked about that in the car. The real problem between him and me has its root a very long time ago, illusions...

I'm here on my own in the apartment. Which is fine. It's not my aerie though, not my desk, the keyboard feels awkward, and I'm terrified of spilling anything. Marshall Crenshaw's on - sometimes I just get lost in my mind... so many worlds colliding. Or separating. I don't know. You're in my mind too. I'm alone in a north facing room and though it's not late the light is fading. The big locomotive's coming down the line.

Now I really feel that I'm back. A. A. Bondy is on with his beautiful Pines are Dancing song. I haven't heard it in ages but here I am. In December, after nightfall, you were across the way looking at me as I looked at you and we looked at the cedars dancing. Tonight I imagine you here with me, the arms I fell into, the fire, and I wouldn't be blogging...

this is an echo
this is the glory
this is the pounding
of a midnight heart

this is the mountains
this is the lightning
this is the man
pulling on his iron chains

this is the light that shines
and I can see the pines are dancing
this is the leaving of
another love
this is the howling of the moon
these are the arms you fell into
I am the fire and I was burned to bits

La la la la la la la la la

good night dearest love, so many kisses from grimy old brooklyn to fogbound arctic beach (come spinnin back like a boomerang)

Hitting send, darling.