2009-04-24 - 1:27 p.m.
A friend talks often about how he never stops loving and I think I know what he means. He's talking about the feeling I just got, the feeling that, as I picked up a copy of this particular story by J.D. Salinger, the one about Esme, that I'd like to tell a certain girl about this story, tell her to read it so that, later, with a mug of something warm in our hands, we could talk about it, really get into it, swim in the middle of the stream together. And something else might happen after the mugs and the talk, of course, but that's not really the point. Because the point is that sometimes I feel as if I'd like to send up a really high flag, send out a string of Morse code in all caps, float the biggest balloon I could find, all of them saying, hey, there, pretty girl who I used to love, I'd like for you to hear about something. It's in the article about the haunted-looking twin poets from Portland, in the Bruce Springsteen song, in a cup of tea, of all things.
They never really leave, is the point, and I don't, either. I'm still walking on that strange and beautiful campus, sneaking into lecture halls and writing poetry on the boards. I'm still in those woods near my parents' house, kneeling on that Transformers sleeping bag, taking off her clothes. I'm still in her basement bedroom in Charles Village, moving too fast, wondering if she always listened to The Smiths around that time of day. More and more, I understand all the talk of multitudes, and understand that it's going to be like this, probably for a long while.
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