Slow Show

Somewhere between delusion and awake, or somewhere between Svalbard and South Georgia—I wasn’t sure. Both would’ve been just as scenic, and I didn’t mind much either way.

Under the sunburst and above that utopian grassland, I wrote some mawkish lines of two lovers’ dialogue in your suede-covered journal. You had your ukulele and turned my haiku into serenade. The first story I ever told you was about my incessant wish of becoming a museum curator who got to wear hobble skirt and read Musset’s poem every day, and yours to me was how you regretted of never having your eyelashes trimmed when you were infant, because that way you might now have it prettier as mine. Honey crisps. Bon Iver. English daisies. Summer in Cappadocia. Half of me was captivated by your implausible yet spellbinding lecture about philosophical matters, the rest was enthralled enough as if I was being served a halcyon day of my typical list of blissful things.

You were driving to somewhere between Svalbard and South Georgia, or somewhere between delusion and awake—I didn’t really notice. The radio played The Clientele’s and I laid next to your seat, whistling.

We could walk together

In the jade, and the coolness of the evening light

And watch the crowds serenely flow

Through carnivals of shop windows where elm trees sigh

The summer’s heat is fading

And the clown on the golden lawn holds out his hand

And out there in the fading day

The members of the strange parade play sarabandes

Like a silver ring thrown into the flood of my heart

With the moon high above the motorway

I have searched for all your fragrance in the silent dark

Is that okay?

So why don’t we stick together

With our eyes so full of evening and amphetamine

And watch the fools go rolling on

Through still fields as the darkness falls on England green


Leave a Reply