Right now, I find myself wishing there were an opposite equivalent for the term gentleman suitor. I’ve been trying to think of it, something capable of holding the clout I need for a title to this post, something I could follow with a simple colon and roll right in, a memo of sorts…because its construction is beautiful. My discovery: there isn’t one or I am a failing wordsmith. Either way, I am fortune’s fool, have no choice but to press on, adjust on the fly.
…
The other night I had a dream. She was packing, on her way to some far away locale when we met up. She was going on about her latest role as Anne Boleyn and the magnificence of Dover Castle in England…something about it she so revered. I wasn’t completely aware I knew either existed for sure until I awoke and recalled how, in my dreams, I also recalled the ability to speak foreign foreign languages in perfect tongue and began wondering if the two phenomena were connected in some way.
…
It all started in my childhood best man, Patrick Rice’s basement. He lived right next to a Woolworth, which was both run by our town’s elderly mafia and had seriously intense candy aisles...right next to the exit. I remember this because for a brief stint (as most kids go through, right?) we stole a lot of shit…but that all ended when a green member of our crew got pinched. I wish I could remember who it was so I could out him…
We would bring our hauls back to the basement and either play video games or watch movies until coma hit. When I think of how my screen crush on Ms. Portman started, all I can think of was that basement and the crane shot to finish one of the true screen gems for all time, The Professional, and her whispering assurance to the plant she named Leon as she buried it into the resurrecting ground, away from the city, safe, so that its roots could grow.
Soon after or quite possibly in that moment, my childhood ended.
…
In the dream, we walked through Central Park, alone, down what felt like Poet’s Walk. I was carrying her small suitcase, content to listen. The colors of the ground and sky were a magnificent New York Autumn. The fallen leaves dusting our steps were replaced in their former trees by bright, animated greens and yellows and blues as if someone had painted in the voids left by seasonal change. I don’t remember the conversation we were having, just her smile and my knowing that at the end of our walk, she was leaving. I turned to her and said something mundane. We stopped, she turned to me with a smile that warmed me through and said, “I know. You already told me, a long time ago.” She leaned forward; I leaned down and gave her my cheek to kiss. She walked off and disappeared into the brilliant foliage.
…
I woke and took the opposite approach, laughed straight through the crushing sensation…unable to recall her ever making a cameo in my sleep.
I’m not a fool who only falls in his dreams…not the slightest. But it certainly lends worry, being this capable. And so, the memo…
And so, and so on.
