2004 Eyeball Memories

Your hands are unclean. You are just learning. You are not everything. You are the so-called chaos. You are. - Mocking Alanis (29 August 2004)

Dear Matt, it’s you that I’ve known longest.
On and off, for over two years,
we’ve sent each other’s anguish and hope –
in the middle of the day,
sometime in the evening
or early in the morning.
It doesn’t matter.
We never hesitated to let our feelings flow,
probably because it was just easy
to be unbiased and subjective to
the single person who could almost destroy you,
almost, but just couldn’t.
Because we don’t know each other.
We don’t know each others face.
And then we met,
and for some unknown reason,
we grew apart.
A few times, I still long for our earlier mystery.
Our lives, maybe, are less complicated now
and there’s less of that immature anguish,
perhaps no more glamorized version of our pain.
Still, it’s you that I’ve known longest,
it’s you that I am supposed to know best.

Dear Neil, you were the more perfect one,
the flawed survivor,
the good listener,
and the two hours I spent with you
over a cup of coffee
at some gas station
somewhere here in our city
was an honest and mature moment
any person should hope for.
In your thirty-one years,
you’ve proceeded to a different ground,
and days after our introduction,
I wore your skin
and stepped into your shoe,
thinking that maybe nine years from now
I would finally understand the flawed
but eternally forgivable constancies of living.
You spoke of calm acceptance of life as it is
whereas I fiercely embrace it
like sands that break away
from the strength of my grip.
But then I am just too young
not to take everything seriously,
too young to be pulled back
from flying dangerously,
too stubborn to follow
your calm acceptance to all things
that could no longer be changed within our lifetime.
You were the one that I hope I could love.

Dear Ray, you were synonymous with my failure.
I jumped into you without grace,
and I swam carelessly almost to my death
the moment that I touched your surface.
You were that turbulent undercurrent,
that brief kiss,
that warm embrace,
but before all that I believed
that you could be that soft place where I could fall.
Yet you were also the fellow
who don’t usually look at me in the eye
and I always feel the need
to press both my palms against your cheeks
so I would have at least ten seconds
of pure honesty with you,
risking the thought of knowing
from your eyes the depressing facts
of the honesty that I crave for
while I have you for a company.
When I was at the edge of my childish insanity,
softly you told me that what matters most in life
are how well I’ve lived,
how deeply I’ve loved,
and how well should I let go
of the things that I simply cannot have.
You were the single person
that I passionately loved, and obsessively,
it amazes me how I can’t also be the water
deep enough for you to also jump into.

Dear Jim, you would be the one nearest to me as a friend.
We’ve met only twice
and managed to communicate
in between and after.
After I gave you a lift,
after you stepped off my taxi,
you left me alone with my wits
though with a knowing smile in it.
Traveling the evening road,
I asked the thin air
why should your calling come in
before whoever, or you, or me, or us.
This is such a dark thought, I know,
but I know too that you wouldn’t be this good guy
that you are now
if not because of your unconditional answer to that call.
And you wouldn’t be that greater guy
that certainly you would become
if not because of that mighty assurance
that you will be taking your vows soon.
I see it all in your eyes,
despite the barrier of the glasses,
despite the dimness of the bar.
Liking you,
although you were someone that I couldn’t possibly have,
had given me peace.

Dear Pierre, you are most beautiful inside and out.
You arrived last,
when I was at the edge of my sadness,
and it was either I’d finally fall,
or I’d pull back my wits
to once again assume
the painless ordinary existence
that was indeed my comfort zone for years.
It was past two then,
and the early morning was too drunk
for our sobriety.
Still you’ve proceeded with your story
which made me want to love you,
though in all its pain and beauty,
it’s most dangerous for me to be in love with you.
Yeah, I want to love you
but I just can’t be in love with you.
I’d say these same words to you now if I could,
but I wouldn’t,
for sure you’d understand me differently.
Not that I would mind you knowing,
but you would,
and I wouldn’t want that to happen to us.
Not now.
Several evenings and weeks had passed by -
evenings spent over food and beer and nice little talks,
and during these times
it’s really quite sad that our comfortability with each other
also had its defenses
that came straight from your mouth.
If only those defenses
had rooted from your heart.
But I wouldn’t like to know
more than what your mouth had to say –
not even if I read you differently
through your eyes,
not even if your tenderness is killing me sweetly.
That parting handshake
during our first night out
was the most that I would like to remember of you.
You arrived last,
and I am still knowing you now.
You were most beautiful then,
you are just beautiful now,
and we could very well become good friends.
Let’s keep it at that.