Forgive Me for Forgetting

I am isolated, but not lonely. I am inside myself, but on the outside I am visibly touching you. In the instant of our touch, I am trying not to think. We are always far from where we expect ourselves to be. My body wants to be committed, but my mind won’t compromise. It has been said shadows show themselves out of light. But I am afraid. Afraid of finding I’m attached to what’s behind me. Afraid time never relieves us of our difference. On Saturday, Gabe told me he had been alone all day. It was nighttime now. I asked him how it felt.

“Not like anything. This morning, I couldn’t move. I sat on my bed and didn’t have a thought. It was the first time I couldn’t think at all.”
How did it feel?
“Not like anything. I may be addicted.”
Already?
“These changes change you immediately.”
What changes?
“Claudelean, I’m desperate.”

Becoming concerned was a risk from the beginning. But if characters became callous, my story wouldn’t survive. The challenge was to see where we relate. And after all this time trying to be closer, it’s hard accepting that sometimes we’re not enough. I’ve considered replacing characters, but I’m afraid the story will be the same. Afraid this is how I’ll always be, thinking I could do better. Being a writer isn’t as freeing as expected, as I’d hoped. If I were different maybe I wouldn’t depend on words to feel meaningful, wouldn’t need this to imagine I’m not alone. If I wasn’t writing maybe we wouldn’t happen to meet, maybe I wouldn’t have thought we had a purpose. Here’s a secret: nothing in mind hasn’t been discovered in sense. I am not creative. What’s written is what I had, all I know. And in the end it’s because of me we’ve become this way.

I saw you (and by you I mean Gabe, but you will feel more connected if you think this is all about you) for the first time outside the city. Prospect Heights. An accent of spring sun shaded us at an angle. Six strangers sat around a picnic table gargling “mystery juice.” Others grilled portobellos barefooted in the grass, as a handful drenched relish on hot dogs till buns soaked green. I was talking, but never connecting. Engaged, but that was only how I looked. Inside I was waiting for someone to know me, to make this better. I was there to meet a friend’s boyfriend. Well, that’s what she thought. I had my own reason. I came to photograph moments I would otherwise not have; capture character, consider it my own.

Everyone was shit faced. And underneath the sound of fists banging the wooden tabletop, of wrists flinging sake bombs backwards down throats, thumbs rubbing lighters and bongs bubbling filthy water, I could hear myself more deeply. On the opposite side of the bench, you were talking about writing. You felt close, and I was curious. How did that feel knowing you’ll end, be finished? Were you concerned you’d think of something else soon? I can’t imagine. But I’m sure I meant to tell you then. And just didn’t know what would happen, how you’d take me. Anyway, you have to forgive me. There was much to consider. Being a writer. Having the story always in mind. It takes patience, perseverance. I stared, needing to know, to have the better of you in me, to see if what you wrote was worth talking about while everyone became distracted by the generosity of their limbs, appetites to bone.

I took 23 pictures of people highfiving. What were you thinking? Maybe you watched me when the camera was covering my eye and thought I’d be the perfect woman to lie down on the page. Maybe you chose me because your other character, the leading lady, turned uninspiring halfway into the novel, and now you needed a quick replacement, a rush of sensations. Really, I can’t question this if I’m going to be like you. From the beginning I’ve known, a writer’s dream is to become a novelist.

“You’re a photographer.”
Only tonight.
“Because of tonight.”
Sure, if you say so.
“What do you want?”
To leave—
“You’re leaving? It’s barely begun.”
I never said I was ready.
“Then we have some time to make this interesting.”
A bit, I hope. But in the end I want to leave with something I didn’t come with.
“Oh Kid, stay for a moment.”
I didn’t say—
“You haven’t, I know, and I’m interested. Long term, what do you want to become?”
Maybe I’m not following—Have we met?
“Do you have to ask?”
I’m Claudelean. A pleasure to meet—
“Gabe. Probably one of many trying to know you.”
This wouldn’t be the first time.
“But it sounds better if this is.”
You’ll get closer wanting.
“Wanting?”
To know me.
“And what is it you want?”
I want to become a writer.
“Because of tonight?”
From the beginning, that’s all I’ve considered.
“Well, for starters, if that’s the truth, by now you should be considering nothing.”
I don’t think—
“Good, now, do you write?”
Everyday.
“Well, you’re a writer already.”
It takes more than that.
“Not much. Take my word, Kid.”
Do you really consider me a kid?
“Don’t be so literal, you can tell I want you to stay.”
A bit, I hope.
“Well, if you’re going to, we’ll have to start over.”
Sure, if you say so.
“Now, what do you want?”

It took ten days to call, wanting coffee. There was a pleasure in not knowing what to think.

“Claudelean, it feels like it has taken forever to reach you.” But my voice is always just a phone call away. “What are you doing?”
When?
“Right now.”
Writing.
“A story?”
Fragments toward the whole.
“Come have coffee with me. I’ll give you a plot.”

But it is the character I need.

What do you look like? I’ve forgotten. I rush by the window, unaware you are watching through the glass. You know before me how close we are; I’m not ready to meet you. The coffee shop is nearly empty, but it will fill and we will still find ourselves isolated. You notice light leaking in, as I’m framed in the doorway. This alters your complexion. And I wait, staring again, as you shift uncomfortably, touch the table, move the knife. And for an instant more, with your head down, you appear like you are not waiting or looking for me. If it weren’t for this, I’d never imagine you weren’t ready either. I forgive you. We are all self-conscious.

Have you been here long?
“Yes, no.”
You have?
“No, no, not more than an instant.”
Oh god, I’m sorry. Recently, I’ve been behind on life.
“Are you unfulfilled?”
Sorry, I practically ran here. Remind me, what are we talking about?
“Your writing. Your life.”
Oh, yes yes yes, of course. But they are unrelated.
“Are they?”
They should be. But my answer is the same. If by fulfilled you mean satisfied. Then yes, I am unfulfilled with my writing and my life.

Help me remember. How did you look? Blonde hair. More dark than light. But wouldn’t that be brown? I’ve never been attracted to blondes. So, okay, you have brown hair. Tall, yes, you are tall. Taller than I was used to, but I can get used to it. I did get used to it. Now it’s a preference. And I remember seeing your chest. Enough to make me wonder. Were you encouraging me to follow you home? I didn’t ask. I did so anyway—on my own accord.

I drank coffee. You had tea.

I thought you came for coffee.
“I came for you, Kid.”
Oh, okay.

You looked like you hadn’t expected me. Expected me to be. Candid. You were right. I didn’t expect myself to be this way either. But I changed around you. Or rather, I was more myself, which was a change and an accomplishment. You helped me stay inside. Together we communicated that and from there.

I don’t actually act like a kid, do I?
“I wouldn’t be here if you did.”
You may have nowhere else to go.
“I don’t.”
Then why haven’t you called—
“Claudelean?”
Yes.
“Because you’re different.”
Different?
“Would you rather I name you Angel?”
Don’t you like my name?
“Sure, but you had it when we were strangers. Now we’ve changed. And Kid is what I’ve given you.”
Fine, if that’s what you want.
“I’d like if you didn’t take this so literally. You might have some fun.”
It might be easy if you act like you want to be here.
“Oh Kid, you enjoy hearing me repeat myself.”
I forget easily.
“When we met, I told you right away, that the pleasure is all mine.”
And I thought you’d be seducing me by now.
“Kid, you’re dangerous.”
Should I be careful?
“Not around me.”
Well, I just figured since you’re an experienced man, you would use age, your appeal. You know, to get me to like you, to keep me interested. But so far this isn’t what I expected. I’m not used to being with a writer. Maybe you are only a voice. Completely unaware of your body.
“What if that’s the appeal.”
What if, Gabe. What if.

Remind me of the outside. How you appeared. Your shirt, your skin tone, even the tea you drank. I can’t remember everything that is real. Tell me anything, so the story can be more colorful. Tell me how we were together. When we met, all the talking. In the coffee shop, it seemed we had known each other always. But we knew nothing. We only felt we could, that we were learning, getting somewhere faster than usual.

I wish I could make us look different by remembering your appearance, your mannerisms. I wish I knew what to quote. But whenever someone captivates me they exist as an interior translation. A feeling that provides me with more reason than embellishment. How is it possible to show feeling? How could from a feeling, anyone read me and imagine a face—a face I am not even thinking of, for it isn’t how I remember you. It is your touch I return to every time. So is that what it is? You are unforgettable because I retained the feeling of you, which was immediately intriguing and made me forget to be impressed by your face. Remind me, what did you look like?

“The thing about life is it’s all based on perception. You and I can sit here discussing thoughts until there are no more beans to brew, but we aren’t going to change the ways of the world.”
I don’t know what to do about it.
“All you can do is tell somehow how you feel. Otherwise, you’ll remain the way they see you.”
What if I feel I think too much?
“Claudelean, what if I told you I could talk to you forever?”

And I followed you home. Wanting to know you, discover us, in another place in time. In Manhattan, one of every two apartments has a tenant that lives alone. Once we reached your room, I knew I’d come to romanticize it; the place between ideal and actuality, not where one sleeps but where two try to touch their dreams—see if what is separately thought is mutually true. I have come, we are here, and I know our reason but not what I feel about it. My body was always there. Waiting while you spoke. Touching through silence. For three weeks we kissed upside down. Mouths passing breath between bodies. The rush is unbelievable. And even more extraordinary was what we hadn’t fathomed: we could survive if we were attached and breathing the same air.

Have you ever felt lonely living here?
“People find themselves in Manhattan, so they never have to feel lonely again.”
Have you?
“I like to think so.”
When?
“Oh Kid, I can’t remember the date exactly. But I probably knew once I stopped changing.”
Don’t you get bored?
“I haven’t.”
But there aren’t any books in your room.
“You’re here. Would you want to watch me read?”
How can you write so much? I don’t understand.
“I use my imagination.”
You make things up?
“I have to or I’ll never finish.”

You became more involved with your novel. Never letting me read it because it wasn’t good enough yet. Lying in bed, you might have seen me finding pleasure in rest. Appreciating the softness. Another skin against my body. With the night covering my eyes, you stared, admiring the image of sleep. The image of belonging to you. During those hours. You blushed, as I never imagined you would. And you’d never want to believe I wasn’t sleeping; behind veiled eyes I was awake, considering who I was to be there, what that said about you, and meant about us—then or sometime ever.

I wish—
“I didn’t mean to wake—“
You didn’t. I wish you’d tell me how I am to you.
“Me too, but honest, you’re the writer.”
Not yet. Please, this means something to me.
“I wish, Kid.”
Try.
“You’re young and curious. It reminds me of how I was in the beginning.”
When?
“Before I became concerned. Once you start, and are closer to the end, you can’t afford to have things changing.”
I don’t understand.
“Listen Kid, when your feelings change you expect the world will, too. And sometimes, it isn’t worth waiting for things to become the same. Sometimes you just have to finish, because it’s time to move on. That’s when it doesn’t matter what you want.”
I want to read your novel.
“Once it’s finished.”
When will you?
“As soon as things are perfect.”

I’d watch you write, and I’d come up with clever ideas. A few lines. How often you used the bathroom. If you ate the moment you woke. Whether you napped on your side. Asked you how it felt sleeping on your stomach.

Were you able to breathe?
“Of course, or I wouldn’t do it.”

I wrote that down, too. Notes and notes. You taught me the time it takes to build a character.

Tell me who you were.
“But I’m not that way.”
You’re missing the point. You are this way because of then.
“I’ve told you everything. I guess it isn’t what you want to know.”

Was the truth that avoidable? One day, you said it made you nervous, that you were becoming self-conscious. But you told me to write with my heart, I didn’t understand how this was different.

I just want to do everything I can to make sure my memory is accurate.
“What memory? Nothing is going anywhere.”
Gabe, I’ve always told you how easily I forget.
“Not me.”

The silence was suffocating. Our relationship depended upon what we offered. We were our words, just as you had said at the coffee shop. And each time you left me curious, I felt you were depriving me of meaning, that you were holding me back from what I wanted. You knew I was there to talk. Of course, I didn’t expect us to when we were writing, but you didn’t seem even interested in that.

When we kissed I could no longer feel your lips; our tongues didn’t try. I couldn’t remember why I was there. What made me stay? Did we share all our thoughts and now we didn’t speak because we feared we’d sound repetitious? Seven times during one week, you entered me and I could tell we both knew you were feeling my inside, how warm I am there, while I was only experiencing your outer shell, your unbearable weight. Four nights in a row, I watched the sky become ruby at four. And always wondered whether you liked it better blue. I can’t imagine you could.

“If you could change anything about me—“
What?
“What would it be?”
Your eyes. I like green eyes.
“That’s terrible, Kid”
Teaches you not to ask superficial questions.
“But really, my eyes, you don’t like them?”
What about me?
“I love yours.”
But what would you change?
“How you never became a photographer.”
I said that wouldn’t last.
“Kid, will you remember me when you’re gone?”
I’m not leaving.
“That’s what they all say. You already are going.”
Who is they?
“All of us.”

The night before I left, you asked if I missed you. I said I am always nostalgic. And you asked me to come to bed. We touched each other for the last time. The night was too black. I was afraid. Afraid I finally found time would never help us relate, never relieve the difference. I thought of what had happened. How we fell in and fell out. How love is a story I would never be able to tell. It rushes past. I tried, but maybe I had written down too many thoughts. Maybe I had tried to remember the details and forgotten to isolate the feelings. Thinking nothing had changed, you breathed easily through your dreams. In boredom, I drew an arrow from your navel down, pointing through curls of hair, and wrote, “He’s my only concern.”

In the morning, I woke practically thrown from bed.

“What’s this about?”
I couldn’t sleep. I was restless. I didn’t mean it.
“Of course you did or you wouldn’t have written it.”
Gabe, it’ll come right off. I promise.
It’s permanent, Claudelean. This is all so goddamn permanent.”

And you threw the sharpie against the wall. I left, never really looking back. When I was on my way, I had to keep moving. Two days went by. Ten days went by. I drank tea at the coffee shop. Wrote some lines. Fragments, which made it possible to select my story and turn it into a memory that was bearable if I am ever tempted to remind myself.

On the 22nd day, you called.

“I told you you would leave.”
I did what you wanted.
“I have to see you.”
When?
“Right now.”
I can’t, I’m writing.
“You always are, but you still haven’t started your story.”
It’s coming along.
“Barely. Claudelean, please see me. I’ll give you your story.”

But it is the climax I need.

This time you were waiting for me when I walked in. You were wearing all white with red high-tops. Two mugs of coffee were on the table. I have no idea why were behaving this way.

What’s going on?
“Can’t I get a hello first?”
Hi. What’s up?
“How are you? What have you been doing?”
Writing, sleeping around, writing. You know me, the usual. Why, what’s up?
“You’ve slept with someone else?”
If I want to, I can, right?
“How does it feel?”
Erotic. Distanced. Unattainable. Poorly evoked.
“Sounds terrible.”
It’s fine for now. What’s this all about?
“I’ve just been alone all day. I was alone yesterday, too. And the day before that and the—well—since you left, I’ve just kind of been hanging out. Trying to finish my novel. I was so close to being done. But now all I can think about is how lonely I am.”
What does it feel like?
“Impossible to describe. Like nothing I have ever known.”
Maybe you should be seeing someone.
“I want you back.”
No, I mean, someone professional. Therapy. You even look different.
“Nah, it’s all artificial. Real egocentric. You know, I’ve never liked talking about myself.”
Maybe it will help.
“Being alone won’t make any of this better.”
Well, tell me then, what happened this morning?
“I couldn’t move. I sat on my bed and didn’t have a thought. It was the first time I couldn’t think at all.”
How did it feel?
“Not like anything. I may be addicted.”
Already?
“These changes change you immediately.”
What changes?
"Claudelean, I’m desperate.”

"I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me" -In a Lonely Place, filmed by Nicholas Ray.


* Envisioned after an afternoon and a night with a writer and an actor. Somehow I can only hope this doubles as a thank you for advancing perspective, for adding to the Manhattan experience and - in nature of the roles - depth to the moment.