Daily Lives: New Orleans, 1969

Abstract

There are so many lenses we view the past through, shifting our focus with each new look. Is there a reality submerged among layers of vision? All of the ephemeral strands of my life woven together, do they form truth or illusion? Why do fantasies and daydreams seem as real as memories? I am denied access to either, cannot return in the moment to what once was mine. In quality they are the same, hazy mists that forever elude any attempts to make them actual. Morning sun warms me as I open my eyes, your arm tightens around me, an instruction not to move, you're not ready to awaken yet. I turn carefully, looking at the faded green walls, to encircle your head with my arm, hold you against my breast. You resettle contentedly, unawakened. The ancient air conditioner rumbles like a truck motor, occasionally spitting and hissing to the distress of the plants I have perched precariously on top of it. The wooden floor creaks loudly as the Irish Setter rambles past, ready for morning activity. I send him a disapproving look and an intense mental message to settle down. He obliges with a resentful sigh, puppy bones knocking the floor so hard that the old mirror, spider lines etched in black, rattles in its wooden frame. I watch the sunlight illuminating the pastel patterns of the quilt your great-aunt made. Georgia poor she was, and a skilled craftswoman. The old quilt still warms us well, unable to afford to buy blankets; young, college poor that we are, still in the South, another generation. But there is no greater wealth than the feeling that enfolds me. A pervasive euphoria to awaken with your body wrapped around mine, limbs indistinguishable, resting lightly in the security, stasis of morning time. Peaceful, uninterrupted by roommates, dormitory resident advisors, parents; all the unintentional forces that have invaded our shared bliss in the past. Finally to have our own apartment, a dog that barks at anyone's approach. It feels like incalculable security, a place of peace. You shift slightly, turn over, pulling my arm to follow you. You curl tightly against my stomach, wrapping me around you, holding my hand against your breast. Happiness, what is it really? A physical warmth glowing inside me, the passing of time suspended forever as I watch the sun rays alternating patterns on your arm as it shines through the latticed slats over the window. Yet how did we arrive here, to this quiet morning, small apartment, the black birds screeching relentlessly from the telephone wires? Has it really been a year or two, this gradual weaving of our lives? The essence changes form so frequently from this tranquil impressionist scene to Picasso's massive child punching mother's chin with classical intensity. Eternal struggle, we embody that too, these days of ambivalence, passion, and rejection. Where is the connecting thread? Surely not just that the morning sun feels like a waterfall of warmth splashing around the room, illuminating alike our bodies, the pastel colors of the bed quilt, the cracks in the fading green pane, and the splendid reddish gold glow of the dog's fur. Perhaps that is the thread after all, immersion in the moment, the magic of time suspended, an inhaled breath. Somehow you hold me here, I who always rush headlong towards the future, tumbling over myself and all who are