see a shade of future triangulation in that emotional arrangement—I’d cast August as an early stand-in for R., a man I would pretend was irrelevant even as I fitted myself into his place in life.
What I’d promised to hold on to then, M., is the same thing I’d raged against losing when you began to grow away from me, when I failed the test presented by your sultry new self that senior year. How ashamed that promiser would be to learn—had some malicious time traveler drifted back to whisper it in his ear—about the pointless ruin of my years with A. Those promises we make to ourselves when we are younger, about how we mean to conduct our adult lives, can it be true we break every last one of them? All except for one, I suppose: the promise to judge ourselves by those standards, the promise to remember the child who would be so appalled by compromise, the child who would find jadedness wicked.
Yes, my childish self would read this letter and think me poisoned with knowledge, but the truth is that what I flung against A. so recklessly was my innocence, preserved in a useless form. The revving heart of my hopefulness, kicked into gear anew, is the most precious thing about me, I refuse to vilify it. I hope I fall in love again. But it’s a crude innocence that fails to make the distinctions that might have protected me from A., and A. from me. For by imagining I could save her from her marriage, by that blustery optimism by which I concealed from myself my own despair at the cul-de-sac lust had led us into, I forced her to compensate by playing the jaded one on both our behalfs. What I mean to say is that I forced her to play me that song, M., by grinning at her like a loon. Like the way I grinned at Bess Hersh. I gave A. no choice but to be the dark lady , by being the moron-child who thought love could repair what love had wrecked. A motorcycle that’s gone off a cliff isn’t repaired by another motorcycle.
Well, I’ve failed. This whole letter is about A, I see that now. You wonder whether you can stand never to know the touch of a fresh hand, the trembling flavor of a new kiss, and I’m desperately trying to keep from telling you the little I know: it’s sweeter than anything, for a moment. For just a moment, there’s nothing else. As to all you’re weighing it against, your wife and child, I know less than nothing. The wisdom of your ambivalence, the whimsical, faux-jaded wit you share in your letter, as you contemplate the beauties around you, all that poise will be shattered if you act—I can promise you that much. You’re more innocent than you know. I speak to you from the dark end of the street, but it’s a less informed place than you’d think. All I can do for you is frame the question I’ve framed for myself: Where to steer the speeding motorcycle of one’s own innocence? How to make it a gift instead of a curse?
I think we need a new national anthem.
I’m ending this letter without saying anything about your incredible tale of the salaryman masturbating on the subway. Well, there, I’ve mentioned it. I’m also grateful to know that Godzilla’s not what he’s cracked up to be, that he’s just another mediocre slugger with a good agent and a memorable nickname. What a joy it would be to see the Yankees take a pratfall on that move. Bad enough when they pillage the other American teams, but that the world is their oyster, too, has become unbearable. Of course, the Mets go on signing haggard veterans and I think there’s no hope at all, but you can be certain Giuseppe and I will be out at Shea having our hearts broken this May, as always. In our hearts it’s always spring, or 1969, or something like that. I only wish we had some outfielders who could catch the ball.
Yours,
E.
author inspiration
Yo La Tengo has been one of my favorite groups for ten years, not least because in their curiosity and generosity they remained fans and critics even as they became artists themselves.
What I’d promised to hold on to then, M., is the same thing I’d raged against losing when you began to grow away from me, when I failed the test presented by your sultry new self that senior year. How ashamed that promiser would be to learn—had some malicious time traveler drifted back to whisper it in his ear—about the pointless ruin of my years with A. Those promises we make to ourselves when we are younger, about how we mean to conduct our adult lives, can it be true we break every last one of them? All except for one, I suppose: the promise to judge ourselves by those standards, the promise to remember the child who would be so appalled by compromise, the child who would find jadedness wicked.
Yes, my childish self would read this letter and think me poisoned with knowledge, but the truth is that what I flung against A. so recklessly was my innocence, preserved in a useless form. The revving heart of my hopefulness, kicked into gear anew, is the most precious thing about me, I refuse to vilify it. I hope I fall in love again. But it’s a crude innocence that fails to make the distinctions that might have protected me from A., and A. from me. For by imagining I could save her from her marriage, by that blustery optimism by which I concealed from myself my own despair at the cul-de-sac lust had led us into, I forced her to compensate by playing the jaded one on both our behalfs. What I mean to say is that I forced her to play me that song, M., by grinning at her like a loon. Like the way I grinned at Bess Hersh. I gave A. no choice but to be the dark lady , by being the moron-child who thought love could repair what love had wrecked. A motorcycle that’s gone off a cliff isn’t repaired by another motorcycle.
Well, I’ve failed. This whole letter is about A, I see that now. You wonder whether you can stand never to know the touch of a fresh hand, the trembling flavor of a new kiss, and I’m desperately trying to keep from telling you the little I know: it’s sweeter than anything, for a moment. For just a moment, there’s nothing else. As to all you’re weighing it against, your wife and child, I know less than nothing. The wisdom of your ambivalence, the whimsical, faux-jaded wit you share in your letter, as you contemplate the beauties around you, all that poise will be shattered if you act—I can promise you that much. You’re more innocent than you know. I speak to you from the dark end of the street, but it’s a less informed place than you’d think. All I can do for you is frame the question I’ve framed for myself: Where to steer the speeding motorcycle of one’s own innocence? How to make it a gift instead of a curse?
I think we need a new national anthem.
I’m ending this letter without saying anything about your incredible tale of the salaryman masturbating on the subway. Well, there, I’ve mentioned it. I’m also grateful to know that Godzilla’s not what he’s cracked up to be, that he’s just another mediocre slugger with a good agent and a memorable nickname. What a joy it would be to see the Yankees take a pratfall on that move. Bad enough when they pillage the other American teams, but that the world is their oyster, too, has become unbearable. Of course, the Mets go on signing haggard veterans and I think there’s no hope at all, but you can be certain Giuseppe and I will be out at Shea having our hearts broken this May, as always. In our hearts it’s always spring, or 1969, or something like that. I only wish we had some outfielders who could catch the ball.
Yours,
E.
author inspiration
Yo La Tengo has been one of my favorite groups for ten years, not least because in their curiosity and generosity they remained fans and critics even as they became artists themselves.
Similar Books
![The Rogue Hunter's Mate [Paranormal Protection Unit 10] (Siren Publishing Classic)](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/557979/thumbs/152x264/the-rogue-hunters-mate-paranormal-protection-unit-10-siren-publishing-classic.png)
