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Show Moon -133 where love and hate rip together, Cape of Good Hope. It's never safe, never what you need, but there you are and you believe in love, believe there's no place else. And you can't leave. Oh, you bitch and moan and say, yeah gotta get out someday. But there's never time for that. You get tired. You get broke. My escape with Josh was another narrow one, but then escape is something I know how to do better than most. And here I am, like a fool, back. Just yesterday Josh drove me to the Portland airport, but it feels as if the years with him have vanished in the noise and color of this place. Everything I see pulls out memories alive and kicking. Take a theatre marquee, and I remember a play that opened the last year I was in New York: Oh Dad Poor Dad Mama's Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feeling so Sad. Of all the things to name a play. For years, I hadn't thought of Grandad hanging in a closet by his necktie, and then the play came out. I couldn't get the title out of my head. I made it into a little song that I sang to myself as I walked down the corridors of the ad agency, as I hurried through the crowds on the sidewalks, pressed myself into the subway. I must have looked like one of those crazy ladies hearing voices, just like Mark predicted. The streets were full of them. They carried large paper shopping bags wrapped in laundry plastic with dirty string. Some of them painted grotesque circles of red on their cheeks, clown parodies of Camille. One of them wore a green wig and her front teeth were gold; another one was monochromatic gray, her clothes, her skin, her bags. They were brazen ladies. They came right up to you and spoke if they caught your eye. They smelled bad. They were not so very old, some of them. Sometimes they shouted curses. |