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The First Time | Can she do another round? Does she even want to?
“If you cannot live the life / you long for, do your best / not to lessen the life you have.”
- C.P. Cavafy, “As Best You Can,” translated by Evan P. Jones
“How are you?” and/or, “Are you okay?”
(For real?!) “Where are the washrooms?”
Of course it matters who’s asking, too often by someone who imagines a relationship closer than the one we share, to which my silent response is, “none of your fucking business.” It’s actually offensive, anti-social, and begs what are they asking, for who and why (do they even care?). How many times have you shared something only to have someone you barely know return with a version unrecognizable: “Kirby, I heard…” “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
My mom, Suzanne would ask about things. My reply, “Are you sure you want to know the answer?” (“Maybe not.” “I’d tell you mom.” “No. You wouldn’t.” Laughter.)
I can tell you. I’m not doing well. (“And how are you this evening?”)
And, I can tell you exactly why I’m not doing well:
Because like you, the world is less & less recognizable to me, beginning with the streets where I live. Not only do I not feel safe, I’m not (especially on the TTC, which is unforgivable). It’s hard enough to get around, I muster and manage as called upon. It’s a courageous act (not a gift) to continue. She repeats herself. I know.
“I’m not happy.”
Suzanne would say, “So what?”
I don’t like where this is going and I’m tired (Reason #3, “She’s tired.”) of being a complainer on shuffle (“walk from pelvis, lift your knees”). Add to the growing chorus of groaners who may in fact have reason, I’d rather not.
I have food on my table and a roof over my head. Loving friends who invite/care. She’s surrounded by beauty. A stunning new collection out. Why do I feel destitute?
Well, for one thing, I am.
Still getting out from under debt just shy of swallowing me whole. Reaganomics killed my father (well, that and a carton of smokes a week). Thirty-plus years in sheet metal suddenly gone belly-up bankrupt. He couldn’t see his way out of it either. He was so lost he told me standing in the garage he’d sooner be dying from AIDS. While I knew that was some serious stinking thinking, I got he hit bottom seeking an exit. It’s not always the actual virus that kills.
I am now six years older than my dad.
Reason 4: She’s heartbroken. So much loss. Too much. The burning world. This bitter earth.
Because I cannot live the life I long for, and while I’m doing my best to continue, it’s not my first impulse or what I want. Life has finally (yet, again) knocked me on my ass.
I’ve made a practice of practising ease (“How might this be easier?”) for decades, only because my early years I romanticized “the struggle.” “Life is not easy” (for the homosexual). “This is going to be hard,” when in fact it may simply be different. Now, there’s actual struggle. Or have I circled back to that default approach in search of a familiar?
Suzanne, “You don’t ever want to grow old.”
And he drags himself to the cafés all day long, drags the weariness consuming his beauty. -@cavafybot
Cavafy detested aging, a vanity (understandable) accompanied by what is rarely discussed that of one’s sustenance being found midst the temples of men. A life of chosen servitude, devotion. I know, lived it well. My adoring eyes haven’t changed one iota, that high-beam remains on full, a willing satellite (but that’s alright). Only (in my instance) the drive. Fin. She’s fine with that. She still works their adorable Heinz 57 mutt look. Affections/tenderness suffice. I’ll meet you there.
I know I can do things differently. And I know not to wait around to “feel like it.” Decisions to be made (like it or not). Easier to take the walk than ponder it over to death. No, she doesn’t want to. (“I can’t go on. I go on.”) She can be a stubborn pretty Taurus.
Then, there’s that last line of Cavafy’s:
“life is not a tiresome stranger.”
And a tiresome stranger seems to have visited upon me. Taken up residence somehow. Pandemic leftovers? It may be death (I’m not afraid, my wish/want has never been longevity). I may in fact have one more round left in me. I can even barely begin to make out the leap involved. A stirring. (Or just gas! Laughter. There she is. Her belly.)
The will to do something completely different. May we all find it.
Meanwhile, salvation is at hand. The new Pet Shop Boys, “nonetheless” (their fifteenth studio album) is nothing less than brilliant. Sublime and just in time. Dance stars, dance.
Here’s the full poem by Cavafy (translated by Evan P. Jones):
AS BEST YOU CAN
If you cannot live the life
you long for, do your best
not to lessen the one you have
with mundane distractions
with posturing and gossip.
Do not lessen it by taking hold,
turning around and exposing it
to relationships that wallow
in everyday nonsense:
life is not a tiresome stranger.
October 1913
Kirby’s work includes she (KFB, 2024) Last Licks (Anstruther Press, 2024) Behold (2023), a stage adaption of Poetry is Queer (Palimpsest Press, 2021), What Do You Want to Be Called? (Anstruther Press, 2020), and This Is Where I Get Off (Permanent Sleep Press, 2019). Their column, The First Time is a regular feature at Send My Love To Anyone. They are the publisher at knife|fork|book. kirbyshe.com
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Love this and love the audio!