Bright eyes

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My dear, departed friend Mark Enger used to call me Bright Eyes. He was exceptional. Though he has an identical twin, somehow they broke the mold when they made him.

I’ve had some excellent conversations in the past several days, with people who have turned out to be more likeminded than I’d have thought. Among them are the conversations I had yesterday with this guy, who has come so far in the years I’ve known him where letting go of cynicism is concerned, and with whom I spent Saturday afternoon and evening; we were in the west village, which was my home for ten years and is one of my favorite places on earth. We were both so appreciative of the slightly off weather and of the fact that we are in New York. And we talked about love, the importance of it in all its manifestations, how, ultimately, nothing else really matters. It’s not all about romantic love. By that token, you must visit this, a project by a brilliant photographer friend we ran into yesterday. His photos, here, are visual manifestations of the things I try to write about. 

The loneliness I felt last Sunday is, I think, an extension of my addictive personality. I’d become so accustomed to having a fellow in my life that, despite profound evidence that my last two situations were likely going nowhere, I held on as long as I could; at times nothing is more terrifying for me than sitting with uncertainty. And now I can say without a doubt that moving forward from those defeating relationships was the best thing I could have done with them. Wow. How lovely it is to enjoy the silence after so many months+ of the dissonant thrum and shrill banter of misalliance.

The liberty is intoxicating. The future is boundless. 

Though the poem itself is macabre and tragic, and the associations with Play Misty for Me (great movie) chilling, some of the language in Annabel Lee is pure romance. There is one phrase that runs through my mind on a regular basis: “…we love with a love that [is] more than love”. Various iterations of this have become nicknames for my sweet Louie, who is turning 11 next weekend. This boy has been by my side through so much sturm und drang and remains sweet and sensitive and kind; strangers often remark that he looks at me with incredible love. And he does. I know it. It’s not just that my pockets are lined with dog treats …

Alors. I must get ready for the dinner I planned last week because the thought of being unmoored again on a Sunday night seemed unbearable. Actually, I’d be fine, and I have the people who’ve been part of my last several days to appreciate for that.  

I leave you with this, which I am determined to memorize. I’ve got the first few verses down.

Annabel Lee
 
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
 
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
 
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
 
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
 
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
 
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
-Edgar Allen Poe