Tonight, there is no where I want to be so much as the other side of the Atlantic. I imagine that the sun is washing London pink and orange now; it’s summer, and morning comes early. I imagine the beds I have no slept in in a good long while—near Heathrow, and the two-inch mattress on the seventh floor of Manson Place, and the couch in Florence under fourteen-foot-high Tuscan ceilings. The futon in Naples and the bunk at Castle Rock, Edinburgh. The floor of a Dublin hotel room, sneaking. S’s mother’s house near Ipswich, with a little window to the room so you could open it an look out over the street.
It is hard to remember what’s impossible tonight: how one simply can’t step back into history like a worn pair of shoes. How moments can’t be re-lived like that. How the next time, in any of those beds, would and will be different.
I wonder at the mind’s propensity to want to run away—even when happy, even when pleased. If there was a way to have both my worlds together then I’d do it. To spend nights in Europe and days here, writing poetry. Though it is selfish of me to want both places, both sets of people, together, I want it nonetheless. I suppose that I have always wanted everything just so, and am not liable to start becoming more flexible about my preference for my own order, now.
If I were as talented as my friend, who is both a physicist and a writer, I’d be working on making TARDIS-like things into reality, and quickly. But I am not and so, tonight, I’ll simply write. How much I’d like to wake in London. How tempting memories of Space are. Riding motorbikes over the sidewalk, or cresting a hill to find a castle on the other side. Walking down the Thames, sitting on the guardrails and questioning S about Margaret Thatcher; visiting Peter Pan; the tiny lady brave enough to feed the swans. Those things which are so decidedly European, and therefore far away from me. At least tonight.