The first summer in many years, maybe 12, maybe 13, without Storm. The love of my life. She's gone.
Or maybe not.
This is gonna be another tough summer. A summer full of longing and rage, full of heat and sweat, full of sea and sun, lonely nights on the beach after the folks have gone to bed, sneaking out of the French windows and down the balcony to the beach to have a smoke in peace looking at the stars and listening to the soft splash of the waves at the shore. The usual feeling deep inside my guts as the day gives its place to the night, the usual walk with mother along the road bordering the beach, talking about this and that but mostly enduring mother’s insinuations and backstabbings – in a most proper and christian manner, of course – and waiting to go back, have a quick dinner, wait for them to fall asleep to sneak out for that smoke. The usual text from Buzz around 4:00-4:30, him coming on the bike to our summerhouse at around 5:00-5:30, going for a drink at our place, having a swim maybe, either at the pool or the beach, then head back at around 7.30pm. People at the studios we rent out during the summer months, or maybe not. People coming, people going, the weekends with the beach and the café-bars packed as usual, the full moon parties, the late night swims, people having fun, the usual wankers cranking up their motors right outside the house in the dead of night, waking up and turning on the lights on the balcony as an initial warning. My parents barely co-existing – talking being reduced to the bare essentials, they should have taken a divorce long ago but it's too late now, what are the people gonna say, huh. The people. Our first thought in the morning and the last one before we go to bed - "what are the people gonna say". Fuck that shit. Do I look like I care? "Oh no but you should, for we cannot afford to be the laughing stock of anyone, think of our status, our class." Eat my dust, dickhead, and stuff people and your class where the sun don't shine. Mother’s early swims in the morning since she can’t wait for me to wake up, the sun’s too hot then, son, too dangerous, the meaningful glances and eloquent sighs every time I spend more than ten minutes over the mobile texting. But this time it won’t be texting a "loved one" – last summer was marked by the kid. And it was the only summer in my 27 years of life that I spent texting someone I loved – or thought I did. The kid. I’ve never written anything about him, it was so poignant and thorny. It was late July, it was Luxembourg and the longing to go back home every day after work and log on skype and see him, hear his voice, let his echoing laughter engulf me. And feel the yearning to touch him and feel him close. And then I did. Time seemed to pass so slowly, like always when you’re longing for something to happen, for someone to come, someone to go to. And then it happens, and he comes, and you go to him. And the moment goes away. It’s been a year now and it all seems like yesterday. Ah I proved to be a fool once again, a total stupid arse, and I'm terrified it might happen again, no matter how strongly I wish for it to never happen ever again. And I hate myself for that. Summers are long and tedious, and I hate them as much as I love them, but I’m too afraid to admit it. When I was young, I was *so* looking forward to them. Not anymore. Or rather, I still do, but it’s so damn mixed, so damn complicated in my head – it’s bordering masochism. And I’m a well-known masochist for that. A summer full of dreams and hopes, like the last one – at least part of it, Luxembourg, a job in the EU, a good place, the kid. It all went horribly wrong somewhere along the way and I’m still trying to figure out why – but I think I’ll give up trying to understand soon ‘cause there’s not much point in it anymore. Whatever happened, it happened for a reason. Or maybe not. I still remember the kid so fondly in my heart.
I doubt if he even remembers what I look like – not that I would blame him for that, I’m no sight to remember.
Last summer’s soundtrack was composed of a series of songs the kid loved. Greek, piano, foreign. Whatever. I can’t hear these songs anymore. Too heavy an association. I do associate too much, I know, I should maybe stop, but I don’t think I wanna. Summers have a music blended in the background, soft and thumpy at the same time, conspicuous and discreet. Summer Moved On by A-ha for example – I love that song.
This is gonna be a tough summer. No texts from the kid like last August – how long did it last, not even a month I guess, but that kid drew so close to me, I hadn’t felt that way since ze German. How more stupid can I sound? And after almost 2 years with ze German I had thought to myself (I still do as a matter of fact, how stupid can I be) – ok, you had the experience, you felt what it feels like to be loved and to love, you read the book, saw the film, heard the song. No happy end though. And it happened again. like fuck it did. It lasted for almost a month in which I was lost, I was in... what they call it, "love"? I think so. And then the downfall began – but what do we care about it now, it’s in the past. Fuck, it still hurts sometimes. Aw well, shit happens, don't it.
Time heals all, isn’t it what they say?
What a load of crap. The beaver knows better. But that's another story, a winter one. That's still way too sensitive to touch. Maybe next year.
Summers are so bittersweet. I will be expecting Mrs Mary to come to the summer villa we rent out, along with her husband and sister, and start the usual outings and gatherings and bbqs. Midday swims, evening strolls, drinks, dinners, short excursions, the works. Anything to cover the silence. My father will start his yodeling again – tell them it’s for the last time, we’re getting much obliged, you have to pay this time, with them again? What can you possibly have in common? Yadda yadda yadda. Well, have I got news for you, nitwit, I have much more in common with them than you do, even though you’re almost of the same age. ‘Cause, contrary to you, they know how to enjoy life and be good to each other and the people they consider their friends. And they don’t feel much obliged at all. So suck on that while you crawl back to your misery hole and do us all a favour and let us be.
[What did I say before? That I can’t hear the songs from the kid anymore? Yeah right middle name’s Masochist, let’s not forget. I just put them on the playlist. Pat me on the back and congratulate me. In chorus.]
Summer without Storm, though, now that’s something completely different.
Storm is The Cat. I still can’t get used to referring to her in the past – I haven’t seen her dead, so I can always presume she’s run away. Now why would she do that after 12-13 years she’s been with us, that’s another question, but just let me fantasise a bit. Never hurt anyone.
Storm's always been there. Like, always. She’s been the reference point. When she was good, she was the best, when she got nasty, she was the worst. That’s why I love her so much. And she’s been there for me, even subconsciously sometimes. Every night after that smoke I mentioned above, I would go back to the house and she would be either dozing off on her very own chaise-longue or waiting for me outside the French windows so that I would let her in my room. There she would take the spare bed, sleep till 4 or 5 am and then slide outside to start her day. The early cat catches the bird, you see. Or the mouse. Or the snake. So for me it was something of a ritual – midday playing with the cat, Buzz for a swim and drinks at our place, afternoon playing with the cat, taking the garbage out/taking a walk with mother, come back, evening playing with the cat, wait for everyone to go to bed, make sure everyone’s asleep, off to the beach for a smoke, come back and have the cat waiting for me. The sentinel outside my room. And this year, unless a miracle happens, there won’t be any cat outside my room. No one waiting for me in the morning. And that makes me extremely uneasy. I will be, essentially, all alone. The only thing that's gonna be the same will be this almost permanent feeling of restlessness deep inside, that gut-churning, nauseous sickly sweet thing - kinda like a pre-goddamn-sentiment for something which never comes. That cat was kinda like omnipresent, she couldn’t be confined to the balcony or the front yard or even my room, she was everywhere all at once and I knew that if I sat somewhere and called her and she was within hearing range (or not asleep), she would come to me. I just can't seem to be able to imagine the summerhouse and the whole shenanigan without the cat there. Kinda like trying to imagine Crapmas at the beach in Oz and 40 degrees. I s'pose you eventually get used to it, but the first time is rather... well, striking.
I don’t know what to expect from this summer. The only good thing is that I’m gonna be there for only 3 weeks give or take. Then it’s Poland for the summer course, for which I still haven’t applied, and I really have to ‘cause the deadline’s on the 30th and I might be left out. Which will be extremely uncomfortable for everyone.
I don’t know to whom I wanna dedicate the following song by Evanescence, My Immortal. To Storm maybe. Or the kid, since he love(d?)s it.
Maybe to everyone who etched with their knives their mark in my heart and that mark will never be erased, that wound won't heal completely, no matter what.
Maybe to the summer to come and the summers to follow after that.
Or maybe just to myself. I can’t even cry anymore like I used to. And that’s another perverse kind of failure.
This is gonna be a tough summer after all. And I'm gonna feel as restless as the summer before this. And the one before that. And the one before that, too.
I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
But though you're still with me
I've been alone all along.
Ich hab Dich vermisst; ich wusste, was Sehnsucht hieß. Ich hab Dich festgehalten.
Du, dem ich's nicht sage, daß ich bei Nacht weinend liege, deren Wesen mich Müde macht wie eine Wiege... Du, der mir nicht sagt, wenn er wacht meinetwillen: wie, wenn wir diese Pracht ohne zu stillen in uns ertrügen? Sieh Dir die Liebenden an, wenn erst das Bekennen begann, wie bald sie lügen... Du machst mich allein. Dich einzig kann ich vertauschen. Eine Weile bist Du's, dann wieder ist es das Rauschen, oder es ist Dein Duft ohne Rest. Ach, in den Armen hab ich sie alle verloren; Du nur, Du wirst immer wieder geboren: weil ich niemals Dich anhielt, halt ich Dich fest...
Congrats, you just delved into the sublime product of the surreal gentrification of my postmodern self.
