Gone Till November: To the Men in My Life

This may come as news to both of them, but one thing I'm really looking forward to is the day Mr. Darcy and my brother, Patrick, are properly introduced. The more I think about it, the more I realize that they have an awful lot of the same redeeming qualities. For example, both are ridiculously goodlooking. And both will probably be able to communicate solely by sparring off with lines from the movie just referenced. Also, both have, at one point or another, "owned" me: Mr. Darcy's just too strong for me to do anything but gurgle a yelp of pity in impromptu football tackles; Patrick, once his armspan reached eight million feet, loved to keep his hand on my forehead and laugh as I tried to claw the empty air between us in my attempts to get to him. See? Instant kinetic connection awaits!

I got to talk to both today for extended periods of time. (And for that, I kind of loved today.) And listening now to a mix that Mr. Darcy sent, I realize that both have become intrinsically tied to the music to which I listen. Although it's been far too long since Pat and I got to talk, within twenty minutes we'd recommended bands to the other person. I love that. And I love that both of them have, over the time that I've known them, sent me mixes containing Incubus's "Wish You Were Here" and Wyclef's "Gone Till November."

I found that my brother posted this old poem of mine, originally on the old Joplinista (which I did not know he read), on his webpage. It reappears here for its sentimental value as opposed to being of any true literary worth. But as I read it now, I remember the place I was when I wrote it for him: Scared. Afraid that I couldn't un-become the creature I'd changed myself to be. Alone and ready to change, I was very much attempting to fly with broken wings. A word kindly spoken from him made me see the future wasn't so bleak as all of that. I imagined it more as a song but, without my piano, couldn't set music to the words just yet; someday, I promise.

As I read it now, the words seem oddly prescient of the other boy across the Pond who's shown me the same calm belief in my ability to move through this world and contribute to it in spite of my own love for falling down hills and scraping my knees. I am so thankful for family, for the people who've moved into my heart and stirred it up with their kindness and compassion for the results of my clumsiness, in all its manifestations.

(for my brother, who knows how to say things)

Lift this wing. Sweet child, lift this wing.
I've gotta know right now, love--you gonna lift this wing?
Is this the right place for the right time?
You got your marching orders, your shoes shined?
Come on, sweet devil, come on now!
Come on, lift this wing.

Two long years and seven days
spent living hard and fast, loose
cats on dying knees now with their heads
bent low -- they wanna know,
love -- they wanna know, you gonna lift this wing?

See, there's harm in open windows
when you've got no eyes to see; and Me,
Well, I've been walking to you
for miles now and singing,
thinking life is grand when you've been drinking good times down
with blondes and browns --when God Himself could call from

Heaven and it wouldn't knock you --
down past Orleans and across
the sea, yeah, I've been thinking
myself straight into the arms of
the right place and the right time
for you to come on, climb on
down the mountain of your life and

Lift this wing.