Call me "DJ Flat White"

Last month in Boston, Shirley and I visited three coffee shops: Pavement, Render, Ogawa. We jokingly labeled these cafes the Ghosts of Christmases Past, Present, and Future, respectively. Pavement was low-key and safe, if rough around the edges. Render delivered warmth and gentleness, conviviality that didn't mind the occasional slippery chai spill. It was at Ogawa it seemed our eyes were directed toward a previously unimagined realm, a glowing, glassy and radiant dream place where hopes had long become certainties.

Last night, I dreamt that I was asked to fill in for Ethan as a singing actor in a production of "A Christmas Carol" taking place in Minneapolis. I was to play the Ghost of Christmas Future. My fellow cast members had low expectations of me and startlingly high tolerance for red wine, which they drank joyfully during my one and only chance to perfect the role I'd been assigned on such awfully short notice. (NB: Ethan's absence caused no special concern -- he was called out of that town on emergency business and was in touch with me, as usual, via text message.) As in my real life as a musician, in my nighttime fantasy I spent a lot of time waiting around dimly light corridors for my turn to perform. When at least I completed my key scene with the aid of a tattered copy of the script, I overheard another actor comment, "He's not as sad as Ethan."

This morning, I took the 8:51 train downtown. I walked alone from the station to Sawada Coffee, which specializes in a drink, the military latte, that combines espresso and matcha. As I drank it, I imagined my mind twirling around in the air above my head. The potent, grassy flavor of this impossible elixir has remained with me all day. My Japanese class session went well and I played around with the Rosetta Stone software that was a Christmas gift from my parents after I returned home. (If I returned to the site of Sawada Coffee tomorrow, I wouldn't be surprised to find only an empty lot. Perhaps I dreamt the whole thing.)

This evening, just down the block from our home, Jack stopped to sniff something that must have been irresistible. I thought about the chocolate Lab girl, Tess, who used to live in that house with the aromatic lawn. Her family didn't stay in the neighborhood very long, but they've already been gone for a long time. I wondered what had happened to Tess. When they first appeared, I remember being excited that a dog I'd mistakenly thought was a Newfoundland had moved in. This had happened years ago. Everyone else's life seems to be so full of dramatically designed changes – entries into a new neighborhood and then abrupt (course-correcting?) exits – while mine feels totally flat. They must have so much time available in which to do so much! My days must be fast and empty. It occurred to me, though, as I now tugged lightly on Jack's leash to complete our evening stroll, that my caffeinated escapades in various world cities and my whimsical and soul-nurturing study of the Japanese language are examples of the ways in which my life, too, is slow and overflowing with stories

assault on life

I decided to walk outdoors, above ground, from one train station to another and I felt foolishly certain for a moment that of course it would also be possible to be invisible. 

There's no one else to tell, so I am writing here to say that it's impossible for me to cease thinking that I am not living up to potential that was evident and excruciating (waiting waiting hoping) 10 or 15 years ago. Now I am just living in the echoes of lost dreams. I am stuck on this pair of travel anniversaries this summer, the time of year when it's hardest to feel so sad. Layers of green-gray guilt accumulate on top of the sadness when everyone else seems so happy. 

the return of the cathedral janitor ?

Last night, I had a deliciously slow, light-soaked dream about a tall, complicated building that hid an ancient church. I found this shrine to Our Lady of the Street – this title was explained to me in Spanish, a language that made it sound beautiful and reasonable – and entered its balcony through a plain door. The pews were filthy with dust that stuck to my hands, and the sanctuary was cleverly hidden from view in the shadowy corridor where I first consumed this forgotten place. After I descended several flights of stairs, I found some musician friends waiting for me there in a sunny, spacious room. The lofted areas behind me seemed cold, even more decrepit.

Now I recall several other dream scenes attached to this one or explored in other recent nights: gloomy residential streets illuminated by the reflection of starlight in puddles, perpetual night, crimes on lawns, the curtains all drawn.

Later in the night, or perhaps as the second act of this same strange dream, an outdoor folk-concert lit by mosquito-repellent candlelight turned sour at the intermission. I teamed up with a chamber group of the most hodgepodge sort – I remember a euphonium player who was my elementary-school classmate – and improvised a longwinded jam for that smoky blue night's featured singer-songwriter. She told us she hated our improvisation, found nothing redeemable in it, and I retaliated by telling her I'd leave the concert right then and refused to listen to another bar of her music.

I texted Shirley to say that I'm mostly tired of the pain and heartsickness I feel. It's exhausting to keep watering cruel and uneasy fictions.