I Love You and I’m Tired and I’m Happy by Nicholas Arthur
I Love You and I’m Tired and
I’m Happy By Nicholas Arthur
The Dull Ache of Distance I didn’t make it to the bed again, neck cramped this morning from sleeping on the couch. Last night I finished up that bottle of red wine. I watched movies I had already watched hundreds of times before. I exchanged text messages with old friends. I tried to nurse the dull ache of distance as best I could.
Notes I’ve filled up notebooks with notes only I can read. By next week they’ll be useless.
Phone numbers, names, places, dates, times, money changing hands, death, loss, heartache, etc. in crumpled pages that I can’t quite bring myself to throw away just yet. Time dims these odd little facts. Soon all these details will become harder and harder
to place. I don’t know why I’m saving these notebooks but I need to.
Midnight and Moving in Place
It’s around midnight and my fingers are still hacking away at the keyboard. You’re asleep on the couch and I have to finish up typing a story on increased school lunch prices before deadline tomorrow. I still have a long way to go. I check and recheck the numbers, I listen to a sentence over and over on the recording to make sure I transcribe it just right. I microwave more day-old coffee, and try to hurry, so driving over an hour to see me isn’t completely pointless.
Somewhere Outside McKinley I drove down a road only marked off by a number,
ink stained fingers correcting the way as I drive deeper and deeper into the woods. Far from the charming little communities far from creepy looking hermit trailers among the trees
and, most importantly, far from cellphone reception. Rain starts falling in gentle sheets, rolling lightly off leaves and branches to dot the sandy soil. The rain picks up momentum.
I drive farther and farther even though I should turn back. Then, at a particularly treacherous part of the road, my car stops. I push as hard as I can on both bumpers.
I use anything and everything in my trunk to dig the wheels out. To no avail. Both my work and personal phones die after some garbled calls and delayed texts. Night comes slow and persistent. I hunker down, sleeping sporadically and waking up only to jam on the gas helplessly. I wake up and walk down the road as light speckles the woods, night still clinging on in a blue-ish haze. I make my way back to town, feeling like a complete dumbass.
Cotton Candy I stare up at the clear night sky and realize I don’t know what day of the week it is. Wine stained teeth grind against a plastic mouth guard. Watch the cotton candy sunrise sing out sweet nothings to sleep depravation and lonely. There are no holidays, just quick sitcom bliss in between work. It’s hard to believe I’ve been away so long, It’s hard to believe you’re still here.
Commute The commute is a highlight. It’s an hour to go to work and back, allowing me just enough time to work through two short albums or one long one. I change out the CD binder, the one with the broken zipper, about once a week. The commute is a highlight. Speakers rattling out escape and joy, understanding and sympathy. Grinding teeth and black coffee delirium pass through an open car window, dancing off into the night to the rhythm of a new album rambling out loud. The commute is a highlight.
Moving Out
Boxes stacked up surrounded by what are either junk or prized possessions. During a move, it’s difficult to decide which is which sometimes.
I put on an album and light some incense. The lingering lake water soaks my pillow as I sip from a fresh cup of coffee. The sitcom buzzes on pleasant enough,
but I can’t really follow it. I drift off, thinking about where we’ll end up and how I’m excited to get there.
Nelson We talked for hours after the interview about history, religion and the wildlife around your house. After ten months of frantic questions and making sense of the cobbled together answers provided, it’s good to just let the hours float by. Thank you.
Late Sunday/Early Monday I stitch together details into something resembling coherence. Fueled by cold coffee, desperation
and persistence. Fingers roll across the keyboard, as the recording drones on and my notes spill out figures and scattered thoughts. Sleep weighs heavy on
lids as I hope the minutes slow so I can meet my deadline.
Rose City The street lights glow, barely concealing joy in the giddy warmth of summer. Shutters are lifted on ice cream parlors and kids dart through cars on their bikes. Flowers get ready to give a bright greeting on every corner, freshly cut grass still lingers in the air. I make my way back from work feeling a bit lighter after I saw a text saying you decided to stay an extra night.
I Love You and I’m Tired and I’m Happy I woke up and saw you tried calling. Eyelids closed under the weight of missed sleep again. I have a knot in my stomach, hoping everything is ok. Soon I’ll get back to work, stretching my consciousness as far as I can again. Distance makes the heart fonder but, more often than not, it’s a fucking bummer. I love you and I’m tired and I’m happy.
In December, Alone I shivered in ankle deep snow for an hour to get the right picture.
It took an hour under covers to get my feet back to room temperature. I made fresh pot of coffee and turned on a TV show I hadn’t watched in years.
It was still pretty good. I still had more to do before tomorrow, but it could wait a bit longer.
Two and a Half Hours Is everything still ok? I haven’t been home in months and it’s been nearly a year since we talked. I can’t remember all the things I need to tell you. It’s hard to sum it all up. Sure, I can probably gather up a few details but it doesn’t tell a whole lot of anything. I feel further and further from everything and it hasn’t even been a year.
Stereotypes Rusted-out trailers pop up beyond quaint little communities. Down roads the snow plows don’t make it out to. Away from tourists and convenience. Passersby will make assumptions and heed the ‘Private Property Keep Out’ signs posted in plain sight. But there is community, in these isolated outposts. There is family, there is warmth hidden away. There’s also poverty and the desperate violence it can breed. All the beauty and vice of America is out here.
Fall Chill
I sit in front of my apartment, letting the fall chill clamp down on my frame. The stars poke through the night like tiny sharp pin points
out here in the country. It’s quiet in the deepest sense of the word with the occasional bark from the neighbor’s dog. In these moments, I’m glad to be where I am. Far off from all the congested panic of the city, far off from any lingering ache of my past in a place that couldn’t care less.
Catching Up I put on heavier socks and make my way outside. I can usually get better service there and I’ve been dropping calls all day. Snow clings to my sweatpants. The sun is bright, dancing on acres of untouched snow. The wind howls by and I double over from the cough I’ve had for weeks now. When it subsides, I knock as much snow off my legs as I can before crawling in my car. Sunday morning takes its time while we catch up.
Stares in a Small Town I constantly feel uncomfortable when I go grocery shopping for the week. From the older woman maneuvering around me in the aisle to the middle-aged cashier who’s way too enthusiastic about his job. I feel like everyone is wondering why I’m there. I never felt like that in the city.
Christmas I felt lighter as I guided my car down the expressway ramp. Pointed home, snow falling in large slow-moving flakes. I put the heat on as high as it would go and got ready for the three-hour trip.
Meeting Your Family
This Christmas sweater itches. This brandy shakes off the cold. This Christmas movie never gets old. This time is short, but I’m glad we have it.
I. Nightmares after November You placed flowers in my beard as the war sounds out in the distance. Night crept in, splashing reds and yellows over our closed eyelids.
Our bags are packed in the corner, waiting for tomorrow.
II. Nightmares after November I visited you alone afterward. Wounds freshly sewn together,
nurses hovering about. You were feeling better, but there was still plenty of fear lurking beneath. You hid it as best you could.
Fingers fidgeting with the bedsheet, eyes darting back and forth.
III. Nightmares after November There’s an allure to a mob
that can be plenty terrifying. It takes its power from fear, its strength from weakness. Today, it marched its flags out
in smart uniform, slogans repeated until common. Cheers in the street float through the buildings.
Sweethearts hold one another in momentary bliss. They waited for this moment and they’re not giving
it back anytime soon.
IV. Nightmares after November Breaking points are rare. Reality will change and we’ll allow more and more.
The boarded-up shop, the headline of violence. Definitions of normal shift and survival kicks in. Scale back on this, cut back on that as long as we can stand.
V. Nightmares after November If it ends, his supporters won’t accept it. They won’t see the hustle or the false overtures to avert responsibility. They’ll wrap themselves with a hope that never really existed. If it ends, it will take generations to repair the damage done.
Davis A small collection of grave markers are set off from the rest at Comins Flats. They’ve been damaged in ways time and decay could not. The plots of white families at the cemetery, which are just as old, are untouched. Names clear,
carrying memories 100 plus years. Your family made the difficult land work. Made this strange place your home among the lumber camps.
You stayed when your son fell amongst the logs, disappearing forever in the river. Your family’s resting place was damaged but the
remaining stones have new pennies and locks placed on them. In those small gestures from recent visitors, there’s a bit of hope.
Bad Timing I was 10 minutes late to our first date. I was so nervous you’d be mad or decide to leave. You weren’t and hopefully I’ve made up for it over the last few years.
A Dream about Union Corners I was near the settlement.
I heard little murmurs in the distance and the persistent sound of hammering. That’s it. An eerie sense of fear and uncertainty
hung thick in the air. Something kept me from coming closer that I don’t quite understand. Unmarked white crosses surrounded me in the grave yard. The smell of freshly cut lumber drifted by. I listened until my alarm sounded out.
Sing There is pain here, tucked away from the traditional history of this place. Those hardships are lost to time. The vegetation sings their praises quietly while the years go by.
Welcome I was a visitor but you made me feel like I belonged here. Through constant complaining and late-night panic. There’s no way I will repay you. Hopefully I wasn’t too annoying.
Still Moving
I still love you whether we’re in the same bed or separated by miles. Whether we’re in each other’s arms or someone else’s.
I still love you even if the years pass us by and we lose touch. I still love you from the moment we saw each other to the last time we spoke. I still love you even when we’re saying goodbye and starting new lives.
State Road The sun paints the horizon cotton candy pinks and blues. The town rustles awake.
Ice melts slow off the windshield to the dull roar of the defroster. I crane my neck to see the road.
The smell of pine drifts off a passing lumber truck, staying with me for about a mile or so.
An Ode to My Roommates I’ve started leaving the box elders alone. The persistent ones that swarmed and marched around the entryway, ducking away to hide for the winter. I stopped squishing them and started carrying them outside. I started feeling bad about that as the frost set in. The doorway seemed lonelier. The one’s who stayed in
the apartment get lost in the lamp in the corner. They seem infinitely happier getting lost in the warm glow than slowly wearing down in ice.
At least they’re alive for the moment, bumping against the bulb in confused ecstasy until it all goes blank.
Glasses I still feel conscious in glasses,
even at 25. When I first got them in first grade I left them at home every chance I got. I only felt bad for my parents
if they got smashed. Good riddance to insecurity, good riddance to vision. There was an odd kind of satisfaction to
squinting in the front row. I looked ridiculous. More ridiculous than if I just wore the damn things. I miss having the option
to look like an idiot.
Home Sickness I lost you in the glow of the display. Time slipped by when I came to. You were far, love in the quiet moments ricocheting all around; warmth. There was something distant growing inside of me the longer I spent from home. Something lonesome, but completely my own.
In December, Apt. 2 I felt winter creep across my eyelids. Feet at the bottom of the valley. Felt the empty ache and embraced it. I could see my breath, blankets moving about from my shaking limbs. My shivering faded to comfort as I got used to the sensation. I felt winter creep across my eyelids and I adapted to it.
J7 I was so excited to
be in our new apartment that I jumped on the mattress in our living room. My head hit the low hanging light. We both doubled over
laughing and I knew exactly where I belonged.
Morning Light And there was hope in the timid petals that stretched for the sun. Hope in all the other poetic clichĂŠs that we take for granted as we move, constantly. There was hope we could begin again after a long argument. One that made me feel closer to you in the morning light.
Linda’s...I Mean Travis There’s not much like a good cup of black coffee. It makes the isolation I’ve felt over the last few months melt away a bit. Catching up over the phone is one thing, but I’m happy to be home with you, even if I should go back soon.
For Months Now I come home tired. I come home with junk still heaped on my shoulders. I picked up The phone and shifted all that weight to you. You rarely complain. I’ve been doing this for months now. I hope it ends soon.
Like Yesterday I try to contain myself as I make the hour and a half drive to finally see you after two weeks. It’s felt longer. I turn up the dial to tune out the weird rattling under the hood. I focus on running up the staircase to your room. I focus on jumping under the covers with you like no time has passed at all.
(Barely) Made It I drove as fast as I could to make it to your performance. Then it happened. The motor for the windshield wipers went out. I was still on the freeway. Rain started to dot the glass, multiplying a few miles from your exit. As it became harder to see I looked around the car, finding a window scraper and a t-shirt. I wasn’t going to be late. I stuck my arm out the window and started wiping off the rain water as best I could. I called you and followed your directions the best I could as I craned my neck out the window. The rain cleared as I met you at the front door. As I watched you up there (you were amazing) I knew it was worth it to keep going.
Taking It hurts knowing I ruined a day that wasn’t mine. That I clung onto all the good feelings, pulling them down with all my strength. I was quiet and inattentive. I wasn’t myself. Thoughts of doctors and bad news filled my head. Thoughts of time lost, thoughts of an uncertain future. But there wasn’t any excuse. Months later, I still think about that day and cringe a bit.
Footnote I’ll soon be another footnote, relegated to heavy books in the back like the rest. Lost to the decay of town gossip. Obscured by time as you move on to other things. I wanted to be different. I wanted to stay. But I’m tired and need something new.
Slipped By What happened to those nights of fucked up drift? Stoned in basements before we all split off. Time slipped by easier and we all lost contact or kept in touch sporadically. Odd arguments lost to time. Bullshit whining that seems dumber with each passing year.
Tics A tic feeds as I sleep.
Lovingly, drawn by little else than instinct. A tic feeds as I finally get a sound sleep. No more shivering under covers to shake off the northern chill. A tic feeds as I dream wild and weird, mingling with the ghosts that float through the carpet. A tic feeds as I realize it’ll be over soon.
Downer Sometimes I don’t feel like doing a whole lot. The crowds feel intimidating, the pressure to be happy on command overwhelming. I stare at my beer and hope I can blend into the background. Where I don’t need to answer why I looks so “down.” Why I look so “sad” all the time. I don’t want to let them down anymore. I don’t want to let you down anymore.
Production Day I slumped down in the front seat as the noises of the road hummed about. I had a feeling I’d ruined everything. That nothing I did could make things right. Too tired to cry, failure so complete it encased every action. I had a feeling I had ruined everything, but it feels so distant now.
Finally, Home I got a couple of hours of sleep, but it didn’t last. Naked on the couch with peanut butter, marshmallows and PBR, watching some movie passively. I woke up and realized that I was home and was finally OK.
About Nicholas Arthur is 26 years old and currently lives in Michigan. He is a Wayne State University graduate. Along with poetry he dabbles in music, writing and art. When he is not writing he can be found looking in the bargain bin at the record store, drinking coffee far too late at night, and eating breakfast any time he pleases. He has a cat named Simba.