Writing Ex. #7 - Jenni - Farewell Soundtrack

The cabin lights were off and the stewardesses had made sure that all of the window shades were closed. The giant man in the terry cloth track suit was asleep, dreaming of the sandwich his girlfriend had made him that morning. Japanese girls - best girls in the world. Know how to treat you right. Until they start making you make your own sandwich. Beside him, the knobbley man with a black fanny pouch and a midi player had the small white buds tucked against the tufts of hair in his earlobe. The songs of the Greatest Generation. His head wobbled on his shoulder with the light air pockets.

In my seat by the aisle, I pulled out my cd player and a single cd in its case. I carefully lifted it from the center prongs and settled it into the player. My fingers brushed lightly on its surface to start its turn, to test its ability to hold to the center, and then closed the lid.

I pressed play and remember:

Track one: Radiohead. “Creep”

When we were there before, in the fluorescent toucan walls with the sake on the table, I felt like the feather in your eyes. Always the last song of the evening, with the telephone on the wall ringing to let us know the time was up. Drinking the cups empty, grabbing our jackets, everyone out in the hall, already getting out their money to pay their part – and you still crooning. Looking at me in the doorway, your British accent getting it right.

Track three: The Cure. “Lovecats”

When you visited during the spring we threw a party. Half way into the night, buzzed but not yet drunk, my roommate and I danced to “lovecats.” Half choreographed half improvisation. From two separate corners, we shuffled towards the center with our arms down. Forefingers pointed. Shoulders alternating in time with a dip. The Daisy Duck. We arched our backs on the word “hiss” and framed our faces at the word “pretty.” When the song ended I came to you sitting on the sofa. You took me in your arms without saying anything.

Track seven: Teshima Aoi. “Teru no Uta”

You checked out a book on how to write haiku from the foreign section of the library. I turned up my nose. Two months later, your words appeared in the calligraphy you honed during class. The white, stiff paper bordered by folds of dark blue. Afraid to show my linguistic inadequacies, I admired the script until you explained the poem. Kono haiku wa kono kokoro ni sundeimasu.

Track nine: Blur. “The Death of the Party”

The red dress I wore to spite the somber color palate of black and grey and white, and on my face the paper mache fox mask. Kitsunari zombie. Holes in the papered doors. Moscow! Moscow! Pure Russian Vodka. (You told me he was on the run from the Russian mafia, and I was afraid to look him in the eye.) The light, fruit flavored beer the Australians of us have termed “girlie beer.” Elegant, opaque bottles of wine and sake. Sitting with our backs to each other as we spoke to different people. The ribbons on my hair landed on your shoulder and danced there as I laughed.

Track twelve: Ukelele Orchestra of GB. "Heathcliff"

For Christmas, we visited your family. In between the breakfasts of vegetarian bacon with Linda McCartney's face on the package and the evenings of holiday specials on television, we drove to Haworth. The guidebook took me through the moors to the place where Emily sat beneath a tree to write. That morning we slept in and arrived as Emily’s house-museum was closing for the night. I bought a light blue button from the gift shop in her kitchen and we walked through the graveyard that connected her house to a church. The raised marble vaults made alleys and I listened to the wind. There were no voices. Without seeing Emily’s tree, we walked down the cobbled road to the metered lot where you had parked the car.

Track Fifteen: Dousuru? Aifuru!

The giant, two dollar bowls of ramen. The man who propositioned me as I walked to the supermarket. The silent mountain shrines where I felt safer than I ever had before. Nights of not sleeping. One inch thick slices of bread. A rainy season. Wild dogs lurking below the slender balcony where I hung my clothes to dry. Toilets with spaceship control panels. Toilets that do not rise above the ground. A cadre of school girls ask me at the airport if I will take a survey. Yes. What is your favorite color? Blue. What is your destination? The United States. Can we take a picture with you? Sure! The lens snaps. I ask them, in return, shyashin wa ii desuka? Onegaishimasu.

Last track: Kraftwerk. "Europe Endless"

Some part of this will survive in me and will leak out during late night creative sessions, when I remember you and think of the skinny welsh girl who has taken my place. Who wears a dress with a corset top. Who knows the names of the deity sculptures that lurk in the mossy corners of the labyrinth that you visit together, before clasping your hands on a cliff above a torrid sea.