Changes

It's been a long

A long time coming, but I know

A change gon' come

Oh yes, it will

~ Sam Cooke

We all meet someone who changes our lives, maybe more than one person changes our life, maybe each change leads us in a different direction. There’s nothing strange about this. What I wonder, though, is why we let those changes happen, why we meet some (many) people and they just bounce off of us. Then others permeate every molecule and start to push (or pull) us here, there, anywhere but where we are. What makes some people so important, but also what makes us susceptible (receptive, sensitive) to some?

What opens us up or closes us off? Where are the lines drawn and erased? What are the lines even made of? Steel cable, linen threads, bulging ropes, clinging arms or cloying scents? What does change taste like? Do we have a set capacity for it in our bodies or is it only for our thinking? Is change sensual, like do we feel it in our bones or with goosebumps on our arms? Or is it the person who changes our pattern of living the true element of sensuality because we like something about them: their eyes, the earring in they wear in only one ear, their way of walking, their fingertips? Or do we crave a person’s brain, devour it (only figuratively), want to try it on for ourselves and strut a bit?

Why even bring this up?

Let me try to explain. No, not explain. Not here. Right now I’ve gathered a few ideas. Yes, this one’s for you. You who probably never dreamed that change would come and maybe don’t care. I do, though, and I’m going to tell you what I know about you. If it’s not enough, I’m not concerned because eventually I get to where I need to go. To the only place.

Gardenia. You were my sister’s favorite flower, but never in a corsage. You are far too fragile to last even a day. Yet I love you and when you are on your branches, in your bush, you reach out your small, soft tendrils of fragrance and stop me in my tracks. You change my direction and all I need is your creamy touch, your command. I will do anything you ask, like Leonard Cohen in “I’m your man.” Surrender is such sweet sorrow. For you and your shortshort life. For me, bound to lose you far too soon.

Oliveira. You silvered fan of foliage, your fruit not for harvesting. Yet. You grow like stonecrop, stolidly twisting in the middle of the night, meeting dawn more beautifully aged.

Amandi. You’re thought-worthy because you were offered to me years ago, served in your own legend-cup. You went to Rome and sweetened life there. I went to Rome centuries later and not in soldierly wine barrels like you. But we met on a little lawn and I’ve never been the same since.

Camba. I thought you were a writer, but you’re a Celtic footprint on the road to the mountains. You were placed in my hands and I pushed you away, you weren’t going to have any control over me. So I simply keep thinking about you and writing or dreaming things whose translation is horrifying. Such a pretty name you have.

Tal. You came by accident and trapped me anyway. You are water and Wales and a tiny boat watched by some rocks higher up.I heard your secret and fell in love, silly me. You sent me to an island further north, with a river I’ll never see again but will never lose. Your graves speak to me when they can’t keep quiet.

Bastavales. Your name has a bit of speculation about it, and more than one spelling. I am upset by you because you only mostly show your bedraggled underbelly, wide and valley-like, but trodden on. You don’t force me to act differently, but you demand faithfulness and I know we met too late for me to completely embrace you, although you know I do try, I try very hard. Maybe another ten years will resolve our issues. After all, your lemon trees are lovely and maybe I’ll be able to enter your church after all.

Outes. Oh, you are special. Walking with you beside the grassy shore is pure captivity. You have a force field I misunderstand because it’s layers thick. You know you’re the guardian of it all - a foreigner’s grave, an island stolen by a rich man, women’s voices carrying tales to and from the nearby mines. War kills, but you know that. Your losses, however, don’t speak more loudly than what your value is today. We only met once, I believe, but I plan to return soon. Unfortunately, my summer plans went astray.

Laíño, Lestrove, Ortoño. All I need to do is say your names and the changes in my life made by you do one of several things: they burst into flames and leave all the surrounding rocks blackened, hurting, hoping for rain. Rain that comes and revives you, moving wetly across fields until I can bear to touch you again. Maybe the day will come when I can no longer reach you, but that doesn’t alter the fact that you’ve rerouted parts of my life. I’ve hung a lot of memories on you. I’ve read your poems. I’ve shivered as I stood under your fig trees and grapevines.

Bombas. I’m not a fan of pastries, but you are utterly tempting and anise-y and I would gladly devour you every day. You might be my worst habit.

As Torres de Altamira. I always forget who you really are, mostly so I can meet you again and stare at your broken, green and gold beauty. You have been in my life a long time. I need you.

Fiuncho. Slender and green, smooth and wispy, your touch joins the fragrance of bombas to conquer my self-control. Caldo works differently in my life, but I need it. Its name is what reminds me that my existence could be classified as pre-caldo and post-caldo, but only post-caldo matters now. The reasons are too complex. Too many hours.

Lichens in at least ten versions. Of course lichens can’t usually be classified as persons, but I’m not convinced. The ones I’ve met in all these years have had an amazing ability for conversation. Like gardenias, you all have an intelligence I long to possess but can only hope to drink in, my eyes like empty cups. I want to learn the language of the wind swooping in from the sea or the words of a wet sun encouraging you to live your best life. I wish I could wear you like a cape, the way the granite does.

O Berbés. I almost forgot the scent of your arms when the sardine ships came to dock at four or five in the morning. I long to return to you once more, if I can find you on the outskirts of Vigo city and if there are still fishing boats and there are still fish. Your face has faded for me, maybe because I’m old, but the anchor you set down inside me is still solidly positioned.

Hórreos. You know who you are. You know I’ve loved many of you, that I’d give anything to live with you. Anything to find a good translation for who you are. The closest I ever came was once in Ukraine, but that was a one-day stand. I’m faithful now. After all, we met in a literature course - you were in the novel and I was a student in the course. The professor never thought we needed to be introduced, so I made the first move. Meaning that I went to see what and who you really were.

Well, that’s enough examples, and I guess I didn’t really explain the changes these people or people-like entities made in my life. To do that properly, it’d take a whole novel and a lot of planning. I’m busy right now trying to keep up with the changes still in progress.