He told me once that when we first met he had “Tangled Up In Blue” stuck in his head, and that during the span of time we were together it never completely left his mind. I was Blue to him. A newly divorced woman who was full of wandering and words. A girl who was never satisfied with settling down. I corrected him then, told him he was wrong, that I just couldn’t settle down with him. The Blue he saw in me was just the Blue he brought out in me. But, at the start of it all he had felt like a window being open in an abandoned room, brining something new into the stale interior. He was my breath of fresh air, in the beginning.
“She was married when we first met,
soon to be divorced.
I helped her out of a jam,
but I used a little too much force.
We drove that car as far as we could,
abandoned it out west.
Split up on a dark, sad night,
both agreeing it was best.
She turned around to look at me,
as I was walking away.
I heard her say over my shoulder,
“we’ll meet again someday on the avenue.”
Tangled up in blue.”
“Tangled Up In Blue” by Bob Dylan
from the album, Blood On the Tracks (1975)
Song Of The Day – September 14, 2011
Trouble is, I’m a city girl at heart, and I missed all that polluted air. All the noise, and the chaos. He was kind at first, gentle, soft spoken. He listened to my stories and plotted out futures and chapters we’d write together, and all these next steps he’d take with me. He whispered in my ear that he would follow me anywhere. We shared music, books, poetry.
I smoked too many cigarettes, and drank too much coffee. He had no vices that I’d been able to find. He tried to take mine up as his own, but they always hung funny on him. He’d cough and cough, trying to smile as his eyes watered and turned red. His face would turn into an instant grimace every time he took a drag, or a swallow of the strong coffee I’d brew in the mornings.
I was always right, and the more he agreed with me the more wrong I became. He let me walk all over him, bending back further and further. With each step I longed for him to stand up to me. To shout at me. To get angry. He told me he loved me, read my stories and called them masterpieces, named all my favorite food his favorite, too. He traded in his albums and filled his shelves up with recommendations of mine. After awhile I could anticipate every next word he’d say, because they were mine.
The kindness was killing me, as was his copy-cat behavior. It all felt fake, contrived. All the things that made him interesting at the start faded and fell away, until he seemed transparent to me. I felt my skin crawl every time he spoke. The walls we shared seemed to shrink closer, constricting around me. The only time I could breathe was on the overhead bridges as I stood waiting for a train.
One night I stood on the platform in the snow, alone, contemplating a quick escape. I could catch the line that went straight to the airport, but a one-way ticket. Fly away into forever.
It was just a few days later that I sold a stack of my own records, and books, packed up what was left of my things, and took that train to the airport. Then I flew away. Forever.