He started writing poetry again, but it didn’t come as easily. It was hard now to get past the self-consciousness – the silliness, really – of being such a well-established adult applying himself, seriously, to such a youthful joy.
And, too ignorant to be scared, too young to be awed, Tristan Thorn traveled beyond the fields we know…
It’s a good sign but rare instance when, in a relationship, you find that the more you learn about the other person, the more you continue to desire them. A sturdy bond delights in that degree of youthful intrigue. Love loves its youth.
I have more enemies than I deserve,” I said. “I am fighting a losing battle, me against the world. The next century is at stake. Time is running out and my optimism is sorely strained.”
“Yeah?” he said. “I was young once too.
When I Was One-And-Twenty
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
‘Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.’
But I was one-and-twenty
No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
‘The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
‘Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.’
And I am two-and-twenty
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.
The gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes bring you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses.
On the boardwalk the arcade jukebox plays all night surrounded by teenagers–sometimes twenty bodies deep, bare-skinned and full of energy for the music, for one another, for life, for the little bit of freedom they taste in the salt air and their skin. My father finds his place in this crowd. They are a force together. They don’t do drugs. They don’t drink. But they do music, and their power comes from their numbers and the thrill of being young on the beach at night.
Who will you be, my Little Ones? Will you dance for the fires of your youth and run at midnight to water’s edge, diving into summer’s heat? Will you ride a wild mare to any thought or dream or love of your making? Will you seek the artistry of your own infatuations and explore . . .
Roseanne, Roseanne, if I called to you now, my own self calling to my own self, would you hear me? And if you could hear me, would you heed me?
Love is not for thrill-seekers, dreamers, or children with short attention spans. And you, son, fit into all three of those categories.