He Thought He Knew Her
He thought he knew her. They made love in the mornings. He wandered
through daydreams of the two of them walking hand in hand through fields of
late summer, browned by the heat and the sun and the lack of rain. He
thought about asking her to marry him and about how he would probably lose
her if he did. If only they could marry without becoming husband and
wife. There ought to be a wedding ceremony, he thought, in which the words
husband and wife are never uttered. There ought to be a marriage, he
thought, inside of which dwell neither wife nor husband. Only lovers.
One morning he awoke with an urge to write. Brushing his teeth, he thought
he would write a song called "Living on the Dark Side of the Moon." It was
possible, he thought, that somebody else had already written it, but if they
had, and if he had heard it, he couldn't remember it now. If he wrote it
this morning, he wondered, would it be the same song he had already heard?
That raised an even more frightening question. Was it possible that all
that he wrote he had already read in someone else's story? What if, when he
thought he was writing, he was merely editing? Well, really, if that was
the case, there was nothing he could do about it. There was no way for him
to wipe the slate clean.
He wrote:
Shadows cross the face I love
Cities sleep in darkness
Insincere, I walk alone
Through these empty streets
Peering into lighted rooms
Hearing sounds of laughter
Curious, I stop to stare
Into vacant eyes
Living on the dark side of the moon
Looking back at all I've ever loved
Memories have abandoned me too soon
Living on the dark side of the moon
I'm living on the dark side of the moon
Trying to forget the one I loved
All I am is all I ever was
Living on the dark side of the moon
Dawn is breaking, light will come
Sun is going to rise
Curious, I'll peer again
Into a stranger's eyes
Till she comes, I walk alone
Through these darkened streets
Memories wrap me like a drum
Till the day she comes
Living on the dark side of the moon
Looking back at all I've ever loved
Memories have abandoned me too soon
Living on the dark side of the moon
I'm living on the dark side of the moon
Trying to forget the one I loved
All I am is all I ever was
Living on the dark side of the moon
Being a writer of some experience, he was not frightened by the dark
feelings lingering in his song. He knew they were not his own. He knew
that, although they are universal, feelings are very personal, that one
person's sorrow is not the same as any other's. Many of the things he wrote
about, he had never experienced himself. Many of the people he wrote about
he had never met. Most of the lives he created were not lives he wished to
live.
Watching his hands as he typed, he tried to remember what they used to look
like when he was a boy. The skin must have been smoother, he thought, and
the fingers must have been straighter. He had a friend who complained about
growing older all the time and even went so far as to cry about it. His own
feelings about middle age were more ambivalent, he knew, but he wished that
somehow his hands could always remain young and strong.
Soon his lover would enter the room and tell him it was time to go. Her
patience was legendary to him, but the day did beckon. Crickets sang in the
fields outside the open window, crows called. Seemingly overnight,
dandelions and clover had given way to Queen Anne's Lace and Goldenrod, new
neighbors to call on. The summer was passing quickly, and too soon, he
knew, she and he would wonder where the time had gone. Life had a habit of
rushing by while plans were being made.
© 1999, by Paul Kaufman
