Date: Fri, 24 Oct 2008 01:45:51 -0700 (PDT)
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Willow Tree

			      The Willow Tree
				    By
			       Tim Stillman


(For Jase, for your kindness and laughter and happiness, I wrote this story
for you)



"Is it underneath the willow tree that I've been dreaming of?"
                                                 "Where is Love?"
                                                  LIONEL BART'S OLIVER!



Sometimes, on these late Autumn days, with an occasional squadron of geese
flying in arrow point formation, as he craned his neck to see them, and in
his heart, go with them, Oliver thought he was meant to sit here under the
willow tree, barren and naked for Fall it was, and be as content as he
could be. He sat with his knees drawn up against his chest, his forehead on
his knees in his torn jeans, and felt the cold through his poor clothing
and his inadequate too thin jacket. He was in love.

Love felt beautiful to Oliver and he wished the lake were closer by for
another friend, in addition to the tree, for here after school, he
contemplated forever; here he dwelt in no territory other than himself; he
was not a weak small kid here; he was tall enough to touch the sun; strong
enough to move the Earth; he was not a boy with shaggy hair, for price was
too dear; he was a boy of melancholy and dreams and he was in love.

He was not glum; indeed, he was wide-eyed and everything seemed a miracle;
breathing for one thing; the feel of his heart beating, for another; he
loved looking at the stars at night; he even loved school, because he was
good at his classes, and if he smiled little, that did not mean he did not
smile inside himself, that he was supremely happy he was here; and Autumn
come again, and it was here, as he had waited for it all year long; in
decent, Oliver was in ascent; in making fortunes of the future, he was a
master at it, and if who he was in love with was wrong, then he did not
feel need to call a quorum to pass judgment on his whole being; on the
stars inside himself; on the star stuff that made him part of the long,
lonely sky.

He scratched his left ear and pulled himself tighter into a ball, for the
wind blew cold; it might even snow soon and he smiled at that, really
smiled, inside and out; oh give me the sky to fly in and give me eyes that
know me above all else in the world; swing my life and bring me to a bright
shiny apple of a golden sun and let me hear the words I love you.  For
Oliver was a boy of perspicacity; he was a boy who knew a sum total can be
reached even if one is still very young and the ground round him very brown
and very cold and very beautiful, all the cobalt night sinking down and in,
all the woods over there bring him to me and let me touch; let me converse
not with teachers or parents or even friends distant from me they may be;
for he knew when he touched himself at night in his bed; for he knew when
the pleasure wrapped round his body and said peaceful joy, that he would
find him under that willow tree; that he would find him lost and
dissembled; what people may have thought Oliver was, but was not.

The cold corridors of the world dressed in amber sun set today, and he now
held his hands to his sides, arms straight out, and imagined the November
seas he could be plowing through; the great human ship he was, and big and
powerful and strong, not emaciated, not addicted to being only with
himself; deep he was and the seas in him were formulation of other
continents on other planets; other worlds that were spirals in the loose
leaf notebook bindings that said whisper to him and tell him, lean over the
forest of wooden chairs in the school room, and say, Joel, I love you and
Joel would not laugh or drop his pencil in utter shock, and the other
students with their mahogany eyes would not look at him as though he would
not become part of the woodwork, for he would not be allowed to play
anymore reindeer games, had he ever been.

If only, and he took off his glasses and he rubbed his eyes which were
tired from the days school and from the wind blowing drear. And he was in
love. And thought--music. And thought--magic. And thought--will
touching him make me finally at long last touch me? How pitiful we have
this enormity in us, he believed, and yet we spend our days diagramming
sentences, and doing math problems, and eating fish sticks on Friday, and
somehow caring who gets chosen head cheerleader, when we could all be doing
such grand things. When we could touch suns and stars in each other, when
we could hold and caress and love and undress and see and wonder and feel
lips and feel hands and not do it alone anymore, imagine the wonderworks of
such a thing; do the ones who get to do it know how blessed they are, at
all? He hoped so.

His room was a garret. His life was graphic novels. His notebooks were
sealed with secret thoughts, thoughts big and small and medium size that he
was not allowed to be thinking, if anyone knew, if Joel knew, if life knew,
and what of my territory? He leaned against the willow tree bark. He felt
it nice against his thinly clothed thin back and he looked up at the stars
that had seemed to hold him from the very first time he looked at them and
knew there was somebody for him. He put his hand to his chest and in his
shirt and touched his cold skin, wondering how it would feel to be touched
there and to touch in return, and what was his body? His skin. His legs and
his desires, quick, three two one and over and then turning over and going
to sleep.

Dream me, someone, dream me so I may live in something akin to you, and he
picked up his Bluehorse notebook and took his pen out of his pocket
protector, though it had little to protect, and he wrote down some more
wishes and fished in his mind for the right way to say them before putting
the words gently back into the river on the other side of the woods, alive
and well. He bent his head downward, and his tongue tip came automatically
out to lick his lips in firm concentration with his industriously occupied
eyes, and he was in love and wrote, I am in love and the person doesn't
have to know I am in love with them, for it would cheapen the love if he
kn---

And Oliver stopped writing and his shoulders hunched, as he felt his
erection and he felt his blood like cold lemonade on a hot summery day that
lacked sugar and verve, only verbiage came and justifications, and with
those mourners in his corner he would be here forever, and Oliver was not a
boy to spend forever alone, for he was brave in his shyness, and he knew
what and who he wanted; he didn't want, for sure, this tiger in his chest
for the rest of his life, this tiger that had never known how to growl
except in whispers, except when the two of them were fastened in bed alone
and alone again. He wanted to feel the joys as Joel held him and he wanted
Joel to want him to feel Joel's joys; he wanted to be the earth and sky and
the geese flying sometimes arrow formations over head as he wished them
safe from all hunters forever more amen. Oliver loved laughter and he loved
the feeling of it, the tides of it, for it made him supremely glad he was
given the chance to start here and to grow up and to think his own fine
thoughts, and he decided this night, when he got home, he would phone Joel,
and he would say Hi Joel, this is Oliver, how are you?

And with his heart pounding in his chest, he would hold the receiver hard
to his sweaty ear to hear the breath, the silence, the words, possibly the
hanging up on Oliver, or the laughter at him, but no, Joel wasn't like
that--he was kind and sweet and always polite and he and Oliver
acknowledged each other in the hallway between classes sometimes and o how
Oliver's heart filled to overflowing with happiness and could not wait to
get home to pretend he was making love with the most wonderful faun in the
whole of existence, o Joel if you only knew how much I worship you, and he
would say none of that tonight, make up some question about homework, and
maybe he and Joel could see a movie or go to the Dairy Queen or the root
beer stand sometime, just if he wanted to, you know, and had, like, you
know, nothing to do--and Oliver slapped his notebook closed and put his pen
in his pocket protector that as has been said before had little to
protect. No, he thought, I will not put a foolish iron maiden round me of
stupid you know like how about if well you know--no, I will talk like me, I
have the right to don't I? And Joel will say sure, how about this coming
Saturday, and that would be great, see you tomorrow then? And Oliver knew
it would not go that way.

But he could still love him, in every rock and tree and person and sky and
season, he would spend his life celebrating the faun forever young, and he
would write about him, and make love to him that way, he would not give up,
he would call him and talk to him, and be hopefully less afraid because-it
was even bigger and more beautiful than the boy he loved; it was more
exciting and more erotic than being naked together and seeing how the other
one does it; it was everything--every mountain and every movie and
every song and every dream, it was what Joel was and a million times a
trillion times more, and if they became friends, fantastic, and if they
became lovers, awesome beyond comprehension, and he would make it work,
somehow, he had the stars and the planets and the moons and the suns and
the huge beautiful earth all round him, he had everything in existence to
sing Joel's praises, and to by the way sing praises of himself too, and all
this hugeness, all this massive beauty, what could a little phone call do
against all of that, if it didn't work out, and it just might work out, and
he smiled and he laughed and he got straight up and he felt his pants
crotch and found it now suddenly a bit wet and he laughed at the first time
it had happened outside and beneath his willow tree. Maybe some day soon,
he and his love will walk to this tree and they will hold each other and
the dark afternoon would move round them and hold them in its huge palm and
they would kiss the first time and brush their hands over each other's hair
and hold tight and know and know......

He gathered up his notebook and school books and started to running home,
true home, as fast as the wind pushed him back like in a game Oliver pushed
forward laughing, harder, and a scrawny little boy was suddenly created as
he really was inside and soon the phone and soon Hi Joel and soon the world
would be even a more blessed more magnificent totally unlonely thing,
because he would hear that voice soon and that was what he and everything
in creation would want to hear and sigh with redemption when he and it did,
and he thought, on the running, jogging way, thank you, if I forget
somewhere up the line, thank you for me and for letting me play in the
fields of forever. Once upon a time, there was a boy named Oliver, and once
upon a time's never ever end.