Author’s Note: I watched Jim Jarmusch’s “Paterson” again for my introduction to literature course, and it kind of set something echoing. A beautiful movie about exactly what I am trying to do: tiny attempts, words, poems. So I wrote this one:
Paterson’s morning begins with a bowl of Cheerios and a boxful of Ohio Blue-tip matches. He drives around the city on the same shift. Not much happens.
At the bottom of the manju box, (the manjus were not exactly great, but the box was too pretty to be thrown away) I found the tickets for Broken Flowers.
The first movie we saw together. It amazes me that we are still together. More than together.
We were flirtatious, tentative, unsure. Letter writers. Moon lovers.
Now we are anxious, nervous, cautious. Bill payers, bookkeepers. Parents. (Plus, I have always wanted to own an apartment.)
Today, I scratched your new car as I drove out of the parking space. The back door on the right now has a dozen white parallel lines, marked by the concrete pole; almost invisible in the sun, but a small dent above the tyre is visible in any light.
I confessed, and you went through stages of anger, scolding, calming down, and laughing in ten minutes.
I really didn’t like Broken Flowers. Not at all. But I love Paterson.
Maybe Jim Jarmusch got better. Maybe I got better.
Or maybe we are just in the middle of this ordinary life.
