{"id":163304,"date":"2023-02-15T14:00:07","date_gmt":"2023-02-15T19:00:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=163304"},"modified":"2023-02-17T10:35:14","modified_gmt":"2023-02-17T15:35:14","slug":"love-songs-hang-with-me","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/02\/15\/love-songs-hang-with-me\/","title":{"rendered":"Love Songs: \u201cHang With Me\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Robyn. Photograph by Lewis Chaplin. Wikimedia Commons,<\/a> Licensed under CCO 2.0.<\/p><\/div>\n

This week,<\/em> the<\/em> Review is publishing a series of short reflections on love songs, broadly defined.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Someone I recently kissed sends me a PDF of a rare, out-of-print book by John Ashbery. The fragment I tug from <\/span>Fragment<\/span><\/i>: \u201cSeen from inside all is \/ abruptness. As though to get out your eye \/ sharpens and sharpens these particulars; no \/ longer visible, they breathe in multicolored \/ parentheses the way love in short periods \/ puts everything out of focus, coming and going.\u201d It\u2019s been a while since I\u2019ve been in love, and, most of the time, the idea fatigues me: I can see the end before anything\u2019s begun. But these lines make my clarity of vision briefly undesirable; I miss the blur.<\/span><\/p>\n

When I was nineteen, an anxious wallflower at my first literary party, Ashbery barked at me to fetch him a gin and tonic. Now these lines of his wind back the tape to adolescence: when everything is seen from inside even as the self strains outward and time exits its usual shapes and the imagination knows no end. Teenagers make love and ontology anew. I remember the smell of wet grass on long night walks with the first girl I loved. The matching pale green stains on our white sneakers. Our long hair mingling, dark brown and red, in the stairwell, the party we\u2019d just left still loud down the hall. That this was the most surprising thing that had ever happened to my nineteen-year-old body, though it was also the culmination of months of cloaked flirting as well as\u2014it seemed\u2014the culmination of every desire ever. Yet I also glimpsed how much more wanting there was to do.<\/span><\/p>\n

Since I am time-traveling back to that relationship, my first queer one, which careened to a slow disintegration I didn\u2019t see coming, I am listening to \u201cHang With Me,\u201d Robyn\u2019s dance-pop love song that forbids love. \u201cWill you tell me once again \/ how we\u2019re gonna be just friends?\u201d she begins, a plea that morphs into command in the chorus: \u201cJust don\u2019t fall recklessly, headlessly in love with me.\u201d This is the brinkmanship common to teenagers and lovers, feigning control over feelings.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd if you do me right, I\u2019m gonna do right by you,\u201d Robyn sings before she gets to that other condition, the one that gives the song its title: if you don\u2019t fall in love with me, you can hang with me. These are the stipulations of a contract that\u2019s never going to work. It\u2019s clear from the ecstatic production and obsessive insistence that Robyn herself is already in love. And in her demands, I hear seduction, the kind that plays out when you\u2019re already in bed with someone, whispering \u201cwe can\u2019t\u201d while you do.<\/span><\/p>\n

Wild requests, wild promises, nothing that can be kept\u2014going as it comes. The \u201cheartbreak, blissfully painful and insanity\u201d that Robyn is worried about speeds toward her. It strikes me that this song is, like me, revisiting adolescent passions from a distance. The time travel is imperfect. \u201cHeartbreak\u201d is the tell. For falling in love to become possible, I\u2019ll have to forget that heartbreak is equally possible, but the anticipation of pain worms into love that hasn\u2019t yet earned the name.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The internet reveals that \u201cHang With Me\u201d hadn\u2019t yet been released during the short period of love I\u2019ve just described. At first, I am sure that there\u2019s a mistake. The song is overlaid on so many memories of her. But it seems I made a sequential connection simultaneous. At some point that I don\u2019t remember, I heard this song and remembered my ex, and then, at Ashbery\u2019s instigation, I remembered the song and the story together. Now that I\u2019ve written this down, they\u2019ll never be separate. Such a teenage word, <\/span>never<\/span><\/i>. Like: <\/span>Don\u2019t worry, I\u2019ll never fall in love with you<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Elisa Gonzalez is a poet, fiction writer, and essayist whose work has appeared in\u00a0<\/i>The New Yorker, <\/i>The New York Times Magazine, and elsewhere. She is the recipient of a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writer\u2019s Award.\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cIn her demands, I hear seduction, the kind that plays out when you\u2019re already in bed with someone, whispering \u2018we can\u2019t\u2019 while you do.\u201d <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2240,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1187],"tags":[67827,327,5234,17993,34427,68613],"class_list":["post-163304","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-music","tag-featured","tag-friendship","tag-john-ashbery","tag-love-songs","tag-queerness","tag-robyn"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nLove Songs: \u201cHang With Me\u201d by Elisa Gonzalez<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"February 15, 2023 \u2013 \u201cIn her demands, I hear seduction, the kind that plays out when you\u2019re already in bed with someone, whispering \u2018we can\u2019t\u2019 while you do.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" 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