Two things under this heading. Both old. Unrelated as to context and to address.
“Come to me” he used to write me repeatedly, even if he was a stone’s throw away. One needs space to make such an invitation – one needs both certainty and uncertainty. One needs to feel it is a real request. At least, that is what I imagine. How much space does one man need to be able to make that request? How much distance is necessary for that traversal? I have tried to measure out that distance repeatedly since then. I have tried to find the spot in the course when the firm ground gave way. I have paced and paced, marking the territory, trying all the different metrics available.
I don’t have the answer. I don’t have the response. It isn’t mine to have. “Yes, yes,” is all I have. But what good is a yes when there is no question? Useless, pitiful yes--that’s what you tried to hide in that jeep, in that other man’s mouth – but your yes is too loud, even muffled by another’s kiss. S’s ears are blocked to that yes; his Odysseus sails past your siren’s call unimpeded, ever forgetful that he initiated the question, that your yes is his response. Stay silent, impotent siren, stay silent, damn you. Why can’t you stop speaking and writing? You fill the world with your disgusting lamentations.
26.8.07
promises, gifts (re-posted)
This is from elseblog as well -- it's at least 2 years old -- but I want it here now.
promises, promises
I promised someone I would write. But after a night of dreaming (preceded by so many dreamless nights) I can only wonder at the narrative thread. Why is it so easy to read? I would have wanted less temporality, less careful unfolding, less story; I would have preferred to approach it like a child ripping off the holiday wrapping paper -- only there to create invisibility and to titillate -- and surely nothing exists with certainty until it is seen framed in a box with air and tissue paper as coating. But, of course, it isn't an easy dream to read, only to follow, like Theseus follows Ariadne.
I didn't want a story, though. I have enough of those.
Sometimes we stay alive for others. (yes, I know that's a main theme of _The Hours_, but bear with me). Nameless others. Others who don't fit into our narrative threads. It's a gift. And yet, we blame our living on those to whom we call out when we feel the burden of it.
It is hard, nearly impossible, perhaps entirely futile, to give someone a gift he doesn't want. That is a story that doesn't unfold neatly the way a prim lady opens a gift without surprise, even in not-knowing she finds a way to create distance (because surprise is vulgar). That is a story that can only be written on the inside of the paper.
I have too much writing on my side. I'm tired of narratives that loop, I'm tired of what S. calls my "trapdoor memory."
promises, promises
I promised someone I would write. But after a night of dreaming (preceded by so many dreamless nights) I can only wonder at the narrative thread. Why is it so easy to read? I would have wanted less temporality, less careful unfolding, less story; I would have preferred to approach it like a child ripping off the holiday wrapping paper -- only there to create invisibility and to titillate -- and surely nothing exists with certainty until it is seen framed in a box with air and tissue paper as coating. But, of course, it isn't an easy dream to read, only to follow, like Theseus follows Ariadne.
I didn't want a story, though. I have enough of those.
Sometimes we stay alive for others. (yes, I know that's a main theme of _The Hours_, but bear with me). Nameless others. Others who don't fit into our narrative threads. It's a gift. And yet, we blame our living on those to whom we call out when we feel the burden of it.
It is hard, nearly impossible, perhaps entirely futile, to give someone a gift he doesn't want. That is a story that doesn't unfold neatly the way a prim lady opens a gift without surprise, even in not-knowing she finds a way to create distance (because surprise is vulgar). That is a story that can only be written on the inside of the paper.
I have too much writing on my side. I'm tired of narratives that loop, I'm tired of what S. calls my "trapdoor memory."
dear you
Don't believe you've won the game of who can push the other further away just because your arms are longer. Only a fool would play without understanding how magnets function. Don't believe, furthermore, that it's a game one can win. I'm already resigned to losing, but that doesn't mean you won't lose, too. Perhaps even moreso.
Don't believe in cardinal directions, your own certainty, that there's such a thing as too much mirth, or that anchors always hit bottom.
A personal note to your heart: do believe in rationality, just don't believe it will save you from anything, least of all yourself.
Don't believe in cardinal directions, your own certainty, that there's such a thing as too much mirth, or that anchors always hit bottom.
A personal note to your heart: do believe in rationality, just don't believe it will save you from anything, least of all yourself.
good cleaning, bad poetry
I keep finding things as I clean out the cobwebs of the new mac (Clio), leftovers from the transfer of the dead mac's data (Glinda the Good Witch). By things I mean writings. Little poetic nibblets I try to place into some context. Given my melancholic nature, I could have written them at any time, but combined with my need to close doors in verse, I would assume they all bear some sort of date-stamp of my comings and goings. The "you"'s are likely direct addresses, even if, like all such attempts at addressing, there are many addressees, many receivers, and the wonderful chance of destinerrance.
They are all bad, in any case, these little things: that's certain.
when is enough enough?
No, really: when?
Is it when you get hit on in a bar by someone 10 years your younger who asks, ever so sweetly, "Now that you know I'm 25, do you think I'm too young to date you?" and your first, internal and guilty-feeling response to yourself is, "Given the summer I've had, you may be too old!".
The question isn't age. That's an easy question, or rather, the answer is easy on a case-by-case basis. The question is why. Or what. What are you seeking? Wouldn't it be easy, indeed, too easy, to say that you are trying to recapture your own youth? And don't we all know from a thousand movies and a thousand cliches that this always fails? But no, that's not it. But then, what? And again, why?
Is it when you get hit on in a bar by someone 10 years your younger who asks, ever so sweetly, "Now that you know I'm 25, do you think I'm too young to date you?" and your first, internal and guilty-feeling response to yourself is, "Given the summer I've had, you may be too old!".
The question isn't age. That's an easy question, or rather, the answer is easy on a case-by-case basis. The question is why. Or what. What are you seeking? Wouldn't it be easy, indeed, too easy, to say that you are trying to recapture your own youth? And don't we all know from a thousand movies and a thousand cliches that this always fails? But no, that's not it. But then, what? And again, why?
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