multiplicity of symptoms

The talk was about Deleuze and Badiou. It seemed quite interesting, but I wouldn't know because I zoned out early during the Badiou section. Or, rather, you zoned in, distracting my attention and fixing my pen into a doodle holding pattern that started to morph into ever larger interlocking circles and ovary-like appendages with the odd shaft or triangle. My mind flitted into the talk from time to time, my ears pricking up like a dog's whenever a concept dear or familiar to me sounded.

But mainly it was you--mostly it was us--walking arm in arm down all the streets of all the futures we won't have. Your wool and my wool, always winter, always requiring a cuddle against the outside world. For fuck's sake, I came *this close* to writing you a letter instead of haphazardly noting down snippets here and there. A crush note: "Dear M., I'm fucking crushed. Send help (in the form of your eternal love and whiskey)."

Can someone conceive a real pregnancy in place of what should have been a hysterical one? Is the repressed that potent, like a succubus arriving in the dead of night to dupe us all? Is my unconscious trying to live out one last tie to the Post Card, the child, the child. What to do with the doubly bastard child of the future. Darling, can't you see that I'm burning, I want to scream in the wake of your good-bye.

Or is my body perhaps making literal the figure I've used so often recently? Withdrawal. I have a junkie's faith and a junkie's denial: "I'm not really hooked...I can walk away. It's not really over...It'll all be fine...this can work. I need just a little bit more...ok, I want it all, damn it!!" Which toxin exactly am I trying to eliminate? It's not you...you only ever held on in the most gentle, tenuous way. You were always half in and half out of attention, listening with a third ear to your determination (and we both know what that means, my love). So, no, it's not you that I need to eliminate. What, then? Could the call be coming...dadadum...from INSIDE THE HOUSE??!! (That is a reference; look it up).

Little womb of my heart, you and your Heimweh, apparently so fertile, so productive, why can't you just shut it down? Quit feeding yourself this smack. Take the sad-sack broken-hearted soundtrack off the hifi and find another tune. Accept the solution from the good doctor.

It's too late for the morning after pill. I needed a morning before pill; hell, I needed a "├┐ou'll never have to face this morning" pill. I needed the kind of prophylactic they don't make and never did. Why did you have to be you? Isn't this nausea a pretty little symptom, though? What's better than repeating text in your own body?

Pretty love junkie, knocked up hysterical subject, what did you expect? "The symptom is constructed in order to avoid an outbreak of anxiety." Start working, dear symptom, oh please, do.