I am in the city of verdure. It is not your city, and never was. It was once mine, yet it's your ghost that haunts me now instead of any specter of my former self. My hotel room is voluminous. There are 3 full closets. You could be,
who knows, hiding in any one of them. Why not? Is that any more
implausible than the fact that I am unable to imagine myself here
without you? I go for a run and return to my room expecting to find you
napping in the bed. A happy reversal for me as long as it ends in the
same result: you and I entwined in smooth sheets, returning to each
other from a place we've never gone, back to a home we've never had.
29.3.13
21.3.13
writing out
On tv shows featuring ERs and on those featuring zombies, you might hear someone shout, "He's bleeding out!". We all know what that means: he will soon have lost his life with his blood. How much blood is required to be out of the body before bleeding out becomes bled out, dead? My friends in the medical professions could tell me quickly and assuredly; this is a simple trivia question for them.
What if one is writing out instead of bleeding out? It has become clear to me that I must write my way out of this. I must use will and force and desire and turn to my texts, turn this despair into something productive. Yet I don't feel like I can write my way out because I feel like I'm writing out. All of my writing wants to circle back to this, to you, (to) my love. Every morning, as the idea of being awake slowly filters into my mind, I know I am fully awake when I am seized by two thoughts: first, he is there and I am not with him; second, maybe he wrote me? (No, the answer is always no; it's a futile question, but obviously futility hasn't yet worked its magic well enough to stop the question from arising, nor the dull hope accompanying it.)
What if one is writing out instead of bleeding out? It has become clear to me that I must write my way out of this. I must use will and force and desire and turn to my texts, turn this despair into something productive. Yet I don't feel like I can write my way out because I feel like I'm writing out. All of my writing wants to circle back to this, to you, (to) my love. Every morning, as the idea of being awake slowly filters into my mind, I know I am fully awake when I am seized by two thoughts: first, he is there and I am not with him; second, maybe he wrote me? (No, the answer is always no; it's a futile question, but obviously futility hasn't yet worked its magic well enough to stop the question from arising, nor the dull hope accompanying it.)
17.3.13
Futility
"If I acknowledge my dependency, I do so because for me it is a means of signifying my demand: in the realm of love, futility is not a "weakness" or an "absurdity": it is a strong sign: the more futile, the more it signifies and the more it asserts itself as strength.)” --Barthes, Fragments of a Lover's Discourse
Never before have I felt so starkly the strength of a futile desire. Recognizing impossibility does not lead to ceding the desire, but rather to increasing the demand. I feed off of impossibility; my love grows fat in proportion to my dwindling hope. My desire resists all efforts at starvation, and relishes an exquisite meal of dusty crumbs that were swept away weeks ago.
15.3.13
Faux salut
Podcasts are a wondrous godsend. Podcasts are a terrible hell. Who would have ever thought that I would think "que tu viennes du ciel ou de l'enfer, qu'importe" about voice recordings archived online? What hyperbolic twaddle, I know, I know. But what I know doesn't stop what I feel; I'm a Rousseau through and through.
13.3.13
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.
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.
1.3.13
intermittent rain
How many post cards would I have written and hidden amongst your things if only I had no limits (on time or on sentiment?) Your bags and clothes would be littered with them. Cards in sleeves, pockets, and pants legs.
Endless greetings. We never stopped greeting each other, even at the end, did we?
Endless greetings. We never stopped greeting each other, even at the end, did we?
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