I hear a soundless thunderclap,
see lighning not against the horizon,
but dimly illuminating two inches …
how absurd.
Then I think, I mighty spectator,
cannot illumine my way out of a tin can,
and I am oddly jealous.
It’s a courtship dance,
a call to romance,
and I who’ve suffered my last chance …
think how absurd.
In truth …
I envy their simple majesty.
I who have no thunderclap –
quiet though it is –
and who have no lighning –
I woo with words and …
that truly is absurd.
I don’t really know where to start. So I guess I’ll start …
… here. Mass confusion, upheaval. I’ve lost my sense of self that you’d become so integral to. I liked that me, I liked that us, I really, really did. And what now? Another long drive, alone, across the country, a repeat of not yet two years ago.
[added 6/30] Edited content. As a writer (of anything) I’ve never been good at editing. What I write is as good as chiseled in stone, for how much I seem willing to change it after. Not always the best policy, I begin to discover. Thoughts were harsh, and what was said was for me – a vent, a rant, a brash and hurtful way for me to get over thoughts I needed to get over. Had they been rational, I would have not held them back from you. As they were, I knew they were just words to get out my system, demons to exorcise. And they were hurtful, and they were mean, and that was never, ever my intention. They needed to be written because I needed to get over some things. On a night where my soul was hurting, I identified the hurt and I thrashed it — not the best approach. Please believe this apology, and that I never meant to be so cruel. [/added 6/30]
It’s 9:15 pm and you just called me on the phone. Voices hushed, like conspirators whispering in the corner, shoulders hunches and darting eyes. Or perhaps just passive voices drawn to sorrow and finality. “This is it then,” I say but not out loud, and your voice seems to nod to an unasked question, but calmly, slowly and I hear the bathwater quake in the background.
Thoughts edited … words withdrawn. Only to reflect the truth, never to hide it. I apologize for harsh words. My dearest wish now: that we remain friends.
If my life right now was an album title it would be:
Remembering to Breathe –
You can’t count moments of pain without
comparing them to moments of joy. Neither the world
nor us was ever entirely composed of pain.
In fact, it was only the smallest amount.
Pain accruing? It comes, goes, disperses,
as does joy. Don’t give it too much credence.
Don’t lend it too much support. Don’t encourage it.
What about joy accruing? You’d think that
after all this love, we’d have a surplus.
Why do I feel like that has been
so discounted. Why do I feel like now
that means nothing to you?
Not all beauty is convulsive. I agree.
Nor is all joy simply a mask over something darker,
nor is love just a blanket that hides you from the world.
It all depends where you put your focus, I guess.
If you want to look for pain,
there is plenty there to see.
The same is true of joy and beauty and love.
I’m sorry if this is mean.
I’m sorry if this isn’t fair.
I’m sorry for mentioning a guillotine and
I’m sorry for everything, absolutely everything,
except loving you.
Okay, so this is my new, all-time favorite joke: (which I stole from www.oxygen.ie –> Das Jokes — making fun of Germans!)
Two cows are in a field. Suddenly, from behind a bush, a rabbit leaps out and runs away. One cow looks round a bit, eats some grass and then wanders off.
If you can’t appreciate that, then damn you for having a sense of humor!
A message to: YOU!
You came into the house, probably at lunch …
I see you got your new Beastie Boys t-shirt(s) —
and so, in a mad bit of revelry,
ignoring your own cigarettes,
you smoked the ONE (1) !!! cigarette that I had,
which I was going to slowly savor
after a hard day of work.
GUILT!!! Rar.
In other news …
I want you to know that I’m not truly like that,
it’s just that a part of me has (had) been asleep for so long,
that it took a great deal of effort,
a shock blow trial and tribulation,
to wake it up. It’s still groggy,
this part of me, sleepy but restless,
like it knows it’s slept too long.
Don’t quit on me now.
I don’t want to hibernate anymore.
This winter, at least, is over.
I still search the house for you.
I got home from work and searched the house for you,
as is my habit.
I wasn’t surprised to not find you, but sad all the same.
I looked for a scribbled note, on the blackboard, my desk, the bed, the table, the floor and in the cat’s eyes. I thought about you, brow furrowed in concentration writing furiously, passionately your thoughts. And when you were done, looking over your words to me, frowning, sighing, burning whatever innocent paper you used as a receptacle to give your feelings to me.
I thought that, but I know you didn’t, wouldn’t. Can’t right now.
The storm rattled my weathervane, an augur of my mood. It struck out, brooded, roiled and rolled and swept across the sky like an angry inkblot smearing a perfect canopy, unstoppable. Now that too has passed, and I’m left to feel like a child angry with the sky for not holding my weight when I lept from the window and tried to fly. I just want to feel like Superman ….
My skin crinkles krik-krak from UV and dehydration, like a papyrus with years of story hidden in my pores. I crinkle and krik my way about, the only noise in this world the sound of my skin and my pants against the wood floor, swish-swish-swish-crinkle-swish-krak-swish. Cats make for good company until you desire conversation, and then it’s like talking to a mirror. Even though you know it is just a reflection of you, it seems to mock you and to be built specifically to show you what a foolish creature you are. Even though it is just a reflection of you.
I went for a jog this morning into a seventy degree sunrise, baked from the inside, heard geese laugh and passed by aged strangers who could spare me a smile. Perhaps they save them up over time, and find that they have extra as their days are running out, so spend them freely.
If you whispered my name in the night I would hear it.
My ears are sensitive to your voice and my soul is fragile to your words and I would likely weep. I remember the seperation, before. The real, distant seperation from Washington to Ohio and how I could not stop sobbing – SOBBING – for hours after watching you drive away. Was that the same then as this is now? Was that the same then as this is now? I don’t know. I don’t know.
For those who read this and care, my parking tickets (that weren’t mine) have been taken care of.
Okay then.
Don’t run away so quickly.
Stay for awhile …
stay for awhile …
stay for awhile and we’ll talk like our hearts are our mouths.
My stomach turns, rolls like it’s in my head,
I can’t stand steady.
Why did you wait for me with a bag packed, ready to go?
I knew then that nothing would stay your hand.
All the things I knew then ….
Still. The house air grass wind walls mind fingers time seems still now. Still. Still. Still. Still. Measure out my heartbeat with the word … it is too quick. Measure out my teardrops with the word. They are too plentiful. Drip – Thump – Still – Drop – Tha-thump – Still ——– and so on.
One person can make the world seem so happy.
One person can make the world feel glad.
One person, too, can make it empty.
One person as well to make me sad.
If I didn’t vent, my heart would crack.
Just know that I miss you.
Just know that I love you.
Just know that.
There is a strength in weakness. Fortitude, in allowing yourself vulnerability. We are weak when we lean, but in this fashion a peak is made – two sides leaning, weak, and make something strong. That’s why relationships can be hard, people don’t like to make themselves vulnerable – and then if one side disappears, you’re left with a leaning line, who may have forgotten how to stand up straight. For some reason, illness makes me feel strong. I feel a surge of vigor when I experience my own frail humanity. This structure I live in may topple and fall – though no time soon, I think – there is something inside that is not collapsible, that will not break. It’s as if when the outside material wears thin, I can see through it, ponder the gears and pulleys, the drive-shafts of my mind and the hamster-wheel of my soul.
Can someone explain to me inertia? Can someone tell me the differences between vigilance and paranoia, decadence and excess? What about language and expression? Sometimes, I think I could draw something interesting, if I only had a bigger piece of paper. I could be an artist, if somehow all the right materials were placed in front of me. The days of feeling like a child genius have passed. Left behind is a fragile body, housing a mind still guilty over past megalomanias and a spirit that alternates its weekends between pure selfishness and pure charity. After everything, I’m still not sure if I believe in an unselfish act. Not even that!
Rimbaud channeled devils, demons, angels – innocence and madness! I would be content to channel Rimbaud. But no, I would not want his life, nor his agony. Self-crucifiction is the pinnacle of vanity.
On the loud-speaker: Clem Snide, Iron & Wine, and Death Cab for Cutie. Emily today called it “music to slit your wrists by”. Somehow, I don’t know what could be more uplifting. I’d rather live in Sartre’s plays then Chernyschevsky’s utopias. Strange fact: I’ve never attended a funeral.
I don’t remember now why I started this. Emily is gone for days (though so far, only hours) and there’s an emptiness already. Looking at it, I actually only feel happy – I’m lucky, because this emptiness is temporary, a ghost. There is a fullness that takes its place. Not completion – I am not incomplete alone. A sense that the world is so much more beautiful when it can be shared. Camus talks about art, and the multiplication of experience. It’s the banal part of his essay, where he sells out absurdity. Not that I don’t agree with him. But I can’t think of a better way of multiplying experience than by sharing: the world, ideas, perspectives –
– a mirror, a blanket, affirmation and warmth and the voice of reason in madness and the voice of passion against reason.
Thank you so much for all these things.