Hide and Seek
“People come and go in life but they never leave your
dreams. Once they are in your subconscious, they are immortal.”
Patricia Hampl
“And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where
we started and to know the place for the First time”
TS Eliot
“Experience, which takes innocence away from us, also
brings us back to it.”
Where are we? Wave Particle
duality. If you know where you are heading, you wouldn’t know where you are, if
you know where you are, you won’t know where you are heading. Ahh, choices,
choices.
Was destroyed today. In a good
way. Good because it was necessary, and inevitable, only because I wouldn’t
have had it any other way. The world is the way we see it because if it were
different you wouldn’t be here to see it otherwise. Metaphysicalizing pain. So
it matters. By golly, somethings should.
“We write with a passion and language we nurture for years
and years. With all that we have loved. With all that we have lost. With all
that we will never find again.” A quote goes.
What is left when you love and
lose except to write it and hope it gains weight and meaning that way somehow?
(Kundera in my head again) Against the unbearable lightness of being. Against
the paper thin sails of reason that our passions storms so easily rip away.
Against all the no’s and chains of society. Against all the forces that rage
within us and against us, within us, and against us. That notion that a
recorder should at the very least catch some glimpse of the ghost of us. Not
just glimpse but really listen. Not just listen but really understand. Ahh,
because love is so short and forgetting is so long. And forgetting is not even
an option when the past keeps finding ways to get to your heart. and in
reaching in, with a small gesture of kindness, smash walls of anger that kept
you from feeling the immense space your absence left. (The Heart is a tough
organ. Tenderness is in the hands.)
Ahh. And Elizabeth Bishop says:
the art of losing isn’t hard to master. (Lesson 2: poeticizing pain also
helps.) Even if it can be quite a disaster. (Dis-Aster –a departure from
what the stars decree.) But if destiny tells you to betray destiny, isn’t that
the destiny itself?? Ahh, the questions I plagued myself with when I was 9 years
old. I remember I was walking home from the park thinking “If I don’t walk
home, I would be breaking what I am meant to do. But maybe I am meant to break
what I am meant to do!! It’s inescapable!!” (hence, I was a sullen
child.)
There is an e.e cummings poem I love:
it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;
if this should be,i say if this should be–
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.
Fuck that. The only happiness I
can offer those I truly loved is the happiness I’m not there anymore to make
you suffer for leaving. Or even consider leaving. Yes, I am a vengeful
bitch. The “If you love someone set them free, if it doesn’t
come back to you, hunt-it-down-and kill-the-person-who-stole-it” variety.
Scorpio e. V for Vendetta, anyone?
Move on. Forgive. What does that mean? Do I repent, as well?
And What do I repent?
I repent the weakness in you, me,
society. I repent we aren’t strong enough for love most of the time. I repent
that we often don’t see how it is greater than us. I repent not surrendering to
it sooner.
Ask the questions. Live the
questions. Live your way to the answer. But today I am reveling in being
destroyed. And not knowing what to do with the pieces. It’s a new rock bottom.
Derangement before arrangement! (I always say.) Danger/Opportunity, Joy/
Sorrow, Angels/Demons –the Yin with the Yang. I live out my own lectures too
much.
Part of the poem I read in class goes:
Loneliness. So many different kinds. And yet one vague word.
And the Eskimos for their 26 words for snow. Such a fine alertness for what
variously presses down. Yesterday, I saw lovers hugging in the streets. Making
everyone feel as lonely as them. And the lovers themselves? Wasn’t there a
deferred kind of loneliness waiting for them?A word for them. And a word
please, for this empty space. In this nameless spot. But oh, no doubt there
must be Eskimos in their white sanctums thinking: just let it fall. Accumulate.
We are not alone at being alone,
Sting consoles. Loneliness and its oh too many kinds. I think, seeing you again
after one and a half years, I felt all of them tonight. Like snow. The heart
sits ceremonious before it, waiting for the formal feeling to once again set
is, as it does inevitably, after intense feeling.
What do you say to the love
you could have slain dragons for (and you slay them still for her ghost)
–but who made you feel like you had to be tender as holding a bubble in your
hands at the same time? –who made you stretch to that kind of strength
and that kind of weakness? Ahh. Years later, for my lesbian lover, it was with
open eyes we chose this stand. And I am sorry you and I have to see each
other’s destiny unraveling from this (oh so hellish) burning and yet necessary
distance.
