Tuesday, September 16, 2008
I used to, now I don't.
There was a time, not so terribly long ago, when, paralyzed as I was by my feelings for you, I was a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I understood crimes of passion and knew what it was to break a person with a table leg, out of sheer frustration, desire. I knew chloroform, I knew kidnap, I knew rape, I knew involuntary suicide pacts. I knew fucking you from behind with a gun in your mouth, one bullet going off like an orgasm, through your brain, through mine. I knew threesomes with a Smith and Wesson model 40 and two unrecognisable corpses, two faceless, bloody bodies in flagrante on the bed.
Then I left and I knew nothing.
I woke up, knee deep in snow, shell shocked and I began to forget, to unlearn; so when I see you now you're the kitchen sink, the price of jam, mid-afternoon, Sainsbury's. You bend too easily to yesterday's news and ignore the pull of the moon, your mind is limited at best, lumpy, univestigated, buttoned-down. You're fearful of addiction (which is to say experience) and evolve with the enthusiasm of a grave digger; it's true now that I run circles around you. It's true now that you'd be hurt if you read this, but it's unlikely that you ever will because you exist solidly within your own life. Not for you electronic stalking, technological wanderings, online explorations for solice, social investigation or anything as silly as the news.
In that fleeting moment I would have considered going straight for you, buckling down for you, wearing pants and going to work and monogamy and soap operas and 5-a-day. I would have beaten my own body into obedience (yes, with a table leg), polished my face and travelled on the Eurostar. But now, oh the truth is so grimy, and I have been around the world for two more years and I can't help noticing that you're just a person and your bathroom ceiling is filthy.
(Pic by Inbal Sivan)