Friday, January 23, 2009

They say it's been two years now.

"Salman Rushdie says it better than I:
What is unforgivable?
What if not the shivering nakedness of being wholly known to a person one does not trust?"

Try as I might to tell myself that it is an impossible and thankless task to love a person who has nothing but objectivity running through their veins, I often fail.

Having Apollo in your life can bend you like Dionysius, deprive you of any rationality so all logic is lost to panic and passion. When you go on shouting over the edge of a cliff and no longer even hear your own echo, when you can't even find your reflection in a perfectly placid pool, when you press down on your wrist for hours and can't find a pulse, then you know it's time.

Or rather you should. I went on dashing my own hopes like so many little lost sailboats on a carnivorous, storm ridden sea, until I went down with them through the inky, murky darkness.

Drowning is not a peaceful death, it’s slow and painful, it’s not poetic, it’s not dreamlike, it feels like suffocation and panic, terror terror terror, the kind you can only ever experience once in your life, after which you’re broken. Dying is easy, it’s living that scares me to death and drowning is not a peaceful death, ask the sailors, they know.

On dry land, with wet eyes, I saw Salman Rushdie at a cocktail party and he was dancing to I Will Survive . My Mother made a lousy joke, saying; "Well he did survive didn't he?"

"I don't think that's very funny, Mother," I said as fellow guests surreptitiously drew out their cell phone cameras.

I saw you in the streets of San Francisco, yes, outside of Phil's. You blanked me and I blanked you like a pair of fucking school kids, only you did it better, outright and in the open. I hid my ignorance behind sunglasses and a phone call.

I had the feeling right then, that if I were to drop my phone and drop my glasses and call your name, you'd come back to me, but like so many times before and so many times since my mouth became a graveyard and all those sentiments died on my tongue.

I write you into shows you know, parts you'll never play, but I get to say everything I want to you onstage, and you can't turn away. In a way you belong to me, because I have forgotten so much about you, and really there wasn't so much to know (you were handsome, you were free-love, you hated your Mother, you had a swimming pool in the garden). Because I have forgotten so much about you I have filled in the blanks for myself, whatever time and the wind have eroded I have replaced, and so we sit like Mrs Bates and her son ("Who's who?" I hear you ask), or rather like Ms Havisham sat in the folds of her wedding dress.

It's such a joke, a worse joke than any of my Mother's, that since I have never learned to say what I feel all of my emotions trickle out in products, and all of my most truthful words are taken for fiction and wisecracks.

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