And surely we throw ourselves into erotic pleasures above all in order to remember them. So that their luminous points will connect our youth with our old age by means of a shining ribbon! So that they will preserve our memory in an eternal flame! And take it from me, my friend, only a word uttered at this most ordinary of moments is capable of illuminating it in such a way that it remains unforgettable.
-Milan Kundera
Desires. Eros. What of this? Can it truly be linked to memory? Can this primordial, insatiable force within really be a matter of remembrance? Yes, and we can see why when we realize how closely memory is linked to confession. Confession is the enacting of memory--its emptying out. Confession is like dumping out the piggy bank to see what and how much lays inside. Why? Why do we confess? Why do we remember? Why do we recount endlessly in our minds vacant theater the memories of our erotic pleasures--our most intimate encounters? Why do prophets and apostles speak in words about their intimate encounters with the Word?
It seems life is a matter of words. It seems life is a matter of perpetually remembering and hoping for encounters--for moments--seconds--when we will experience that which is beyond words. As it stands, we know any words we thus use to describe it--the erotic pleasure so strong, so deep, so forceful that it makes us convulse and shake in wordless pleasure--the revelation so clear, so powerful, that it causes us to convulse and shake in wordless prayer--will fail. Words never can describe that which is beyond words, nor can they reach the Word.
Life is thus frustratingly and paradoxically always a matter of more words--of spinning and freeing the words that stem from those deep, confessional, vulnerable encounters with someone, something beyond ourselves. If there are words, we are still here to hope. If there are words, we will always try to get to the place where they will no longer be necessary, and, above all, hope we can stay there forever.
They say for me that I'm a collector of women. In reality I'm far more a collector of words.
-Milan Kundera
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
I don't want to tell you a story. I don't want to engross you in a narrative with a beginning and thus with an end. I don't want a happy ending, nor do I want a tragedy. I don't want to leave you on your seat, or in tears, or angry beyond words. I don't want you to lose yourself in the time of my narrative--in the time of the narrative--only to have to re-emerge again when the pages run thin and the night gets dark. I don't want to change your life. I don't want to you to change mine. I don't want to invent characters with idiosyncracies, or a setting with character and vibrance.
No.
I don't even want an audience. I don't want an ear, or many ears, or fans, or readers, or you.
No.
I don't even want an audience. I don't want an ear, or many ears, or fans, or readers, or you.
Episodes
I had a dream the other day, Old Man; you were the main character. I was walking along the boardwalk, when I came upon you laying in the sand. Blood dripped from your abdomen down your stomach, criss crossing your legs. You were in visible pain, but onl sobbing. I expected screams or wails, but you provided only quiet sobs. I came over, and asked you what happened.
"Don't worry about it."
What? You need to get some help, some attention.
"Don't worry about it. The help will come. The help is not what I am worried about."
What?
"Look at me, I am so embarrassed. Look at me, my insides are hanging out everywhere. You know how embarrassing this is?"
What?
"Look. Everyone can see me--everyone can see me spilling out of myself. You know what they can see? Everything that is supposed to be mine; everything that is supposed to be my own--my workings, my functioning, my breathing, my existence. It is all spilling out now. And, because of that, they can see my secret--they can see my shame."
What?
"Everyone can see my secret--I didn't put any of this here, and more than that, I don't know how any of it works. I am not in charge of myself, nor do I control myself. Look at me, a sad old man laying in the sand, his self gushing out of his chest onto the cold, unforgiving concrete of this boardwalk. Look at me, the myth of my autonomy is shattered--I'm nothing but bleeding, pulsating guts; nothing but spilled open and embarrassed."
I took some sea water to try to wash his wounds, but it didn't help. It only hurt more, he said.
I had a dream the other day, Old Man. You were telling me about all kinds of gibberish, and I was playing your game.
"Don't worry about it."
What? You need to get some help, some attention.
"Don't worry about it. The help will come. The help is not what I am worried about."
What?
"Look at me, I am so embarrassed. Look at me, my insides are hanging out everywhere. You know how embarrassing this is?"
What?
"Look. Everyone can see me--everyone can see me spilling out of myself. You know what they can see? Everything that is supposed to be mine; everything that is supposed to be my own--my workings, my functioning, my breathing, my existence. It is all spilling out now. And, because of that, they can see my secret--they can see my shame."
What?
"Everyone can see my secret--I didn't put any of this here, and more than that, I don't know how any of it works. I am not in charge of myself, nor do I control myself. Look at me, a sad old man laying in the sand, his self gushing out of his chest onto the cold, unforgiving concrete of this boardwalk. Look at me, the myth of my autonomy is shattered--I'm nothing but bleeding, pulsating guts; nothing but spilled open and embarrassed."
I took some sea water to try to wash his wounds, but it didn't help. It only hurt more, he said.
I had a dream the other day, Old Man. You were telling me about all kinds of gibberish, and I was playing your game.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Incoherent Words
No words?
Where have they gone?
Have they really left me? Or, have I concealed them--hidden them--run from them in a way that makes their absence conspicuously intentional?
Time itself--the Transcendent--calls--let them have you. Lay down on the stone tablet to be broken into fragments--trajectories of desire--and let the words shard all over the page. Time calls and demands the words. Time calls in place of the Word, demanding speech--demanding an attempt--a try at it all.
___
I saw you today--in trying and trying some more. I saw you today and wished you all the best. I saw you today and hoped you could smile despite Time's call. I saw you today and you hurt me. But, I don't blame you. I don't think it was your fault. No, I blame time. But, here I am, answering its call. Here I am, possessed by the words. I saw you today--what should I do about it?
___
Words, words, words. Break me open and let it loose--let them loose--let them free.
Where have they gone?
Have they really left me? Or, have I concealed them--hidden them--run from them in a way that makes their absence conspicuously intentional?
Time itself--the Transcendent--calls--let them have you. Lay down on the stone tablet to be broken into fragments--trajectories of desire--and let the words shard all over the page. Time calls and demands the words. Time calls in place of the Word, demanding speech--demanding an attempt--a try at it all.
___
I saw you today--in trying and trying some more. I saw you today and wished you all the best. I saw you today and hoped you could smile despite Time's call. I saw you today and you hurt me. But, I don't blame you. I don't think it was your fault. No, I blame time. But, here I am, answering its call. Here I am, possessed by the words. I saw you today--what should I do about it?
___
Words, words, words. Break me open and let it loose--let them loose--let them free.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
You and I and Words
Was it you who spoke the words that things would happen but not to me
Oh things are gonna happen naturally
Oh taking your advice I'm looking on the bright side
And balancing the whole thing
But often times those words get tangled up in lines
And the bright lights turn to night
Until the dawn it brings
Another day to sing about the magic that was you and me
Things will happen. Things are happening. And, yes, naturally--they have to happen this way. What's natural about the situation? I don't know. I don't know. Looking on the bright side? Yes. I think so. At the moment, the bright side is that there are words--lots of them. The words spew forth, yes, naturally. It's like there is no fabrication involved anymore; they are there, always. Dawn? I don't think the words will bring the dawn--I think the words keep the hope of dawn alive. There is a difference; an important difference.
Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just read of
Others only read of the love, the love that I love.
Yes, we loved--both of us. But, we didn't speak of it. We didn't speak of it and that's the reason that we can only read about it, just like everyone else. Others read the words--the natural ones--that flow from what we both loved--from the non-thing that gives rise to all these words. If we had spoken about it, it woudln't exist. If we had spoken of it, others wouldn't have to read about it; but more importantly, it wouldn't be ours--it would be something altogether different.
See I'm all about them words
Over numbers, unencumbered numbered words
Hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards
More words then I had ever heard and I feel so alive
Yes, the words are unencumbered. They come without burden or restriction. In fact, the words are the burden. The words are the burden of every day, every second. The words plague me. I have to work to crack myself open--to puncture every hidden space to bring those words to light--to let them breathe--to make them earn their existence. The words are coming, and the words are the burden. Almost out? No. Not even close. The words seem endless. And, thus, so does the burden.
You and I, you and I
Not so little you and I anymore
And with this silence brings a moral story
More importantly evolving is the glory of a boy
The silence? Don't get it confused. There are words. There will always be words. The silence doesn't signify the absence of words. No, the silence signifies the inability--my inability--despite the endless burden--to speak of what we loved. In this way, the silence is the reason for the words. The words are the silence.
Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just dream of
And if you could see me now
Well I'm almost finally out of
I'm finally out of
Finally deedeedeedee
Well I'm almost finally, finally
Well I'm free, oh, I'm free
Others dream of it, but I am not so sure I don't either. But, don't worry, make no mistake, I'm not free. The words are free. The words come with ease. But, if the words are free, I am the opposite.
And it's okay if you have go away
Oh just remember the telephone works both ways
And if I never ever hear them ring
If nothing else I'll think the bells inside
Have finally found you someone else and that's okay
Cause I'll remember everything you sang
I know, it has to happen naturally. I know. I know that the silence--even if it doesn't mean the absence of words--might mean the absence of ringing, and even singing. I know the bells will sound for you again--you know how to sing too well, to call too well, and to play all too well. But, that doesn't mean the words will stop. It doesn't mean a double silence. No, the words will always come--keep coming--gush forth onto the page. With those words--with every letter--comes the hope of inseminating the page--the hope that someday the page will give birth to what we sang of--what we loved. It is admittedly a hope against hope. But, like I have explained, even if the words are free, I am the opposite. The words have me--possess me--so they'll keep coming, into a dawn that is nowhere--no how--in sight.
Oh things are gonna happen naturally
Oh taking your advice I'm looking on the bright side
And balancing the whole thing
But often times those words get tangled up in lines
And the bright lights turn to night
Until the dawn it brings
Another day to sing about the magic that was you and me
Things will happen. Things are happening. And, yes, naturally--they have to happen this way. What's natural about the situation? I don't know. I don't know. Looking on the bright side? Yes. I think so. At the moment, the bright side is that there are words--lots of them. The words spew forth, yes, naturally. It's like there is no fabrication involved anymore; they are there, always. Dawn? I don't think the words will bring the dawn--I think the words keep the hope of dawn alive. There is a difference; an important difference.
Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just read of
Others only read of the love, the love that I love.
Yes, we loved--both of us. But, we didn't speak of it. We didn't speak of it and that's the reason that we can only read about it, just like everyone else. Others read the words--the natural ones--that flow from what we both loved--from the non-thing that gives rise to all these words. If we had spoken about it, it woudln't exist. If we had spoken of it, others wouldn't have to read about it; but more importantly, it wouldn't be ours--it would be something altogether different.
See I'm all about them words
Over numbers, unencumbered numbered words
Hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards
More words then I had ever heard and I feel so alive
Yes, the words are unencumbered. They come without burden or restriction. In fact, the words are the burden. The words are the burden of every day, every second. The words plague me. I have to work to crack myself open--to puncture every hidden space to bring those words to light--to let them breathe--to make them earn their existence. The words are coming, and the words are the burden. Almost out? No. Not even close. The words seem endless. And, thus, so does the burden.
You and I, you and I
Not so little you and I anymore
And with this silence brings a moral story
More importantly evolving is the glory of a boy
The silence? Don't get it confused. There are words. There will always be words. The silence doesn't signify the absence of words. No, the silence signifies the inability--my inability--despite the endless burden--to speak of what we loved. In this way, the silence is the reason for the words. The words are the silence.
Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just dream of
And if you could see me now
Well I'm almost finally out of
I'm finally out of
Finally deedeedeedee
Well I'm almost finally, finally
Well I'm free, oh, I'm free
Others dream of it, but I am not so sure I don't either. But, don't worry, make no mistake, I'm not free. The words are free. The words come with ease. But, if the words are free, I am the opposite.
And it's okay if you have go away
Oh just remember the telephone works both ways
And if I never ever hear them ring
If nothing else I'll think the bells inside
Have finally found you someone else and that's okay
Cause I'll remember everything you sang
I know, it has to happen naturally. I know. I know that the silence--even if it doesn't mean the absence of words--might mean the absence of ringing, and even singing. I know the bells will sound for you again--you know how to sing too well, to call too well, and to play all too well. But, that doesn't mean the words will stop. It doesn't mean a double silence. No, the words will always come--keep coming--gush forth onto the page. With those words--with every letter--comes the hope of inseminating the page--the hope that someday the page will give birth to what we sang of--what we loved. It is admittedly a hope against hope. But, like I have explained, even if the words are free, I am the opposite. The words have me--possess me--so they'll keep coming, into a dawn that is nowhere--no how--in sight.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
One more
Excuse me please, one more drink
Could you make it strong? Cuz I don't need to think.
She broke my heart, my grace is gone
One more drink and I'll be gone
Excuse me, not to interrupt--but one more. Yes, one more will do it--I'm already dizzy and this one will take me to the edge. What edge? The one where thought stops. I'll go over the edge where my body will finally force my thinking--my concepts--my brooding--my analyzing into submission. Excuse me, just one more, that is all I need.
Why? Well, my heart is broken. Wait. That is too strong. Or, maybe it is too cliche. Why? Maybe because my salvation--the means of grace--has left? I don't know if that is it either. Why? I think it is this: knowing the hope of that salvation was doomed to fail from the beginning; knowing there is no grace for the temporal space which my heart--my-non-self--occupies. I guess I know that my longing for grace was equivalent to my longing for pardon from my condition--the temporal one. I wanted to be pardoned from it--cured of its disease--made whole through unity with another. Is that why it involves my heart? Yes, sir, it is. Thank you for asking. I thought maybe that was the means by which I could be pardoned. I thought maybe her and I could confer upon one another the grace of salvation through moments of incision, confusion, and, yes, the disappearance of thinking. When thinking stops, time has no hold. Yes, I know. When thinking stops you are dead. They are similar. But, I think I thought that salvation could--would--bring time to a stop without killing me.
So, one more drink. One more is all I need to beat down the circle and fall asleep. One more and I'll be okay until the sun rises tomorrow. One more, and I'll be gone. One more and I'll move, but I can't promise I will move on.
Could you make it strong? Cuz I don't need to think.
She broke my heart, my grace is gone
One more drink and I'll be gone
Excuse me, not to interrupt--but one more. Yes, one more will do it--I'm already dizzy and this one will take me to the edge. What edge? The one where thought stops. I'll go over the edge where my body will finally force my thinking--my concepts--my brooding--my analyzing into submission. Excuse me, just one more, that is all I need.
Why? Well, my heart is broken. Wait. That is too strong. Or, maybe it is too cliche. Why? Maybe because my salvation--the means of grace--has left? I don't know if that is it either. Why? I think it is this: knowing the hope of that salvation was doomed to fail from the beginning; knowing there is no grace for the temporal space which my heart--my-non-self--occupies. I guess I know that my longing for grace was equivalent to my longing for pardon from my condition--the temporal one. I wanted to be pardoned from it--cured of its disease--made whole through unity with another. Is that why it involves my heart? Yes, sir, it is. Thank you for asking. I thought maybe that was the means by which I could be pardoned. I thought maybe her and I could confer upon one another the grace of salvation through moments of incision, confusion, and, yes, the disappearance of thinking. When thinking stops, time has no hold. Yes, I know. When thinking stops you are dead. They are similar. But, I think I thought that salvation could--would--bring time to a stop without killing me.
So, one more drink. One more is all I need to beat down the circle and fall asleep. One more and I'll be okay until the sun rises tomorrow. One more, and I'll be gone. One more and I'll move, but I can't promise I will move on.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop:
He said, "So what's the big deal about this one?"
"Well, she was a walking balance in purity and desire. You know? There was something pure--something consciously naive--something selfless. I trusted her. I really did. She was younger than me, but I don't know if that was it. She was one of those people that is born with an old soul, and because of it stays young and uncorrupted much longer than most of us; maybe forever, I hope so anyway. Yet, she was a fanatic for desire. She bathed in it; slept in it; let it permeate her every thought and movement. She was ravenous and insatiable. I'm not just talking about the bedroom either, Old Man. I am talking about allowing desire to overtake you in a way that splits you open at the core, leaving you to be overwhelmed by existential absurdity and the height of ecstasy. She had that. She let it have her. Desire carried over into everything she did--every way she related to me. It would dominate our conversations of love, religion, literature, people, and death. Desire would waft in the air of all these places; intoxicate the water that nourished our relations--every word, every phrase, ever word, every wink. And it all carried over into our love making--into passionate, expressive, verbal and non-verbal, deep, painful, open love-making. The kind that leaves you breathless for days. The experience of coming so close to someone else's soul--so close to the infinite abyss that they don't know how to give you directions to because they have never experienced it--never seen it--never known how to explain to anyone something they know they know is not there. We would come to the peak--to the edge--of that infinite--of that mixture of two untouchable spaceless, atemporal realms. In those moments--in those seconds--I hoped so hard, so expectantly, so wishfully. In the moments and days afterward I wept over the impossibility--the absurdity--of such an endeavor. Why so broken up? I guess alot of it is knowing I'll never know how she did it--how does one balance such naivete, such kindness, such purity with the waves and waves of desire that pour over and in every second? How can desire permeate every parcel of her Being while she stays so young, so beautiful, so exquisitely generous? How can the absurdity of Being not corrupt the Good? She's a walking non-answer to this question, and that's why there is no just forgetting her, it, all."
"Okay, son, sounds like a mouthful. You need another drink?"
I didn't respond.
"Well, she was a walking balance in purity and desire. You know? There was something pure--something consciously naive--something selfless. I trusted her. I really did. She was younger than me, but I don't know if that was it. She was one of those people that is born with an old soul, and because of it stays young and uncorrupted much longer than most of us; maybe forever, I hope so anyway. Yet, she was a fanatic for desire. She bathed in it; slept in it; let it permeate her every thought and movement. She was ravenous and insatiable. I'm not just talking about the bedroom either, Old Man. I am talking about allowing desire to overtake you in a way that splits you open at the core, leaving you to be overwhelmed by existential absurdity and the height of ecstasy. She had that. She let it have her. Desire carried over into everything she did--every way she related to me. It would dominate our conversations of love, religion, literature, people, and death. Desire would waft in the air of all these places; intoxicate the water that nourished our relations--every word, every phrase, ever word, every wink. And it all carried over into our love making--into passionate, expressive, verbal and non-verbal, deep, painful, open love-making. The kind that leaves you breathless for days. The experience of coming so close to someone else's soul--so close to the infinite abyss that they don't know how to give you directions to because they have never experienced it--never seen it--never known how to explain to anyone something they know they know is not there. We would come to the peak--to the edge--of that infinite--of that mixture of two untouchable spaceless, atemporal realms. In those moments--in those seconds--I hoped so hard, so expectantly, so wishfully. In the moments and days afterward I wept over the impossibility--the absurdity--of such an endeavor. Why so broken up? I guess alot of it is knowing I'll never know how she did it--how does one balance such naivete, such kindness, such purity with the waves and waves of desire that pour over and in every second? How can desire permeate every parcel of her Being while she stays so young, so beautiful, so exquisitely generous? How can the absurdity of Being not corrupt the Good? She's a walking non-answer to this question, and that's why there is no just forgetting her, it, all."
"Okay, son, sounds like a mouthful. You need another drink?"
I didn't respond.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Transitions
There is that constant transition--the one which births language again and again, day after day--that transition from me to an-Other (imagined or not, but mostly the former). I am trapped as a wave between two nodes that I don't think truly exist. Down in me--in the infinite that holds nothing--there is a crying--an urge--a desire--so before me and so ahead of me that I can't put into the words--cannot birth into the child of this longing. The world will never see it, and neither will I. This child--my word--is inadequate for carrying the space from me to anywhere else. But, words always are--that's why we turn time and again to either the Word, or that which we believe is beyond words (love). Sometimes, we even put the two together. Despite the inadequacy, that desire never leaves. Most days, times, moments, we hope--expect--through that desire. This day--this moment--it has absorbed--overtaken--submerged--not the desire--but the expectation.
Response? I don't know. I guess I'll do what is familiar.
Dancing in the play of images, logos, and ads--losing myself in a circle of sounds, one with a catchy beat and lots of smoke. Filtering in and out of a crowd sheltered in semi-darkness; a crowd longing to peak at the light only through the filter of perpetual shadow--covering--dark. Finding solitude and solace amongst those hidden, undisclosed spaces. The ones not exposed to either the light, nor to infinite. What more do you want? What more would one--could one--think to do?
Response? I don't know. I guess I'll do what is familiar.
Dancing in the play of images, logos, and ads--losing myself in a circle of sounds, one with a catchy beat and lots of smoke. Filtering in and out of a crowd sheltered in semi-darkness; a crowd longing to peak at the light only through the filter of perpetual shadow--covering--dark. Finding solitude and solace amongst those hidden, undisclosed spaces. The ones not exposed to either the light, nor to infinite. What more do you want? What more would one--could one--think to do?
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Miss
I am missing. I am missing one. One is missing me. Does it really matter? Yes. What is both parties agree? Even better.
Stopping? No.
Love? Perhaps.
I miss. I am missing. Is that your fault or mine? Is there anything either of us can do about it? Probably not.
So, let's miss--miss one, and allow one to miss us, so as to fulfill our selves and hope for something different. Missing means desire is unfulfilled. Missing means we still hope, even when we know hope isn't appropriate. Miss without thinking; miss without reflection. Just miss and don't stop to ask what it means. Time--as it does--will take care of the rest.
Stopping? No.
Love? Perhaps.
I miss. I am missing. Is that your fault or mine? Is there anything either of us can do about it? Probably not.
So, let's miss--miss one, and allow one to miss us, so as to fulfill our selves and hope for something different. Missing means desire is unfulfilled. Missing means we still hope, even when we know hope isn't appropriate. Miss without thinking; miss without reflection. Just miss and don't stop to ask what it means. Time--as it does--will take care of the rest.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Missing
Miss. To miss. Missing.
I am missing.
We automatically think of the active sense of this sentence--I am missing. I miss something. I miss someone. I had something--experienced something--and not it is gone. Thus, I miss it.
I am missing.
I miss.
Do you miss something that was present and now gone? Or, are you missing from yourself? Have others sought for you with no success?
I am missing.
Could it be both simultaneously?
I miss you. You miss me. Is this union? No. Fulfillment? Of course not. Desire for something beyond--something out of reach--something unattainable? Yes. Maybe that is the beauty of missing. Maybe that is its tragedy also.
Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.
I am missing.
We automatically think of the active sense of this sentence--I am missing. I miss something. I miss someone. I had something--experienced something--and not it is gone. Thus, I miss it.
I am missing.
I miss.
Do you miss something that was present and now gone? Or, are you missing from yourself? Have others sought for you with no success?
I am missing.
Could it be both simultaneously?
I miss you. You miss me. Is this union? No. Fulfillment? Of course not. Desire for something beyond--something out of reach--something unattainable? Yes. Maybe that is the beauty of missing. Maybe that is its tragedy also.
Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)