I think what scared me the most was being dead. I mean, dying while still breathing, maybe like being buried alive or something. I was so scared of making a decision that would last forever—one that would mean that I can never, ever change.
I was so scared that nothing more would be at stake. I mean, I complain a lot about us not having the same stakes—the same things at stake, but if I am honest, it was more than that. It felt like that if she was the One—if I chose One again—made another one the One—began to believe and hope and believe in a One—well, nothing at all would be at stake. I mean what is at stake when the decision has been made? What is at stake when everything is settled—when the most important, intimate things have been paid up? What can possibly still be at stake when the question of who I am and how I will be and if I am loved and if I loved is decided? It feels like death. It feels like dying.
I couldn't handle the idea that I would never arrive again, at least not for a new person. I know that I would, could arrive for her a million different times. I know that she would see me show up—see me arrive—be born on top of her again and again—and then disappear, again and again. I know each time, or most times, or some times, it would reaffirm our oath to one another; it would revitalize our connection; it would re-sign our contract.
But, that was the problem. How do you re-sign time and time again without resigning? How do you re-sign without resigning?
I want to resign—want to be able to commit time and time—to give myself—lose myself—over and over. I want to sign that signature and then keeping signing it in every moment, every hour, every day.
However, I don't know how to do that without resigning myself to death. I don't know how that works without resigning myself to being a dead person—a person for whom nothing more is at stake.I feel like re-signing the oath over and over . . . even in the ecstatic moments of the little death . . . at the height of frenzy . . . it feels like resigning myself to pounding my stakes into something—into a surface and a ground—a foundation and a place—that is permanently fixed.
When your stakes are forever—when they aren't at risk—when they don't move—when they are decided; when your stakes are buried and covered over—when they don't get looked at or thought of—when you don't have to think about moving them, mulling, pulling, pounding, sounding, or resounding them—they aren't stakes anymore. They are boards—floor boards—foundation boards—building boards. When you bore something—when you participate in the act of boring—twisting, turning, and fixing in order to harness for good—well you are on the road to boredom. I didn't want to die. I didn't want to die by having my stakes—her stakes--bored through me so that I was so bored I was dead. I didn't want to die while still living.
I mean, you realize that about love, don't you? It is supposed to be forever.
That is a huge difference between anything else we do. We all have something at stake. All day every day we are involved, committed, thrown, into situations, and circumstances, and places where we have something at stake. We don't get to choose to have something at stake—every time you take a fucking breath something is already at stake—you just have to deal with that fact, sorry.
And, so, we have to figure out what is worth it—who, or what, or how, is worth pounding your stake into something in order to erect at tent—a temporary dwelling where you make life, make love, make people happy, or make the world better. Some people use tents to hide from other people; some use tents to hide from themselves; some make tents—pound their stakes over and over and over—in hopes that just once someone else might notice and join them in the tent. But, when we pound stakes it is always temporary—even the stakes we pound for survival's sake are temporary—they aren't meant to last forever; they are meant to last long enough for one or more than one to survive the night or the winter or the storm.
You see, the only stakes meant to built permanent dwellings—ones that last forever—ones that last beyond the personal forever into eternity—into the Infinite—are Holy Places: churches, temples, pyramids, mosques, and so on. The only stakes used forever are the ones that build places of worship.
What about one's home? What about the need to create shelter for a family or a pack or a tribe being thrown about by nature's cruel, fickle feelings? I tell you what, creating a hut or a teepee or a fucking track home with a view of a golf course is never about forever—at its most rudimentary and bare levels, it is about survival.
Homes are for living; churches are for dealing with both death and the dead.
Love has never, ever been about survival—not one time.
Love has always—from forever—for forever—been about death. It is a matter of a very human need to somehow die while remaining alive. What do we say about love? “She takes my breath away . . . With her, I am lost . . . I am blind in love . . . I was lost in love . . . I couldn't see—I was blind—for love's power . . . I didn't know what I was doing because of love . . .”
Don't talk to me about surviving with love. Don't talk to me about needing love to go on—we all can get up in the morning and find some food in the forest, in the desert, or the cupboard. Survival never depended on love.
No. Love is about pounding stakes that turn into relics. Love is about pounding stakes somewhere where once they are in the ground they are sacred—they are sanctificed—holy--and thus, not to be touched. Love is about pounding stakes that become altars, idols, minorets, and minorahs. Love is about killing its builders so the spirits can live. We pound stakes all day everyday because we have to. But the only time we pound stakes that kill us are when love is involved.
I didn't want to die. I didn't want to sanctify the building of another One—I hadn't believe in Ones for a long time, and honestly, the thought of it scared me to death.
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