As we walked along the boardwalk a few hours later, my housemates, the Handsome Young Professor, and myself, I realized we had a place to go that night—we were walking up and down. We were going parallel, like everyone else. It somehow felt good, even if I knew our reason was superficial and fleeting. We stopped at a few dive bars to relax and kill time before going to the nightclub. At a bar called “Tiny's” we sat on bar stools sipping bottled beer as the Handsome Young Professor chatted up the bartender. The boys discussed the presidential election; I feigned an interest in listening. Hotel California played on the jukebox as forgettable faces went in and out. Where did they have to go? Were they going to walk parallel? What was there reason? I didn't know. After the bottles were empty, we left.

At the “Wordsworth Cocktail Bar” some young girls giggled in corner while drinking carefully mixed drinks that seemed to take longer to make than to drink. We sat at the bar once again, and the Professor told us to go invite them out. “I don't know mate,” the Englishman said with a good dose of hesitancy in his voice. He grabbed some peanuts out of the bowl on the bar and seemed to be thinking it over. He was by all accounts a hit with the ladies. Yet, he never approached them. Never. I don't know why. Maybe a lack of confidence, or something.
“Fuck you Manning, you fucking mother cock.” The academic yelled at the silent television in the corner.
“Mate, quiet down. You can't yell like that in here. Relax.”
“Manning is such a fucking bitch. Fucking cocksucking little bitch. Can't stand him.”
We finally reached the night club around midnight. As we walked in two oversized bouncers looked at our ID's and then gave us the nod. The light was dim, with flashes coming from all around. I could smell the almost tangible congregation of the human mass reveling within the crowded space. Walking inside I felt both excited and depressed.

So many people.
So many bodies.
So much desire.

And, such deep, inexpressible isolation.

During that second it seemed there were endless opportunities in the world for meetings, conversations, and experiences of all kinds, and nothing for which to breathe all at the same time. How can it come and go so quickly? How can possibility turn to hopelessness in a flash? Why does the abyss emerge amidst adrenaline and people? How can we be so alone when we are surrounded by so many other souls? Do souls ever touch? I wondered about this last question throughout the night. If they do, it probably does not happen in a nightclub.These questions flashed through me like a sudden twitch—by the time you realize what has happened it is all over.

As we sat there, on that log, near the pond, with the frogs chirping and the wind breezing, I realized we were truly all alone. There wasn't another soul near us--not even in the vicinity. I realized we were sitting--in a beautiful place--alone, except for one another. I wondered silently if all beautiful places were solitary places.

After I stopped talking, we sat in silence for a few moments--embracing--looking at our reflections in the pond. It was murky, cloudy water, but it somehow reflected a wonderfully blurred vision of the two of us. The water was still--it was the first time I had seen the water still in that pond.

After a bit, I asked you if you wanted to say anything.

"I love you."

That was all.

We sat--for a long time--at the end of a long conversation, in a beautiful place, silent. We sat without company, at the end of language, waiting for a new conversation to begin.

I didn't mind waiting. It was nice to be alone with you--in the intermittent--in such a strangely beautiful, silent place.

I don't know why that woman bothered me so easily--the woman speaking about the One. I was rather rude to her, and I know it caught her off guard.

Maybe it is because I don't believe like she does. Or, maybe it is because I'm jealous--no, not of her--but, of the One. Maybe I was so irritated because I know I can't be the One; I can't even pretend to be a servant or friend of the One. I can't be the One--I can't save, I can't protect, I can't oversee the moments, or crush the space in my hands. I am not the One--I don't surpass language or time, I don't exceed all excess, or transcend all transcendence. I am not the One--I can't provide, can't shelter, can't promise, can't fix.

I think at times we all try to either be the One or to meet the One. Some of us want to meet the One. Some of us want to be the One.

I think because I don't believe like that woman I know that not only can I not be the One--but, I can't even be your One. I think I know that I can't be the One of any-one--even though I wish I could.

No. I can welcome the moments. I can take the seconds as they are given to me one by one. I can remember certain moments and seconds--certain smiles and laughter. I can remember certain touches. I can long for more. I can try. I can expect. I can hope with you, beyond hope, not for One--but for . . . what? I don't know. Maybe, just another second--to be given one more second--in which to hope. I can hope for hope and no more.

That is all I can be for any-one--for you. That is all I can be for you. It doesn't feel like enough, but, what is one to do?

Loving Strangeness

I saw you today. I saw you in the woods sitting alone. You seemed reflective, but also a little hurt. As I approached, you looked up from the log in the clearing you were sitting on--the one by the small pond with the frogs. You looked up and your face screamed anticipation, hope, and reluctance all at the same time.

It was nice to see you--that was the first thing I thought. It was nice to see you sitting--looking so beautiful--in such a beautiful place.

"Hello."

"Hello you. Can I sit?"

"Sure."

"What is it you would like to talk about?"

"Love."

"I suspected as much.

So, I sat. I sat and spoke. I told you about what I had thought about in times I had time to think; times spent in less beautiful places."

"I met one. I met a woman--one that said she had met the One. Listening to her, I realized something about myself, and about love."

"Go on."

"Well, I used to agree with her. I used to think that someday I would meet the One--I would meet the One for whom I was destined--the only One--the One that was for me. I used to think I would meet the One that would give me the stability, the unity, and the identity of an unchanging, unlonging, settled soul. I used to think I would be converted and in doing so receive the salvation of earth--love. I used to think love was being converted to One--to becoming fully united with one--and letting our respective selves pass into a Selfsameness that surpassed words, surpassed all other relationships, and colored every breath of our interaction with the world."

"Okay."

"I will never love you that way; in fact, to do so would be to kill both of us. I don't want a love that takes my breath away, or yours for that matter. I don't want a love that is akin to death. I don't want the end of desire--the end of need--the end of longing."

"Okay."

"No, if I am going to love you it will always be as a stranger. You will always be a stranger to me--as strange or more as time goes on, no matter how long we spend together. You will always be strange to me--you will always be other. Instead of the One, you will be the Other. We won't be united. No. We will stay infinitely separate. The distance between us won't ever dissipate. No. We'll always be isolated little souls--treading in the sea of singularities. You will always be away--apart--altogether different. And, that is how I will love you. I will love you with a longing that will only stop when the possibility of myself stops. I will love you infinitely across a distance I know cannot be overcome, most of all, because it is an eternal one and I am so, so mortal. I will love you as a stranger in my home--in my arms--one I cannot, will not understand--comprehend--or grasp. I will love you as a blurred, bedazzling appearance I can't reduce, and therefore, one that demands my attention, my devotion, my interest in ways I can never fulfill. I won't love you as my One--I won't kill you or me. I won't love you as the One. I'll love you as my Other--as the Stranger inside me--the one crawling around--touching me in places I didn't know I had--places exhilirating and uncomfortable at the same time. I'll love you as one haunting me--calling me ever toward you. I'll love you as a foreigner inside myself--inside a land with precarious borders, and unknown topography. I'll love you even though I can't--even though eternity won't let me."

"Thank you for sharing. I appreciate what you have said."

"You are welcome."

The One

I met a woman today--one. I met one. She told me about the One she had met; or, at least thought she had met.

The one I met thought she had met the One--the only one, the one for eternity, the one that would be hers forever without a change, the one that would make her complete and let her begin living for the first time.

"Wow, congratulations. That is amazing."

"Thank you. It is all a bit much, but I am overwhelmed with happiness, joy--so many things I guess."

"How did you know he was the One? I mean how can one know they know the One? How does one identify him?"

"I don't know. There is no science to it--it isn't a matter of rationality, or of logic. Nope. It's a feeling you get deep inside--somewhere you didn't know you had--somewhere that hasn't ever been touched before. I guess you could call it that virginal soul deep down--the one deep inside."

"That is ironic to me."

"Why?" she said in disapproval.

"So, you mean to tell me, that to know that the one you have met is the One--he has to penetrate you first? It just seems counter-intuitive, that's all I am saying."

She didn't like this. She didn't like my talk of penetration and irony. So, she left. She didn't even finish her drink.

What is all this about the One? And, why is the One so deeply, deeply, penetratingly connected to love?

The whole time I was talking to that woman I didn't know if we were talking religion or romance; conversion or coitus; tongues or tongue.

Where did this come from--this myth of the One? Where does the desire for Him or Her or It come from? And, which one do I want? Which one of the Ones do I want--religion or romance? Do I want to be converted to the One of eternity, or captured by the One of romance?

Maybe, I don't want either. Maybe, it is ironically the opposite. I want to be penetrated--entered--filled--and thus, hopefully, in the end, unified with the One--with the Spiritual Groom. Maybe all I ever wanted was to be filled--in that virginal--vaginal place ones from Augustine to Eckhart to womanizers such as Kundera and Klima--have called the soul. Maybe all I want is to be filled forever--consummated by the consummate One--the One that will never leave me, will never change, will never break a promise, and never ever stop loving me.

Maybe I want to be converted to the One that stands in front of me--takes my breath away--and give myself--as best as I know possible to that One. Maybe I want to surrender me in order to gain a we that didn't exist beforehand. Maybe I want to convert--take vows--and never look back.

And, maybe, just maybe--these dual myths of the One are and have always been blurred into indistinction. Maybe, just maybe, they are the same thing.

I met one today--one that wanted the One. She was so excited. She was so happy.

The Big O

The big O, not the little one. The one that signifies not something--not something in the world next to me; but one that is other in a way I can't understand--can't comprehend--can't master: O. Of course, the big O conjures other thoughts--phonetically it makes one think of something else--an experience so unique it also requires to be signified differently. The big O--Orgasm. The big O--Other. Is there a similarity here? Is there a hOmOlOgy, or are the two Other to one another?

Let's start with the big O--orgasm. And, let's restrict ourselves to the big ones--the memorable ones--or, better yet, the ones that stop memory and language and thought for a second or two or more. Let's only talk about the big ones. I dare to say the big ones require an Other. Auto-affection won't do it.

It is a process--a building--an unlocking--a revealing--preparing--trying--coalescing--moving--hoping--expecting--and all sorts of other things. You and I, going somewhere we can't talk about. Trying to take the Other to a place where they are Other to even their own self--to a place where their own self is obliterated into a shaking mess of non-language. Trying to take an Other to a place they can't go by their-self--to a place of non-selfhood that is somehow an experience of selfhood. Trying to reveal to them their singularity--their irreplacebility--in that moment--in that second--their singularity--their absolute uniqueness. Trying to unlock and open their self so they can have it--feel it--experience it--even if only temporarily, temporally. Yes, trying to make them cum so they can come--to come by cumming?

Vulgar? Perverted?

The Big O--both of them--you, standing opposed to me as one I can't comprehend, can't reduce, can't make my own. You are something in the world of which I am not master--something I don't know. I am something--something in the world I can't comprehend, and something I don't know, especially by mastery. Desire for the Other--for orgasm--for becoming one that is singular, non-objective, and irreplaceable--one that is eternal for having somehow escaped the temporality of solitude and the solitude of temporality even for a few seconds, moments, or hours.

You--Other--give me me. Me, your Other--I'll give you you. I'll give you what I don't have and receive a gift I know you don't own.

The Big O. I'll receive you. I'll try. I'll hope. I'll expect. Even if it never happens--if the cumming is no coming--the desire for it never ceases. Even if it never arrives, the big O, the big one, there is always trying--always hoping--always wanting--that is tragic and wonderful all at the same time.

Perhaps, it occurred to me, I was in some new space. I'd entered the place where oblivion was born. Or despair. And also understanding. Or perhaps even love--not as a mirage but as a space for the soul to move in. -Ivan Klima


I am in a new space. Well, I might have always been here. Regardless, I am aware of a new space--or trying to be. This is the where oblivion was born. This is the primordial lack--the deficiency on which I operate--the one that keeps me moving back and forward, keeping me always in between the behind and the ahead. I don't have a foundation to be-from. I don't have a future to be-toward. Thus, the abyss can lead one to think that this space is also home to despair.

But, for some, it is the opposite--it is the place where love is born--where love resides--where love is situated.

What's the lesson?

Love is movement. Love is flux. Love is longing. Love moves--always moves--between an oblivion and the threat of despair. Love is the possibility for hope despite the oblivion, and in the face of despair.

Desire

Pleasure itself . . . that which would accord us (to) pure presence itself, if such a thing were possible, would be only another name for death. -Derrida


Pleasure--the drive for happiness that Plato and others have spoken about--the drive for fulfillment--for enjoyment. What kind of enjoyment? The kind--the only kind--in which time is stopped and I am me--present to me--wholly me--altogether myself. The kind in which there is no more striving--no more pushing ahead--or looking behind--in which time doesn't lead one toward an end in nothing, or from a beginning from before memory. Pleasure--the drive to recreate one's self in a way that is whole, lasting, and permanent--the drive to find a place to rest away from the scattering effects of temporality. I want to be whole. I want to be permanent. I want to rest in something eternal, unchanging, and good.

Why is it the same as death? Death is that experience--that non-experience--the only experience of which we can try to speak--that is outside of time. It is the non-moment when time no longer pushes, or pulls, or anything. It is outside--it is me--stopped--forever. In this way, pleasure leads to pure nothingness.



. . . this desire carries in itself the destiny of its non-satisfaction. -Derrida

Thus, the desire for pleasure is doomed from the beginning. We strive--all day everyday--to find the center that will hold us in place--but the only one available is the abyss--the hovering abyss that awaits. Pleasure is the contradictory desire for death--to re-create ourselves permanently--to be outside of time--that is, to be dead.


. . . the desire for presence is . . . born from the abyss. -Derrida

So, what? Despair? Back to Camus and the absurdity? Back to nihilistic anarchy? No. Well, at least not for me. Why? Well, the void--the abyss--is all I have. And, I'd lie if I didn't said I didn't love the exquisite agony of the perpetual drive for pleasure. That exquisite agony of longing to be together--to find One that could make me me for the first time--to find one way of experiencing death--not my own--but the death of temporality--without destroying myself in the process. I love the coming together and the breaking apart. The building pressure--the anticipation--the insatiability that exceeds words--exceeds time--or, at least gives one such impressions. I would lie if I said I didn't love the desire--the structure of desire--that possesses me at every second, calling me toward the One I know isn't there, the One I won't find, but the One of which I dream for so fervently.

What I am interested in is the desire for the experience of the impossible. --Derrida

That desire--the one for the impossible--for a moment in which time is destroyed and I am not. Will it ever come? Of course not. Do I want it--can I feel it shiver through my bones at ever waking second? Of course. That is the point, the structure, and the tragic beauty of desire.

But who, sometimes, doesn't feign emotions in an effort to transcend the void that suddenly looms between them and someone they believed themselves to be on intimate terms with? It looks as if it's only possible to be genuine in a game in which you have more than one life. Or rather it is easier to achieve justice and authenticity in a game than in real life. --Ivan Klima

The void looms regardless. The void looms not because of a deficiency or lack left from a failed attempt at plenitude. No. The void looms as the condition for intimacy, effort, and transcendence themselves. The void looms between the two--it is the difference that makes me possible, and you too. The void looms between us--we long for an encounter in which it might disappear--even for a second--and thus feign emotions in an active tweak of the real--an attempt to forget in order to overcome. But, actively forgetting is not possible--we only forget those things we won't/don't try to forget. The void looms and it draws us near--draws us out--draws into places we really don't want to go--into places unlit and unsafe--into places vulnerable and new.

Did I say I hate the void?

I love the void. I love the movement of play the void spurs on in every moment. I love the waves crashing over, and over, and over--changing shapes--changing form--changing color--changing me. I love the difference and the movement. I love the perpetual activity and flow. If there were no void, there would be no moving--no coming together and breaking apart--no desire--no attempts at self-transcendence. All attempts at self-transcendence would be null and void.

I have only the void. And, so do you. I have only the felt absence--the sensed absence. And, I have it only passively. I'll take it (I have no choice), and let it take me into places--no, spaces--of which I do not know.

But who, sometimes, doesn't feign emotions in an effort to transcend the void that suddenly looms between them and someone they believed themselves to be on intimate terms with? It looks as if it's only possible to be genuine in a game in which you have more than one life. Or rather it is easier to achieve justice and authenticity in a game than in real life. --Ivan Klima

Feigning emotions? Why? in order to transcend one's self? In order to move past the void--to forget about it long enough to have an erotic experience with an-other? I hate feigning emotions. I hate pretending in order to transcend me. And, I despise the void.

The void follows me--haunts me--at every step; every breath. I live from it, in it, and through it, yet it dominates me in a way that is oppressively inescapable. I want nothing more than to escape it--fulfill it--remedy it--but I am afraid time won't allow that to happen.

In the meantime, I'll hope, pray, and want--nothing more and nothing less.

Collecting Connections/Connecting Collections

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!

Life, it seems, is a moving between eternities. It is a stretched out continuum highlighted by points which link us--or at least give us the impression of linking us--to some sort of encounter with the infinite. And, of course, many times--most times--this happens in the throes of erotic desire. Life, it seems, is temporality lived out between the illusion of the infinite, and its infinite hope. This is who we become--not the continuum, but the points along the way that leave our memory seared with the mark of something more, something beyond. These encounters take us beyond ourself and thus, in some tragic way, end up defining us.


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

In those moments, our lives become eternal. Within seconds, we build an image that becomes the irreplaceable, singular unity of the otherwise temporal existence of everyday life.

Shall we collect them? Mark as many points on that continuum as possible in order to create a storehouse of memories of the infinite? The hopeless quest of infinite memories? Or, shall we connect? Shall we connect intimate, fiercely, ferociously--attacking the moments, the seconds, the breaths with the impossible dream of destryoing them? The dream of timeless victory--timeless connection?

They say for me that I'm a collector of women. In reality I'm far more a collector of words.
-Milan Kundera

Regardless, there will always be words to speak about them--whether the connections and collection remains plentiful or few, vulnerable or superficial.

When I can't write anymore I'll die. But I'll die loving. -Ivan Klima

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.