One More (Redux)

Neon shines through smoky eyes tonight,
It's 2 AM, I'm drunk again,
It's heavy on my mind, it's heavy on my mind.

How come neon always goes with heaviness? It seems neon is hung outside places like this one in order to beckon the heavy-laden to come rest. It's late; or early. Regardless . . .

I could never love again,
So much as I love you.
Where you end, where I begin,
Is like a river going through.

Okay, okay, you are right. Maybe I am being a bit dramatic. Or, maybe not. I could never love so much? Yes. No. Maybe. I'm not sure. Well, maybe the words are wrong. Maybe I mean I could never love as . . . I'm not sure. I do know that there was a point, at times, a point in time, a point in time at times, when I didn't know where you stopped and I started--or where you began and I ended. Maybe that is what I am really trying to get at--what I really miss.


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.

I know the dog days of the summer
Have you ten-to-one out-numbered
Seems like everybody up and left and they're not coming back
The shadow that you're standing on's still here sometimes that's all that you can ask
And your heart's still beating

Yes, these, as they say, are the dog days. I'm not sure if the summer part is coincidence or not. In my--our--case, I think it might be. Yes, they have me--er, us--outnumbered. The dog days seem to outweigh the others at this point--whatever those might be. At this point, they are only memories. But they used to be something else, I promise. The shadow? I don't know if I'm standing on it, but there is one here. It is elusive. It changes. But, it is here. And yes, my heart is beating--a blessing and the curse. A blessing in that I am here--experiencing--trying--hoping. A curse in that I am doing all of that within the limitations of the Impossible. IS that really a curse? I don't know, maybe it is the beer talking.

You're not the fastest draw in town now
How many times you been shot down now?
Seems like everybody else could see the things you never did
But if you could yourself you'd probably never have made it through the things you did
With your heart still beating

No, I am not the quickest draw in town. I am not the sharpest tool in the shed, either. The list goes on and on. I've been shoy down quite a few times--even left for dead a couple. It is no longer surprising; it is always hurtful. But, it passes. Yes, others see things I don't. If I saw them, I may or may not have made it, you are right. But, you know what? If I saw what they saw, I'd be miserable. Seeing what they don't means I see what they don't--and you know--that is why I continue to try even after being shot down. That is why I continue to beat--to pound within each second--to pump blood that goes in a vicious circle.

I know the dog days of the summer Have you ten-to-one out-numbered
It seems like everybody else saw trouble sneaking up behind
Left you half dead in the street but that just means you're half alive
And your heart's still beating

These dog days of summer, they are difficult, and confusing, and even awkward at times. These days . . . Everyone saw the trouble--well, sure. Everyone always sees everyone's trouble. Half dead? Now you are just talking oxymorons. We are all already dead--being half-dead means nothing. No, I'd rather listen to this dead, dying heart--than worry about anyone else's trouble, or not try at all. I'd rather live these dog days, as you call them, than skip the heat of summer altogether. I'd rather be a dog even--which I am and have been--than worry about trouble or people or anyone else.

I'm sorry for the dogs and the days--but I'm thankful that my heart beats, and that you made it beat faster for such a time as you did.

My heart is still beating, even though it knows the blood goes in a circle.

We all long for an encounter. The problem for most of us is not having one--or thinking we have had one--it is figuring out what to do once we have. Settle? Look for more? Of course I want another, it was the defining moment of my existence. Do you blame me?

We all long for an encounter. The problem is figuring out how to live here once we have. I love the desire--the rush--the passion of the during. But what about when it is over? What about the descent back into time and space? It hurts. It degrades. It humiliates.

We all long for an encounter--one that exceeds time and language. We all long for the Impossible. But, for most of us, it too much to deal with--it isn't hard to find, but it is hard to take home.

Looking

Don't look for me here, please. Don't look for yourself here, either. Neither is to be found at this cyber address, and no counsel is to be taken from the ramblings posted here. They are nothing more than cheap thoughts to be swallowed as thoughtlessly as the generic lager you drank for dinner. If this is a place to wonder, it isn't a place to find.

You and Me . . .

It is only you and me now. But, I can't help but worry. I worry because I never know when you will appear. I can't depend on you because you won't ever tell me when you are coming, what we will do, or how it will go. I can't depend because you aren't like that. I guess that is part of your charm. I guess that is part of why I a yours. But, it is hard. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I want to run to another. But, I'm here, waiting, and desperate. Why? Because when you do appear I am enthralled--enraptured--in deep. When you flow, move, overwhelm--well--that is all I want and all I can imagine.

It is only you and me now. I am here and hoping you will come soon. I'm hoping you'll make it hurt, and make it beautiful.

You and Me

It is only you and me now. You are always changing--always elusive. I never know what to expect and I never have control. You dominate. And, I guess I love it. It is not that I submit; it is if I want this at all, you will dominate. There is no choice in the matter. But, I'll chase. I'll surrender. I'll come. This is where I am--this is who I am. It is all wrapped up in you. I don't have me--but with you, at least I have an illusion. With you, I have something to chase--something to make me try; even if it means I am unsettled, unstable, or everywhere.

It is only me and you now. I'll try until I am dead. I'll try because the trying means I'm dead already. I'll try so that when I die, I will die loving.

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

Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop

I met the Old Man Today.

Hi.

I am tired of being crazy.

Well, what do you want to do about it?

I don't know. What is there to do?

You could settle.
You could give up.
Or you could live in between, and keep talking.

Do the words stop on either side of the between?

I'm not sure. I never had any words, and I wasn't in the between too long.

Why do I want the not-between if it means the end of the words?

Why do you want anything? You know it is pointless to begin with, but it hasn't stopped you. You still saunter in here to irritate me, don't you? You still go out with those idiot friends of yours. You still try. Maybe you are a coward. Or, maybe you want to try so bad you are afraid to.

Maybe. Why do I talk to you, anyway? Your a stupid old man who sits in a coffee shop all day.

With that, he went back to his crossword puzzle. With that, I went for a walk.

I met an old, new friend today; one that I had walked with in lives past, but one whom I have lost contact with since both of us have made and re-made ourselves time and time again. We used to talk about grown-up things in adolescent terms. We used to ruminate on life's meaning through telephone calls, and walks in the park. She's tall, and ginger, with a smile that doesn't sparkle with a naive, irritating optimism, but instead radiates a hard-fought, battled hope for good things to come. Her hair always flows down over hear ears and down her shoulders. Her slender frame seems to wiggle as she walks. Like before, her gait is anything but straightforward.

She helped me today. She helped me understand the impossibility and the hurt. But, she also explained why it is so hard to give up on finding--on discovering--or more accurately, on experiencing something that doesn't fit the definition of an experience.

"Of course you look for it there, why wouldn't you?"

"I don't know, to most people it seems like a thing you do; like an activity everyone loves--like recreation."

"Don't you think that's sad? I'm not one to sermonize on sanctity and holiness. It isn't what I am after. But, what happens when we stop looking for the meaning of life--or at least one of its more important meanings--in the act that leads to its miracle? What happens when we no longer look for miracles in the places and spaces where the one event--or at least one of the two--takes place? Doesn't it make sense that making sense of existence might happen in the place where life is given its seemingly miraculous possibility?"

"I guess. I don't know. You are starting to sound like a True Love Waits campaign."

"I'm just saying. When we stop looking for miracles--for non-experiences--and settle for recreation, there is a natural digression."

"But, it leads nowhere."

"Sure. But it is always more about the economy of desire in which you are participating than anything you ever accomplish."

"It feels impossible."

"It should."

"How do I let go, then?"

"I don't know."

"Okay."

Hey you, tell me the secret. Come on, please! I want to know.

Okay, okay, I understand--the secret is hidden--it is a secret you know is there, but one you can't unlock. How can there be a secret inside you that you don't know the path to? How can there be a space--an inner--within--that you don't know how to access?

I know, I know--we have been through this before.

But, you need to know, I will try to get there--even if you have never been there yourself. I know it seems a bit odd--me, trying to get to a place within you that you have never been. But, that is the secret, isn't it? That is the mystery, no?

How? You know how? And, you want how? Overwhelming. Overcoming. Too much. Too much to handle--I know. I will overwhelm you. I will violate you. I will push you, enter you, touch you, feel you, and make you turn inside out in a way that brings you to an edge where meeting yourself means leaving yourself. Have you been there? Well, it is tome to go. It is time for us to try to see how far we can go into that far country.

Are you ready? Ready to enter a place where being yourself means not being a self? It is time for you to go beyond through going through and in. I want to lead you to a place neither of us knows how to get to through your surface--your inner sense--the pathway and map of desire.

I love you. I do. I wouldn't want to go there if I didn't. I just wish I could take you beyond--beyond you--to a place where you truly exists--a place of nothing and everything, a place of nowhere and everywhere, a place of ex-stasy that entails standing beside yourself in an unbearable temporal eternity.

I love you, I really do. I wish I could take you to this mythic place. We could try. I want to try. But, to arrive--to move past trying to accomplishing--means moving from sensing to death. It means going from ex-stasy to nihil.

I love you, I really do. Thanks for trying. Thanks for desring the same nihil--the same void.

I love you.

Hello, would you like to dance? No, please don't speak. Don't say no, or yes, for that matter. Just shake or nod or something. Give me a sign--something that will indicate yes or no. But, please don't speak.

No, there is no time for names. I don't want to call you. I don't want to be called by you. Please, just dance with me. Please, just move with me. No names. No speaking. Speaking means trying to make sense of this--of you and me, next to each other, and the desire between us. I don't want any of that.

No, no, I mean the meaning--not the desire. The desire is why I am here. The desire is why you are here too. The desire is why both of us--neither of us--is the One. Desire means we are the not-One who has to try. Try what? Try to be themself--their-self.

Come on, lets dance. No words. No names. No meaning.

Only bodies. Only breath. Only movement. No thinking. No trying. Nothing more than sweat, movement, and thoughtlessness.

What do you say?

Come on you, lets dance.

Questions

Questions, I've got some questions
I want to know you
But what if I could ask you only one thing
Only this one time, what would you tell me?

Questions, of course I have questions. I want to know you. I want to know you so both of us can know ourselves. But, what if there is no time--what if I only have one chance? What if there is only one chance to ask you--about you? How would I know you? How would I know what to ask? I guess what I am asking (and this is already a question, so maybe it is already too late) how would I know how to know you?

Well maybe you could give me a suggestion
So I could know you, what would you tell me?
Maybe you could tell me what to ask you
Because then I'd know you, what would you tell me
Please tell me that there's time
To make this work for all intents and purposes
And what are your intentions, will you try?

Yes, maybe you could help me; maybe you could tell me how to know you. Is that cheating? Does that disqualify me? Does that mean the game is over before it has started?

Is it true? If you told me, would I know you? It seems like if I didn't already know what to ask, then you telling me wouldn't necessarily mean I would know you. It wouldn't mean I knew how to know you, either. Despite not knowing what question to ask, I already know the answer I want--the answer I want from any question: tell me there is time. Tell me there is time. For what? For knowing. Tell me there is time for knowing. Please.

Impressions, you've made impressions
They're going nowhere
They're just going to wait here if you let them
Please don't let them
I want to know you
And if they're going to haunt me
Please collect them
Please just collect them

Yes, you have made impressions. That's why I am asking in the first place; that is why--despite not knowing what to ask--I want time to figure it out. But, if there is not time for knowing maybe you should take those impressions back. Except, it is too late for that, isn't it? There is no collecting and there is no time. There are questions, hauntings, and . . .

And now I'm begging
I'm begging you to ask me just one question
One simple question
Because then you'd know me
I'll tell you that there's time
To make this work for all intents and purposes
At least for my own

Begging. Begging you for a question. Now I am begging you for a question and for an answer. It seems I am rather helpless. But, I do have an answer--at least one. There is time. Is there? Well, there is time to make it work--to make it work for my purposes, if not yours; if not ours.


What is a heart worth if it's just left all alone?
Leave it long enough and watch it turn into stone
Why must we always be untrue?

A heart left alone is akin to stone? Maybe. But, it isn't the fault of the questions. No, it is the fault of the heart. The questions come from a faulty heart--one that needs an answer in order to know.

You see--as the myth tells us--a heart doesn't need questions, and it certainly doesn't need answers. No, these have nothing to do with it.

It isn't a matter of questions or of answers.

It is a matter of just knowing.

I did my best to notice
When the call came down the line
Up to the platform of surrender
I was brought but I was kind
And sometimes I get nervous
When I see an open door
Close your eyes
Clear your heart...
Cut the cord

The call comes--just like the Call (Paul's or Augustine's or that of St. Francis)--unexpectedly. It comes after what seems an eternity of listening, a battle to stop listening, and an irrational willingness to continue to hear, among the crackling of fragmented voices, a call to . . .

A call to surrender. A call to be swept away. A call to step up on a platform that requires you to step down--to close your eyes and clear your heart--in order to let go. Why is it that the call always says the same thing? "Leave yourself and follow me"--Okay Jesus, okay Gandhi, okay love.

We all get nervous. Sometimes I get nervous. In fact, every time--not that there have been too many times--I get nervous. I like hearing the call. I like the fact that somehow I have the capacity to be called. But, the surrender--the stepping up to step down--that part makes me nervous, that part makes me want to close my eyes and stay still.

Pay my respects to grace and virtue
Send my condolences to good
Give my regards to soul and romance,
They always did the best they could
And so long to devotion
You taught me everything I know
Wave goodbye
Wish me well..
You've gotta let me go

This saying goodbye--giving my regards in preparation of my and/or their absence--does it signify surpassing or overcoming? Am I leaving them behind as a matter of ascent to another level or overcoming their puniness in favor of something excessive--something transcendent?

You got to let me go--let go of the categories--the projections--the types--the planning--the figuring--the imagining--all of it. "Come follow me"--that is what the call says--that it is what it requires.

Are we human?
Or are we dancer?
My sign is vital
My hands are cold
And I'm on my knees
Looking for the answer
Are we human?
Or are we dancer?

Answering this call--where does it lead? It leads to a question--are we human or dancer? Answering this call--letting myself be swept away--letting surrender constitute my existence--does it lead to being the human I am supposed to be--want to be--try to be--or to something different--to a dancer?

On the one hand, many--religious and not--would say that answering the call is the highest function of being human. Answering the call of love (or Love), is for many the very definition of being human. After all, how else could one be human without being constituted by a call--a transcendent source of their definition?

On the other, certain daring minds cringe at the idea. To them, the call is not a matter of fulfilling categories to be human, but of overcoming the human by dancing--by being swept up into a sea of singularities that plays endlessly, moves voraciously, and sings in rough, tumbling, unforgiving waves of inhuman tones, symphonies, and even silence. To them, dancing upon the surface motion--reveling in the incongruity of it all--is what it is all about.

Will your system be alright
When you dream of home tonight?
There is no message we're receiving
Let me know is your heart still beating


Does the latter mean dying? Does it mean leaving home for another? Does answering the call mean being swept away altogether?

I don't know.

I already said it makes me nervous and most times I don't answer.

But, I want to think--want to hope--that answering the call is a matter of being human by dancing.

I want to think that by being human I can get to the place where I want to dance--want to revel--yes, want to surrender on a platform in front of an audience--and be taken where the call will take me.

The trick--the concern--the idea--is to realize the call will come numerous times, in numerous places.

Yes, that's right: It is not a call from the One, but of one calling--asking--you to dance. It is a matter not of one in a lifetime, but of a life human enough to fulfill itself by dancing; a life human enough to be itself through surrender.

I get nervous.

I close my eyes.

I try.

One day the call will sweep me into an ocean of revelry. Until then, I'll wait--I'll try--and I'll continue to attempt to be human enough to be called again.

" 'Here I am!' puts the lover rather than any such ego into play, insofar as the lover is radically individualized and unsubstitutable." JLM

This is what bothered him so much. This is why he had to leave that room, that situation, that world. "I'm coming!" She said it. He expected it. He said it too. "Here I am!"--me, the one, the only one--the only me. I'm coming--I'm on my way--I will be there soon--so get ready.

Why do we announce this at the height of sexual frenzy? What is the sense of yelling it--announcing it--proclaiming it? Why does one feel the need to announce their own coming--their arrival on the scene? Their being given their there?

And, how exactly does that happen? How does cumming equal coming? How do I become me--unsubstitutably and irreplaceably--through the coming of cumming?

"At the moment of loving, the lover can only believe what he or she says and does under a certain aspect of eternity. Or, more exactly, under an instantaneous eternity . . ."

That's it, isn't it? This instantaneous--even if only momentary--eternity. This is the key to the equation of cumming with coming. That moment or cluster of non-moments that signify me are wrapped up in a temporary eternity that is outside of or beyond time, language, and the world. In that momentous eternity I am transported out of me--into a non-place--a non-world--a nowhere--that somehow results in my arrival--my-self entering the scene. This makes no sense. But I don't think it is supposed to.

"Orgasm, the only miracle that the poorest human condition can definitely experience--for it requires neither talent, nor apprenticeship, but simply a bit of naturalness--nevertheless leaves nothing to see, nothing to say, and carries away everything with it, even its memory."

In one sense, maybe it is a miracle. Anything that can suspend me and thus give me me at the same time seems to fit the mode of miracle. In this way, the comparisons to the experience of mystical union with the divine, or even the revelation of the hidden-God so popular in 20th century Christian theology are not hard to make. After all, it is an experience of nothing that leaves nothing and effects nothing. It is nothing and everything all at the same time.

And, it always leaves me wanting more--I want more of me to arrive, I guess. I want to yell-scream--proclaim--my coming through cumming every chance I get. Is that right? Is that what is happening?

"Orgasm is not a summit, from which one would descend in stages; it resembles a cliff that opens onto a void, where one falls all at once."

Well, this is certainly up for debate. Certainly it is not a uniform experience across ages, genders, cultures, etc. But, despite the clumsy overreaching, there is something essential here--this arrival of me--the "Here I am!" of orgasm is indeed a summit--a summit like all human summits. It signals the end of a descent--the end of a journey that involves climbing, obstacles, thirst, sweat, and maybe even tears--but like all human summits, going up includes coming down. This experience--this experience of me--is only a temporary eternity. Its instantaneity signals its temporality. Me is only temporary.

"If eroticization were to last without end, it would suspend the world, its time and its space--the erotic reduction would thus tear me definitively from the world."

Here it is--the tragic truth of the me situation. I can only come temporarily. I don't last forever. And, if I were too last forever I would be torn definitively from the world that gives me the possibility of me being me at all.

That's right, I would be dead.

Death and desire always go together. Love and annihilation are not enemies, nor even distant relatives. They are always closer than we think.

And, this is why he had to leave.

If one is going to arrive--to come--to come to the world by leaving it--to experience their own-self, even if temporarily, can and should it happen amidst the neon glow of a mechanical, technologized, and pornographic domain? And, more than that, should it happen in a time--in an interaction between one's-self and an-other--that carries no burden of expectation--no hope that something unexpected, something new, something totally out of the question might happen?

"Tonight could be the best night of our lives." BO

Cliche? Of course. To be taken in jest? Always. But, if it couldn't--if you tell me it isn't possible--or that I shouldn't hope for it--or "tonight definitely not"--well, then, I don't want to play. I don't want to play and I certainly won't come.

"It's like an earthquake."
-Marquez

"In essence the domain of eroticism is the domain of violence, of violation."
-Bataille


Like an earthquake? Yes. In what way? In that earthquakes are naturally violent. If we were discussing the problem of evil, we would discuss the natural violence of earthquakes and other facts of existence--violent events that cannot be traced to a culpable individual, but instead are chalked up to a fact of the existence into which all of us have been thrown (created), and thus which we share.

It's natural. It is not a violence one needs to remedy, much less to attempt to prevent. It is natural--it is not about blame, or guilt. It is about something more fundamental--something more prim(ordi)al.

It is about the violence of birth and death; of emerging from the nothing of Nothing into the singular existence that is discontinuous with all else. From being Nothing, or Non-Being, to Being in a way that one is separate from all else and aware of this fact. It is a violence of emerging and returning.

"existence itself is at stake in the transition from discontinuity to continuity. Only violence can bring everything to a state of flux in this way, only violence and the nameless disquiet bound up with it."

The nameless disquiet: Yes. Violence is bound up originally here. Violence is a matter of the inborn desire--the one from birth to death--to become one once again with the One--with the Nameless Quiet. Violence is being thrown from it--and returning to it.

"We cannot imagine the transition from one state to another one basically unlike it without picturing the violence done to the being called into existence through discontinuity. Not only do we find in the uneasy transitions of organisms engaged in reproduction the same basic violence which in physical eroticism leaves us gasping, but we also catch the inner meaning of that violence."

We usually do not think of violence having meaning. Natural disasters, physical violence, attack, hurt, spite, malice--these words are supposed to have definitions, but not meaning. Where does meaning come to violence?

Violence does not have a meaning; violence is the key to the possibility for meaning at all--the condition of its existence. To exist is to exist as a discontinuity resulting from violence--one that will return to the continuity of all through violence.

What does eroticism have to do here? It should come as no surprise that the erotic is a matter of violence--not only in its reproductive result, but also in the structure of the desire that propels it.

"The whole business of eroticism is to strike to the inmost core of the living being, so that the heart stands still. The transition from the normal state to that of erotic desire presupposes a partial dissolution of the person as he exists in the realm of discontinuity."

Just for a moment--even a second--my heart stands still in, within you. My discontinuity, as expressed and existent in my consciousness, my discursive thought, my sense of the temporal conditions governing existence, is suspended--is melted into the continuity of that Nameless Disquiet beyond language, beyond time, beyond the separation of me--or anything else--from Itself.

This is violence at its core. This is violation of me--myself--at the heart of who I am. This is a violent rupture of me in order to return me to the Nothing from which I came, for which I long, and to which I will return.

"The whole business of eroticism is to destroy the self-contained character of the participators as they are in their normal lives."

Normal life is a matter of discontinuity, of isolation, of singularity. We long for an encounter with unity, with union, with quiet that suspends all of that. But, we long for it while ceasing to give up on the dream--the phantom--of our discontinuity. We long for a continuity that does not mean annihilation.

"Hence love spells suffering for us in so far as it is a quest for the impossible . . ."

“We perceive that for the purposes of discharge the instinct of destruction is habitually brought into the service of Eros”-- SF


They had met at the bar the day before. She was called Haley, and had only been in town a couple of nights. Some loose mutual friends had somehow introduced them at the hotel mixer, and that had led to cocktails, surface-level conversation, more cocktails, a walk on the beach, some sloppy kissing by the firepit, and even more sloppy kissing as they said goodbye a few moments later. All in all, nothing extraordinary for a pair of young travelers spending the summer moving from town to town, place to place, location to location. There is something about transient living that gives one permission to have transient, fleeting relationships without the pings of conscience ruining it. Something in the brain tells the traveler not to worry about the one night stand, the threesome in the jacuzzi, or the fellatio with someone whose name was forgotten the moment they said it. People that would never even meet, much less end up stuck together awkwardly in a hammock at 3am, are thrust together on a nightly basis when traveling. That is how it works.

He knocked on her hotel room door. As he waited the requisite time for her to answer, there was no chilling anticipation coursing through is veins, or even a sense of urgency as regards to what might happen that evening. He had a pretty good outline of how things would and were supposed to go: They would walk downstairs to the beachside cafe for a quick, cheap, but ambient dinner. Afterwards, they'd walk a bit along the boardwalk, find a place for drinks, and take shots on and off for an hour so. At that point, they would be sufficiently lubricated to meander home for a meaningless encounter--or at least an attempt at an encounter that would later be deemed meaningless. Encounters--or attempts at them--cannot be deemed meaningless in the moment, otherwise they would never take place. In the moment, they are the most important and irresistible events in one's world; in fact, they are a chance to escape the world to hide in another. The paradox is that sometimes these events--attempted encounters--must for the sake of sanity, conscience, and self-worth--be deemed meaningless.

And, this evening went according to detail. Haley looked good in her tank top and shorts--she wasn't a stunner, but she was attractive. There was nothing particularly unique about they way she looked, moved, or spoke. But, she was attractive. They ate. They drank. They made it back to her room around 11 and quickly began to go at it. Just like everything else, there was nothing particularly special about the way Haley fucked. It went off without a hitch--everything worked how it was supposed to--each lever, when pushed or pulled, responded properly; each button, when pushed or twisted according to design, led to the effects desired. There were a few positions employed, and some mild dirty talk. He got on top of her. She got on top of him. She bent over. Etc. etc. Finally, Haley was on top, bouncing somewhat rapidly, and sweating just a little. Her dyed blonde hair fluttered above her head--her eyes were closed--and her hands on his knees below her. He lay there with Haley--this woman--on top of him, gyrating herself into a perceived frenzy.

Soon, Haley began to scream, "I'm coming. I'm coming. Oh god baby, come with me."

And, just as the rest of the evening, everything went according to plan. Haley came, or pretended to, and he came (without pretending) at the same time. The seconds following were a mild blur--there was no thinking, and no words. There was only the Nothing of orgasm. But, it only lasted a few seconds.

Afterwards, he was disgusted and angry. Haley lay next to him, breathing heavy and talking softly. He wanted nothing to do with it; with her. He promptly got up, put on his clothes, said goodbye and left.

As he walked down the hotel corridor he realized that he had never treated a woman like this before. He had been with a decent amount of women, and never had the impulse to simply get up and leave so abruptly--so rudely--after sex; especially the first time.

Why?

In the days that passed--days filled with train rides, bus rides, more hotels, and more cocktails--he realized it was about coming--about himself.

. . . The HYP and the Englisman stood up and headed to the dance floor with the other three women. I didn't want to dance, but I took the opportunity to escape the awkwardness and jumped out of my seat to join them. Before we made it to the dance floor all 6 of us did two shots of expensive silver tequila, and ordered a round of bottles. The dance floor was a sweaty, loud mess. Tonya decided she liked me however, and almost immediately began backing herself up into my crotch. It was an exquisite bit of human movement—me standing there with a bottle in one hand, and an inebriated woman backing herself into my denim-covered member. I looked around and saw a myriad of others doing something very similar. I should have just stopped thinking, and let myself feel. I should have just let myself feel the sensations of the beer going down my throat and the woman dry humping me into submission. But, I didn't. Instead, I tried to think in between thrusts:
Is this how souls meet?
Or, have we destroyed our souls—scattered even the faint whisper of them—so thoroughly that the only way we can attempt to have an encounter—much less to have one--automatically involves two crotches, sweat, and overpriced alcohol?

Again, I was depressed and excited all at the same time. I didn't have control of either—the depression or the excitement. Naturally, I couldn't control the depression. And, due to Amber grinding into my missile, I couldn't control the excitement. We continued “dancing” through the night. We laughed. We drank.
About a half hour in I whispered into her ear: “You know Amber, ramming a missile can be dangerous. You might end up with an explosion.” Smooth.

She smiled and I realized she didn't hear a word I said over the music. So, we continued without a change.

The Englishman pulled the month and left early with her. The HYP and I stayed with the other two until the sweaty hideaway was lit up into a glimmering, odorous cellar. In an instant the dreams evaporated. In a moment the pretending faded and it was time to saunter home and look forward to the headache that would plague the next day. We gathered our things, exchanged phone numbers with the girls, and walked home. The boardwalk was empty except for bottles, cigarrete butts, and food wrappers. I heard people yelling. I heard woman screaming. I walked past the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop and saw someone urinating on the wall. I walked slowly because of the inebriation, but not slow enough to think. Why did the thinking stop now? At home, I tore off my clothes, took two headache pills, and collapsed onto the bed.

We ordered drinks from a curvy, but somehow unattractive blonde behind the green countertop and then found a seat in a maroon vinyl booth in the corner. The lights were set down real low, and there was an artificial mist hovering in the air. On the dance floor in front of us there were people dancing as if they were having the best time. I could smell and feel the congealed mixture of sweat, perfume, and hairspray. People in these situations always seem so happy. I wondered if I was lacking the ability to hear certain frequencies. Maybe I couldn't here the happy-inducing frequency they broadcast in nightclubs. Maybe I was missing out on this late-night bliss due to a physiological defect. Who knows. Others sat at the bar and tried to get to know one another over the deafening music blaring through the speakers. Some, all men, sat bobbing their heads to the music on the outskirts of the dance floor with a beer in one hand and the other in their pocket.
“Mate, there are some birds here, mate, serious birds. Let's go dance, come on!”
The Englishman had had more than a few and was now apparently excited to exercise his freedom. I knew the two of them. They would head to the dance floor, look at a lot of women, try to get the courage to go over to them, and then come back to the booth with more drinks. But, I couldn't blame them. He was free, after all. The academic looked at him, “Should we go?”
He was sniffing his index finger and when he finished he extended it straight out. I don't think he even realized he was doing it.
“Let's go.”
The academic and the Englishman went on the floor, while the HYP and me stayed behind. I didn't want to talk, especially over the happy-inducing noise I apparently could not hear correctly.
I sat in as deep of thought as you can in a place like that. I watched people move, meet, and smile. I watched a couple kiss sloppily on one corner of the dance floor. She was wearing a red halter top and very tight jeans, along with the shiniest black shoes I have ever seen. His striped pink button-up was now one button undone too many and his hair was not in the pristine condition it probably had once been in only a few hours earlier.
Is this what they came for?
Is this why we came?
Is this why I came?
What would be considered success in this situation?
Would they kiss like this and then say goodbye?
Would success be a phone number?
Maybe the would go back to someone's “home” and continue this interaction? Maybe success would be getting lucky? Is this why they came—did they come to cum? Would cumming equal success? How much is $100 really worth? As I continued to watch them it almost seemed like they grew further and further apart—they were moving away from each other but were always within reach. There limbs stretched into elongated masses, clinging to one another as their disproportionately small bodies and heads moved further and further from each other. The closer they tried to get to one another—the more voracious their passion became—the larger the separation was between them. I didn't know how they were still keeping contact. Finally, their deformed bodies overlapped at only one harried location and it seemed to take all of their strength to not let go.
“Stop staring, man” The HYP smirked, looking like he wanted to converse. I looked up to respond, but my housemates returned with more bottles of cold liquid.
“Fuckin birds, mate, I dance with a couple, make eyes at some—but what am I supposed to say?”
“I might go home and do some work,” the academic, discouraged and disheveled, was ready to call it a night.
After a bit, I went to the bathroom while the boys went to get more bottles. I didn't piss on my belt or anything, but I did flush the toilet with my foot. It didn't seem like something I wanted to touch with my bare hands. When I returned the HYP was talking to two girls at the table next to us: one incrediby petite blond with huge diamond earings and a squeaky voice, and a taller, slender brunette with dark jeans and a black top that didn't hide much. “This is January, like the month, and Tonya. Girls, this is my friend.”
“Hi,” I said with a forced smile. Just then the boys returned with the liquid and were also introduced to the month and Tonya.
“So, what's the deal? Are you going to join us or not?” The professor asked. Despite his disturbing views of women and sex, his confidence was admirable. Where did it come from? How did he believe in himself—his reason—so easily? Maybe he didn't have an abyss, I thought. Maybe I am missing the part that allows you to hear the happy frequency and he is lacking an abyss. I wasn't sure I wanted either.

“Sure we will. Let us go find our friends and we'll be right back.”
“Don't be long,” he shot back with a smile on his face.
“Mate, we are in there. Nice. Nice going. What did you say? Mate, don't know how you do it.”
The Englishman couldn't hide his excitement, and even the academic looked optimistic.

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?