Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Bon Voyage, Love!

Picture it. A contemporary romance, set in 21st Century rural North Georgia. Gotta write what you know, they say, so I'm picturing what I know. Here it goes, this picture, pitcher pouring out.

A man, relatively recently divorced, coming to terms with his own polyamorous feelings, all that need for love and attention, also coming to terms with his own phenomenal love. People are always politely deciding behind the scenes what side he should take. Everyone perfectly well states in public to follow one's heart's desire, but I know it different being differently myself, I know it they're all cads. Liars, scoundrels, devils-may-care, all of them cheaters and thieves. They say to my face I should follow my heart, but inwardly say follow the law.

Follow what law? You never know which, it's always changing; that's the nature of law. You learn early on rules are always changing, since rulers are already deposing and being supposed, proposed or disposed. You learn early on no ruler is ever peaceful since they are all so afraid of losing it all. They are all children up there. They are not sociopaths. They are children in the street, in the alley, in the ditch, children afraid of falling in last. The rulers are always afraid of losing it all, all of it. Especially the ones who lie to themselves and say it's for the good greater than they. This is why Plato and every right thinking person says give it to the one who most vocally shouts No to the job. They will be best of all. Children in ditches, though, they don't ever want to be last in line, no matter how old they are. So they in their insecurities try forcing security by taking or bribing or hoodwinking. If it works so easily this way for nations and kids, why couldn't it also be true of lovers? Why couldn't a lover impose a rule born from insecurity and not love? So, follow what law? Whose law? How will it matter to me who you are, if you're going to leave so soon from losing it all?

You can see where this story goes, can't you? It leaves our man rather divided amongst different ways of thinking, all thinking perfectly well what rules are appropriate when, and when it's uncanny to bend the rules, and when something requires breaking one's faith in law. It's not that any one person is the whole of our man, nor is it each one is a part of the greater whole. It's a lot less complicated. Our man is a transcendental knot across all the possibilities. Or, so he likes to think. It's even a lot less complicated than that. Our man is a story-teller, and he loves a good fable.

A fable has rules, specific to the moral lesson it instructs. But this makes us realize how it's the larger rules that's the joke: the specific code of behavior at the end is the truth, all the morality-generating structure around it is just convenience. This is how the story-teller makes the bread. The story has to strike the right patterns, the right notes but it has to have patterns, and it has to have melody.

But the best melodies are fugues, and the best fugues require a complementary dissonance. It needs layers, different patterns wringing out a steady line and all ending up believably at the same note, bounded by a nodal stability where the waves passing through all nicely cancel into a single point of stillness and minimal turbulence. And then it, too, will move on and the herky-jerky dance of life seizes us all once more. To form a stable, repeating stillness in a massive sea of violence is the goal of an artist, because it's the vibration away from the still that sounds the notes of change.

It takes a strong kind of willfulness to stop looking past the masks and give people back their dignity and their privacy. It takes even more effort to admit that maybe it's all a wrong way of going about convincing myself I am who I am and I am what I am. It's more I need to figure things out for myself. Because maybe if you start hearing all the different frequencies and signals and patterns and transitions, it becomes more clear how many variations there can possibly be of one man, one person scrambling about for love.

But you see it's all so very confusing. So very conflicting when allowing this streaming of consciousnesses, but writing is practice and practicing making perfect is perfecting the practice of writing.

So, maybe you're asking, then why the title? Here's the thing. The idea stands out to me that it's something like one of those screwball comedies they used to have in the middle part of the last century, where it's a very intelligent woman and a very clever man trying to not be sexual but flirtatious, challenging but not obnoxious. And if I could write the story of my own sexual adventures, it would be a depressing and awkward story with a lot of really great moments and ponderous moral reflection. It would be an updated edition of Of Human Bondage complete with scenes of this pandemonium and the mundane pouring out. It is a very intriguing story, where a polyamorous man makes a vow of the strangest kind, where she chooses his other partners. It makes no sense, when you stop to think about it. No, no sense at all, but it makes for an amazingly complex set of rules and relationships and new moral conunundrums. What better place than that to tell a comedy, a series of mistakes and crashes and nonsensical distractions, but where our man finds himself?

I'll clean this up in the morning, all this mess you've caused. Indulgent, fatuous, a little dramatic and a lot tragic. Always the same with you. Getting carried away by your own slow roll towards the punchline. The happy note that makes all the confusion and paradox and mystery a happy marveling at how all the threads come together as a tiny still knot, still talking, still writing, still out there, out there, way, way out there, about things that make no sense.

Until some story-teller comes along and tells the story of me.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Is this wise?
Is this yours?
Is this love?

Real Time Web Analytics