Friday, May 01, 2015

Romance is misspelling admirably

You're a vulnerable person. Home underneath the poplars and the pines, you're amongst neither friends nor enemies. It's family. Green, eager, and running with new sap. Brown, declining, and rotting with old flesh. Little blue-purple shelves with yellow-white landing strips, three petals and curving enticement. The ferns are unfolding angry fists to plead with the sun. The woodpecker laughs at its own joke and rings its head out some more. The Father is silent and slowly dying each year, but the little bench at his crown remains. The other trail comes right through here. Who makes it, I don't know, but you think it's something small, something moving in packs, something with its head down to eat and eyes up to live.

Kolakowski calls it metaphysical horror, the awareness none of the solutions seem to matter for what matters. You're starting his book again in the oddest of places, here where you've known magic is real. Is nothing sacred?

Yes, nothing is sacred, too. She pointed to the smallest thing of life she saw, a tiny orange dot crawling fast across a flower. The world is a lot of tiny orange dots crawling fast, spots sacred and ordinary both.

Falling in love is one of the stupidest things to let happen to you. It makes you look at things differently, look for clues and mysteries and meanings in the details. You get curious, you stare a bit more, you read more deeply for validation. But the readings are all confusing. The things look different each time because you're not seeing what's obvious anymore. You're recombining the patterns into whatever fits the narrative you want to be true. That's the quickest way to heartbreak. You know this.

Horror is learning the pattern is irrelevant. It doesn't matter even if there is a god or goddess or void, if you still have to wash your hands or park your car or stay in the fence or keep off the grass. But all those discarded seeds calmly misunderstand the rules and try growing wherever they fall. The burst acorn sends up one shoot, red and lustful and leafing, while it sends down another shoot, white and penetrating and thirsty. The acorn does not know it's in the footpath. It doesn't even know itself. It'll all be over soon.

But then there's fifty years right there of the same two shoots, and you can't see where the hull or the shell went. It's a survivor surrounded by competitors, rivals, sisters, zombies, and skeletons.

Does the tree remember all of her lovers? Every single one of those acorns and nuts and spinners coptering down into the creek is a wild moment of passion. Was it as good for her as it was for them?

She fell in love with me. I fell in love with them. They fall in love with everyone, all the time, and move on, mixing and matching, pairing and contracting, seeding and separating. They are both confused and confident, reaching outwards with one hand and holding tight with the other, and they do not know who walks their way.

That's the horror to the patterns of romance. You will fall in love, over and over again, because each version of mystery will have its own seeming solutions. Some of them even invite a solution, or dare a challenge, or seek out the riddler to become one. But they are all unable to know in advance if they fell on the path or fell along the way. You're supposed to think you need to stay on the path, but that's where everyone walks to get to where they're going, when you're the sort who wants to grow into someone with one hand and reach out to the sky with the other. If that's what you always wanted, then it's best to fall off the beaten path.

In fifty years, then maybe they'll slow down on that path and look at you, and they'll comment about your features. That's a nice twist to the trunk. See how those limbs grew up into the skylight the canopy provided. Look at this moss growing off the roots. A testament to a greedy but patient love.

But testimony only makes sense if there's an audience, a message, a meaning, and a purpose. Horror is finding out how little, though, any of that matters to the tiny orange dots, or the old, tall poplars and pines, or the ancient ground beneath you, or the rebirth in every moment of space all this sits within.

They will break your heart and win it. They will love you long enough to figure out how difficult you are, maybe decide what's worth what. I can't decide about you. I fell in love with you before I realized any of it was a choice. You're going to sit there and read his book and try and piece together the mysteries again and again, trying to make sense of three things by their common link in time and space.

What does love, reading, and history have to do with one another? Why do the trees above, the earth below, the hearts inside, and the daydreams within all collide in this life? Why can't it just be, for one day, you sit there and think of absolutely nothing, the nothing that lets you sleep through itself, the nothing that calls no attention to itself, the nothing that never refuses to go along nor away, the nothing that isn't a movement, the nothing that has no hair, the nothing who cannot tempt a touch?

The river loves only itself, polishing her stones and sending their memories along, but the delta at the end will have forgotten everywhere and everyone. People will call her a different name there, and she will blend in like she was always herself and just the same, but I know different. The difference between lifelove and earthlove is how life loves diversity but earth loves return.

I can't make sense anymore. I'm trying to say something, but I'm not up to the task. You did this to me. You woke me up. You don't even know my name.

1 comment:

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

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