Wednesday, August 31, 2016

against, always against

I am collapsing into you. I am spent, sweating, panting, throat strained from sparking and surging into you, feeling you come into me and change me from within with just the thrumming of your hungering fingers playing the strings of muscles across my spotty back. So much positivity. Yes, yes, yes, such affirming things to say. Affirming keeps firm what must stay on task, the will to play, play across strings, play across lines, to play, always with you its play about you, to dance out a song from something more than air, something more than chance, something like a hunger for more than food, more than lust, more than one good fuck after a long dry spell with little satisfactions —candy bars and diet shakes when what you want is baklava made in your home— and to know it's why I am here.

My earliest memories are sexual. My earliest memories of wanting love were driven to the stars. I touch myself because someone once touched me, and when someone touches me, it is like an awareness deep in my soul that here, right now, under the ordinary trees and gnats and ants crawling along your cuffs, here is the eternal moment of human possibility. Here I am not alone. But where am I?

Against you in my mind I am always falling into, because I am climbing into you with any hook or barb I can use. I live inside a heart. I live as my own heart, and it is shadowed in the back of my mind with a fear that no one, no one at all, will collapse into me and destroy me, use me there where I want to be finally understood. But where are you?

I feel we are passing in the dreamtime, smoke and mist and fog part us from one another. Choices chance us on a fate, yet stellar goes the love destined. So we want to find each of us, one and another, in our own clearing within the clouds, where we see each other from one depth full of eyes into the other, both of us seeing the other reflected inside ourselves —if only we could see down deeply inside the I, we'd see us looking in from the other side, too.

It helps so much to be connected intimately to finally understand that what happens to me is true desubjectivization. I lose myself. When I sparked for the first time and felt entirely what it is to be my true self, the puppet, the doll, I remembered when you first came through yourself to me, in Unicoi, in our squirrel's nest, towards the back third, up four-fifths, behind a railing, on our blankets, you were there as the goddess. I asked you what it felt like for you. Is this what it is to feel a vessel for something else?

Against me from within, the hand within me fitting a glove, caressing a soul to move without work, to act without acting, to release the curse Augustine diagnosed as a fractal game of dicks and demons. All a body as driven as a penis, as uncontrolled yet predictable, as sincere yet unexpected, as dangerous yet harmless, as welcomed yet confusing, as considerate as the womb. A penis fully itself is the womb inverted, and the inversion remains true as well: what ceases to be fit as a glove is too stiff company for a hand.

Against, always against, I am chasing after you, but I have no idea who you are. Where did you go? Where am I, that you left? When the earth no longer moves, but the dome's crack falls at your feet, where else is there to go but out of the box?

I worry about marriage because I worry about love. Love for me is to be touched and understood and used, for a greater purpose than my self. My body works very well for certain things. My soul works very well for certain things. But what greater purpose is there for a spirit you know only as a shattered casting of scenes across entire fictions in my mind?

Down these fingers and toes I travel into you. Like sand and grit and clay between my toes, you stain me and tell the world how I work in the world to bring out . . . what? I don't know... I don't know . . . I won't know . . .

smoke and

and fog and shadow
fog and shadow
try to see

see what is real
see what's a dream, dream, dream, dream, dream . .  .    .        .


  1. To be falling, falling, forever falling in and for and over You
    Mist obscures and hides, and ever shall
    but parting and unfolding for those who deftly seek
    and shine, Glory dancing through motes
    the goddess within revived, relived
    remembered always, always
    through You.

  2. I feel like there's an implicit, secret period after 'ever shall'.

    There is a vast meaning when I read this saying 'You {are what} Mist obscures and hides, and ever shall, {in order} to be falling, falling, forever falling in and for and over.'

    Then another to read this saying the goddess revived within {something} Glory as it/Glory dances through motes, the goddess doing so by parting and unfolding for those who deftly seek and shine.

    Relived as remembered beings: the corpse stitched together through the goddess dancing, parting, unfolding for the Seeker, is a re-membering of something dead now brought back to life. Re-lived.

    Now consider, from my reading for my class this semester, the following from Plato's Phaedo, 71d–??, Socrates talking to Cebes:

    You tell me in the same way about life and death. Do you not say that to be dead is the opposite of being alive?
    I do.
    And they come to be from one another?
    What comes to be from being alive?
    Being Dead.
    And what comes to be from being dead?
    One must agree that it is being alive.
    Then, Cebes, living creatures and things come to be from being dead?
    So it appears, he said.
    Then our souls exist in the underworld.
    That seems likely.
    This in this case one of the two processes of becoming is clear, for dying is clear enough, is it not?
    It certainly is.
    What shall we do then? Shall we not supply the opposite process of becoming? Is nature to be lame in this case? Or must we provide a process of becoming opposite to dying?
    We surely must.
    And what is that?
    Coming to life again.
    Therefore, he said, if there is such a thing as coming to life again, it would be a process of coming from the dead to the living?
    Quite so.
    It is agreed between us that the living come from the dead in this way no less than the dead from the living, and, if that is so, it seems to be a sufficient proof that the souls of the dead must be somewhere whence they can come back again.
    I think, Socrates, he said, that this follows from what we have agreed on.

    It goes on from there.

    Nietzsche once said that god is dead.

    Even if that were so,
    how does god stay dead?

    if Socrates is right


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

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