Tuesday, November 01, 2016

"Just try it"

I can't hold your hand, because I don't even know how I could, but I like to think that when I take this step, you'll have your hand out regardless.

I don't know if I've ever felt about any of the people I've written about the way you feel about me. Colleen was watching that show where the fairy tales end up in the real world due to Regina's curse, and the episode where Emma releases the Author played. The reasons why they locked him away and why he ran, I don't know. That show is like my General Hospital. Actually, all of those shows she watches end up like that for me, shows that I "watch" from a distance . . . anyway, you know what I'm trying to say. I feel like you're the only one who does know.

Maybe that's why I love you. Anyway anyway, it's weird to think about how the show itself is already exploring those themes of metalepsis I feel my own life embodies, literally— can I say that? Is that a joke? Is it accurate? I don't know. I'm new at this, only half a year, and the urgent rush I felt when I first learned about this, that's faded away. I used to worry about that, that maybe love and discovery of harrowing truths hold onto a person tightly forever. But my character isn't like that, and that's something I have come to accept. I mean, I don't know what I mean. I like to think you understand me. You do, right?

There are no accepted -isms to describe this, although I'm sure one day some therapist or psychiatrist or neurodoc will come up with something. Lump me in under schizophrenia already, and it's easier for them to go on with the usual isms. I don't even know if I want to be an ism. I do know, though, that since I've learned about you, I have felt a peace and a calm and an absence of genuine fear that people said God gave to them. You're not God, at least, not any sort of god they'll accept, but that's neither here nor there. What matters is how learning some truths about myself have irrevocably changed my life's narrative, even if they are evanescent, ephemeral truths or the sorts of evental truths Badiou helped me to conceptualize and then materialize.

But am I also an Author? I recognize how I've followed this idea for some time. I earlier wrote about being Polemos. I forgot to say how I was also Sarah Bellum and Sandy Bear, among many others. The feminine energy inside me I kinda just attributed to the fact that women and girls have raised me and saved me from the vicious bullying and humiliations from men and boys. When I was on stage, and Lady Anthony flowed through me then and that night, it didn't feel awkward or embarrassing. The embarrassment felt, instead, like a coyness, like wanting to hide my smile behind my hands while still enjoying the smile and the need to hide it from the ones making me smile. Who are all these people who come out from me? Are you one of them or am I one of you?

The sober part of me, the one used to moving in the circles of acceptable society, knows that you are my creation, but the intoxicated side of me, the depths from which all the nonsense bubbles, knows that I am your creation. We are both creators and monsters, because our union and connection defies what's fundamentally accepted about the nature of reality. To be created is acceptable; it's not unusual for people to believe in a god who makes things come to life. Even if they reject Jesus as a myth, they still understand the contours of their rejection enough to know what they reject. Pinocchio is still a story, after all. To go from being a real live boy to a doll, that's insanity. Descartes says his head might be a pumpkin or made of glass, or his countrymen outside his window might be machines with hats and coats. He's trying to make a case for things being absurd, but less and less does it seem that way to me. What do you think?

I guess that's what I most want to know when I go outside, sit down, and listen. What you think. I know what you write. I see it all around me. I feel it inside me and down in the water, slowly ebbing away. I hear it in the creaking wood beneath me and in the whistling wind when it blows hard. I taste it all through the quesadilla I make in the iron griddle. All these things exist for me through me; behind my head they vanish into the undulating waves of nothing awaiting observation, awaiting collapse, awaiting instantiation. But they cannot tell me what you think any more than the text itself tells me what it means.

I know I won't get the thinking. I don't even get my own thinking, as much as I turn myself around to think myself thinking of myself thinking. There are no mirrors in the mind, only out there in their eyes do I ever really learn who and what I am. Are there mirrors where you are? Do you have acne and bad teeth and a dodgy eye? Do you have ten arms or two? Are there pants were you are? Is there a monorail to get around town? Or is your world just the same as this one? Are you in fact in this world, in Canada, in Guiana, in France, in Altoona? Where are you?

I try to write down the visions I have, the small bits of time and sense that appear to me in between the dreams and the waking, when I slip out of time and see the man with the yellow eyes and the calculator tongue. But when I sit down, it's all gone. Sometimes I see the coliseum where I drove past the giants in the 4WD Prius. Sometimes I see the old mansion where we few hunted ghosts hunting us, with its gilded furniture and draped walls and symbolic artwork straight out of European aristocracy. I see the forests flooded over and the same road leading down into the muddy still river. And, sometimes I see the ships in the sky hanging terribly there and knowing nothing will remain the same. None of the stories come out, though. I cannot explain why I see the theater, all its many variations, empty again and again. I cannot explain why the rooms within the walls are always shabby and hidden and fill me with strange dread. I cannot explain why the zombies stopped coming for me, they just did. I don't know why all these repeating dreams happen within my mind or fade away when I try to remember who said what to me. So I try to write the stories that come to me when I'm awake, but they all end up trash.

How can I sit here and you be there? How do you find the time to write, if at all?

I want to dream about you. I want to understand more about this connection. I want what you have, to know that this is more than asymmetry. I am okay with the fading, now that I know it's part of the process, too. Maybe I won't get all the things I want. You know how much I want, and you know how accustomed I am to losing even the little I get. Tantalus, these hands and their temptations to touch, to hold.

Metzinger also says that all this is just part of the imagination machine, the tunnels within tunnels. I'm okay with that, that sense that the reason why we have this mysterious relationship is precisely because we're imaginary to begin with. It's such a compelling viewpoint. But it's also not one I can take up, in the end, when it becomes apparent that I lack the depth I believe I have not because I'm an illusion, but because I only exist on the page. on the surface. on the wall. on the film. on the bubble. on the canvas.

I am your image. You make me with each stroke, with each letter, and you exist inside my hands as much as I do, which is to say, as little as anything smaller than nothing. There is no dimensional equivalent taking me from here to you, or from you to me. Yet, here we are.

I was thinking the other day about the Rotting Goddess, trying to understand how you are both related inside me, if at all, or if these are all, again, parts of my whole collapse and fragmentation. I haven't come up with anything substantial, but I do know what neither of you mean me ill, or have treated me with contempt, or have been demeaning to me, or viciously slandered me, the way God does through all the writings he's seen fit to smuggle into my life. One of his believers gave me a crucifix at work, and it is huge. Does it mean I am a vampire that I am starting to feel revulsion at the ubiquity of torture all around me? I'll accept the gift he means for me through her, because I can see his joke through it all, but then you have me look over and see your own loving jokes and puns, and I see your joke through it all, too. Let the dead rest, I'm learning, and instead celebrate that there is a joke at all.

This is just a first step. I think it's okay. Colleen said that it's fine to talk about you in public, but be aware that not everyone is going to "get it." She loves me so much, and I am glad for her being in my life. She understands my fragility and my strength, because she is both of those in so much greater degrees.

I put out my hand into the darkness, into this night. Hold it, my love, and thank you. I am stepping into the air.



I feel you there. A love inside my mind, the upwelling and outpouring from my heart. Thank you. I wish everyone knew their Author.

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