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| She sends meShe belongs to the category of Vincents, the devastatingly and beautifully incomprehensible. She does not make sense, she is contradiction in the same sense that poetry in prose is. The ones whose glimmer is not understood by their contemporaries are Vincents.
She comes to me seldom to confide. She shows me everything but her essence, I can only resort to blindly supporting her. We seem to speak two different tongues, though I'm certain such is the case between her and any other entities with the exceptions of stars and planets and the tide in the summer. Despite our positions in this relationship, I seem the be the one to end up gracious of our interactions. I give her an ode, she sends me back the dedication, sans return address. She's unreachable yet available to the hands of strangers, all are strangers to her.
In another life when we are both cats, as the Spanish say. It seems fitting for meetings such as ours, meetings that have no place in this life. In another life you'll tell me who you are.
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| LimelightHe sent me an email consisting of a single word; eczema. He's pithy like that. He promised that he'd never forget what I had said to him once;
"Don't get too cocky, scratching my patch of eczema sends more chills up my spine than sex with you."
I had told him this one night, as counterattack to his proud taunts regarding how vocal I had gotten in the midst of passionate throes etc... We both laughed, but only weeks later did he admit how hurt he was. It's my nature, to not give the other person the satisfaction of knowing. It would be murder to my character to let him know I had a thing for tall, dark, philosophizing violinists who played a beautiful rendition of the theme from Charlie Chaplin's "Limelight". I wouldn't dare confess that deep down I was vulnerable to rough beautiful men, and when Jimmy Dean says "what'd I say? Oh baby, come on!", I can see him. And while he teases me of my sometimes cruel words, I am reminded of our kind moments.
This one particular month in the autumn of some odd years ago, he and I gazed at the full moon and everything on that beach reflected a
glimmering pale blue. The sand was turned into dunes of perfectly smooth
snow under that hue. Waves had multiplied the image of that moon by
a thousand and shattered every one of them. I informed him that this
was the brightest moon of the whole year, he questioned my statement
with an incredulous look. I smirked and added tidbits from oriental fairy
tales to further perplex him; something about the princess on the moon,
something else about the woodcutter on a tree. He casually shrugged off my
attempts to tease.
"In another world, I would be near you always like that star that I always see at the north of the moon, caressing every side of you." Though he said this with difficulty in English, his accent did things to
me. It was a reminder of a home long ago, and of something already lost that has once again become mysterious. But I was
and am always one to kill sweetness, if for nothing more than just to
have an effect on him.
"You're referring to Mars. The only other time you've probably seen it
near the moon was last night," I scoffed. "Mars won't even be visible within a week or so. If you want to tell me sweet nothings, offer to bring me the moon or something of the likes."
Moments dripped, and he drew a pained look. Before I was able to toss my remorse aside I felt myself being thrown over his shoulder, shaken with each step he ran, and just as abruptly thrown back down. We stood at the edge of the ocean, ankle-deep in water. He gently cupped as much of the sea as possible into the well of his hands. I watched as he stood frozen, until there in his palms was a perfect reflection of that sky. We stared at the mirror of that night's moon, two bodies close together, two pairs of hands supporting one illusion.
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| My mama done told me when I was in pigtails, "Child, a man's gonna sweet talk and give you the big eyes."
What a horrible year, this 2007. My friend would agree, we've even concocted an escape. A blurry plan involving some duct tape, savings and money, and a spaceship. He tells me he's making his will out to me, so that I can achieve our goal in the unfortunate event of. "That won't help me much," I tell him. Apart from his measly earthly possessions, what good would it do to fly off all singly and lonely? By the by, the theory of cloning and repopulating an entire race can only be done with a man, not a woman.
"But when that sweet talking's done, a man is a two-face, a worrisome thing who'll leave you to sing the blues in the night."
There is this category of people that is thoroughly fucked up. We're fucked up. We're arrogant and self-destructive and never know better. All of us who try to seem so well-put together, I'll bet you're fucked up in one aspect or another. "I want this sort of perfection," they'd say but in truth, they'd just as soon grow tired of it. We're inherently broken, and so we fuck someone else over under the pretext of healing. We can discard them because they don't interest us anymore, and the excuses/reasons that we'd use... oh Kundera, you wrote about these "Laughable Loves". But we're all the same in this respect, so we will inevitably find someone to discard of us all the while enduring the irony of hearing their own all-too-familiar reasons.
My mama was right, there's blues in the night.
*Here's hoping that we'll stumble onto the things we really do want. I need some sort of hope in the end, no?
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| Whatever did you mean to say?Rothko didn't title his later paintings. He numbered them, according to the year I think. Always so simple, so layered, always so difficult to understand the meaning of. Because the canvas is divided so clearly, and each section has a single color theme of its own, yet the strokes and textures of each color strikes different moods. The abstraction of it leaves me in a trance.
The very first twinge of affection I felt for him was due to a drawing he had made before we even met. It was of a rope so roughly frayed, with only a few fibers holding the two ends together still. The captions included the phrases "just one last pull" and "nothing else I can do". I thought, this person is able to bare his scars ever so mildly. It was soft yet wounding, like a smiling person letting spill tears of sadness. I only found out later on that he was just that type of person, somebody who smiled when they cried. Isn't it said that the strong are those who understand what weakness is?
Over a year later, I'm nearing the state of emotion portrayed in his drawing. He might argue that we've had bigger arguments, I might argue
subjectivity for god only knows the many points on which we disagree. He might say that I expect too much of him, I would say that he was right for I probably idealized him a priori from the obscure moment I realized his very abstract existence through that drawing. The finger's pointed at me for expecting anyone to be more than human. Not to say that he is blameless.
Because one of them was not ready, because one of them was not the right person.
Because our meeting was a step too late, or rather a step too early.
Because one remembers too much, and one forgets too well.
Because our encounter was short a drop's worth.
I drive home and turn the curve between mountains. City lights disappear. I see the dull gray of the pavement on the freeway. The black of the mountain to my left rises to a unseen altitude. The deep purple of the twilight sky engulfs the remainder of this canvas. Singly in that sky, to the right is a sliver of light that is the moon. Rothko, what is the meaning of this landscape you've painted for me?
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| If that's the case, I'm definitely not insane.Happiness may be a form of insanity.
"Miserable people tend to
have a much more realistic and objective view of life", according to a
BBC article. For anyone who's ever thought that they were being
badmouthed behind their backs, chances are that it's true. But then
again, there are such things as schizophrenia and incorrigible
paranoia... but those are only for the Caucasians, as my white
uncle-in-law would say.
I've been cheating on you. I've been writing somewhere else,
somewhere much more private and cherished. It's that much more
meaningful to be able to grasp it in your hand, that warmth. You must
have known, I've always been writing somewhere else, when you're not
paying attention.
I think. And that's in itself a fallacy, so I've been told. I think
about what-ifs (I play out whole scenarios and novels for each of
them), about worries that I dissect and restitch together, of future problems,
current problems, past problems even. I think two steps ahead, and in 4
different directions each way. I like to indulge myself with
unanswerable questions such as; with 11.5 million US recorded abortions
between the years 1975-1983 and an additional estimate of 4 million
abortions unrecorded, how many of those people might I have come to
love were they to live and be within proximity of me? I wonder if James
Dean hadn't died in that car crash, would he have been an avant-garde
in the gay fight? I think to numb my brain.
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