Compromise. (Caught in the crosshairs)

Posted on May 16, 2010

Life changer, game changer, reality chaser...

Life changer, game changer, reality chaser...

Thoughts of you in any regard have been banished. It is the only way. You were my madness, my guilt, my knowledge and my truth. You saw through me and consumed me wholly and now I am forced to deny you and your light because I became inextricably tied to the shadows that you cast.

Still, the grey flashes come and I feel my body tremble in acknowledgement.

They arrive unbidden; indiscriminate blips from a space deep within a murky chasm in my brain. They appear obscured and shaded at first and might easily be disregarded as meaningless white noise; but I recognize these images instantaneously. I know better.

I see our hands gripped together and pulsating with grave intensity.

And only with our fingers fully entwined; clenched and clinging and necessary, only then was the full weight of your intention allowed to descend, and suddenly my options were none, so I gave you free reign to chip away my carefully constructed façade.

Years of precise indemnification vanished in a moment, and we held my naked soul between us.

I was afraid then, but I innately knew this fear to be life affirming. It was the final manifestation of my own ignorance and I watched quietly (gratefully) as you reaped it that night.

You were pulling me from the vortex and I held tightly to your palms.

I considered holding onto your thumbs instead, but we’d already discussed that you are among the 24 percent of humans whose thumbs are hyperextenable. You’d mentioned that your freakish appendages were a splash at parties and even though I knew that you’d used the line before, I laughed in a dizzy, girlish way, meant to indicate that I was intrigued and delighted by your tale.

And so as I recalled your story, in the moments just after the reality had blurred and taken on that peculiar nauseating, gyrating inertia, I questioned whether the inherent flexibility of your splashy thumbs could handle the violent tug of a flailing girl trying desperately to avoid the eternal abyss.

Your palms felt safer. And so I placed what was left of me inside them.

I try now to focus on your smell…the way you smelled that night…

My God. I could have laid with you for a century or three.

And now I cannot recall it.

Fuck. I can’t even cull the adjectives that I’d assigned to your natural fragrance, though I am confident that I’d thunk of many…

I know that I rolled them through my brain and heart and guts over and over and over again until they made no sense at all. Perhaps I’d even allowed them to slip from my tongue a time or two; attempting to taste them and measure their strength outside of the bottle.

I had hoped that uttering them aloud would make you real and somehow transmute you from the two-dimensional character living in my brain to a four-dimensional life force existing and feasting in my realm, dancing and leaping and dropping benign snippets of truth throughout the menagerie of my life.

My plan did not work, however, and now I am alone again, pining for a part of speech.

I would give anything just to remember your goddamn adjectives.

And while your specifics have gone missing, your aftermath is alive and well. You impaled my existence. You obliterated life as I knew it. I’d cultivated this life believing it to be custom made for me. It had once been a perfect fit. But now it is swollen and distended, and the silken cloths I had draped over it are weary and awkwardly stretching and straining in vain attempt to fit around this updated and enhanced version of reality.

The band plays on.

I got your email today. You said you hoped I was doing well.

You typed this wish on a separate line and added a comma and my name after the thought.

And because it was you who wrote it, I assigned great meaning and weight to this otherwise mundane nicety. Because it was you who wrote it, I paused to consider the thing.

I am not doing so well, I decide. In spite of your sincerest desires for me…

Nope. Actually, I’m really fucked up. I haven’t slept in awhile and I’m spinning and while superficially this state is not so different than when you found me; it is, because now I have cut my lines and have no anchor. This is not ideal.

You warned me about this…

But I’d been cavalier and insisted that the hard part was over. You knew that I knew better, but you accepted my flippant tone and offhanded shrug without much objection. It was late by then, and the sun was starting to come up.

You didn’t actually email me ‘just because.’ You were replying to a notice about a concert that I sent to you because I know you like the group.

Still, you wrote three lines of original text and I went with only a subject line and a link to Ticketmaster’s website, which made me feel like I won that round.

You are unaware that we are at war. This is for the best.

I could not win even one battle against you if the fight were fair.

I am drinking cheap white wine straight from the bottle with the shades drawn, which doesn’t really matter. No one will know. According to my social networking profile, I am having the time of my life. The social networks always paint an accurate picture.

And so I sit in my darkened cave, drinking punishing amounts of alcohol and listening to the black box recordings of ill-fated aero-planes just before they crash. I am attempting to grasp the concept of true fear and regret.

On a whim, I open the shade a tiny bit but I close it quickly because the streaming sunlight hurts.

I consider taking an extreme action intended to filch the suck-age from the spiral which eclipses me at present.

I contemplate not speaking for some significant amount of time a la Maya Angelou.

Then I too might know why the caged bird sings.

I try to remember which glamorous old film star just shut herself up in her mansion after her longtime love died. “I want to be alone,” were her parting words.

Was it Ingrid Bergman? Lauren Bacall?

The moment passes then, and I shift in my seat, making myself comfortable.

I won’t do either of these things. I won’t really do anything at all, most probably.

Invocation. Provocation. Motivation. Unable to be undone.


Filed Under Wandering Raffishness |

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