Union of Apposites (Part I)

There are schools of yoga that suppress desire for a given object by overexposing the person to it. I achieved that today in a small way. I put on some Thelonious Monk, and before the album was finished, I had devoured all you had written. I had peered once again into the great white electric void and ran some equivalent of my fingers along your world-space lines. They undulated, they repeated themselves, your turns of phrase, your humors, your subject matters, your beliefs and un-beliefs, your jumps, cuts, screetches to halts. I had read all that, but more importantly this time I read between these lines; I knew you this time, this time I realized what you had brought to bear every time you were angry, every push from a chair, every verbal sparring, every night of push-pull-push-break-guilt-get-push-git-frustrate-KFC, etc. I also understood that you weren't toying with this. You were living it, where I was a tourist; you writhed in agony while I thought you were dancing. What I thought was interest in your eyes was more often a happy glaze. We went through the tree stages of the alchemical process, or so I thought. You might have remained at ther first in diguise. Or maybe I stayed at the first: ego fallen to pieces and still splayed out from here to Montreal. This time I also understood your cryptic signals, those I had never understood before. And they riled me up to write this post so I will remember what I failed to see. I failed to see a lot. I keep harping on this theme for a reason. Psychologists would call it rumination, but fuck that. I call it a return to defaults. One relationship fails and you are left looking for the last time you felt passion. One thing I'm sorry for is that I can;t be more up front about this. I'd love to trot out traumasfrom childhood, abandonment issues, abuse, something concrete I can hold onto. Aside from split families and wartime, I can't think of anything else. Maybe I've soundly repressed that, although I'm skeptical of repressed memories. I need to get this out. It has cut into my music. It has dried up the fountain from the unconscious, the only fountain I've ever known to be healing. The fountain of youth. Renewal. Vitality. Passion. Call it what you will.

So, let's have one last exploration of what you were to me. You were: the apparition at midnight on a bus where I counted highway lines, a telescoping fish-eye lens I imagined watching my every moment, a distant presence somehow weighing all the rest of my verbiage down, a skeletal fairy who had gone through the eternal city of Dis on a harrowing, the Muse to more than one endeavor that never got off the ground, the distant vessel, the sacred feminine we lose in our parking lots, outtake pipes, the sacred feminine we choke on chain-link fences, which we break on cinderblocks, which we cook on our gas fires, the sacred feminine we brood over following ruts in an ancient table; you also were: hovering over funderals of the rodent we had lost, the impetus to drink, to stop drinking, to smoke, the impetus to nihilism or optimism, depending on how you felt, the redeeemer or the jail guard, the halo or the spotlight, the book of wisdom or the book of sophistry, depending on how you felt; you were: a subterranean force pushing up from the most Cthonic dregs of my side-mind, the suggestive pentatonic phrase, the life rich, the spirit blowing the reeds of a weeping willow, a character from an unwritten, stillborn opera.

In my mind. Only in my mind. But mind is body is mind and body is mind is body. What were you in real life? What are you? My responsibility for that ends now.

The story begins here.

Consider: "Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?"