Luna,
Love and sex hit you
in in all these odd jabs, sometimes you just want the sensation, the tactile
impact. Others you are trying to figure
out how to be human, how the universe works in something as simple as a touch
of fingers against skin. The process of ratcheting a human
machine to be capable of being open to accept or give love before and after
meeting a person can be transformative. The idea
of feeling on par or that I had met a commensurate mind of emotive, artistic,
and analytical prowess can be stunning, bewildering, and frightening. I saw my own walls in you. I ate tears.
I know my
experiences however daft my metaphors may be, that was not your experience, but
for me; the aperture in the universe nature to it, the art like blades and
platelets; I was hurt and growing in ways that were difficult for me to admit,
process, or put into words. It was not
falling in love, it was like seeing the DNA of what being human is where love
is the ladder and the rungs are all the idiosyncratic malleable moments of
existence that connect people in an interdependent web and the natural brand of
human I am felt available to reach to touch mutual comprehension in a nascent
way.
I gave you my art, a
precious personal vile. It took me a
long time to swallow the idea, it wasn’t you I hungered;
it was my art, the way you inspired me to make art and be myself. I made art; I wrote you like this iteration
in structure like a meditation, a practice of entering that emotional space,
the private prison nature to it, to recover my key, not to get it back from
you, but from the portal the way being around you made me feel inside myself to
bloom. I was gruesomely honest and
dishonest delving into what it meant to be a human being and feel and hurt and
sense a relic idea of another human being who felt like liquid art, clay
pliable in her autonomous volition shining like a glint ray of moon light
splintering my vision altered on something imaginary.
The border was polluted by
experimenting in that spoiled petri dish to address questions in my
spirit. Given what you communicated was
best for you: depositions, reminiscence, or testimonies, the case was a
buttoned period. That was hard, it hurt:
feeling, analyzing, contemplating; ignoring that fog bank was jettisoning
ghosts off the Lusitania. Day dreams are
loquacious cellmates, but that was a stateroom I put myself in not you.
There was a fiber of
you so inexplicably real, strung harp-like from temple to toe, plucked
vibrating a tone of childhood, adolescence, adulthood dark and light,
sensitive, cagey, and perceptive. I
hoped to know her, your pains and quiet victories. I wanted you to want to let me in and your
choice to decline that space let and broke me down. The image of what I felt like I saw in your
core as a human was so vivid made dismissing the etching a haystack of needles
appearing obvious of what I had searched and feared I might allow to threaten
the regenerative ambrosia oasis of my alone.
To go back to wander the sea grass, I wondered what any of it was…
I wanted to talk to
you for one turn of the hourglass as disenchantment to entertain the notion of
magic, as if we are all stuffed with magic.
Maybe some naïve Atreyu boy rider in me fighting in vain to believe that
magic still exists in this world of pretend, of feeling in the colors of
Fantastica of wanting some stitch of the pictures projecting on the
spirit-strip that maybe sometimes when you see someone the way I thought we saw
each other; it is that jarring. The
magic puffs in tufts of flowers spontaneously sprouting in grain-words and
rain-looks. The magic dares our sanity
for acknowledgement to wager our lots of what we claim to know about the world
for the redolent scent of that flower that made it through all the concrete
sidewalks and dustbowl seasons of our heart’s march. We see that flower like the ovum of a person;
it did not sprout for the looker; it did not bloom to be plucked; it bloomed to
be witnessed in that moment by that person shared like the nectar of the
goddesses and gods dripping to quench our eternal tongues tasting that syrup of
immortality that flitters in the divinity of spirit. To witness and be witnessed like that is
nuclear humanity.
It does things like
startles one of you away oyster-like shuttered and the other into a monk of
prayers mumbling to the universe to translate what transpired. One ponders was he to attempt a necklace, the
other did I see such a pearl. One
ponders did she hear the ruminations in this mumbling brook of pages, the other
why is my shell so tight.
The woman I thought
I saw… I have no idea
of what was a mask or what was a shadow in the phase of a moon. I wanted you to give us a chance... I spilled. Attempting to continue to elaborate that vein
bled a stale rancid ignominy. You never
deserved my words, not the beauty and not the ugly heaviness. You never deserved the weight of feeling like
you owed a response. I never deserved my
self-assigned anchor of feeling like I had to figure out what I saw. I never deserved to feel like you broke a
piece of my heart; I never even offered, but there it hung jagged loosened
quaked.
The universe made me
a writer. The writer’s lens saw you,
your walls, pulsing art correctly or incorrectly. When you pushed me away I felt a mirror
image. It felt like two looking glasses
facing each other. In some ways I saw
infinite iterations of your reflection in refractions of my life. Usually I am the one who walls himself off. I confronted more of who I was through the
prism of what I thought you might have been.
All I saw was an idea; I know that wasn’t real, but what I thought I saw
of who you are changed me to grow and I wanted to understand the greater
experience.
I wrote the way a
man looks for a candle when the electricity fails, desperately flailing for a
match. I wanted my art back. I wanted to understand my ability to create
from that romantic place, to comprehend the context of feeling my fuller human
being in my skin the way I realized was possible. I wanted to see clearly (my art, self, you,
the universe, all of it was in the lens.)
I could write about this place intersecting with you seemed to bring me
and everything else seemed like a paler diluted poetry as far as the
universe.
Was it you as a
person; was it the phase I was in; both?
I wanted to know because you and me were not going to continue, but
there was an element present, whatever that was, however it got there, which I
had never experienced in my romantic calculus.
Tasting that element, that art is possible to pulse like that through
me, the absence is a pall ruin to the palate for romantic entrees devoid of
that ingredient.
It hurt to not get
to say goodbye to you and to never understand what that element was, to feel
generic, unilateral like my art never actually touched you; I felt like a
receipt. I guess that is at the root of
what I hoped; that my art affected you that it made the star inside you
vibrate, that you had something to say like a doe in a clearing vulnerable for
a slip of twilight saying something personal before sequester. Maybe the vibration you felt bore a rare
nucleus at the core of your departure, struggling in dual polarity towards the
aroma of my art, but more so to the gravity of the garden of your independent
alone. Maybe you tired and that is all it ever was. Maybe his words felt like cannon fire of
expectations you never requested.
Maybe I felt you
like an invisible spiritual dancer, the way Sati inspires Shiva to create
through her movements. As if moving
through life with that phantom set of hands, is he there to catch as one turns
to breathe in vulnerable position? Is
this feminine yearning instinctually repulsive as uttering the word
partner? Balter akimbo to avoid reliance
as in a turn a man realizes he is alone on the floor stepping to music he is
not certain was ever audible, but in a queer pulse the cosmic drum beats.
By looking at you in
the way a human needs to in order to write about a person / time with a person
like that I felt like I saw what empowers your art. I felt like I saw this luminous unforgettable
font. Seeing inside the kiln in you was
like the permanent unique kernel of a person, far more unforgettable. To me it was your art, this power plant to
your analytic thoughts, vision for your personal appearance and stature chosen
in public and private, it burst out of you, obvious and textured. Maybe that is creepy, queer, but it is honest
in how it made me feel. How real that is
or not I don’t know; perceptions are fickle sirens.
Severus
No comments:
Post a Comment