Sunday, March 13, 2016

Letters to Luna: Some words never sent...

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 

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