Sunday, April 11, 2010

the fact that I adore you is just one of my truths

Second Life,ghosts

she went over to his apartment
clutching her decision
and he said, did you come here to tell me goodbye?

I never do. I never want to. If love were a bear trap, and I was a wandering fox, I'd be the one unsure if it would be better to stay in place, in pain, and die of it, or gnaw my leg off, then try to pry it out and reattach it.

I'm not saying this is a good way to deal with love, or loss. I'm saying it's the way I have, the way I'm made.

so she built a skyscraper of procrastination
and then she leaned out the twenty-fifth floor window
of her reply

No one ever said you couldn't lie to yourself? No one ever said you couldn't drag things out, either. And I am well known, more than, for refusing to make a decision until I have no other choice available.

Second Life,ghosts

and far below was the blacktop
and the tiny toy cars
and it all fell so fast
and it all fell so far

Is it too much? Is it necessary? Is it what must be? Do the demands break too many bonds?

I don't know. I only know that I am here, standing on this land, of my own will. I am complicit in what happened, what happens, good or bad. I am accepting responsibility for the change.

and she said:

I say this, unasked, unbidden. I have spooled out enough rope to string hammocks and climbing nets between all the pinnacled towers of New York. I have offered enough second chances to fill the Marianas Trench to walking depth. At every turn those chances have been brushed past; at every turn walking across the ocean became swimming for deeper waters.

So a bit of rope was pulled away. And then more. And then more. A few thousand meters of chance and opportunity dissolved under the weight of saltwater and pressure. The swings slowly became cages, the cold waters regained their former depth, and still the loops of rope would not hold, even those that had transformed to ships' chain, barring all passage. Nothing stopped. Nothing changed.

you are a miracle but that is not all
you are also a stiff drink and I am on call

I have boundary points now, by my will. I have places I do not go, by my will. I have people I have all but severed contact with, by my will. None of this I did lightly. None of this, to me, I did irresponsibly.

you are a party and I am a school night
and I'm lookin' for my door key
but you are my porch light

So I'm wondering, again. Is it enough? Is it too much? Maybe someone else could dismiss all of this. It's out of my hands, right? Let this cup pass from me...

But the problem with that line of thinking is: that makes me a pawn. I am not a pawn. I may not be effective on the board, but I am not a mindless functionary.

But it all comes back to what I want...what I need...what I want to have happen. What do I want to happen?

Second Life,ghosts

and you'll never know, dear
just how much I loved you
you'll probably think this was
just my big excuse

And this is the question I'm circling around. I want...above all things, I want not to be stressed over every fork in the romantic road, every curve in my personal path. I just want to walk it, not analyze it for irony content. Is that selfish? Is that stupid? Is that unreasonable?

Is that unfair?

but I stand committed
to a love that came before you
and the fact that I adore you
is but one of my truths

Some days, I think, it would be so much easier if I were monogamous...but then, I know I'd have different problems.

what of the mother
whose house is in flames
and both of her children
are in their beds crying?

It's not the crying that gets me. It's not the screaming. That's...okay, bad, and I do react, how can I not? But no, what gets under my skin is when it sounds like reasonable, rational language. And I take it into me like logic, and fit it into the spaces that accept logical argument.

And then I watch things go haywire. Because it wasn't logic after all.

and she loves them both
with the whole of her heart
but she knows she can only
carry one at a time?

I can't please two people in exactly the same way. No one can. I shouldn't be expected to. But it feels sometimes as if that is all that will be accepted, that I treat two separate individuals exactly the same way, all the way down the line.

It might be easier if both were demanding concurrent treatment, but...they're not.

she's choking on the smoke
of unthinkable choices
she is haunted by the voices
of so many desires

Unthinkable choices. Unvoiced but demanded. Voiced and commanded. Whipsawn by circumstance, their demands, my pleas, all of our confusion...I want to reach out and lay my hands on something real, in all this shifting mist. I have so very few things to cling to. Four walls around me, and the four walls are crumbling, when I thought they were so strong...

At least, at the very least, those very few things are there, and they are real, and solid, and guide me along the way. My slow faltering steps echoing into the distance, as I try to find my path through fog. It's not much. It might just be enough.

she's bent over from the business
of begging forgiveness
while frantically running around
putting out fires

I don't have the trainyard anymore. All the cars are gone, though I seem perpetually stuck in the expression of it. Sometimes I walk on black stones, sometimes through subterranean passageways, sometimes through stained-glass crystal caverns, depending on mood and recollection.

This week, it's a forest. And only half the trees are whole.

but then what kind of scale
compares the weight of two beauties
the gravity of duties
or the ground speed of joy?

I cannot compare, I cannot contrast. One is not like another. If they were, they would be interchangeable, and it is not that, they are not that. But I still need to figure out what it is, what went wrong, how to fix it. If it can be fixed, if it is not shattered beyond all redemption.

Second Life,ghosts

tell me what kind of gauge
can quantify elation?
what kind of equation
could I possibly employ?

And I am thinking very much now. Standing on the shore of my own separation, picking up stones, wondering when they washed up from the fragments of memory and truth. Putting them down again and wondering if that's the best place for them.

I am overthinking, and I don't know how to stop. But more than that, I am overthinking, because to stop means to give in, somehow. Somewhere. To someone.

"I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them together again and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new. What is broken is broken--and I'd rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived."

and you'll never know, dear
just how much I loved you
you probably think this was
just my big excuse

Margaret Mitchell said that. And it's a lovely sentiment, but...I am not made that way. I must patch, I must try to repair, I must try to make it work. Change the matrix, change the fuel, cannibalize myself for spare parts if I have to, to keep the half-assembled thing moving. Half a step, half a step, half a step long as it and I can.

but I stand committed
to a love that came before you
and the fact that I adore you
is but one of my truths

I hear sirens and wailing and I do not know if the sound originates inside, or out. I close my eyes and I am nowhere. This is not my place. This is not where I want to be, not where I need to go. But I cannot, yet, find clarity in any direction. Grey where I stand, and grey under my feet, and grey in the distance, and grey near my hands.

This is not my path.

so I'm goin' home
to please the one I so love pleasing
and I don't expect
he'll have much sympathy for my grieving

No distinction, no light but the sourceless everpresent, dim and hard to read by. There is no current solidity to my situation. I must keep walking, I must keep moving, because my greatest temptation is to lay down and let the fog cover my footsteps, to rest until I'm nothing but the mist swirling in place.

And that is not an answer. It's not even a good question.

but I guess that this is the price
that we pay for the privilege
of living for even a day
in a world with so many things
worth believing

"And nothing like riding out of a mineshaft, trailing seventeen scorpions, through lizard-infested desert terrain," I said to him.

"If that isn't a relationship analogy, then nothing is," he replied.

He's probably right.

Today I dug out my Tarot, and did a simple spread of three cards. I am not one who believes Tarot decks hold power in their own right. I do believe the original cards were designed by people who wanted symbols to speak louder than words. Truly knowing the cards means that one has better access to the subconscious mind, at the very least.

Three cards. Past, present, future. What's happened, what's happening now, what's going to happen. Guideposts, yes, but stark ones. It's best to use yes or no questions to be clear.

I didn't use a yes or no question. But the answer I got was very, very clear.

Past: the Tower. Catastrophe and destruction. The universe where one breaks with old beliefs as well as old relationships. The place where the wild winds of change run swift and sure--and suddenly.

Present: the Queen of Pentacles. Opulence, luxury. Sensuality without measure. The space that cannot be measured because it is the look. No terrestrial form can encompass such desire.

Future: the Ten of Pentacles. The tribal attitude, where you know your place. The limits are marked. The space is sufficient.

Considering the question--which is only relevant to me, at present--that's remarkably transparent, all things considered.

So back in the space of tentative trust, once again. I trust I am on the path I'm meant to be on. I'm wary because there are no guarantees I won't be hurt again, or that I won't--by action or inaction--hurt others.

But I am stronger now. I am more capable. I know the dimensions of my heart.

It will have to suffice until the fog lifts.

Second Life,fashion,neko

(Interpretations taken from Luis Royo's Black Tarot. Lyrics adapted from Ani Difranco's song, School Night.)

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