Interim

When I discovered D he struck me as beautifully androgynous. Honeyed perfection and absorbing. No body. Just sounds. Holds your attention, this lack of definitive shape, of being. Devoid of a body. Its is allowed that distinct freedom of running a riot without a bother or any uncertainty.
Emancipation.
About myself I know that I believe in certain things and am open to challenging my set of ideas; this is one of those things that redefine any line of thought.
On some days Life opens up like a raw book, a few corrosive, some conjured and a hell lot of tremulous pages that embody a peculiar chimera. Juxtaposed against unscrupulous reality.
I ‘d always write of approximations and decimations. Maybe because I am overtly wary of giving vent to the primitive urges associated with an uninhibited display of life. The body of trepidation.
But I am feeling strangely free or perhaps this is the right time to be freely strange.
My weave is self indulgent qua quality not qua quantity, primarily, coz I churn at an infrequent rate and yet your are bound to query your own sense of protraction from one day to the other.
Why exists such verbosity?
Why is it interspersed with inconsequential thematic representation?
It wouldn’t make any sense in the face of almost knowing zilch about the writer, what deductions can be drawn from her prose?
It threatens to be too abstract to retain any readership. My jottings.
But still. Jot I.
This, I realize, is about shared lives. It’s all about shared lives. Mine lived an instant earlier than yours or vice versa. The brilliant Russian reverberates with his “There is no fiction” premise. Indeed there is no fiction. In life we are possessed by the specter of veracity. Playing musical chairs. Becoming unforgiving and unforgivable. In love we are far more capable of deviant absolution. It’s an obvious representation of that adage. Everything that I go through is presented in an open space. Amplified. Its effect is manifold, it resounds in this empty open space. Like a tuning fork. Sets in motion reactions and interactions between those who aren’t clued into my realism. It took time to configure its relevance, of why it felt so alleviating to wake up and then keep on waking up evermore to the hollowness of things.
Either that or reassigning nightmares to truth.
Its been tested. The fact that its easy to disappear from life, to allow bones to turn into shadows and write interminable passages of correlation between self, that shadow and the shadow master/watcher. To reiterate Weil and his book. Yes, Life allows you that escape, that’s the easy route and it is the norm rendering it despicable in our book. When you’re forced to confront it, that is the exception.
I confront myself everyday. I’d try to reclaim parts of me from this one-dimensional continuation. So if a couple of days ago Tyler Dryden would’ve put a gun to my head and asked me “If you exit now…What will you take?”
I ‘d have said ..Me
But there is conscientious change now.
There exists that one moment where a (wo)man encounters herself forever and it changes everything. Everything.
It could become a forever present injury or the elegy or the salvation for her soul, this event. Whether that singular loss made me worse or better for repair is not my concern. I do know that it made me fear less. It’s established a deft connection between the Past and the Future. There is no more that vague feeling of waking up in Other places with Other people. There is strength devoid of a hunger for power, not shared egotism. Just a shared life.

Coming back to the antidote. The missing piece of the puzzle is actually invisible. The amorphousness this silhouette possesses is the greatest comfort offered by Life, like D’s songs, its unselfconscious and happy in being dissimilar and tenuous, and there are no fragments, no unrequited ardor, no Locus-stand-I.
To know that the antidote is inclusion. It lies in including People, including the Time spent with those People.
Then I stray.
There is that frenzied interval when I stand at JFK, sound hangs from the air, in a state of inert suspension, a frozen December hymn. The thought–stream halted, the question rose from the still-air, like an apparition….What if this is the interval that divides the Present and the Future?
Music is actually silence between two notes. The interval.
This interregnum is Life.
What if, like music, Life indeed existed in cultivated emptiness?
And suddenly Dave Bruebeck starts to spin in my ears.

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~ by iconoplastic on April 21, 2008.

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