I can love a thing which is not real. This does not make the love not real. The love does not make the thing real; it is neither sufficient nor necessary. (that would be magical thinking.) I can love a story or an illusion or a facade, and my emotion remains fact.
The world is not going to wake up one day and be fair and perfect.
All of this has no right to be anything less than self-evident.
And it'll never be so simple or so easy, but then, it never was, and will always be. Illusion of reality, the impermanence of all things, what what. If i am only one point towards a story of an illusion of reality ... one shouldn't be surprised, to get lost in a hall of mirrors. Love is real - the love which resides (which begins) in my heart is real. Start there.
But i've crossed the dark space already. I know which icky things are hiding in the depths; they're as familiar as sunshine, as thoroughly practiced as boiling water. In retrospect, what i need to do is figure out where i am, and quit forgetting i know how to swim. I know how to swim; i've been doing this for ages.
Not to mention unfair.
tolle talks about the now. So did Annie. It is always now. And now has only the residues of before and only the tiny seeds of next, and we all wade through it, panning for gold ... It has always been so far away, so foreign. And it is always right there.
I carry it in my heart - your freedoms, your wide-open limitlessness, your dreams. your Dream. your closed-up, deep-running shame and prudery. your ambition. your confidence. your stated acceptance, your fear, your optimism and unshakeable belief, your paranoia and conspiracy theories - your total mixed-up-ed-ness and canyony divisions. Your willingness to work for things, and hard, and angrily; to willfully ignore things, your refusal of help or criticism, your entitlement and privilege. But you were never a monolith - you were cracked from the very beginning, fault lines and statelines running up and down and crossing, supervolcanoes in waiting. There were always people to say that everything was going to shit, and that your welcome was hollow, your inherited colonialism arrogant and presumptious: they'd been saying it already for hundreds of years before i was born.
They're right, always.
But they say it everywhere else, too, and in every language.
The way you evolve further, now - where are you going? The more you change, do you stay the same? Am i fixed in amber, a relic? My voice changes, my language changes, people say my words are not the same as your words, and you seem so terrified and angry. Is it already too late?
next day: name it. claim it. understand it. find the fuzzy edges, the borderlands, and stay away from the precipice - what does that translate to in the map of my head? it is like a mountain, steep and tempting and treacherous, (but then what isn't full of treachery and the threat of betrayal, these days?) and you see the peak shining burning a star a sun just out of reach and it's breathless and the air is so fine, so bright, and i am scared of heights after all when there's no guardrail, nothing to hold on to, and it can all crumble and collapse into the abyss. know it, chart it. the base camp can still be safety, and as much as anyone needs.
breathe, and keep my balance. if i could keep in my mind that i will never know everything, never be everything, never protect everything, never predict everything. god is everywhere. i am not. this is a hedgehog-big thing which i do not know.
In high school we read Russian poetry and i didn't appreciate it at the time - though the professor did her best, be fair; we were children, reading childish things, and it did stick. did Akhmatova ever meet Hemingway? they couldn't have: he wasn't in Paris yet, he was just a boy ... i am reading Chekhov now.
This is what i have been doing. My footprints stay for a moment on the wet roadway.
I know, i'm showing off.
i always go back to the waste land.
i could get a lilac tattoo. I fucking hate April.
Sissi is in it? Sissi is in it?
16: bored to death. (i don't mean it, she does.)
europe in 1848 was nuts
30: i never know how much i never know
under the rock, he is afraid of what i am afraid of (obviously)
I have zero fucking sympathy for Tristram and Isolde. Sorry. I just can't.
Y's French Tarot cards are all different ...
46: i do not believe in arbitrary
the Wheel is in hebrew!
93: this doesn't end well. Ever. Rape, love, suicide, .ever. Revenge.
You keep telling the same story
ophelia, dido, cleo, the hyacinth girl.
118: fuck you. also, god, that's morbid, i love it.
120: i have had this conversation. Those are pearls that were his eyes means it was never supposed to be like this.
137 people have been here since the beginning of people.
168: fuck you i said it's mine
fuck you i said it's mine
III it's all damp corpses innit
but since when does it rhyme? must be red with wot.
he's so young - it's his, it must be.
242: see what i mean? ooooooh, humans never change.
253: again with the dead girls?
the whole thing is full with being afraid.
memento mori. (but death is not what i am afraid of)
352 dry hopes. if there was a martini on the rock
if there was a martini and no rock
if there was only a little gin and no vermouth
an olive, a twig
365 it's the lilac gentleman, off his train.
actually there's no movement, is there, here - the train is gone
390 and only stillness will remain.
425 it's too late. but he knows.
428 soon, my love, soon. very soon.
431 huckleberry ;)
yes i said yes i will yes. are you nice?
Other times i was sad - and i can't say i don't know why i was sad, i knew why i was sad, it is mind-numbingly obvious why i was sad - but there was no proximate cause, no immediately identifiable trigger, just this sudden tsunami of endless grief.
Dalai Lama says we are all the same, but i already knew that. Nice to hear, again, for real; the force is strong with this one, etc.
I had hoped that when it was finalized, it would also be done, but of course that has turned out to definitely not be the case. Very far from the case. I had hoped i could wrap it all up in a big black box and let it slowly turn to dust in a distant attic corner, but it's not working. I knew this would happen. I said this would happen. I told you. I fucking told you. And i know what you say about backpacks, but that doesn't make it - that doesn't make it okay, that doesn't make it acceptable for me to continue to behave this way. For me.
(Please note: there is one of me, and seven billion seperate yous, plus the whole world. Chances are, you're not it. Chances are, we will never meet. Chances are, i will never see you again.)
You disappeared, and you have not kept your promise. I don't know if you're happy this way - again, i hope so. The world has seemed bigger since then, and emptier, and more friendly, when i remember. Full of connection and possibility. I trust people. Dear god thank you for that. Anyone could be you.
It has been so long ... i am so much older. This hasn't been turning to dust at all, i swear it (though anyway i hold it too precious) -
It's okay. You were none of you anything i could keep.
Layer upon layer and how do we find meaning in the world. If i have always known you, if i have always been with you, i have always lost you. It has forever been this way...
You exist. This is the connection. The universe is in chaos, is in change, and as it would be completely egotistical to contain it i have to let it go. i have to let it go. i have to let it go.
This is going to keep popping up, isn't it, unexpectedly, like this? Less and less often, as i identify more and more pattern, how wide and how deep and how long, and how all-encompassing, like some horrible, corrosive lace laid over an entire decade. I'll just stumble into some raw stub of history and be numb and angry for a week or two. Even now, I know enough to go, Oh, That old thing again. I know that one, i was expecting it.
(I met someone who told me something i had suspected about what now by all rights ought to be ancient history but i that had not known for absolute certain until just that moment. So. You know. I was expecting it. Still. Ow.)
I am also not sure what i can say.
The girl in the apartment upstairs has a new boyfriend. I can tell.
The gifted ficus tree that was so unhappy by the balcony door has perked right back up, now, by comparison. New little leaves are growing, and the old ones are basically all dead and gone, so the crispy winter look has receded. He is still two-thirds naked, the poor thing, but better. I think it was too drafty, before.
I have had at least two unexpected compliments on my manicure. The third either i am imagining or is very subtle and admiring and gradual, but if i asked about it, the asking would destroy everything i have worked so hard to build.
Knitting is like a study of realtime topology - seriously, Mathematican Friends, look into it. You could be massively, cultily famous for inventing an improved left-leaning decrease.