Everything is a matter of perception (if you don’t believe me go see the new Coen Brothers movie about a serious Jewish man because Ethan studied Philosophy and those brothers, like Colbert, seem to carry a lot of weight in the world with their strange humors and wits). I love their visual and musical sensibilities too.
I was in Eugene this weekend. Lolligagging on the Amtrak like the little girl lazily tugging her bunny roller pack along the tracks to the end carts, sandwiched between the dining bar and the bathrooms. I sat staring out the dark rectangle of night and thinking about what kind of relationship I would re-invent when I reintroduced myself to Adam, after a month apart, and nearly a year of speckled, incongruent conversations, some intellectual, and some emotional, draining and uplifting, and devious, and cleansing. I waited as he forgot the time and ran in a puff from his new place, a small cottage that resembled the Berenstain Bears’ tree house, with a loft and starry skylight, and spindly wood rails, shelves, stairs and cupboards inside.
He sat me down and I attempted to talk as he gazed at me smiling mischievously. He wanted to kiss me and I didn’t want to kiss him! I talked and I looked away and grinned at my feet and ogled all of the little details of his new cottage house. And then we kissed and I pulled away and insisted we go to dinner at the Lucky Noodle and we did. But after pad thai, and some wine, we returned and we did it again. We always do, of course, and then I fear that what piques his curiosity and passion the most has be relieved and the rest of the time will be some sort of compensation for stealing his life force. But this time I suppose I had heart break on my side, as it wasn’t directed at him or anyone else, but lately has been more in general, a general dampness of spirits. And we bickered some, and argued about the serious man, the cliche term “in-joy” so grossly exploited in Eugene, and about the countless guest singers in studio recorded pink floyd albums (because on Valentine’s day we went to an awe-inducing production of dark side of the moon in ballet…the dance of death with an angel stole my breath….and two modern existential compositions with smoke, lights, jetes, horns, long hippie hair and chiseled long limbed dancers)….but we also got along pretty nicely.
I suppose I’m stubbing out the grief of being his “whore”, it’s just a smashing pumpkins song, and I do adore him as he does me, even if he is a freak and will never ever give me a conventional love affair again. I am both finally completely at peace with my independence, and open to whatever relationship could pop up tomorrow. My anxieties concerning other parties that once broke my spirits have all but vanished. I feel cleansed by affections that don’t wane with difficult encounters. (Though increasingly melancholy again to think this is solely due to the impersonal nature of these affections, but I’ll stop short on that for now…)
Joy is all based within matters of perception, and good and bad can be measured by the scope of our visions, but I seriously do think real LOVE encircles friends and lovers in much the same way, and I have in this preposterous joker from the past a real good friend, if not boyfriend or anything else of consequence. I could never knowingly regress back into a romantic bondage. I watched the movie “Crash” (90’s with James Spader, the NC 17 version of course) and thought how numb these people were, aching to hit the edge, to feel something, and in repetition and perversion, feeding the numbness into a state of emotional oblivion. I can appreciate more the rarity of our affair, and find solace in again feeling seen, felt and appreciated. It has been a flustered carnival ride of relational fluctuations between various hearts. In short we have all returned to what we knew before. I for one, am only returning to myself, in-joying days with books, cat, bubble baths. Even dad and I are getting along as much as is possible with a shell. He called me, surprise! And he is going to do the annual winter week of solitude in the mountains and snow, with his small pack and clear head. Like him Adam is always going out and away from the world to his own corner to deliberate and to get immersed in nature. I guess I’ve been selling computers for enough months now to wish for only one thing, to have time to wander around in nature, and feel it against my skin, and in my hair, and all over me. Even in my lust there is no one right now I desire more than I can bare. I am happy to be alone. Finally again. I am grateful for Adam’s love, and to know the fickle short breath of the other boy’s heart, to have come to this conclusion in my own perceptions…I am rambling. None of my words really suffice, either, as Martha Graham the dancer said: “The body says what words cannot”.