The book -- I fear -- she is winning; she is using underhanded methods to keep me from finishing her. I say "underhanded" because she calls the word from my pen, this book does, by being so sneaky, yes! Comfort is good, yes? Also home and love... good, yes? Thinking, at least, should give me much to press to print, yes? ...but it is not so. For the last three days I have been holed up in Her apartment during the days, not set as before in a computer center with nothing to do but write. This has been my choice; on Monday I did in fact sit outside that computer center, slowly writing and torturing a quarter-inch inch worm (if randomly thwarting its plans to move anywhere, giving it roller-coaster rides on my pen, and yet not allowing it to just lay there like a piece of dirt constitutes torture), and it has been a good one insofar as it has allowed me to relax, to get romantically groggy, and to eat lots of snacks, but it has been bad insofar as it has encouraged me to climb into Her bed and sleep among the erotic-dream-inducing vibes for many hours, to sit around, pouring my thinking into guitar works, long, hot showers, and playing with the DOGS, and to eat lots of snacks. This adds up to One Sitting in Four Days, which leaves the book winning 30-love.
Maybe because of this, maybe despite this, maybe as a result of this, I am a bearer of the 50,000 signs of angst. It started to snow today. Once it snows in Fairbanks, say the Ones Who Know, it doesn't melt until spring. And now I am sad -- sort of. I don't know why I'm writing this, exactly, and I don't know why I'm in Alaska, exactly. I entered the act of writing purposeless, as I am. This book owes you nothing more than honesty and respect, and since these are pretty dubious and flexible notions in this context, that doesn't entail much, but now I'm attempting what? To write an actual novel, something that nine million people have already done better than I ever could? To write a journal, to hold these memories fast and keep myself from exploding? Why would I put you through that, my consumer, my critic, my friend? I'm honestly afraid that no one will read this far, that after all that's happened between Us, She'll stay with Him in the long and (maybe) happy SLEEP, and I will be only a memory, a bad episode, a slight annoyance felt and dispelled like indigestion. I've completely put myself on the line, revealed all but my detailed physical description (which doesn't matter anyway, and might even come out in the "about the author" section at the end), let Her know very clearly (though not explicitly, until She reads the preceding sitting) how I feel...
The break-down will pass; the idea of "4" will pass from consciousness; it is Normal. She says She's under My spell, that She thinks about Me for hours after We separate for the day, Her to classes/work, Me to whatever. We've been building socially-acceptable excuses to touch, dancing and massage, and then proceeding with the level of physical familiarity these gain us long after the activity has ended. The magnet grows stronger; gravity increases. Something has... got... to... give... ...Maybe.
...What should have been the most bizarre day yet. I had seen it in some twisted form on the Nashville network and spreading... I had performed a different twisted form of it at age eight at my now-deceased Indiana-farmer-grandparents' fiftieth wedding anniversary... Contra dancing. Contra meaning "against," so "dancing against itself," a dance of self-loathing, or self-awareness, performed by the old and maybe wise, the redneck "I own the secret of simplicity but may be pretty ignorant nonetheless, but maybe not" folks, those emulating either of these two categories, and the Confused like Us. This is, I must admit, part of my "heritage," my CRUD. She brought me there. It was free. I was thirsting for new and random experience. Most of all, I wanted to dance with Her, to hold Her, to move in the rhythm, to be lost... (Okay, really. No more of these hoaky images, no matter how passionately they make my heart sing... Ach! What in France was that? No more, boy. NO.)
All the elements were there: the country-fiddle band ("Geese in the Bog"), the gentleman "caller," the friendly folks... not the Romantic setting I had in mind, but perfect for us in the flesh. Partners rotate amidst every dance, so by the end you've danced with everyone in the room. I whipped around eighty-year-old women; I twirled middle aged country gals; We performed strange rotations with other couples who had no more idea what they were supposed to be doing than We did; I held Her, and we spun, extra times, until we were dizzy, `till all we could make out was each other, until we had to just stand and clutch each other afterwards to keep from falling over. We practiced this many times afterwards on Her kitchen floor... all this was the aforementioned night of ecstasy before shoveling dirt.
|© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer||[ Contents ]|