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Thirty-Eighth Sitting

9/28 7:30 pm. And what happens afterwards, after you've made your life into an object of reflection, a project that, like it or not, acquires some purposes (e.g. to be somewhat coherent and hopefully interesting throughout)? What happens after this week? I have no plans to write another book, She will be gone, and I will have reached what appears to be an ending point. I know there are always other projects to be taken up, other fish in the slimy sea, but I want neither to be pitched into it or to keep up this long and feisty run `round the canoe forever. Here come those thoughts again: DEATH is certainly not an option as much as it springs to mind (I'm serious about this: I really don't want to scare the people that know me. I know one of the signs of impending suicide is talking about it, but I talk about everything, so that rule doesn't work with me. I'm simply not that damaged -- just emotional, confused, and fatigued.). But I can't help shuddering at the thought that I might just be another bad dream for Her... I'm so far into Her I don't know my way out. I have done things to gain back that independence, to fight the attitude that's sometimes easy to adopt when you have basically nothing to do besides think and dote... the stance is not that different from that of (to rehash a simile) most of these DOGS towards the local human. They will stand around, watching, demanding attention, falling asleep at your feet, and when you get up to leave they will usually try to follow and get very sad when you tell them to stay. Occasionally they can be distracted, and will surely find things to do if you just leave them alone despite their objections, but it's not like having another typical purposeful, opinionated human boor around who will get offended if you say the wrong thing and maybe just leave you for no evident reason. So in my efforts to become more boorish I have tried to focus more on some of the bad points from my end, the things that offend my sacred though largely arbitrary aesthetic sensibilities: For instance, She just doesn't get Tripe -- the humor or the philosophy. There are huge mental barriers there; She's not the everyman (by this I don't mean "average, normal man," but "every man")-wanna-be with avant-garde tendencies. I have allowed myself on occasion to get annoyed with Her, to silently rage for a few moments just as I urge the religiously-Crudied to curse Mr. Big. The need is not as dire in my case, for She is still a recent object of worship (which is, after all, not the twisted one-sided thing that it is in religion) and not bashed into My head as unconditionally wonderful since birth. So when it comes down to it I can get free, and probably bamboozle myself into finding it the best thing to do, but the hell if I want to.

I'm thinking on the future because, well, this is the DEATH section and time'll have to kill one of the relationships going on here, if not all of them. And yes, I am and will be a party to and instrument of those executions. She told Me that He recently described Me as a shark, attracted by Their bloodied relationship, circling... circling... Yeah, bite Me. Grrr. But alas, time yes oh rudely time, goin' and bustin' up these ephemeral and self-deceptive but nonetheless happy days! Time it is to project into the future a remembrance of the present goodly days, which despite the explosion that will be the focus of the next flashback (to exactly one week ago), have been truly wonderful. The pattern, it seems, between the times before leaving and the times here, is not absolute, in that We have very few distractions from dwelling on the Very End, and so extending that period well into the present.

...But maybe not, for there is the same immobility now that She moves about near me and I want so much to just reach out and never let go.

...Cancel that. Totally cancel that. Wow. I'll tell you what happened when the story catches up with the present, [which is still two days in the past, just so ya know]. Wow. That's all.

***

I'm not starting a flashback or anything, but if you'd like to read this section as if it were a narrative scene, I welcome you to try, perhaps by reading it while doing something as opposed to just sitting there like you usually do when you read. I want to be the one to just sit around this time, so move your big lazy butt. What are you, at peace with the universe or something? Well, stop it, `cause I'm agonna go ahead and be the hostile voice of the most dangerous man, the man of reason, for a moment.

What's with this romanticization of distance thing? First of all, it seems kind of stupid in some cases, like maybe our attitude towards DEATH. True, I the damaged can imagine for extended periods that such would be a far better rest than I have ever known, but who's to say that this feeling would go away were It to come closer to actually happening? I mean, it might, and in my case probably would... no, I'd have to say certainly would as I picture possible situations (e.g. people trying to assassinate me). But this might not be true for everyone. In any case, it seems like a pretty dubious generalization on more than one level (especially the kiddie level where there's no Evil Otto and the robots don't shoot).

...And the way I've abused it! The play of ideas here has been very Tripely, i.e. concepts are pulled from their original uses to ones that only appear similar because of some characteristic that has nothing to do with anything. So even if romanticization of distance is a valid description of what might have happened between Her and Me during Her two week absence (and this seems either unlikely, or of little importance given the short time involved) or it is an accurate description of the way in which people achieve harmony by ignoring problems, that doesn't come close to justifying my application of the notion to the human relationship (or lack thereof) with God. More importantly, I have failed to apply it to the entity whose seeds should be multiplying and growing into a towering stack of God in Her eyes as we speak: Him.

Excuse me while I tell Mr. Smarty analytic philosopher man of reason to shove it. I'm obviously not concerned about being exact here, or totally persuasive (If you want to be persuaded, you will be. If not, all my efforts would be fruitless anyway.). Now that I have stated the other side (a fairly easy task), it should be an even more fairly easy task to consider the aptness of the notion to a wide varietous myriad of circumstances (yes!)... So, I'm not going to bother, except in regard to the situations particular to this story, which presumably you don't know anything about, unless you are omniscient, in which case you know which naughty thing I am right now screaming out loud over and over to you (though not out of any hostility, I assure you), or unless you are She, in which case I will now sing you a sweet ode to make you forget the negative things I said about our relationship several paragraphs back. Specifically I guess I should talk about His presence, or lack thereof, and how it resulted in conflict as brutal in some ways as the dog fight, though less graphic and itching and burning. But there is more to it, though, gory psychological deguttings... the turning of self upon self... and eventually, more massage for the loser (winner?)

I said before that His stench was not on Her. This is true: I'm damn sure that She doesn't right now even miss Him, given the number and intensity of bad vibes He was spraying all over Her before She left. She communicates with him daily on evil evil Electronic mail, sometimes with Me present so that I just can't help but overread a few words as my heart speeds up to 190 and my throat tries to become a more direct extension of my intestinal tract. She knows him so so so well -- Her image of Him is so so solidified -- that even were He to be gnawed to a living zombie by termites or if She and I approached the speed of light on a trip of passion, leaving Him to age sixty years in what to Us seems just an hour or so... no, better make it three hours... She would still see Him as having the same skin regardless of its obvious aging and/or absence and would act towards Him with the same devotion accordingly. Wow.

Allow me to pervert an already twisted image of love for a moment by casting Her, too, as the rough canine, though much cleaner and with pheromones more suited to my sensibilities. I do this with hesitation and a little sickness (which means good things for my image-breaking balancing activities with regard to Her), but the symbols demand it, so here goes. She is loyal, yay loyal! She likes to play, yay play! She likes to have Her head scritched very vigorously and at great length, yay head! Plus casting Her like this puts Her on par with the males and so takes out some of the bestiality overtones. So dang it this is all much more natural than those DOG-fightin' cretins, fighting for the attention of a species not even their own, when there isn't any reproductive activity at stake, no difference in whose genes get spread where, no! Their struggle is but the by-product of twentieth-century canine inculturation, while Ours is the Original struggle for existence of self and prodigy on this earth! We are the primal and they are the perversion, despite the vast convolution of tremendously screwed up sorts of wackiness that self-consciousness, language, morality, Tripe, and other sundry humanisms engender! Hmmm. I don't think the primal = dark, mysterious, and therefore tugging the soul into mortal terror! maneuver is working right now. Maybe later.

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© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer [ Contents ]