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Forty-First Sitting

10/2 11:52pm ADT: Did I mention I feel like I'm afraid of flying though I'm most definitely not? Did I mention anything? Did I mention I can't write, that the sentences all come out in the wrong order, sometimes even... well, no. I've... Even in the wrong language? The overstatement is an overstatement, and is preceded by the "...well, no. I've..." because it is a cliché, because the Crud is very strong, and though the stuff that's just happened with the "kiss" and the fire and all seem pretty dramatic, I can't keep it from being "dramatic," as in "Last of the Mohicans was a `dramatic' tour de force."

I'm on a plane and the child next to me is saying "fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck...," for which his mother is holding him, giving him attention, and picking her nose (this is true). Did I mention the plane? Am I even in a plane? I mean, I just saw a tunnel-thing from the gate, and I see planes outside the window, but where the hell am I?

I am... in shock. Obviously. And now the safety information card that I'm supposed to follow. Am I prepared to aid an evacuation? Irrelevant; I am sitting where I am, and not somewhere else, not where I would be needed. And yes I'm trying to draw a metaphor, but it doesn't fit so foo! Are the carry-on items secured? Am I? ...in the overhead bin, so to speak, that is.

My neck is cracking. No, no metaphor: it always cracks... started eight years ago or so... some bone on the right back side. And I had gotten Her trained to see when I was performing strange neck gyrations, desperately (always) in search of relief as I was, and proceed with a good, gripping neck massage, at which I would purr like a good DOG does after...

Does after... what? I know the form of said "humor," but the content? I know the content of said story of mine, but the form? Is the content worth telling? Yes, I say, for it's a juicy love story, and I'm an interesting guy with a villain complex -- yes a fricking villain complex despite all such raging against guilt as a coping device. But it's not worthwhile to tell or to read unless I can put it in a form, and not just a form, but a mondo swell form, like the form of Justice or Chair or something else Platonic. Yes, I suppose the adjective "platonic" is close, but no cigar, now that I've crossed those lines, observed the letters of the law while burning Our spirits. I have betrayed no trust (I think), but have acted in ways I just don't understand and probably can't. That's right. I will know the domain of every man; I will fantasize about being (or deigning to be) my captor or my victim or my God, but I shall not know myself, for, well, that would me messy... And I would be forced to harp more on animal metaphors, which I guess are better than plant metaphors, but, like all metaphors, make me just want to burn this fucking book and simply live through these events.

What is the form, I ask? Sex and Death are fine and dandy, but I just don't understand them enough to make their nexus characterize my experience. I mean yes, as big Freudian urges that I have been running in the face of and rationalizing over, they're perfectly appropriate, but... mmmm... Airline peanuts. I must order coffee to stain my teeth in Her memory. Yes, I am above, duh. On the plane, did I mention? So did I want to walk into that fire, or did I just thing it was a cool image? Did I want anything? Did I mention that I'm insecure about my writing? The task that I know I've set, of filtering through Crud, through "Drama," of coming to terms with it to be able to tell a story that communicates this intense shit going through my field of vision (I state my heritage as Westerner by mentioning sight and not smell, though the two have been identical in my experience) is Work. Can I stay it for the long run, even if it means editing, even if it means going on for another ninety pages to culminate the culminations? Please don't leave Me now, gentle reedeereedeereedee -- Buck? (<-Twiki reference as labeled), for you are "all I have left." Whatever the hell that means. Speech keeps reducing itself to music, to the nine hundred fucking million songs that I've rammed into myself repeatedly over the years and the several less that I've written. No... must talk... must write book and avoid expensive therapy. Ya. We're hitting turbulence; the flight attendants are all sitting down and strapping in.

She told Me Her father had seen a Man step into his burning home and kill himself by letting the blaze engulf Him. It happened at the moment fire fighters found a body inside... his wife. Touching though sick... the throwing oneself on the funeral pyre of one's mate. The only thing was that his wife was dead only because he killed her; he was trying to burn up the evidence for it. Still...

Still... Yes, very still... The whole damn state is... Stark nature with no whirring... or at most whirring in one direction only, so that its source can be located and separated from the rest, unlike normally when it's all around. And still I am not sure whether to let myself be moved by it, for atmosphere is cheezy and symbolic. But can I help it if it's a full moon on this night of my departure? Can I help it if before going to the airport we stopped by a bonfire-building contest or something like that which featured several three-story high infernos complete with flying fiery debris and daredevils running between the blazes covering their faces, just to see if they can? Can I help it if earlier today we set out on a grand scale to get as high as possible so as to get a view, sort of like in the before-leaving flashback except several hours longer and in a car? Can I help it if my hormones have declared themselves no longer just a side attraction to these emotional and intellectual events, but instead the culmination of all that is good and real in these other realms?

And now I crack my neck, and She is not here to help, so the tension is not as pleasurable to break, and doesn't break as easily. Oh, oh, oh, the possible obvious analogies...

And now I find myself starting to think, think of how this Very End relates to the last one, how I really feel, what I should write about next with an eye to overall structure, whether I'm going to get on the connecting flight that I want to, that my luggage will go on, but which I'm on a wait list for, or will I have to say at the Anchorage airport overnight? Already we are landing there. No fatalities yet, to my knowledge, unless the reason I couldn't say goodbye to Sugar Dee was that She had climbed into my suitcase and was now a brain-explosion mess in the luggage compartment.

Before Mercury, there was Maia, who was a lot like the floormat-resembling DOG except white. One time when the family went on vacation, my folks took Maia to the kennel without my getting the chance to say goodbye. When got back, the DOG was dead. How many of these DOGS will be dead before I see Her again?

10/3 12:59am ADT: The same old song going through my head, music to spin by, music I played at Her until She was thoroughly infected, until She made Me teach it to Her on guitar, until She began to hum it constantly, until We joined in chorus after chorus. I consider not writing, just staring. I eat fake Oreos that would otherwise be fed to DOGS. Some German-speaking gents take pictures of me, and though I understand most of the words they are saying, no ideas get through. Maybe every time anyone talks He's just moving His mouth. Gibber Gibber. Growl. Welt kickstanden eine dinge aufgesprochen werhalt eine Katze zusammen Welt... felt...

...Feel again like I should just stop writing. Next time I will.

Should I feed the addiction; should I drag out the portable CD player and indulge? Maybe screw up the plane's radar as we take off? The flight starts to board, and soon I will know if I'm on it... Starting to feel like this kind of update is self-indulgent, that this book is self-indulgent. Why would you care? What makes me so wonderful to think that my Tripe is worth study? Then fatigue... These conflicts are all too familiar.

Yes, I made the flight, and once again wait for take-off. I realize that the comparison of this book to my ordeal to the ordeal of life is a good one, seeing how all these are generally arduous, but I feel I have already exploited your patience in this regard and so will not write fore every boring minute of what will be a very very long flight. Did I mention that you're welcome?

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© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer [ Contents ]