If there were a verb meaning “to believe falsely,” it would not have any significant first person, present indicative.-Wittgenstein
Believe not falsely now
for the hour
you live in haste
SIGNIFICANT FIRST PERSON: some would say (or so I have been told by dominating male personas) that the sub rules the game, has ‘the power.’ How that works I don’t know, I just recall the perfect-on-the-outside-representation I saw and wonder what happened to make that form take on that function and these people are among ‘us’ and you are ‘us’ and we are ‘me’ and you and I are all together. Coo-coo-koo-choo.
I am as lost as if nothing had ever happened between us. You are the significant first person. Does that mean anything? I don’t know, other than transitive is a state of being, I am sure, and will go to certain lengths to figure out if there is an answer to desire. Why shouldn’t I? I know that there are things awaiting and I know that one should never give up. That find tune honing in on one’s perversions is something everyone else seems way ahead of the game on, and I don’t know that it’s not a passing fancy anyway, as I try to convert the aches and pains into some sort of next-phase-dissociative-making it work for me like a pharmaceutical ads for Cuban cigars, French tip bikinis, Gold Dust women and what was I thinking?
That’s the worst part of it all.
Not being able to decipher your own mind, much less the body that wreaks havoc from time to time — those of you all snug in your beds could not possibly understand, and sometimes I wonder if I was meant to end up a warrior or some endless Rimbaud-Goethe-Beaudelaire whoever the most depressing Romantic poets you can think of are — that’s me. And I am supposed to just be that. But I don’t want anyone to jump off a bridge. I gave my all but it may have been in the wrong time – each time – a month off, a year off, a few seconds, today I told the story of the gentleman who would come to the bar where I was a horrible waitress and he took me out to dinner and I didn’t want to invite him in because I actually wanted to see him again and somehow a kiss and it ended up well he was embarrassed to say the least and I never cared about such things which I suppose was always part of the issue and why each time I seem to have missed out on a love that doesn’t paralyze, anesthetize, Proselytize, seduce, play, work for your own selfish habit.
When it’s gone, it’s gone, and it never can come back. I don’t know why I question myself on that. It’s just that I am too kind and I never know what to do, I never know what to do when I lose you, when you bamboozle me, when it’s all on that endless trajectory that now I want to step off of perhaps it was looking back and a year ago, the dreams were not out of reach, had you cared. Once, in the way I had invented in my head.
Now I am all about what somewhere deep inside me said, anyway, way back when, reading Even Cowgirls Get the Blues which says less about me, and women, and all the things that defined me as a girl who ends up here now lonely (around other people), sad, childless, parentless, guileless, formless, a blank slate, running out of any chances, don’t want to hit zero, there game of time is a cruel and painful one, the capacity of pain, infinite, inexhaustible. It is only people who become exhausted.
And I have been exhausted. I have a little time to re-boot my energy. I don’t like how easily I bruise now, or the frequency with which my sciatica acts up or the amount I yearn a real bed, the bed I owned in the house I paid for but the man who was not love but somehow I was yet again the in-between girl, the one who he apologized to after saying he’d met a younger woman, gold digger his sister told me, but she’d always been my biggest fan.
So here it was again, another one, the feeling of everything being torn down. The smack down, the emotional rebound, that was April through October, maybe, of last year, with September spent crawling across the floor thinking I might be dying from some Korean disorder that had melted my core so I could not walk to the bathroom but would cry, that went on for weeks. This was almost last year. I was in Korea, around this time, attempting to wrangle three people at odds with each other over various grievances, and me, being who I am, just wanted to tell the god-damned story and get it out to the world.
But this was not to be. Somehow the mold was pervasive and smelling the flowers, forbidden. I had not been that sick, now that I think of it, since Hong Kong. I had been more ill in Australia. Then, I actually did think I was going to die. And there was Eric, blithely dragging my food-poisoning been up all night puking and shitting simultaneously in a motel bathroom somewhere in Western Australia. S
Dehydrated, damn near almost in bad shape (looking back I can see how tough I was because I have not been that sick since and I managed to ride in the back of a car to go camping after I expunged a greater amount of fluids than I had taken in for a much longer time, the pain and the drain, excruciating–and Eric, the self-centered, genius jeweler, wanted to get to Margaret River for the surfing — how could he ignore that I was dying in the back seat of the rental car and would have gladly paid one of my last traveler’s checks to just have one more day to recover.
In the end, he was somewhere in the vicinity in Van Nuys when my father died. I don’t even know what to think about any of this or that except that the Joni Mitchell line which at the time I didn’t like because I thought oh come on, there’s gotta be some catch to this — she didn’t TRY hard enough, BITE HER TONGUE to keep the peace ENOUGH — but that Joni Mitchell (far too vulnerable in Laurel Canyon for me) lyric, “I gave you all my pretty years” hit me like a brick when the deed was done, the determination finalized, you would not even be Sarah to Abraham and this would all come at the overwhelming time of loss in your life, people tried to warn you but you had hoped you wouldn’t have to necessarily suffer every grievance brought to your attention, but so far, you were 1:1, even the old lady at the old folks’ home looked at you and sighed, “You’ve had a hard life.”
That all happened. This year. Earlier. I turn 50 in a few weeks. I guess I am freaking out. I guess I would like a miracle. Someone to come along and say okay here’s your sabbatical in Tahiti (I know the beach it’s not where you’d think) and here’s your MFA time wherever makes the most sense–do I write, teach? how do I use my knowledge just to eat?
these things confound me
these are the things i end up thinking about
when I think about you