anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] ocean)
that echoing cry washed over opheus' inadequacy and swallowed back into the dead land, that place we are only on temporary lease from, the inevitable destination of every lament, every shed tear: does anyone listen? can anybody hear this? is anyone out there at all?

i will not face it. i will not stand it down.

it is the order of things. we love, we love, we lose, we're lost. no bridge for that divide. no alternate route. if we are going to love, we are going to lose. that's the flesh and bone of it, the meat of the matter, that's what really gets you hot: to recognize that you love someone is to acknowledge that you are willing to take on the pain of losing them; you are promising you will ultimately grieve their loss. i didn't want things to go like this. i didn't want you to die alone. we all die alone. especially: there is no especially. we all die alone. if we die a person who maintained many loving connections, many will grieve after we die. if we die isolated, having atrophied every lingering connection with our bitterness and indifference, that is a life mourned out while living. loss hurts. loss is inevitable. pain is inevitable, is what i am saying. get used to it, kid.

there isn't a path back to there isn't a route back to there isn't a way home there isn't a home at all. not really. love could be a home, except when love is an echoing cry washing over your inadequacy and swallowed back into the dead land. that home of love. that place love comes from. that pact with the devil we rush to sign off on every time we really mean it, every time we break through our own barriers, open to love, really see someone, really feel something, recognize all at once that this truly is a matter that really, really matters. we allocate life force. we give ourselves away. we throw ourselves into it, barely acknowledging how in the end we are really throwing ourselves away. we love and love and love and love. i love you, orpheus, eurydice wanted to say, eurydice wanted to say without it coming back on her in any other than the desirable way: the way where i loved you with everything i had to love you, the way i would have surrendered whatever resources i could have surrendered - and then some, and then some indeed - to keep you safe, to protect you from who you didn't want to become, to take your hand off the gun, away from the razor, out of the quetiapine bottle. what i would have given and yet it was not enough: because: because:

the wind through the dead land, wind blowing through that place of no wind. that killing fissure mapping out her killing blow. who would mourn me? who would even mourn me? of course i would be mourned. but, then again, mourning is an activity of the living; i suspect that the dead operate on a different frequency. but when it comes down to it, down to the last moments, down to the dead land: i don't know anything about it, as i'm not supposed to. just that i'm here on the presumed anniversary of the day my beloved friend ended his life alone in an apartment that wasn't his own and: i don't know. i don't know the question he asked me that day, that question he asked without asking, that question he didn't give me a chance to answer, that day he made good on love's debt.

now i am tearful. rattled and rattling. i can't focus, i can't remember my functions, what role i'm supposed to take. was i a good friend? was i ever a good friend? have i ever given something to another person i didn't selfishly snatch back on a bad day? i know, this was a wake up call. i know, this is a wake up call. but i've been trying to wake up for years. i know it's a wake up call, but i don't understand what i'm waking for, and i don't understand what's needed, and i don't understand. my every working theory has been quite thoroughly proven wrong over these last twelve months. i don't know where to go, who to be, i don't know what i did wrong.

there's my funerary refrain: "i don't know what i did wrong."

i tried to love. i tried to help. i tried to connect, to heal, to offer something the people i love would want to return to. i don't know that i was a total failure, but given where i am, i sure the fuck can't say i've been getting it right. and i had a friend, and now my friend is gone. and i had a friend, and now my friend is gone. and i had a friend, but now my friend is gone. an echoing lamentation through that land of no answers: constituting the only real answer any of us will ever find.

anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] hari bleeding)
in the dream it was a shock again, as it’s always a shock, as it’s never stopped being a shock. because as old as i am, i am never prepared for or willing to accept the non-negotiable and absolute permanence of death. it’s not rebellion, it’s more visceral than that. an intolerance. an allergy. a fatal, fatal allergy. i’ll call p., i thought, who else is ever going to help me sort through p.’s death, i thought, and stopped cold.

it’s like that. stopped cold. stone wall not even rushing up before you slam in. nothing else there. nothing else in the room. there’s the room itself, but what are you going to do in a room without anything to do? not even a window, i mean, not even a door. when i was seven my grandfather died from lung cancer. my parents took me to the funeral. my parents said it was time for me to go to a funeral and look, here is an excellent introductory option. i went to my grandfather's funeral and i thought: this just doesn’t seem very practical. everything we go through and then this, stone wall, open casket, flowers from your former employer? everything we go through and then this, this room without anything to do? you haven’t even figured out everything you need to figure out. you haven’t even put away all your stuff.

when i was seven i thought i’d will myself dead for a few minutes so i could see what it felt like. i laid on my bed and pretended to stop. stone wall. not even rushing up. it wasn’t so bad, i decided. it wasn’t so bad from that side of things, maybe, like this exercise offered any viable insight into any side of things. at first, for a lot of us, death seems like it should be something you can get over. have a good rest. then: wake up. go on about your day. go on about your life. out of the dream, i rolled onto my back and started at the beginning again.


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selva oscura

April 2017

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