Monday, August 17, 2009
Everything ends with her.
Why not go back? I could trot of the befuddled, fog-bound, cityscape of London; bring all the bloody skeletons out of the closet. I could go back, as a beginning, as far as my Childhood. If I wanted to write a full-fledged autobiography, and not a memoir, (as such) the Church of England’s pea-soup afternoons would finally get the airing out they deserve.
[Along with, Father Allsworthy, (another, “gentleman”) who in his black robe, sermonized to all of us lost souls. With reverence, we’re pressed together in our pews; looking up at him, up there, on the alter. In the chapel, all grows in silence. We sit upon our transgressor backsides, taking in fully his strident words; his full-throated oratory.
Meanwhile, the workers, with their all-too-hung-over-heads, bowed in prayer, try to erase the previous nights misbehavior. (“Lookie-there, Steven: If ain’t ya father there, among them. Haw-hoo-Haw, the rummy!”) Ho-hum, sez I: I remember my rebellious adolescence, running with the gang.]
On second thought, considering the revisionist attitude I’ve been prone to in my present circumstances, flipping through the Early Years would take up way too much time. Nevertheless, I must say the prospect of doing so seems to be as inescapable as everything else in my past.
[Speaking in general terms, the choices we make in life, sometimes comes down to a set of unspoken wishes and longings which can only be moved by the most subconscious of desires; some of these wishes going far back as our Childhood, they say. Thus, like a child, born in the age of Freud, I could now, if I so desired, examine my early life as if it were only a prelude to my eventual undoing. With wide eyes, I could peer into “the Family Romance,” and expose all the uncharted chapters these naked confessions hold back. Disclosure cannot be held back.]
Indeed, Father Allsworthy’s confessional seems all the more real to me now: As light fades in my loft, and the only glow left to guide me is the ever-present illumination emanating from the center of my computer screen. The time I have to deal with is my own.
The choice is mine alone.
To tap out words:
I’m much better at holding a brush in my hand than putting one word next to another. I’ve spent the greater portion of my life speaking in various hues of mixed paint. So, in the final analysis, my time spent on the page doesn’t seem to be a matter of time so much as it does a final confrontation with my own darker nature. (It is almost as if the struggle to get started, the struggle to articulate my relationship with Beauty, is a vast field, fenced off by too many posts, too many voices, and too many noises; each one of these apparitions of the past are clamoring to get out. The past, in its solidity, is looking to reach some sort of alliance with the present.
When I held Beauty in my arms, I knew where I began and ended--in both, the physiological sense, as well as the psychological sense. Within the rudiments of Love, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell us we were One. Time lost meaning. When she was with me, I knew where I was. I suppose one of the singular truths of this relationship was the one that had welded our souls together; the way in which we transfixed each other in powerful ways. I could go on-and-on about this; the seemingly strung out passions involved; the daily nestling, snuggling, and caresses, we gave each other. There was, also, obsession when we weren’t together: The waiting; the full, dark, strokes of applied paint; the muffled moan, and the silent phone. All of it, come crashing through the door, bursting in colour, and oh-so-vivid with life.
None of this has faded. Private matters scream from all sides. All I see is Beauty. The public Self disappears when you are in love. You begin to see each other in the same light, but differently; all of this in order to see yourself fully.
I don’t know where I begin or end anymore.
My early life, before there was Beauty, has been tucked away safely within a tomb of my own making. I‘d even go as far to say, the only thing keeping me grounded in New York City is the life I remember with Beauty. Mattering less and less, time is stretching itself. I want so much to tell it all; including, my dreams, and night sweats, and the paranoid visions of a pounding at the door. At the same time, I want to hastily shrink, grow small, and fade away. I want to hide my sins, my body. I want to see my life grow microscopic, insignificant. [Even as I hold the vision of Beauty in my dreams, a dead man’s voice screams out at me; a dead man’s finger points at me, curses me.]
All within the same breath, I want to inhale every contradiction I’ve set for myself:
In every instance of revision, I’ve mustered the feeling of guilt it takes to cover over my own callousness and cruelty.
It’s only been lately that the impulse to “tell-it-all” has become more than an impulse. I’m truly into it now; the motives are more involved than just the truth of it all. The truth, at times, can be irrational. Nothing is ever spur of the moment. In every human interaction there are choices to be made. Hiding never brings one happiness.
I’ve found out all of these things the hard way.
The one I’d like to speak to, if only I could, would be her husband. His face stares back at me from a newspaper clipping. I cannot escape his face. It’s a deadened face, given nobility, in its suspended animation.
The silence of the photograph, the very truth it reveals, puts me in mind of every falsehood I’d showered upon his invisible presence; every palpable notion of evil I’d projected upon his very life.
The impulse for any writing, I believe, is to give back, or bring forward, something which ultimately illuminates a given situation, a given time or place.
In my own experiment with words, what I’m seeking is a kind of absolution for the hurts I’ve meted out; all the false steps I’ve taken: All the unseeing bits of deceit, festering into something evil and hidden.
Thus, these words shall ultimately lie hidden also. On the day these words reach the eyes of Others, I shall be long gone away from this world.
If the man in the photograph could speak, what would he say to me? Better yet, what can I, the one who feels responsible for his death, possibly do to reclaim what little humanity I’ve discarded? What can I say to him? Can my point of view be anything but a ruse, (read: a rationalization, par excellence.)
In the scheme of things, I’m sure Beauty’s point of view would contrast greatly with my own. I don’t even know her whereabouts. I’m still trying to unloosen the truth from among all the lies she told me.
My dreams tell me I still love her very much. As night commences, I want to forgive her everything. It’s easier to forgive, than it is to forget.
As morning comes, I close my eyes and cannot help seeing her image before me. I cannot let go, it seems, in the same way she did. Her daily appearance is so stark, so real; not at all ghostly, or fleeting. Only with the light of day, does my support weaken. I embrace a killer each day.
I want to bare my soul. See an opening. Peel back the layers of falsehood. I want to hide my beginnings, while at the same time have them slowly revealed, exposed. All these words are gravitating toward a contradiction.
Life is lost to me. I’ll never walk in heaven. Time, beautiful time, no longer matters.
Beauty was all.
Now, I write for those who have not known Beauty.
[end, Number One]
(To be continued...
Posted by William H. Balzac at Monday, August 17, 2009