What is this feeling we call boredom?
— was it always a paradox?
should be; life is in the roots
in the air — zigzagging between the nodes
in some membranous digits
and some pockets
the chemistry of boredom can only be measured
when you have really lived; or vicariously searched
through the folders of lives in some others’ kitchens
— the image, the simulacrum — those bread crumbs
that led you to some candied house — were you some
anorexic dandy fidgeting on some other street
tiptoeing through the woods
and the urban sprawls
you seem like a nightingale; singing some memory
of a future. Your posterity begins, when you fold boredom
and piecemeal it with the wings — you know you are borne
and bound to take off — outside yourself and inside yourself
ennui is a happenstance; struggle the happiness.▬
I suppose I will be understood — when I die?
that death be my proof seems such a simple thing
a cliche, a blinding light which has no priority: no proprioception.
I am not going to die, soon, if I am going to die at all
it is a stupid thing to make immortal the person who has no mortality
denying them their temporality is denying them the identity to live
so, I will not die today or tomorrow, or the day after, if I am able to hope so
— I will torture you with life, with my life, the life that you wish to deny me
I will live with, with my sins, blessings, regrets and asking my God for forgiveness
I will live it when I exhale and inhale, when I wear a burqa or a miniskirt to chide you
for trying to shame me for my veil and legs — for in each I brought the beauty of living
which you wanted to deny me — by a choker of silence, no fetish I gave consent to
no sexualisation I gave consent you. I am sexual in my billowy robes; modest as I bare my legs: my lips and eyes will insinuate life which you tried to martyr me for with the helm of the shirt, with the housework I will do and you will never give me credit for and the children I will raise but will respect you more and the precipice of my tongue wanting release — a smarting, shattering, constructing orgasm which you feel you will deny me and I am a slut to want for more.
You are the slut for being scared of me — scared of all that I can achieve and all that I am more — when I wore the apron to shine the bannisters or cook the food I am still a soldier battling as an architect, close to godliness, close to the apex of a trinity: soldier, sage and stable revolutionary with all the vices and virtues you needed and more. I am the same when I wear my shoes; those minimum pumps required by corporate to stand in toe in height with men; or, many a times look taller and deadlier than them anyway. What they think is the erection of the tower of their own bones, so amazing right, just is an ivory tower of height not the tusk of the mammoth, or elephant, not the planetary audience — when I wear the proper shoes to school but fail because I am nice — because you wanted me to be but wanted a coquette too which I could not be and shamed me the once in a blue moon grades I got because you were afraid to admit you underestimated me. That I was out of your league.
My lips be nude or doused with rogue — or doused with the flames of gasoline fuel I will not die today, by immolation, by spears, stones, guillotine or bullets, or you choose to efface me day in and day out like acid rain on the face of what you think are statues. I will not die today of ennui, of boredom, of lack of recognition — I have my cognition, my gears, my sword, my stones, my glass shoe that I sharpened to my spear and I have the hijab, the nude hair, the scarf, the nun’s habit, the shaved head, the colour blue and the habit to be relentless in my bones and marrow. My flesh may have been born from a rib that means I can be you and more. That was the lesson you should have learned when you swallowed the fruit with me. I am poison. I am potion. I am elixir. I can be edenic in the core. I am a rampaging beast but I also show the compassion of brotherhood and sisterhood. I am XX. I am what some call woman. I am mostly female. I write the laws of the feminine. Not you. Queer or straight. Religious or secular. I am irreplaceable. I am the rib you need and the fruit you will want to swallow. I can kill the serpent, the trickstar. Both the sinner and the saint. I will not die today. I live in everything in the ether.
I feel alone.
And I have forgotten how to write.
once I use to flirt with linguistic possibilities
and now I just don’t do anything…
I don’t write anymore
writing has not been killed in me
but I don’t know what to write
or, how to write
or, is it makes sense to me to write?
I asked myself this question
as I write this, and in the writing what I wrote may be a start or not}
I always tried to be hopeful; I still am
I just think I am too old
my youthful exuberance has failed me
my life is nothing but security and in that I found insecurities
I had and have passions but who wishes to know them or understand – does it really matter?
Perhaps, I have failed for now.
perhaps, I won’t fail again.
But…if failures means I have tried
isn’t that evidence enough for some kind of existence…
How I feel, is not necessarily connected to what I would prefer to think
How I operate, is not necessarily my personality;
I am clueless, a writer’s block in motion
“cock-cunt” blocking my potentials that I did not know
— do not know, how to exactly cultivate…
and I feel lonesome all the time…lonesome in my blood
like some odd sterile-vaccination to another incubation
an incubation that waits in the wings; I am a mouth full
of disjointed feathers; corporeal but not blood-stained
they inhibited the concept of death, in my mouth the feathers
waxen and wane like flowers in bloom and they recycles as
cat-got-tongue sort of feats…I am just sad, I am just lonely,
I lost that person close to me — Abbu, Dad, I don’t want to believe
that you don’t walk beside me — that all these journeys are now
mine alone. And I am not happy always alone. I feel angry.
This month I had procrastinated to daydream — been unable to
fit the home model of me in this new home. And it does hurt.
But who is willing to understand?
Not everyone will get it. They manage. They think you will. The same.
the same ways; nothing new — as the human world forgot the existences
of biodiversity. I have been unmade or made into plankton. Into a unicellular being by ennui and loneliness. I can’t withstand this need to be more as I do not know how the future will be cunning — how it takes my fate with a grain of salt? I will be the Red Sea motherfucker you will see how I wash you with salt and caribous and whales and I am not going to make a whale of and effort doing so — I am lost but have not lost. I feel cold but I am not numbed yet bastards! I did not wish to be trouble but I became trouble because I always yearn for what other people are taught to detach — the search of intimacies, the search of love, the search of sacred sex, a life beyond gendered expectations. I think people use all that is normative as manipulations, as fetishisms, but I do not know honestly how to be honest with those — I could only be me and outlast the lingering eye of discriminatory tastes. I yearn to talk, to think, to not be betrayed by obscene friends who had lived a life but chose to thwart mine.
I know I am no poetry in motion.
That I was chipped from the start, weakened already, I am no IQ wonder no genius in a refrain, waiting for a right chord to strike. I have no serpent’s tooth, no cunning fox with no tale. How I operated was survival and lacking what I needed to survive at best. How I feel is just the dregs of disatisfaction. Nothing in me on this was apt to binary. I was happy too to have heating when the minus degrees struck and food in the fridge. I wished I knew how to transmute disappointments in life as talismans of the future. Or, maybe I am learning the art but have not mastered it enough yet? — I hear distant city-life outside, echoing, wailing, demanding to be heard. Am I demanding to be heard? — I am wailing on poetry, but the poem was also a soft pinch on your thigh, a flirtatious revenue to ask “look, at me, I am talking, but I also look nice when I breathe.” I am like the existential ugly duckling, waiting to swan and swan dive out of abyss, into it and peripheries and centers and all. Clipped wings may be coined for the so-called well grounded. I rather file them, adjust the bluntness and sharpness, so that walking, floating and flying can be done with chimerical speed. I speed into God; I know God will speed into me…—
I didn’t know that studying abroad would be a lonely experience. I am just into the experience so I am not sure how the entire experience will be; yet. And I notice people have more boundaries than me. There are a lot of cool White and Black people – people of Asiatic origins and such and I desire, hunger to talk to them. Talking and intimacy has always been an integral part of me. My being cannot resist it. It gravitates towards it as its gravitas. People are just good at hiding or at bearing shyness. I cannot. I do not know silences that stretch due to stranger strangeness; due to anonymity. For me, I feel everyone is an adventure waiting to be explored; a university of individualism wishing to be learned and interacted with. Human to be humanly and humanely encountered and understood. But I know many people will seldom look at others this way. In a sea of bodies I am just well, just another body. Not even an attractive one. I am new. My freshness stinks like cleaning soap, disinfectant, like some form of ripeness that has ripened with the irresistible tug of the green. The men and women here are beautiful and presentable. They look healthy, fit, accustomed to walking. They have developed really clean and well attired aesthetics. I saw a woman from East Asia or East Asian origin with painted full lips – colour of poppies and blood crushed into the metaphor of richness and life. I envied here. I am plump. My skin breaks. I am not a beauty. My hair is the wires of a mess, cables of neural electricity refusing to find sockets or comfortable patterns. The climate here is colder. More foreign. My skin has broken with it. I am a noob. The gamer term encapsulates me and my personhood perfectly. I am a noob and it reeks off me like dying fish on some forgotten sands. I have no sense of direction. Today, I was a bit in shock at looking at an official registration form that asked for my sexual orientation. It was a well definable space; a well defined definition to a sexuality. That hasn’t happened before. It was beautiful. But also a bit difficult to process. Then I giggled like a teen. I am in my 20’s. I am older than most people in my dorm or my class. But compared to them I am stupid. I am a social invalid. I am always at awe at how beautifully people do day to day things. I can’t do anything like that. Not yet anyway.
I was spoiled. Sheltered unreasonably. But where I am from many middle class or upper middle class people are like this; so are high class people. We don’t count money fast. We don’t know how to cook. We don’t know how to clean a bathroom. It just is. It just was. Imagine me. A sheltered weird creature among people who already know what they want from life. What they need in life. How to carve out their individuality. How to carve soul and identity into both paper and flesh. You may be disgusted by it. Rightfully so. I apologise for being so incapable. So immature. Yet, it was so fostered into me. So ingrained. I knew it was problematic but lacked the means to obliterate it. I do not know what sort of creature I am. I am not aware how to live. I am lesser than a baby. I am like Kyle XY without the brains. I am just me. A stupid. But I love the city. I love the openness. I love the liberalness. Love the scope of magnitude of chaos and harmony. Buildings here astound me. I am from such a backward land. I am not really even acquainted with online ordering. I have had so many privations. They are not so private or public. They just existed. I walk so much now. I love it. I wish I could share the walking with a beau. I wish I was beautiful enough both inwardly and outwardly; more strong enough, more efficient enough to be a proper human being. But I am not. And I am sad I was made into this half-formed thing. This failure. This tragedy. This inconsolable invalid. I wish I could love more freely. Be decent enough to love.
I am like a carnival attraction. I am so carnivalesque. Maybe I look odd to others. Today I wanted to shake hands with a girl in a lecture. She seems uncomfortable and uninterested; she had bright red hair, coloured as a cherry. She spoke on Jeanette Winterson. On gender. And I didn’t impress her. I was just there. I was just an odd person. The guy who sat next to me just walked away not caring of me. And my flatmates don’t seem to think I am great either. I feel like the fool. The jester everyone encounters but is so scenic that no one would really pay attention to know. I feel so inadequate. In brains. Beauty. Aesthetics. Brains…I just feel kinda lost.
I don’t know if I am good. Or even decent. I just wish that the “me” I am can change, can evolve, can adapt and become better for myself. Also, for others. I just feel lost and the wideness of this urban wilderness both scares me and tantalises me. I wanna be found and rescued by myself. I wanna meet my spirit, my animal, my spirit-animal. I just want to be more than what I am now
sometimes in the clearing away of it
I see other mists — retractable wrists
opening into a marrow-song; it’s how I write
how I swerve into cul-de-sacs and tenable meadows
or can move from this and that freely…
sometimes my hands fascinate me
with their imperial thrones of bones and knuckle-busts
prancing or swaying, or sashaying or ridgeting riveting
in their own little landscape of hills and chasms; the original manifolds
the n-dimensional or called the hand helping them know mutation and staticity
via practice and kingdoms of versatile muscle and cranial conducts
with a few string theory notes mapping out heart territories
freedom formed a calm radius
a protractor mowed the lawns
yet I saw the vectors and vertices subtly skimming
parched my mouth enough to thirst their tongues
something complex in the daily humdrum of rare and ordinaries
sometimes, or perchance all the time I am a hourglass shifting out and in, into myself
it’s like breathing but unlike creating I think it builds cells bonded with oxygen to also flatland universes where my geometrical thoughts reach higher quadrants but also can be trapped
in the murderous grasps of the one-power of a decagon module of space…
there is no ink, but there is fibrous ink, backlit LED buttons. That ask me to tap not hold and scribble — what is modern and what is ancient here? Is it the caveman sort of way that it feels like I am also using the new archetype of stones and sometimes going back to the chisel or is it both for the cursors or the vertical space on the screen that helps highlight and punctuate my act of writing…what about that? I sample the box and what is inside and outside of the box. Paper bleeds and screens permeate other screens making a meshwork of digital blots that we call net…after all blood and ink rival water with their oceanic enormities of principles and prokaryotes-eukaryotes of layers of raw materials and symbolistic jargons.
Is sometimes akin to aether-DNA transcribed and transmitted through my writing? Does imagination also has a codex, a bestiary, a collection of nomenclatures, another manifestation or reification of DNA? Perhaps it does…after all my I fingerprint my keyboard buttons everyday…modernity has called that the new lock-key…which may have also been another interpretation of bone and marrow or muscle and veins…
a cryptographer of symmetries coming from both perceived aysses and assymetrical spaces…mosaic builds on the geometric… you are always a contextual tabula rasa or something like that…
Sometimes things come to you in unexpected ways. To me it did. I mean you are not really consciously thinking about them and perchance through some creative exercise you get to meet them. The concept of post-apocalyptic fictions have always been explored but to me the current trends of urbane apocalypse like Walking Dead or even The Last of Us all have this macho or rather this closed form of maleness really talking about. It is like Eliot’s Prufrock not knowing how to answer or propose an engagement or marriage or propose questions. The poem is in a dialogue but I think mostly with the reader as on a Watsonian platform Prufrock cannot communicate with pretty much anyone so there is half fourth wall breaking, half-Doylist way of communication. And it is pretty much this way the lone-man of a urban/urbane post-apocalypse talks to us. Most survivor-protagonists are not women. Except maybe novels like Z for Zachariah (which I think the film’s adaptation and retelling is pretty much butchering the complexities of the novel). Though I did a thesis on postmodernism and post-apocalyptic novels I couldn’t make it large enough to put in this so I decided to put it in now. Women experience the urbane apocalypse a bit differently than guys or rather more accurate female writers experience it a bit differently. A sort of reading on this idea or epiphany of mine comes from Anne Sexton’s poem “Mr Mine” from Love Poems:
Notice how he has numbered the blue veins
in my breast. Moreover there are ten freckles.
Now he goes left. Now he goes right.
He is building a city, a city of flesh.
He’s an industrialist. He has starved in cellars
and, ladies and gentlemen, he’s been broken by iron,
by the blood, by the metal, by the triumphant
iron of his mother’s death. But he begins again.
Now he constructs me. He is consumed by the city.
From the glory of boards he has built me up.
From the wonder of concrete he has molded me.
He has given me six hundred street signs.
The time I was dancing he built a museum.
He built ten blocks when I moved on the bed.
He constructed an overpass when I left.
I gave him flowers and he built an airport.
For traffic lights he handed out red and green
lollipops. Yet in my heart I am go children slow.
For Sexton the relationship is always posited, from what I inferred, in extremes. There is no middle ground and there are too much excess and that is why she decided to show the relevance of the “yellow light” in the traffic signal (which even I as a kid I questioned the existence of). People cannot always be in extremes. The urban apocalypse as a narrative plot device follows mostly an extreme, an outbreak of something and no countermeasure. Eddy Van Vliet’s view of the cityscapes is so different even when juxtaposed with the same view of relationships and love:
The city is covered with places you
took from me. Full of joint
footsteps, full of joint laughs.
They were sheltered by dreams and if need be
love grabbed the gun to protect them.
Tell my legs how to evade
what belonged to them.
Tell them. They refuse to believe
that the theaters have burnt, restaurants
were hit by plagues, terraces vanished
into thin air, hotels closed
the courtyards was demolished.
I bow my head and think
the rain will not hit me. Thus
I shall forget what was taken from me.
It is the degradation of the city not its construction of excess that modulates to Vliet a destruction or destructive force of a relationship. This is a very dichotomized way of reading how a man may view a city and how a womanmay view a city. Of course, this varies and you see this in Prufrock who feels that his modernity/modernness may have, like the stars of the skies frigidly there, lost its mysticism, is like a patient etherized on a table ready for some cryptic sort of surgery. Many poets don’t like cities regardless of preferred or biological sex and understandable genders. But this is true that cities may speak to females as a place where there is at times a lurking of danger with the loneliness rather to men which may mostly translate as a lack of communication and then loneliness. That is because cities are many a times constructed by males with less female input. Spaces on many cities, both old and new, cater a lot to the social male disposition. This may be Western or Eastern. Thing about open cafes or cafes of Paris when Parisian writers were writing or also a Victorian sort of phenomenon old “coffee houses.” All these places are computed as macho (nowadays cafes are a shared space) like essentially once even the South Asian tong was. Writing in the open air, or surveying a vast landscape, with both urbane and rustic elements, was the ultimate macho gaze. Elliot’s The Wasteland may be taken very differently by a woman and it was to an extent. When Virginia Woolf wrote Three Guineas she did facilitate this question. This is not a different inherent in the marrow: it is holstered and shaped by cultural transmissions and biases.
Octavio Paz in “I speak of The City” pretty much does the opposite of otherness and develops a shared speech between the male and female concerning the city. The last lines of the poem are:
I speak of the city, shepherd of the centuries, mother that gives
birth to us and devours us, that creates us and forgets.
This is a very androgynous way of looking at the city. Not to mention, the shepherd is always a calm but an emotive individual, he is not the sterile logical man because he deals with living creatures perchance even sentient beings and so acts accordingly. The shepherd is not machismo-man rather if you look at him in classical terms he is a very gentle and kind man. Then Paz puts almost a patriarch or matriarch’s ferocity in the mother, inversing the archetype completely, into something beastial and raging. Not to disrespect mothers essentially but to show the way cities are designed may promote a contradictory language. And in many cases you do see the city-mother in old books rather sterner than the rustic-mother. This may not be her fault at all. Rather she is moved to a place that may not intrinsically provide her safety thus she is on edge. But this lack of safety can be androgynous, hermaphrodactyl and faced by both sexes and all genders. And Paz feeling it. Ending his poem like that certainly can show that.
This brings us back to the urban apocalypse and post apocalypse. Because being a modern man is so seemingly essentially tied with the city a zombie apocalypse or the fall of civilisation as we know it is pretty fearful for men. After civilisation falls they attempt to resurrect the civilisation as they used to know it. There are some novels like John Wyndham’s The Chrysalids that do not work like that. Rather it is anti-civilisation or even suspect of what might happen next in a modernness that makes that novel pretty unique. Not to mention that Brave New World by Aldous Huxley also puts on that civilisation needs revisions sort of template. Also the YA novels like Maze Runner and The Hunger Games also, to a certain extent, makes you question the sort of civilisation. Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam trilogy pretty much does the same thing. Jimmy, the protagonist in the first book of that series, Oryx and Crake, shows a very different take on masculinity. Jimmy is already sequestered from the benefits of his civilisation from collapse because he is considered a “luddite” unlike Glen or Crake who is mathematically brilliant. But then in subsequent novels we do see Crake has a bivalent view as well. Crake also questions the merits and tactility of his intelligence. And he envies Jimmy’s qualities which actually alienate him from the machinery of their civilisation. This is a rare account as we see in urban apocalypses man is more centered on his survival in a way that may always be conducive to be best for him. There is no criticism to why a city might have fallen or failed. There is no alternatives to the current city; no search for alterities and this is where the urban apocalypse somewhat fails to even encompass what a man may really want and need.
Mad Max is celebrated possibly because Max is a person who can probably integrate and communicate with different sorts of people. But Max also does not really think he can posit things or that he can discuss things on what people may want or what else they can do to gain what they need after the current civilisation has a crackdown. No one really does much to critique why things might have gotten this bad or why such a failure affected the populations so badly. There is no communes or alternative living systems in most urban apocalyptic dramas. People are limited to survive without what they once had; we are made to believe that is the best possible thing that could have been had has been had. And now there is no other thing to be had. Rather put up the old ways or something or the other. There isn’t any mention of tribal people or anthropological alternatives. People give up way more quickly in those fictions than people in actuality would. In the 100 there is a dichotomy between the people who lived in the space stations and the Grounders and so on and so forth. Yet even so there is coalescence between the modern and the new — all is either primitive or civilised nothing is swept into a critical eye on what can be done. Except in the lesser known urban apocalyptic City of Ember series there is no new concepts of civilisation. City of Ember series is tragically underrated as many works are at times are.
Nature is feared but women do not inherently fear nature. Neither do men. Rather fear is nature is also a colonised site in our recent history. It is as Keats wrote in Lamia that cold hard logic can be at times our undoing. If logic was replaced with some acknowledgment of nature than the Lamia of Keats could have loved her youth as she was and not in guise or relegation of her powers. Cities turning to dust is a machismo fear penetrative only because we have made cities the hub of everyday activity. We have ostracised meadows, fields and many simple pleasures. Many countries are worn-torn for our need to build something urbane so anything akin to peace mitigates.
In Begum Rokeya’s Sultana’s Dream there is an alterity. A city designed differently though due to the constraints and time it was written in, it does put men down for Rokeya herself seen women treated as sub-human due to cultural and patriarchal restrictions. Most female writers write apocalyptic issues alternatively. To them survival is not only the main issue nor is the finding out how to reinstate civilisation as it once was for to them civilisation is not always civilised. They take to nature pretty happily; enjoying freedom of moving about, the feeling of both a ripeness of the sensual and visceral without critique or commercialism. Consumerism cannot really substitute the need for actual physicality. The madwoman in the attic burns down her “civilised” home to feel like she is once more back near the wide sargasso sea.
“ Pine flower’s blooming,” says
a friend on the phone
a hundred miles away.
“Just think of the scent!”
thinking of it,” I say
to myself, facing
a thousand years away.
“Can you imagine
The poem just called “Untitled” by So Chong-Ju is a reflection on posterity but it is not in concrete and steel. Pine scents are a common thing. You have pine scented air fresheners. There is something sturdy about pine that also we wish to be reiterated in memory but the longevity of trees surely many a times surpass the longevity of cities. Masculine and feminine do have their uses but city spaces may or may not feel the need of androgyne understandings and spaces. The unsexed friend and the unsexed future version of the poem’s narrator can feel in a way that is both manly and womanly. Cities may or may not suppress the certain need of community and communication in us. More modern cities are designed to be hubs of commerce and calculations. Suburbia has become residence though even there it is like a colony of afternoon shadows where no one always knows everyone or anyone in particular. It is almost like humans cannot fully live in cities nor in nature and is stuck in transit somewhere.
If cities are gone what other modes of living can be scavenged or even newly founded? Survivor’s anxiety in an urban apocalypse is usually male and White. Usually also Western. We do not see anyone of mixed races or minority races engage with civilisation meltdowns as easily as the Robinson Crusoe of the expedition. Yes, we have Will Smith’s I am Legend yet the original protagonist was not White, not in the novel. If the urban apocalypse was traced in Africa or Asia the majority man would probably reflect the majority anxiety. But not the woman and certainly not indigenous people. To them cityscapes and dams and all urbane artifacts may or may not invade on their homestead. I can imagine a newly immigrated Indian woman from village to a city who is in an urban apocalypse. To her panic would be initial reaction. Then she might thread, find resources, find a roof, fly kites, walk on railway lines and take life as an okay. She would be happy that in the maze and noise of the city with its talked about dangers she would not face any now. Naturally, she would pine for conversation and company and will surely look for others. But community is more important to her than restructuring the old cityscape. And they might make a city of old red-brick chimneys and bare-boned walls and be happy there. A European woman may do the same with wood or glass.
Sometimes the urban apocalypse feels like a cowboy Western or a mob movie of another sort. Lone rangers moving about and attempting to secure something for himself because he is displaced and the city gave him a position. That may be a minimalist reading. Cities can only be owned, at least many modern cities, with an act of homogenization and to do so would mean leaving behind some things; males and females, men and women are at times more complex than that. They want other things.
It would be somewhat cool to see someone like Mad Max just hitching up tent with some old tribe that survived in deserts or jungles and just feel how life could progress like this or life could be changed and shaped with new cityscapes. Or rather it would fun to see Mad Maxine do do.
The french word “Être” is a multitudinous organism. It has multiple applications but it’s general English meaning is “to be” — yeah, despite French’s concreteness which is shared by many languages the word “to be” is as flexible as the circumflex across its head. The French poet, Andre Breton, had written the poem, The Verb To Be, with all intentions, to talk about the multitudinous ways he feels despair. I am not one who clings to despair much. I think that life is meant to be lived. Hope is important, more Être than despair. This does not mean I do not have periods of despair or mock and condescension those to whom despair is known.
What to me matters is that like the verb “to be” friendships are “to be” as zigzaggy and slopey as that circumflex carrying verb. Friendship is a noun. It has its adjective and its verb. Yet it entails a concept that is not always concretely defined. It needn’t be nor should it be for each person has a flexible way of being friends. However, friendship is more difficult at times than romance and love and erotic engagements. I finally understand why people say it is hard, genuinely so, at times, or maybe forever, to be friends with a lover or spouse. Not that it’s impossible or non-probable. But maybe their friendship styles are not to them definable as successes or things they enjoy all the time.
Friends have a license to be at times inordinately insensitive, narcissistic, self-centered and rude. Of course, your good friends won’t really be this all the time or maybe never. You can’t manage a relationship of the romantic/erotic/love sort with those qualities. Not that romantic relationships are dishonest. They are not designed to be dishonest either unless you make them so. It’s just in those relationships humans automatically attempt to be the best they can be. And that is why love like that is prized.
In friendships we sometimes don’t make the effort. We do annex and arrest a person’s threshhold of understanding. As in we can take advantage of it. This is “honesty” too just not of the best policy sort. Because we inadvertently do at times act pretty mean to our friends, feeling that their patience and love, will undoubtedly not create a rift.
This is to an extent understandable. It is why friendship encompasses the wide berth of empathy and sympathy. However, this is also someething that can get out of control.
We all love Joyce’s Ulysses and maybe even tamper Finnegan’s Wake. We also love Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway and Orlando. However, those too are given to syntax and grammar of its own that does thoroughly negate the necessity of a common language. The individual inflections pass in between those patchworks and thus a novelistic narrative of friendship is constructed and maintained.
If you circumvent that your friendships will imminently, inevitably suffer.
It is both classical prose with neo-avante grande or postmodernist punctuations that make each friendship. Uniqueness cannot be discrete from all commonality and divorced from the lateral conceptions of attributes as caring and solidarity.
In the video game Outlast: Whistleblower, a prequel and interquel-paraquel of the game Outlast, the protagonist Waylon Park writes in a note that his wife, Lisa Park, had said that he was too “literal” and went for “if-then statements” — he with a lot of gravity realises that things are not like that. That becomes tautological almost. Though Waylon is a mathematician/mathematical genius of sorts I am not. However, I did share this propensity at times with “if-then statements” in certain regards.
It’s like “attention+care=trust”, I was foolish to believe it would always go like that. People can be cruel or I can mess up and then not be forgiven. I forgot that “être” was around and that it was a free radical, a morpheme, a part generative grammar borderlining the boundaries of didactical syntax. People are too complex and complicated. Both in good and bad ways.
Each friendship is like a babushka doll, unearthing each layer takes the pulley system of string theory (romance is also like that but I guess we also correspond to it faster).
This is both a beauty and tragedy of friendships.
Depends on the contexts, subsequent sequences or non-chronological chain of events.
Sometimes, I do not wish to be so energetic
it’s a flavour I do not think can understandably keep up with the wide rooms of the world that prefer their camphor and marijuana and cannabis — the world that prefers its weight of gold to be a
perfect pitch of somnambulism.
I am a rockety, rocking chair that is unable to seize the day
because I am over a cliff that has transposed itself into a life
the pendulous cliff with its vertiginous gums and precipitous skin
has rubbed me raw as a cold shower where water droplets become teeth — I have invested in energy, but was told to conserve for the sake of society which nimbly used bastardized fuel but kept my own
into fossils — I am calcified in living and mating with boredom. ..
…now boredom is a word that is quite crude and raw and primordial evi; lapses into tongues and calamity, into divides
into savage topographies; its nuanced with a nothingness that
has nullified the potency of seeds. It is the cocktail of grievances
yet it is consumed at happy hours. Only a miracle embedded in consciousness can seemingly know its severance. Yet deliverance
is a scary thing for many. Once you are exposed to the boredom disease its syphilis kills the joy in you.
I want to be happy
yet I am told happiness means excursions
and if all of us hate that
told to be safe and treat the home as your favourite mauseoleum
then happiness is an energy feels unhappy to be had.▬