Thursday, March 19, 2009

Unambiguously: An Address (or, A Dangerous Letter)

Unambiguously, An Address:
I begin with the ambiguity of "address."
Neither Butler, nor Cavarerro _give_ much attention to this ambiguity.
Let _us_ do what they have not...
An address is where one resides, where one is at home, private.
An address is also a calling-out, a moment of publicity intruding upon the private, a letter sent to...
Thus, I maintain this ambiguity.
For, who is called out of the safety of the private domain of "home" is unknown: in calling one steps-out as much as the one who is called-upon answers this call by stepping out.
That is, I am no longer in the comfort of my familiar home when I call you to step outside of the comfort of your private domain.

An address: )unambiguously(
I am honorable, virtuous: I know when it is time to say, "goodnight" and to walk away. I will not press you.
There is a moment in Plato's _Symposium_ where Agathon (who has no idea what he is talking about, we learn), says that love is democratic—Love cringes at violence or coercion: only what is agreed upon is just--that is, lovable.
Yes: I wince: knowing the truth of this assertion; shamefully, I tell you.
(I know tyranny.)

Let me be! I can't get you out of my head... (bittersweet): a plague, a promise.
I know well how memory can torment the mind—as if a swarm of thoughts (like locus’ on the harvest of my well-tilled calm).
Allow me the space to grow, under your gaze (perhaps), and flourish. Do not ask of me an answer, a bumper-crop, now… I’ve nothing but expectations to offer: sprouts, fertile soil, sweat, and calloused palms… I can only (ever) offer a promise.

(I make “ambiguity” privative, even though this defies grammar.)
(The absence of contradiction, or question.)
: I’ve never laughed in this city with the joy you’ve heard.
: I’ve never moved to rhythms we shared until you saw my smirk, and my bobbing head, my tapping foot.
: I’ve never slept unafraid until in your bed.
: I’ve fallen for your hands. I love how they are birds, and silk.
: I’ve never been so bold (yes, this is my bravery—and it comes alive with the arch of your eyebrows).
: I’ve never been home in the last 2 years, until you laughed with me.
: I’ve never been touched with care—and then you reached for my hand.
: I become someone I’d like to be when I’m with you.

Unambiguously: An Address
I write to a writer—in no way do I pretend the conventions of my deployed prose hide myself. (For the first time.)
“You, I desire.”
It takes a writer, I hope, to realize the limits of the play of symbols—the limits of words—to ask: “What?”
And then—allow me to continue this phantasy?—I answer: not “what?” but “who?”:
I answer: “I desire who you are, who you will be, not what you have done. (Ask nothing more of me?)”

(Un)Ambiguously, an “Address”:
Language is beautiful.
I thought, colloquially, an address means: “home” or “sending-to-you”.
It means so much more, to which I address myself.

An address (n.): The action of making ready, the state of being ready, preparation; array, attire, dress; skill, dexterity, adroitness;
—or: directing a ship to deliver a message; inscribing or dedicating what has been written; (to a home);
—a formal style of approach; Dutiful or courteous approach to a person in position of power, or a beloved…

(Do not ask me what it took to prepare this address to you, nor what I am ready for; do not ask after the storms of my seas; do not exploit whatever power this address bestows.)

An address (v.): To put things straight, in order, to make right;
—or: to straighten-up, to erect, to raise;
—or: to right what is wrong, to redress (wrongs), to reform (abuses);
—or: to direct prayers, vows, a speech, words (to a person).
—or [interestingly]: to pay attention to ones address to the courted-Other.

(Allow me to right any wrongs of mine, either through silence or sloppy speech—Allow me to stand-up and speak to you with these words, and—knowingly—leave myself unprepared for your reply.)

I do not write like this, because, as I said, I don’t like being open to the brutality of a former lover. It took immense cruelty to open-up again, and what hurts most in my body is the recollection of the perversions I had to impose on my past to make it something I could speak, breathe, and hold in my fist when I sleep. That is, I ache still at the violence of making my past something I can live--the stiffness of a sculptor's knuckles.
(An ache that is the possibility of my future…)
You asked me: So, you invest yourself in a relationship?
I didn’t know how to answer at the time… I didn’t know what you meant—that is, what you _wanted_—with your question.
Let me answer now, as if to a simple question, regardless of your desire for a particular answer.
My answer:
To be-in a relationship is to share a space (to be-there with...); it is also to move with this person, to revel at their growth, changes, and recoils; and to with-hold nothing from their questions.
To relate-to someone is to actively construct bridges that connect two very different people so that something shared may be enjoyed, pleasurable—and so that the painful and ugly, too, may be met at the apex of this bridge: confronted not in isolation but jointly.
A ship, it is true, is so only by virtue of it’s departure: but in a “relationship” one leaves the shores of one’s love, braves and weathers the lonely storms of the sea, and returns again to their love—as Homer wrote of Odysseus. May that the journey changes both Penelope and Odysseus!

An Address: (Un)Ambiguously:
You stated: I’ve no belief: I encounter these terrible men and I can’t believe they are as terrible as they say they are.
I say: you conflate “belief” and “trust”: I trust beauty, goodness, honesty, generosity, adventure—no matter where I see it.
It is easy, I find, to see where such trust cannot be cherished.
I've no faith, no belief--the trust in that phantasy is gone.
(I’ve fucked, and been fucked-by, many men who had no sense of beauty or goodness or generosity, and for whom “adventure” was exhausted in the play of eyes we danced.)
You corrected yourself regarding the conflation of guilt and shame: you saw how guilt was an internal, gnawing doubt: conscience (in the Christian sense); and how shame was public, shared, and visible to all. You saw how the one creates atomized, defensive people; and you acknowledged how the other could cultivate a shared sense of honor/beauty and shame/ugliness.
Do not, then, take for granted that I do not feel ashamed in this address. Here there is nothing ugly, nothing crude or dishonorable.
Trust my daring.

An Address: Unambiguously:
You’ve reminded me “I,” and for this I will never demean you.
You’ve lavished the utmost kindness upon me, and because of this I will never accept another indifferent advance.
You’ve laughed with me, allowed you hands to dance before me, and then rest within my own, and for this I will never touch another corpse.
You’ve shown me a world outside the narrow purview of my reticence to queer culture that I could respect, admire, and strive-for (in that cue you cautioned, we mustn’t become homophobes).
You’ve allowed your own vulnerabilities to appear, at moments, and for this I will allow that there may be fault-lines in the most bound “faggot” (a man waiting to be emulated).
You’ve given my fingers cause to pounce upon the singular symbols of my computer’s keyboard with the same ferocity Patricia Barber attacked the ivory of her piano.—You set my brain afire, and I delight in the blaze! It is harmony… and I still remember your eyes catching the light as they captured my own.
You cum with an intensity I can only compare to the insanity of my prose. To feel the slick of sweat in the curvature of your back, to hear—and want to elicit—the gasps of your heaving chest, to hold the quickening—and now recovering—tension of your body, to feel your shallow breath on my neck, and to be embraced—and then dispelled—as you finally ejaculate on my chest…
I’ve never seen anything like this, let alone lived it. I’m enthralled by your nakedness.

But see, please, how my body is still too clumsy, still too inexperienced to communicate my longing—and see how I transform my body into the “corpus” of my words.
(These words you read, too, are wet with sweat, and the meter of my prose is raspy, heavy—I am so close, but unable…[afraid]…to cum.)

(An) Address, (Un)ambiguously:
I do not wish the comforting confines of a name, with its four walls.
I simply wish the continued pleasure of your company.
Prepared, I call, and naked, I ask you to join me, an address.

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