Saturday, May 30, 2009

Oh look at the trees and look at my face (And look at a place far away from here)

Today was simply lovely.

I got paid my meager fee for services rendered as a tutor--In that regard I feel like Raskolnikov, Dostoyevsky's poor ex-student murderer "pale criminal," which makes Joseph or Matthias my Razumikhin I suppose. I imagine I am drawn to these figures, these guilty criminals weighed by bad conscience, because I see myself in them: guilty, alone in his deed, tortured by silence. These figures, all so many allegories of the self-overcoming man (ubermensch), baring their teeth, striking for the neck of Christian morality, igniting their very bodies to cast away the shadow of that murdered God.

Mik and his boyfriend Michael hosted a picnic at a park on the lake by their apartment and somehow I became grill-master. If anyone gets food poisoning, I apologize now--but really: I haven't "cooked" (unless one counts a microwave) in at least a year. And the whole operation was wholly ad hoc. But we had fun, and that was most important. We were graced with gorgeous weather and our bodies reveled in the vitamin D we absorbed. Positioned right beside a sign boasting the rules of the park we chose, in stead, to read the list of prohibitions as a check-list of Musts: open flames, unleashed dogs, and alcohol. At one point a little Eastern Bloc boy wandered up to us as said, "Is this a party?" And incapable of resisting the temptation, we gaggle of fags (for the lesbians had left at this point) splayed out on a blanket, offered him our wieners and a piece of fruit cake. His father, a very severe looking man--short, mustached, wary--quickly recalled his son to his side, back to safety.

As they departed to see "Hedwig" I stopped at Metropolis and sipped an espresso while soaking in the lewdly resplendent prose of Genet's "Querelle". They closed shortly after I arrived, so my stay was short, but I did not mind the reason to ride home while the sun was still out. As I rode into my little alley I spotted a book case, and as it looked in good shape and hadn't rained, I deposited my bicycle and hauled the load up to my apartment. I now can proudly declare that none of my books (save a trifling handful) are on the floor. I slowly inch towards respectability. It's taken two years to get book cases. But now I have them. The problem lies in this: as soon as school starts again, I will need more book-space, which means replacing a bookshelf for a bigger one. But that can be done easily enough.

This picnic also brought to the fore my subterranean desire for a boyfriend. There is a boy who, if he asked "Do you love me?" I would have to reply: "Something like that, yeah." But that's a question that won't be asked, and there is no point in looking for something that isn't there (... Shine a Light). I believe I was, with a sole exception, the only single person at this little gathering. Not that I am desperate for a relationship--My pride denies me the possibility of "settling" for anyone who I imagine beneath me. I long for an equal, an adversary who can match me: a man "like only to himself, liberated again from morality of custom, autonomous and supramoral (for 'autonomous' and 'moral' are mutually exclusive), in short, the man who has his own independent, protracted will and the right to make promises--and in him a proud conscience, quivering in every muscle, of what has at length been achieved and become flesh in him, a consciousness of his own power and freedom, a sensation of mankind come to completion." (Nietzsche, GM II, 2) With such a man love is intimate only to the extent it strives to actualize, embody, Heraclitus's cosmic struggle.

The mistake many make, I feel, when it comes to love resides in the confusion stemming from an ontological misunderstanding: What is loved, in reality, is who someone is, which--precisely because it is intangible by virtue of its status as a Da-Sein (a being-there, not a is-here), that is, as futurity as such--is mistaken, subordinated to the "present" attributes, qualities, descriptors that constitute solely what that someone is like, does/did, ect. Who is loved, that is, is he who is not yet. What then is recognizable? How can one, in essence, love nothing? One loves "nothing" in the sense that Sartre understands Nothingness to be the site of freedom and responsibility: One loves--desires, anticipates--the Other's self-creation. As far back as Plato and Aristotle, what binds friends and lovers has always been their shared ideals--difference in identity--plurality in unity: One loves the companionship of a fellow noble soul, a proud conscience. In Aristotle's understanding, another self, another self in the Nietzschean sense of being a who "like only to himself." The metaphysical prejudice that elides who someone will-be by privileging what they are results only ever in the reification of the Other, thwarted expectations, atrophy: the end of love.

Love, rather, is a dance--a tango, perhaps.

No comments: