Tuesday, August 25, 2009

If Blood is Thicker than Water then You'll Drown Quicker than We Intended

I've set myself an hour to type. The duration of Sigur Rós's "Ágætis Byrjun" album. We will see what comes of this: an exercise in drunken writing. An exercise in discipline: one full hour of typing. Broken, of course, by rolling cigarettes, drinking, and pissing--but only these few essentials.
So, thus, this is the scene: me, at my computer--which has a virus thanks to illegal downloading--, drinking and smoking. In another world the trojan that infects my hard drive would be an infection thanks to a lack of Trojans. Oh what a world we live in! (to quote Rufus Wainwright: men reading fashion magazines--Straight men! oh, what a world we live in!)
Tonight I sent an email to J. The first ever. It was, in a manner of speaking, a declaration of intent, of desire: I wish, now, to be with you then. It was, after all, a desire for a future that resembles the present. I confessed, though "confessed" is such a loaded word, that I wasn't sure I was ready for him when he first came wheeling into my life. All smiles, coy shrugs, sideburns, pot, and so on and so on. All of this, like a wrecking ball, came crashing into my life.
And to think: I only sold lube to a cute boy--I never thought in my wildest dreams I would be writing emails expressing my love, my anxiety, and my hopes. I never thought I could be so quickly brought to the core of myself--which is to say: to the core of my own desires: to love and be loved, to validate and be validated, to welcome and to be welcome.
It is, with such insight, that I grow in appreciation for Freud, and can even, to a certain extent, forgive and come to understand Melanie Klein: our lives, ultimately, are a quest to find a replacement as total as the initial bond of love (to borrow the title of Jessica Benjamin's book) we experience as infants. Our desires, ultimately, can be reduced to these simple determinations: to be protected, to be cared for, to be recognized. The infants scream--it says all of this: protect me from the pain of hunger, care for me by providing your breast, recognize my call as that of your child whom you cannot ignore, dismiss, deny.
The counselor at Howard Brown, Mark, who made me feel so filled with self-loathing for pursuing random hook-ups, some of them unprotected (gasp!), he missed the point: he accused me of pursuing intimacy and validation in such risky moments, and, to this end he was right. What he missed because he was not, first and foremost a good reader of _people_, was this: I, too, was aware of this dynamic as it was in play. And, for this reason, withdrew from the scene entirely: I could not bring myself to make of another an object, a thing that validated me: I demand, for my validation, more than the urges of a "thing": I demand a lover.
That is, I refuse to be the tit for some random boy: suck on something else to alleviate the tension of your emptiness: it won't be me. There is such profound power in such withholding!
My trouble is with being unable to say "No" to my lover.
J. has never hurt me, whether in sex or in the psychical exchange of words and affect. For this I am grateful: I've never had to say "Yes" to pain. (This, by way of digression, is one of the joys of intimacy: the pleasure principle Freud 'discovered' is evaporated in intimacy: there is no _pain_ properly speaking in such a scene: pleasure overtakes all.) If J. were to hurt me--which would probably not manifest in physical pain but rather in some articulated jab--I don't know exactly how I would respond. My impulse, which has become so highly developed over the last 10 years, would be to hurt him back "with what hurts me"--to quote Nietzsche: I would invert the pain, in some vain attempt to purge such infliction--by striking back in like kind.
Only that J. has displayed the amazing capacity to disarm that dimension of me: when I am lashed out upon I ask, in turn: why are you lashing out on me? In the past--the not so distant past--I would have hurt with what hurt me: I would have fashioned a weapon out of my pain, one more deadly, more lethal, and I would have hurled it back at--into--the breast-plate of my opponent. J., however, does not--nor has he ever--appeared as an opponent.
When Nietzsche writes in "Human, All Too Human," "Oh my enemies, there are no enemies!"--a reversal of Aristotle's statement "Oh my friends, there are no friends!"--I wonder if it isn't love that serves as Nietzsche's paradigm: "oh my enemy, you, who strikes me so deeply, who penetrates to my core, who could mortally wound me--we are not enemies: in this space we are not enemies, but lovers."
Boys, when they drop something, pull their legs together so as to catch what has fallen between the pincers of their thighs. Girls, accustomed to wearing dresses, spread their legs apart so as to catch what has fallen in the taut fabric of their virginity, their veil. Just an observation.
Out of beer to drink and out of cigarette papers with which to roll a smoke, I am done. I did an admirable job, though: yes: I failed to type for an hour, but then, Fate intervened: papers ran out, drink ran dry... these things count.
Over my last cigarette, though, I feel I should impart some sort of substantial wisdom to take away from having gone through the trouble of reading this nonsense.
Here it is: cheap cellphones tend to be the best. I dunno why, but they are. Small and intuitive they are a dream to use: I love my cheap cellphone. Fuck fancy nonsense: I'll chose the quiet life (a handshake of carbon-monoxide) so long as there are no alarms, and no surprises.
What am I saying!? My life, itself, is a surprise: surprise, it one day said to me, you are in love. Surprise, it one day said to me, you have the chance to become who you are. Love and work--that both appear as surprises... this coincidence, unlike the cigarette I am about to extinguish, unlike this blog post I am about to publish, is something you don't let go of: work and love--who could ask for a better health than this?

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