Sunday, March 6, 2011

all wake from their slumber to debut in the Bacchanal...

...come to the light, the invisible light

Tonight is Madonna-Rama at my favorite ever nightclub. It's increasingly a less and less safe space for me though. I find it haunted by the caresses, kisses, insinuations, overtures, gestures, moans--the entire repertoire of seduction--that J. has expended on boys other than me. It is becoming, in my mind, his space now. And I lament this loss as much as I rage against his conquest. This whole fucking neighborhood is. I can't wait to get the hell out. Leave it to him, a playground of decay. I hope he rots in it.

Last night, I learned, he managed to smuggle his 'friend' in. His fuck buddy. Who he fell in love with under my nose. Despite my pleadings and desperate ultimatums.

Oh and my rage is legion! I am a ball of ugliness and I can't even stand to give expression to all of it. To any of it. How cruel and miserable he is. How petty and indifferent. I buckle and break and then not enough of either because I still draw enough breath to feed this surging desire to rip out my hair or claw open my chest or bash my fists against metal rails until I can't feel knuckles splinter and fail.

I hate him.

I hate how I let myself become so crippled under his reign. How pathetic I've become, submitting to a promise of nothing but more lies, more secrecy, more half-speak. I hate how badly I still cling the fantasy that enough time will cure the ills that ruined us, or that the proper phrasing of my complaints will finally allow him to FEEL how I feel, or that my fists could beat his wandering desires out of him and the desire for me back into him.

I hate how he feeds these fantasies, like a pusher, stringing me out on false hope.

Oh and doesn't he smile so very sweetly when he kicks me out of his apartment, like it pains him?! He kicks me out to make space for his 'friends' visiting for the weekend, smuggled into what was once my favorite nightclub. With an air of moral self-righteousness that is unrivaled. I 'abuse' him with my complaint. He shall not stand to hear it! Get out! GET OUT! He smacks my face. (That I actually appreciate, he's touched me for the second time... I think of William Carlos Williams: a sweet caress)

My queer healer tells me to process, not to ruminate, but not to deny or disavow the feelings--"They have to go somewhere or they just cycle, right?" I agree, because of course he's right. I count myself very lucky to be able to turn to him for advice and to just spew my bile onto. Ugh. I need to love him more. Otherwise it's just exploitation. And then I'm just repeating cycles of trauma: transference, displacement, projection. Fuck.

Nietzsche writes in Zarathustra that we hurt with what hurts us. I think he's right. I don't think we mean to, obviously. But it's bullshit to exploit my friend so I can feel comfortable, to cast on to him my anxiety so I can feel more secure. Isn't that, after all, what J. did every time I attempted to confront him about what was going on? Always my fault, my failures, my short-comings, my 'heteronormativity,' or my jealousy...

So I finally agree with him: I am a failure at being with him in the way he says he needs me to be, and so I've stopped trying. I give in: I'm giving up. I hate my limits in this context. I hate that there is some Gordian Knot that I cannot loosen in my mind, and which I do not have a sword sharp enough to slice in half. But then, the one who could have supplied the whetstone was him, and he never bothered until it was too late, once the gesture was itself empty and pitiful. More often, he mocked me as a I hacked away at myself, encouraging me to think I couldn't do what I wanted so badly to accomplish, mocking my efforts at comprehension, fostering the sense of an inevitable fatality that I finally actualized, as if he wanted me to.

Unmoored, with bits that I'm left with from a past I can't rightly make any sense of, I just move on. To what, I suppose I'll discover. But back to basics. Back to being a good student, and back to spending time with friends. Back to matching my deeds to the words I offer up--which may be an incitement to a return to a practice of silence. Back to writing. And all of these (re)turns are just so many preparations for a new beginning:

"'Too bad! What? Isn't he going--back?'
Yes, but you understand him badly when you complain. He is going back like anybody who wants to attempt a big jump.--" (BGE, 280)

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