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Mar. 27th, 2008
My Book Says:
Mar. 27th, 2008 03:31 pmHappy and angry. Happily angry. Everything, all at once. That's life, boy. You just keep getting fuller, until you burst and Allah takes you and casts your soul into another life later on. And so everything just keeps getting fuller.
It also says:
Looking back down the vale of the ages at the endless recurrence of their reincarnations, before they were forced to drink the vials of forgetting and all became obscure to them again, they could see no pattern at all to their efforts; if the gods had a plan, or even a set of procedures, if it was not just mindless repetition, time itself nothing but a succession of chaoses, no one could discern it; and the story of their transmigrations, rather than being a narrative without death had become instead a veritable charnel house. Why read on? Why pick up their book from the far wall where it has been thrown in disgust and pain, and read on? Why submit to such cruelty, such bad karma, such bad plotting?
And so there is no choice in the matter. They cannot escape the wheel of birth and death, not in the experience of it nor in the contemplation of it afterwards; and their anthologist must tell their stories honestly, must deal in reality, or else the stories mean nothing. And it is crucial that the stories mean something.
It also says:
Looking back down the vale of the ages at the endless recurrence of their reincarnations, before they were forced to drink the vials of forgetting and all became obscure to them again, they could see no pattern at all to their efforts; if the gods had a plan, or even a set of procedures, if it was not just mindless repetition, time itself nothing but a succession of chaoses, no one could discern it; and the story of their transmigrations, rather than being a narrative without death had become instead a veritable charnel house. Why read on? Why pick up their book from the far wall where it has been thrown in disgust and pain, and read on? Why submit to such cruelty, such bad karma, such bad plotting?
And so there is no choice in the matter. They cannot escape the wheel of birth and death, not in the experience of it nor in the contemplation of it afterwards; and their anthologist must tell their stories honestly, must deal in reality, or else the stories mean nothing. And it is crucial that the stories mean something.
That's what I miss the most, and what I've missed lately. Angus hasn't had it in him to provide it for me much in the last little while, so I got it in little patches from him; Piotr was consistent with it last weekend; Trevor when I call him; Paul has the solicitousness that makes me feel cherished but not the physical presence to match it.
You know the thing when you're upset but you're covering and you know that, if someone in the room knew you well, they'd be able to tell and might make a sympathetic face in the split second when no one was watching, and let you get back to your act thereafter? That. You know the thing when you're sad and someone doesn't need to talk you out of it, doesn't need to ask you how you're doing, they just hug you like they're really right there until you want to pull away? That. You know the thing when you're falling asleep and you know someone is watching your face or touching a little piece of you because that contact with eye or skin is a treasure? That. You know the thing where you're lonely and you go over to see someone and don't know what to say and instead of saying 'cheer up' they make you a milkshake or take you to see a blooming cherry tree? That. That's what I love in my life where I have it, and I do have it, but crave more of.
This, the real breakup between Angus and I, is the official recognition that we're not reliably that thing for each other now. Sometimes, sure, like all my friends sometimes-- but I have no one to fall back on, because he can't give it and isn't sure he wants to anyhow.
This isn't a post about Angus, though. This is a post about me.
Because the thing is that I love that true, close companionship that comes from understanding another person. I have that split up among people who know and love me. Angus was the first person with whom I felt spiritually compatible, and Piotr the second- I could talk about those things that made me ring and resonate at this very internal deep level and they generally understand. People, you know, who understand the cyclic wheel of change in our lives, whose lives ebb and flow with the seasons, and who understand this not as a fluke or a minor matter but part of the heart of the experience. With Kynnin I was intellectually compatible. Paul understands my intensities. Eva understood the necessity for nurture, and the power of giving and hospitality. Trevor, now, understands with me the transcendent power of love.
These people are the gifts in my life.
Still, you know, I had hoped to find all that in one person-- and I almost did. And I suppose this is a post about Angus, because he's a sweet-talker, you know. He wrote and said some beautiful things to me that I have saved in voicemail, or in my email history, and you know, he told me in plain terms that he would be mine forever. The thing is though that no one knows the future.
And the thing is, though, that how do you believe a promise like that ever again?
You know the thing when you're upset but you're covering and you know that, if someone in the room knew you well, they'd be able to tell and might make a sympathetic face in the split second when no one was watching, and let you get back to your act thereafter? That. You know the thing when you're sad and someone doesn't need to talk you out of it, doesn't need to ask you how you're doing, they just hug you like they're really right there until you want to pull away? That. You know the thing when you're falling asleep and you know someone is watching your face or touching a little piece of you because that contact with eye or skin is a treasure? That. You know the thing where you're lonely and you go over to see someone and don't know what to say and instead of saying 'cheer up' they make you a milkshake or take you to see a blooming cherry tree? That. That's what I love in my life where I have it, and I do have it, but crave more of.
This, the real breakup between Angus and I, is the official recognition that we're not reliably that thing for each other now. Sometimes, sure, like all my friends sometimes-- but I have no one to fall back on, because he can't give it and isn't sure he wants to anyhow.
This isn't a post about Angus, though. This is a post about me.
Because the thing is that I love that true, close companionship that comes from understanding another person. I have that split up among people who know and love me. Angus was the first person with whom I felt spiritually compatible, and Piotr the second- I could talk about those things that made me ring and resonate at this very internal deep level and they generally understand. People, you know, who understand the cyclic wheel of change in our lives, whose lives ebb and flow with the seasons, and who understand this not as a fluke or a minor matter but part of the heart of the experience. With Kynnin I was intellectually compatible. Paul understands my intensities. Eva understood the necessity for nurture, and the power of giving and hospitality. Trevor, now, understands with me the transcendent power of love.
These people are the gifts in my life.
Still, you know, I had hoped to find all that in one person-- and I almost did. And I suppose this is a post about Angus, because he's a sweet-talker, you know. He wrote and said some beautiful things to me that I have saved in voicemail, or in my email history, and you know, he told me in plain terms that he would be mine forever. The thing is though that no one knows the future.
And the thing is, though, that how do you believe a promise like that ever again?