more or less
And then there’s this part here. It’s all in the same white flood of memory, the backlog that is downloading for some reason. Because it is sad, I will alienate myself by calling the “I” a “he” (like every other great canonical work of great impotence). ((haha)). (((hahaha fuck you dude))). There is a her, a she, who is not you, because when I mean you I will still say “you” because it’s always you.
And always will be.
At least so far.
Oh, that was almost cutting or biting, but I was going to say something so much worse, you can imagine. Something snappy and sharp, like “You better watch out girl you are about to get eclipsed,” but that’s not true.
At least not so far.
Snap my fingers in a z for-ma-tion….
The dress, the dress in particular, the one mentioned in that famous play “Desiring Flight,” the one that makes butts look big, bought in a downtown boutique in a city in Southern California, and bought to go clubbing later that night, but not with me, and then sitting in the car while she’s driving and me wondering how the handles work, and if I have enough money in my pocket to open the door and roll out and spend some hours on the town by myself before getting a cab back to my godfather’s house (snd I don’t, I just spent it on a horel room the night before) ((I learned so much about the hospitality industry in those days)).
And then thinking, in the car, how other people are advising me to watch my back around her, that she’s playing me, that she’s manipulating me, and then there’s a thought, this thought that I forgot, the one that kept me in the car. I agreed to this, with all the talk about harlots, I agreed that this is how it would be, and the old men in my head tell me to not let her do this, and I think, “Do what? Have her own sexual identity? Explore and express it the way she wants to express it?” And I do want her to do this, and as long as we’re aware of disease, and careful, then there is no trouble here at all, except for the fact of an unbearable longing and a constant itching and the constant scratching that we do together, this is exactly the kind of gender trouble that brings flesh in contact with other flesh and something that was only a metaphor becomes true, it’s big trouble, big big trouble, and I like big trouble, and I like the butt that dress can barely hold, that I can barely hold.
I almost died there, and I almost learned something there.
Now we’re back in Esenada, she’s driving her car around hills by the ocean, and it’s raining. And she’s touching my hand and she’s touching the shifter, and I feel her hand wrap around mine when we’re turning sharp corners, the moment when both hands should be on the wheel.
And she says, “How does it end? What’s the last scene in Unbearable Lightness?”
And I am so very happy then, and she’s so very happy then, or at the very least, our heads are calm, and I remember how that question seemed ironic at the time, and even though all the fishermen thought we were on our Luna de Miel, I knew it was done, and it didn’t matter if it was over for a good reason or not. It was complete.
And when I wake up from that daydream, I am aware that you and I, we never had that moment, in all the perfect moments where the moon spoke to us on a hot night with mad dogs chasing ghost birds, there was never a moment when I felt like this had been completed.