Saturday, November 3, 2007

relapse into antiquities

It was nice to see her again.

And so, it was Friday and July’s holocaust heat had been forgiving for once. The dawning weekend had impatiently rolled in sooner than expected and I had decided to invite some mates and birds over for an after work soirée to say the least. As usual, they appeared bearing gifts of sinister poison; of clairvoyance. Courage juice as some may call it, and as we purged on the sunny deck in the backwaters of my flat sharing humor, spreading gossip (rolling eyes) and gestures of emphatic support for the simple task of…whatever, I hear my mobile vibrating along the glass table top. I’ll admit. I answered it with much anticipation.

We had separated over a month ago due to conflicting interests and meaningless arguments. Somewhat of the norm between couples these days. However, don’t THEY say that conflicts are common and miscommunication should be dealt with in compromise? This was not so in our case. We had been generous with our excuses and faults. En masse, it seemed that we both lavished in our own college type dissertation that gripped tightly like talons alas to not adhere to a possessive life together. Be that as it may, aside from our strong communistic leanings, we did share some fruitful and undeniably flattering moments. I have found through rigorous and meticulous affairs that the development of these feelings, sharing these emotional responses can be quite riveting. They affect (infect) you in every possible instant. Your daily thoughts begin to break up as it is hard not to concentrate solely on these moments of intimacy. I remember these flashbacks far too vividly. She would text me on my TELUS cellular with vivacious words like, “…you looked so cool last night…” or “…i want you naked in my bed…” So playful. So whimsical. And we would talk endlessly about intellectual topics and ideology lying in bed naked in our embrace. All those simple memorabilias like scrubbing soap on each others backs in the shower in that spot in between your shoulder blades (lower trapezius) that always felt impossible to reach unless your daily job consisted of contorting your body in strange angles (very présentation du Cirque du Soleil manner.) Or having breakfast together in the kitchen after a night of copious amounts of booze, cigarettes and sex. Memories can be like cyanide. That choking smell of sulfur collapsing every red blood cell in your lungs until the simple task of breathing is non-responsive. The jagged fish hooks slowly tearing your veins out of your forearms inch by inch. Or how your knee caps would feel if they were hit by three inch rubber bullets at point blank range. That burning sensation. The searing of flesh. Those primordial cries of shock and suffering. And you limp away with your image of glue and porcelain that’s still binds you dwindling in wait for the next sledge hammer to smash what’s left of you into neurasthenia.

Naturally, (as if predestined) it was her on the phone in need of a plan to get away from her household tragedies. Of course I would reluctantly invite her to my place as if to bestow her with an effortless escape (Elysium should her middle name be.) And as she arrived, my first and foremost ‘brain-wave’, (laughing as I type) was that I was glad to see her. Well, it has been three weeks since our departure; our reasoning. Typically, her attire would consist of some post-modernistic /”indie-girl” trope, but today her mode was subtly displayed with a shoulder bearing t-shirt and those knee length black tights that hug her slim legs so casually. She was smiling the only way she can. That cute infantile smile; those deep dimples as if pockmarked by Spartan spearheads; those awkward steps as she entered the social circle and motioned an act of belonging (an act of banter – how flatteringly coy) by drinking out of my glass. My initial impression of this was that of her anti-social nature. In our bed sheet conversations, she would express that she did not know how to be affable without having a drink first. I guess these things came easy for me considering my sense of brutal honesty. You watch enough of Jack Nicholson or Mickey Rourke movies or read a Robert Greene, Henry Miller or Charles Bukowski book and you’ve but no choice but to pick up and idea or two about being chipper. That’s not to say that I rely on these things. I use to be quite the shy and lonesome adolescent. Always independent and disassociating with the popular circles and recognizing my self-interests as the most important things that ever existed. A self absorbed bigot if you will. At one point my parents were worried that I had gone deaf and dumb due to my lack of speech presence. If I had words to describe my vitality, they would be transparent, invisible, esoteric. An introvert nonetheless. No different than a million others I would suspect. But I’m rambling again. Let us continue with this curious tale. I decided to make her a favoritable drink to somewhat ease her anxiety. She was partial to White Russians and after two or three, her social abilities became utilitarian. What came next was a barrage of incoherence. We drank until I could not mask my soberness any longer and decided to retreat within the confines of my sleeping quarters. There I found peace from all these toxicants. But what I longed for was accompaniment and (by the irony of fate and her sick tomfoolery) that was what I stealthily received. In my daze of phony-consciousness, laying there on my side, I felt a hand from behind, then an arm as if someone had quietly crawled in to seek some kind of warmth. I immediately recognized her familiar faint scent as she impulsively pulled herself closer to me. Her head bent in a sleepy-soft and drooping movement that was almost woeful as her fingers quietly walked across my shoulders. That comfortable feeling of someone holding you from behind is best described as an act of worship. The one curing light in a sea of catastrophes. She held me closer and I could hear her sensual and submissive moans as she then gently kissed the back of my neck.

Cyanide never felt so good. Our love was a result of a clinical error. And psychoanalysis would woo me with pseudo-liberation's of pseudo-libidos.

"...seduction is always more singular and sublime than sex and it commands the higher price..." Jean Baudrillard

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Great post, I am almost 100% in agreement with you