Dud Sea Scrawls The Writing, clearly, is not on the wall!

I was reading last night about a man who does not love easily, but when he does, his object becomes quite overwhelmed by all the emotion he drenches her in. There was a beautiful line about the object being the target of an intensely concentrated affection. One that chokes. One that wants to control even the minutest detail of the object’s doings. One where the object does not feel like a loved item, rather she is driven to this desperate and alienated state. Because this man wanted to be the only source of illumination in his object’s life. Through him alone would pass all beauty, color, peace, comfort. Although the object never made an utterance calling him to her, the lover thought he had better rescue her from a life where her will, all by itself, directed her course. Quite far from what the lover intended, his object became even more wild and unpredictable, and in the most inopportune moments, ever so much more unfathomable than the other great mysteries of his life. Serious mysteries, that is. Like the existence and/or nature of Godly things. Like the extent to which his power could be exercised in an effort to be one of the actors in life, as opposed to the enacted upon, like she, his object. And, most importantly, what Work he would devote himself to fully. More fully than he would ever think it necessary to devote himself to her. She was just a woman. And he would go on and on with machination after machination, with spying and lies, with never revealing to her who he was even after he had secured, or trapped, her. However you look at it. He was, in the end, forced to acknowledge just how he would never get to the core of her by hacking away at the pieces of her he saw as hindering his penetration. The object was able to keep the darkest stores of her personhood, even as it ate her up, inside to out, and she became what I’m sure you already know she became without me having to put it down. Yes. Mad.

He is an amazing man, this fictional character. Breath-taking. Powerful. Charismatic. Intelligent. Fey. Selfish. His object never had a chance. His entire posture was defined by a sort of mocking mastery. Because he believed he had figured out her inner workings, thought that he could even read her mind, he designed a universe for her where every decision that looked something like what people consider “The Good” would lead her to him. More than that, he also appeared to be “The Healing” she hadn’t known she was in need of that only he could manage. And further, because he helped to magnify the divide between her and all other things in the world, where she was completely unable to connect with any other thing, he succeeded in making himself her entire existence. Know why? She was a fine sort of representation of the kind of wife he would need to complete the image of the kind of man he thought he was born to be. His love was not particular. His puppeteering was not personal. Her sacrifice was irreparable.

This is the seventh time I’ve read this novel, probably. I don’t know why I picked it up again this time. But the other night, I was desperate to find it. My books are only sort of together in one place. Sort of as in half are stacked together, half are scattered all around my bedroom in crannies and nooks and boxes and bags and such. When it popped into my head that I wanted to re-read this novel, I couldn’t find it. I searched everywhere. I ended up buying two copies online. One for me. One not for me. But I didn’t stop looking. I finally found it in the glove box in my car. After 11 at night. It was cold out there. I don’t remember feeling it. So, I’ve been reading it again slowly. My two new copies arrived today. And I’m trying out the feel of various inscriptions. It may be a while before I can deliver my gift. I am half afraid it will be dismissed and/or lost and/or misunderstood. If none of those, then completely effective.

*

I have a serious preoccupation with symbiosis among lovers. All the possibilities for richness and breadth and density in love become exponential, if only in my mind, when thoroughly different personalities collide and try to enter into one another. Set up shop. And what have you. I am most interested when the lovers are not only different in as many ways as possible, but when they come from polarized locales. When all the things about them make it seem as though they should be in opposition with one another, every voyeuristic atom in me twitches a special twitch to see how they go about their going about life together. How they feed, in particular. Both ways, as well. Feed each other. Feed off each other. Fertilizing and Parasite-ing.

*

I’m sitting in my room, and have been for hours now. I was telling a friend that I used to do this absolutely contentedly when I was a little girl and a teenager. I loved the power of shutting my bedroom door. I would pick up a book, lay down on my belly, and have at it. For hours. Or days. If I was left to it. And sometimes I was. Now, this space feels too small. Or I just can’t shake the idea of all the things going on outside that I am missing, in here reading the same old books, adding layers to the same old too-serious for a Friday night thoughts. But I can’t get up and actually go to any place I want to be. At least here, I can imagine being where I want to be. There are no distractions. There is no shame. And my frantic and ache-y and hopelessly, intensely concentrated little obsessions aren’t making anyone uncomfortable, out, as they are, living. Without me.