~"...so you want to know why?" the boxtops, a letter; the checkmate of indifference; insouciance, apathy mathematics & compartmentalization. lchristopher.

on being strong, strength beyond strength, never quit, never say die, white torture, the new york city conundrum, no shenanigans, it's either new york city or it wants to be, containment. lifemating.

~on the campus lawn of the local smart people’s club celebrating life before the assholes in charge took my impossibly-won graduate education and made it worthless vis-a-vis a stupid squabble over money with a figurehead of lunacy.

****

My darling, I'm waiting for you — how long is a day in the dark, or a week?

The fire is gone now, and I'm horribly cold. I really ought to drag myself outside but then there would be the sun.

I'm afraid I waste the light on the paintings and on writing these words.
We die, we die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed,
bodies we have entered and swum up like rivers, fears we have hidden in
like this wretched cave.

I want all this marked on my body. We are the real countries, not the boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men.

I know you will come and carry me out into the palace of winds, the rumors
of water ...

That's all I've wanted - to walk in such a place with you, with friends, on earth without maps. The lamp's gone out and I'm writing in the darkness.


-The English Patient
-Michael Ondaatje

--------

hello holy unsent only:

i have been writing this piece for nearly a thousand nights. the other day i came across this letter, stuffed in a crack in the internet. how many more letters have i misplaced?  toll tickets from a time i could not bear to remember, placed away for safekeeping among the billions of letters and images to be lost.  we will not be remembered for our novels. they will recover hard drives, or what memory banks still remain after we have burned this planet to a cinder and abolished humanity from its branches many centuries over. of this i am assured.

Friday, August 29, 2-

~dearest nica, the friend i owe my life to -

you ask how things are going...
there's a fear in me and a pleasant feeling too.  

well, it was two weeks of perfection and one day of dramatic shutdown.

i wept into her blouse. and she said that i was incredibly talented and sweet.  and that if i became an author and made a million dollars she would marry me. and our faces were wet and shiny.  and she said "you made me cry" and i said "you always cry when i do." and she said, "you never cry for yourself." "that is cos you are my crying room," i said and she said "what?" and i said "in the post-nickelodeon movie theatre era/baby boom there used to be a room on the second floor for mothers to bring their squalling babies so they would not disturb the other people who came to watch a picture and it was called the crying room. just a room of baby carriages and prams and helpless screaming infants and their mothers talking about whatever mothers talk about in the belfries of movie theaters. there was a window so they could watch the movie. "you are my crying room." she said "you are beautiful sometimes" and i said "well, above average." and then we watched another three episodes of justified [her choice, it was brand new and absolutely groundbreaking TV, Timothy Olyphant was Raylan Givens incarnate. tucked in snug in her couch while i massaged her feet and a dozen apricot colored candles flickered at their wicks. with a low sound not unlike applause as the flame stuttered at the wick to stay alive in the Ecuadorian night.

she is actively & freshly scarred from breast surgery but i have always been attracted to and addicted to her flaws. if she had gotten a tattoo in the last twelve years i would have been actually upset. this was a necessary action. i tell her it is like she has been welded. and that my tongue is a cooling agent. sss, i said, lowering my face to her breast.

each morning Jane would set out a note "good morning, sleepyhead" that would dictate what i would be doing that day.  "meet me at ____ for lunch". pick up whole milk.  go to this museum or that one.  take the telefico up to the top as far as it goes and climb to the highest peak. then kiss the sky. i hiked/humped four hours until i was standing with a halo of clouds around me. such altitude, verisimilitude, vicissitude, more. i was standing inside the clouds when they burst into rain. it was Venusian, Nica. the house has a cleaning person but still i cleaned the house each day. made the bed - which she never does, hospital corners. lots of hand holding and arm lacing and careful dressing before going out.  she introduced me to all of her friends and her bosses and let me teach one of her classes. we made dinner, went out, etc. very rosy.

but such things always find their southernmost point, no?

on the last evening, Jane picked a fight.  well, i feel she did.  i'm not sure what happened exactly.  i had left her some sunflowers on the formica kitchen island.  on her bed i had a few dozen more, roses, carnations, reds, yellows, purples, greens and blues [total maximum expenditure: 3.50 USD. your nation's petrodollars at work - in America this would have been hundreds of dollars worth, mind].  a note thanking her, telling her how much i know her space and solitude is necessary and important to her and that it means a lot that she would share that with me.

she carried the flowers into the kitchen and dressed them, placed them in vases. we made passionate love/read: fucked like rabbits;  and then as darkness tumbled from the thin window glass, she said, looking into the dark azure-purple nebulae that was and is the bruisebloom of the Andes just outside:"i hope you don't think this is going anywhere it isn't,"  and i said, "Jane Ever, where is this coming from?"  and she said, in a quiet, scared voice: "christopher, you're not the man for me," which is a hell of a statement, because who in the world could she ever meet that would be as CHRISTOPHER as me??!! but it was hurled almost like a shield? like she was [shit]testing the waters? like she was afraid to see what would come next?  wanted to watch and be sure i wouldn't turn green and begin smashing up and down the calle outside? fucked if i know.

the month before i flew into the city -

we were talking all night on le videophone as ever and she asked: 
"what do you feel about me? i want to know what i am getting into, Christopher.
"What do you think?"
"You've got your supporters. K. pulled me aside - so serioso - and told me I could not hurt you again. Good old K., I thought. That was strange. K. was nothing if not reticent. If she walked into a telephone post she would apologize to it. I never thought she cared overmuch; one way or the other.
"I see." She sees the parry and frowns inside, tries a new tack, another approach. "So when you think of me, what is the first thing that comes into your mind?"
"I would beat ten men to death just to touch your hand," I answered instantly, giving the sentence room to breathe, giving it enough time to shake off the headshot.
"Well," she said brightly, her big dark eyes flashing, after a beat times three. 
"nobody's perfect." I'm not sure if she was saying that to me or to herself, to be honest.

who says these sorts of things? why are you doing this to me?
i'm the man, i said, simply.
yes, jane said. you are that. you always have been.
how long do i have?
not long, she said, looking at her backwards wristwatch, wearing it military-style [dial doesn't reflect outward towards the enemy] dial on the pulse of her tiny wrist.
well we better get to it, i said.
yes, she said.
we did.

on the fourth night i killed a rooster. well, she told me to - but not really. let me explain, Nica. 
my lady friend has never slept well. not since she was a brand spanking new freshman at the state university and i came knocking on her door [i knocked on everyone's door] asking for a corkscrew. she had a shaved head and the palest skin I had ever seen. She was so white she was nearly translucent. her eyes were so fine they were sharp at their softest corners.  eyes like fine violence, nica. and she couldn't stop looking. and i couldn't stop wanting to be seen by her.

she said: we'll just have to see what happens, then. 

 i said, without mercy, sans pedestal: "That is a hell of a thing to say to me." she said, i just want to be sure you understand.  i said, you know how i feel underneath it all and if that is the truth you really have no business sleeping with me. she said, i told you how this would be.  i got up and said, why do you have to continue to say these sorts of things.  you've made yourself clear.  you are my friend and i love you. if i wanted to marry you, i would have come down here with a fucking ring and we'd be married already. and then i got in the shower. and she got in the bathroom and just peed like we had been living together all of those years before during university. before her service. before i had finished. and then we held each other and were fine and watched tv and the crying bit happened. weird. like a defense mechanism or a test to see if i was going to blow up at her like old christopher and force her to explain herself and get the poison out. "there's a certain luxury in having that kind of partner, she said to me once. "you never let me me go to sleep before an argument was settled. you always made me feel better."

or maybe she just wanted to get her rocks off and not feel guilty as she keeps her (our old) cat Wyndham Earle in pdx with her books and such with the other treestump of a fellow she still sleeps with/crashes with sometimes, the guy with the unfortunate bookstore just outside Ladd's Addition in the low SE. testing the waters; wanted to make sure i wasn't carrying a torch. the rest of the time passed without comment, we said our goodbyes, i made a joke about tossing my watch to her as i passed through Quito checkpoint security a la airplane! [1980] ("goodbye darling! oh no, not your father's watch - you'll need this!  it's okay - it doesn't work!  goodbye!") and that was that.

she wrote me short 34 emails yesterday (each day is like this really).  one of them had to do with her body and how she liked that now that i have seen it again and appreciate it so much, she feels good about herself.  i am not sure if this is becos i desire her or she likes to feel desired or even that she is under the impression that there are a salvo of women that constantly desire me or even all three.  they are short.   she has not skyped me in several weeks but that is to be expected, this died down a few days before my visit.  prior to that it was every three days.

at one point a month before i landed in quito she said:  i've been doing this for a long time.  i can compartmentalize my life. to which i turned and moved in close, thisfast, close enough to taste her breath, and said [i challenge] "you think you can contain me, little girl?" her violent dark eyes said it all. [challenge accepted] and she's going to be staying in PDX for a few weeks in early august on her way back from Thailand (before she lands in NYC and stays at my place for a few days).

her other regular lovers do absolutely nothing for her.  not naming names, she's told me that one (the guy she left me for) just has no idea and she's really not attracted to him (pot helps).   and the other (the big treestump-looking fellow who wanted to scrap with me from PDX) has to be very and only dominant, and she doesn't like not having any semblance of control. he also can't get her off, which of course made me smile beyond belief. what a schmuck that fellow was. he drives a car he cannot fix himself and has a bookstore with nothing worth reading for sale. that's all that needs to be said about that.

at one point she took refuge in sarcasm, as it has always been her defense mechanism. you don't own me, christopher. "you called me," I said simply. "everything you know about me and the way i feel about you was doled out in kindergarten inbetween snacktime recess and sleeping mats at naptime: "I don't share and I don't play well with others. not where you are concerned. and you know it. don't you fuck around with me on this, jane-ever-frischmann. don't you dare." we sat in silence for awhile side-by-side on the couch. after about five minutes she took my palm and squeezed. we sat there in the dark holding hands like a couple of children, the tears running down both our faces. no sounds at all. like two kids that took their parents car keys and took off down the road at speed before realizing they had no idea how to stop. that was us. that was our relationship. one big old car with a lot of blasting powder under the hood and no idea where we were going this time or if we could even control it, this love, this enormous monster of energy between us, just sleeping those past eleven years. and now we were together again, and it was as if the monster had woken up on the couch alongside us. and it was hungry, and it was wanting, and it was waiting to strike. 

sexually i of course rocked that house like it was 1999. thank christ. talk about performance anxiety.  many orgasms were had by all.  my/our unwritten rule is that i get her off first and then i finish. we tried condoms but she had a bad reaction to the material so then it was just the two of us using the rhythm method like a bunch of idiot children.  i had a prescription for ella/morning after pills filled - these were not prescribed in the US at drugstores at the time - prior to the trip under another girl's name, so i left it with her. 

i learned only after my return to the states that each one [1] of those foil wrapped tablets [labeled: abortifacient in thick black print] was tantamount to a CHARGE OF MURDER in Ecuador at that time due to the eternal machismo running everything south of the border - 'a man's world', I believe James Bond said once, and he would know. And murder here is punishable by death, which is preferable to prison in most of the South American countries I have been to, up to and most certainly including Mexico, because - I've been there - on the precipice, [however briefly], as you know, the year before Jane and I rekindled our flame.

when i landed in New York City she left me this note:

welcome home sleepy head,

i hope that they didn't lose your luggage and that you are snug and feeling happy to be back in america, patriotic and warm. i am wearing my sweatshirt again and my ankle is a bit sore, but ive written some papers and drank some wine with friends and will have some soup and will enjoy having my bed to myself but will miss how warm you are and how you like to hold me in the morning or i you and thank you for coming and sharing my life with me, i appreciate it.  and you were sweet and kind and caring and tolerated all of my gassy moodiness.  it was nice to spend time with you and i hope that you feel that coming to this place that is ok to visit but not to live in was worth it.  thank you again.  i will miss waking up next to you.  m

and attached was the picture of us together, smiling (the "ridic" one from the photoset on FB).

this letter to you, nica, is actually a method of me delivering something, getting back to writing on a schedule.

this letter to you, in short, is all i have left.

what is yr opinion?  what do you feel?  i am standing back while i get my bearings.  she is dropping by on june 30 for a layover so we can bang each other senseless and eat good food and smoke tea and also for a week in august.  after that i have no idea. i don't know if i could ever be just a turnkey. a place to put your suitcase and throw a fuck to. not with this one.

i know that we have spoken at length at Sophie's [their jukebox is still the best in Manhattan, Mark E. Smith, The Fall, ] do you remember the movie Hannibal [2001]? there is a scene where Lecter is speaking to the only orderly he respected, Barney, about Agent Clarice Starling, his love, his enemy, his raison d' etre:    

Hannibal Lecter: Do you know what a roller pigeon is, Barney? They climb high and fast, then roll over and fall just as fast toward the earth. There are shallow rollers and deep rollers. You can't breed two deep rollers, or their young will roll all the way down, hit, and die. Agent Starling is a deep roller, Barney. We should hope one of her parents was not.

I think of what the talking doctors I have known [including the unit to which I am currently working] say about attachment disorders involving two avoidant personalities, whose fate (accompli?) is roughly the same as Lecter's "deep roller" pigeon monologue. We are both roller pigeons, as young, we rolled all the way down, hit the uncompromising hard animal earth, and expired. All that is left are these words, a gunbelt - a string of pearls on the floor.

I lost my pigeons when the apartment house encompassing me turned bad. When New York City went up all around me. Now it is late. Now there are 25 hours in each day. The New Hour. Those three words have me hopscotching around my brain's spastic photo-recall center. Artie Rimbaud? Un Saison En Enfer? I won't know until I am in my rack for lights out, the cats orbiting me before settling in to make bread and collapse in their content, perfect fur piles. What to do with another sixty minutes if not to throw it all away, in kind.

i think about that sometimes. everyone playing frontier psychiatrist and everything. two avoidant personalities are akin to the idiom "never the twain shall meet"or so they say in the child suicide laboratory run by the world-renowned doctor that continues to pay my bills. because in art, as in life, we both would be considered deep rollers, and i would sail to my death a thousand times before I could ever watch her fall. and she knows it.

the light's gone out and i'm writing in the darkness.

yr friend as ever,

-Christopher

~eleven years between marrying each other’s bodies together; gunbelt and pearls and pens go everywhere, the altitude makes each orgasm whisper higher harder faster more.