12 - spiritual wind

… it is only in grief that we become most truly ourselves…. in the acknowledgement of that part of ourselves that we have irretrievably lost.

      —Simon Critchley, The Book of Dead Philosophers

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Profit and power. Sick to death of both. Chris Hedges, well worth reading, wrote Calling All Rebels and it was not at all surprising or a revelation, but more of the same; we’re in a ceaseless loop of profit and power, rebellion, leveraging and competing interests, self-righteousness, arrogance, blah fucking blah.

I’m through with politics/economics of the plutocrats and capitalists, and their rebellious counterparts. It’s a violent and horrific game that needs to end. We need to design and create a new way. Rather than rebellion/revolution, and ultimately the return, nothing ever changing, each and all need to walk away, as I’ve ranted on before, we need to die to what we’ve known and believed in.

I hadn’t fully understood what it meant to grieve, what grieving means personally and globally. Not until I admitted that my love for Maya had died did I understand now what was lost. The “self” we so often refer to is nothing more than a locus point, a nexus. So many selves, so many contexts we find ourselves in, so many ways we relate to and connect with others; and ultimately how we define and understand the context we’re in and how we collaborate in the creation of it.

In my grief it was clear, I was grieving the loss of who I once was, who we once were, what I imagined myself to be while loving Maya. Away from her I’ve seen myself in new ways, I’ve begun to see more clearly what’s important and what I need to do. Some of this came to light in my conversations with Camille: moments of trust and honesty, truth-telling without strategy or purpose, just the simple attempt to find the right words, and the right way to describe what I am experiencing.

Camille has been a stirring breath of fresh air, a kind of spiritual wind blowing out the cobwebs of old assumptions and conclusions about how to be in the world. I am painfully aware that she loves Martin, she’s connected to him. But I can’t help it, I am falling for her, and I want to resist it, I don’t want to fall just yet, I want to linger in the revealing back and forth. I certainly don’t want to create a “routine” with her, I don’t want an affair, I want dynamism and creativity to be the end-all. No going to sleep, no habits or pretense of house-holding, no illusion of comfort and safety. I want to stay at sea. Can there be a “forever” love without anchorage? Can one’s love for another be an avenue for exploration, for adventuring into the unknown, for expanding and widening the possibilities? A redefining of what it means to love, not personal, not possessive, not limiting or exact but an inducement to see clearly the details, to understand there’s something more, so much more…  

A grand moment this is, all enamored I am, simply and joyously happy; finally, I think, I can unshelter my heart, let go, and love. So what happens? Maya emails. Another seemingly benign attempt to reconnect, to find out what I’m up to, what’s new, and I send a flip message back, telling her to imagine I’ve died; time to grieve and let go, Preserve your memories...

She knows the depth of the love I had for her. She doesn’t want me to begin again. She comes back, ignoring my recommendation to let this all die away… more questions, a kind of harangue, so much time spent together, she still feels connected, wants to reinvent, be friends, so seemingly possessed, pressing, pressing, she just keeps pressing; she’s good at this. It’s what makes her a splendid attorney; her excellence is bound up with her persistence and persuasiveness. She just keeps at it. In this last message she complains I was aloof in the final years, wasn’t sharing who I was; that we were cut off. And yes, she speaks the truth. But she’s just now seeing it? And she wants to have the conversation NOW, the conversation I asked to have so many times; and she never wanted to go there, never wanted to face up. And in the last years, I didn’t mind that she didn’t want to face up, I was still a coward. For me it was about putting one foot in front of the other, death all round, get me to the next moment, without incident.

I got pissed off. Finally, some courage. The fighter mused, “You know, she’s been browbeating you for so long, just let fly, don’t worry about it. Give it to her, both barrels.”… All my previous replies to her requests to touch base were civil and considerate, I shared nothing and kept saying move on, that I was okay. This final reply was not so civil, not so considerate. I demanded that she leave me be, that I didn’t have it in me now to be “friends.” Then it hit me, full-on; she knows how to get to me, that this isn’t about her touching base, developing some new kind of connection, this is about control. Love for her is control. Jesus. Her “investment” didn’t pay off. She lost “interest,” no dividend. What is love or friendship in a capitalist society, where everything becomes property, ownership and possession; everything experienced as some kind of financial transaction? I reject this framing discourse of economics.

I am not a capitalist, not one for seeing other human beings so superficially, so greedily/possessively, so murderously. At first glance I always see someone to love, someone to believe in and support. And again, here I am, reduced to tears. Damn it! Thought I was through grieving, thought I had begun to heal. She’s still in my blood, still a part of me. Her message and my ugliness have reopened the wound. I need a hug. I need to be held. Let me wail in the arms of another. I don’t want to man up. Go ahead revoke my Man Card!

If it weren’t for Camille not sure I’d make it. Her presence is necessary, a bit of fortune. She’s a soulful storm fanning the flames, in the crucible I am.

Comments

[AA]

Well crafted MKB...