I write a lot about writing, you say a lot about nothing, and I’m losing track of the difference.
Happiness breeds complacency when it mates with fear and I wonder what the above combination produces after a wild, drunken, half-remembered night of animalistic fornication if not the same thing.
And complacency is not comfort, it’s not ease, it’s more like a mangy wet cat cowering, shivering dumbly in the corner of an empty room, trying to keep still so its shadow won’t move and scare it further, and then I can only think I’m dumb for thinking happiness, commonly understood, was ever in fact a form of sustenance rather than the other half of a formula for place-rooted decrepitude so I think well what instead, what instead of that. How about I think I’ll go ahead and starve instead of burying myself alive, in life, in happy, commonly understood.
It’s the other way round, in fact of fact. I want to be devoured, consumed, not sustained and stuffed up for taxidermical appearances of fullness, and what I’ll do for my starvation-preservation is put it all down in word after word and line after line so when I die it won’t matter because I’ll still be here, cheating, gaming the mortality system with infinite returns made all the more enticing for everyone, anyone who’s left because I can’t come back. That way I’ll be finished but truly never done.
A lonely road, this, I once thought and said, and thought it recently when I looked up at the night for Jupiter so I could feel small and magnificently insignificant, but is it? There will be cheap whiskey and cheaper black coffee and bad, mad, strangely beautiful strange women and my hair will grow long enough for breezes to sweep and bend me to the will of moments within my grasp and imagined by deviant mind, love mind, addictive mind, tortured and enchanted and obsessive mind over self-broken heart matter and you’ll always be there somewhere, loving down to less than you, as far as I see it—and them—while I wander around sweeping and bending and trying to love up to more than me because just about anything, anyone is both. Greater than, less than, but not equal to.
That’s not true, though, not completely, but it sounds like it could be, right? One part is false and if I take that out or change it the whole picture I’ve just drawn is fucked and we’re just two sides of the same shiny penny that keeps rolling down into the muck and that’s not how this story goes, not how I tell it, not how it lives—you know why? Because then it’d be finished and I’m just not there yet.
I am in love with incompleteness, madly, I see that now, the worst best love of all, ravaging and desultory and not even unorthodox because it feels like to say so would be equivalent to the way atheism is taken as anti-god when it’s really actually non. It’s not negation, it’s other.
The unfinished is oasis, both wellspring and refuge, very much a place inhabitable, one for endless possibilities and for tracing out brain patterns and making marks with heartbeats made for making life, both anti- and non-orthodox just because it can—oh to love that way and live it. Incomplete, undone and doing, happily tormented together, apart, present, alone, some mythical You and I there with my great nothingness and yours. I’ve already become what I feared most anyway, several times over, so what’s left to be afraid of, what’s stopping me and keeping me in that corner, wet and shaking? I may as well cut off my ear and marry my cousin and carve stars in my arm and cut it all short like Nick Drake, but only faking, though, just kidding, just to pretend, staging death and vanishing to the obscurity of expatriation from the past, the ultimate incompleteness, dropping that myth altogether and writing it all anew, again and again, never done.
What’s done, though, is common happiness and I’m daily coming undone over the exalting thought that I’ll always be undone too, on the one hand, the one with the bird in it, and, on the other, the one reaching into the bush, that I’ll also always be waiting, looking for something to come along and finish me, thinking about welcoming the fear of sitting there with blade on arm and pills in gut thinking shit shit shit it was never enough and never will be and I tried so hard to make it and I’m not fucking done but here I am finished and there’s no coming back.
But then that’s what these words are for.