Saturday, February 9, 2013

Confessions for Ada (Nosce Te Ipsum): Prelude

Aden O'Shea sits on the burnt orange love-seat with his hands clasped neatly in his lap, eyes staring blankly forward. He's brooding again. The house is empty, save himself. Humble would be a strong word for an abode adorning Aden these days. He's lonely and recklessly bored with routine, and it's all of his own volition. Chaos remains alluring for all its insatiable change of pace but he can't muster the desire to leave this place. His mood hangs heavier than the humid air, his thoughts more oppressively. He's hung up on the knowledge of personal insignificance in the larger scheme of life ad infinitum, without him. Yet another shining example of a sharp intellect darkened and dulled by the notion of death. I try to comfort him, tell him no one should ever feel stymied under infinite potential. Things like air and thoughts will go, or take you, literally anywhere (...as will death itself). You'll never see as much as you can conjure up. There's a mysterious beauty in that, or I guess just the beauty of mystery.

Alas, this is a common post-Nikita theme in his life: alone and thinking because he thought too much. Whichever way you choose to interpret cause and effect there would be correct. Ironically, he's becoming more and more like his father, a man (RIP) he tried to counsel, comfort, and console (unto death) regarding the same repetitive problems and negative feelings he finds himself engulfed in today: Will the self ever allow others to save it from destruction? Do people even want to save such a self? At what point does constantly critiquing yourself finally drive other people away or simply tire them out? These are pertinent questions to the situation Aden appears to be in, yet feigns being oblivious to. In truth they gnaw at him everyday (in much less grandiose prose). Does he really care to address them? I'm not so sure anymore. He did once, but I'm uncomfortable with his lifestyle now. It has become a somber procession of too much self-destruction via self-reflection (dad's path). He's always leaving occupied rooms for empty silence these days; hence he's leaving little room for those (hopefully) continual life improvements and accomplishments, things to strive for, that keep the faith. For the love of all held dear, without something or someone to fight for, we become lazy, pestilent creatures. We withdraw into ourselves without being acutely aware of it. Isolation is the true gateway drug to addiction and that eternal want to go nowhere (get out...I want to get out...where did you go?...why do I remain here?). As social beings we have to insert ourselves before we can assert ourselves - do you feel me? Aden doesn't. Sadly, he's seeing the present only as creating more past and thus can't grasp the future. Before always seems better because it's gone, leaving nothing sacred to the present. This is a vicious cycle. This I repeat. Aden's cynicism has trapped him in the paradox of belief that nothing really matters since everything is eventually lost (an optimist would infer exactly the opposite).

Surely, this man is allowing the past to tip the scales a bit too much in its favor. However, I must admit I will never subscribe to that heavy load of sentimental rubbish delivered by proponents of a 'live only for today' purview. People who readily proclaim such a stance never fail to strike me as untrustworthy and/or unscrupulous and/or ungrateful (they wear it as a mask). Or they just haven't lived close enough to death yet. It's grab the nearest scripture or hedonistic pleasure or Dalai Lama quote and voila! zero accountability; discard every bad memory (either made by or impressed upon them) and voila! endless naivety; disregard the perspective of history and voila! have another slice of that repetitively bland side of humanity. After all, rats will race given the slightest of provocations to go on. To these vermin I wish to say: get off it already! Your interpretation of 'today' allows collective vanity (read: popular culture) to write the rules of social engagement rather than morality. (And those doctrines and scriptures you prescribe to arguing for morality conveniently whisk enforcement off on laws and gods, not the most proactive things, i.e. THERE'S NO NEED TO ANSWER TO YOURSELF...) Everyone must occupy themselves with the consumption of mass culture and political posturing so our leaders can ameliorate catastrophes with just the touch of a mute button - we have a moment of silence, then resume the game. If we're all in on it, no one shoulders the blame (though we all remain liable just the same). Yes! nation may kill for nation again and yes! religion may kill for religion again and yes! person may kill for the good of the people again and again and again 'today'. You'd think history could at least instruct us on how to constructively approach this persistent fallacy of 'conquer for the greater good'.  Like, whoever etched out those national divides obviously had the common good in mind. Right? No matter these imaginary lines actually get drawn and protected by innocent (or perhaps more aptly: 'unwitting') blood. Ironically that's also how we justify their existence (freedom isn't free, don't you see?). To numb compassion with difference is akin to mining fool's gold for pay, nay? Okay, so I'm getting a bit carried away...(But when has altruism entered battle lately? I'd argue never in our global psyche since facing the likes of Dostoevsky...Did he really prove conceit and jealousy win out, inevitably?...)

To get back to today - what worries me about Aden is I'm afraid he's starting to believe all good stories must be written in hindsight. One (me) might argue a person with such convictions lends living the story to everyone else...Though perhaps we do see more clearly what we stand to gain in light of what we've lost? Regardless, Aden needs to strike a better balance again. That's why he has me, you see. I am his past; I am his perspective; his now and then. I am his morality; I am his immortality. I am all his wants and torments and successes and failures rolled into one. What am I? I am his conscience. With me, amigo, and an ego capable of humility (remember, you're always the best to me), we'll do it all - live to tell and love to share. That should be (our) motto.

-----

Aden's way was different before Nikita hopped on the ride. Whether it was her or simply time that changed the course of his life is an answer discourse never could or would provide. What's obvious though was losing Nikita crippled Aden's self-esteem, or at least how he lost her. There appeared to him very little deviation from the course and then BAM! she was gone. The train just up and derailed without any warning from the conductor (there is where his faith was mislaid). Aden was no longer attractive. He was no longer humorous. He was no longer 'himself'. Prior to Nikita, Aden lived in what could be described as an ardent state of chaos (though something in him - me again, likely - would be more wont to call it a want of something more). You know, he just had that...he had that unrelenting drive for the edge that ignites a party; that sparks conversation; that fills a room with movement; that injects people with restless, directionless energy until they're sick with anxiety or sick of it, which is bound to be a tale for another time or perhaps further down these lines. He cared little what others thought of him, or what they thought in general for that matter. That is not to imply arrogance - Aden just found it difficult enough to live by his own principles, albeit just a few, and off-the-cuff emotions, albeit just a few. To also consider what another person may want from, or expect of, him was asking too much. Hence he found pleasing everyone, day-in and day-out, too overwhelming and downright exhausting on the ol' psyche...and pocketbook, to boot (should have learned from his father that you can't buy happiness out). Yet how do you get the most out of life? Then Aden would throw all his chips at adventure instead of comfort; now Aden is trying to find some superficial balance based on finance. Both peasant and king alike will tell you the best answer to that question is always to equate finance with poverty - enjoy the journey instead and let pleasure fill your pockets; the rest will fall into the lining, they say.

I cannot rightly explain what constitutes 'the edge' Aden strove for, but I do know this: in the past his ideas became actions through the intuition of his heart. After Nikita left, he began to over-analyze and scrutinize every social interaction, particularly romantic ones, for fear of attachment. Stated more bluntly, he just didn't really bother to get to know anyone; and he even went so far as to keep those closest to him a safe distance away (the mere thought of losing them pushed him further astray - strange, eh?). He began to view intimate relationships with a cynical eye. Like we form and/or maintain them solely based on our own degree of happiness. Appeared logical and sound enough, until he realized that neither happiness or unhappiness were sticking around long. Both just ebbed and flowed like the tide goes. Thus his cynicism was affording him exactly zero meaningful relationships to form. The end result was Aden finding himself in a confinement he didn't want, nevertheless somehow managed to pigeonhole himself into. He was constantly met with urges or real longings for deeper connections though. The more he pulled away, the more people he suddenly had to neglect. "...Sorry it's been so long, but you know, it's pretty goddamn difficult to be content with where you're at," was how he'd justify prolonged absences. Unbeknownst to most (those doing the same knew), he would thoroughly contemplate every possible hurtful path a relationship could traverse until he ultimately decided, well, he convinced himself one such outcome was inevitable and not worth the emotional cost.

It appears the intuition of our heart yields to the suspicion of our mind when subjected to the cold nature of reason - and so what if some of those suspicions are well-founded? There will always be someone better than you (billions of us). There will always be someone more attractive than you (billions of us). There will always be someone to take your place (billions of us). Shear probability in this day and age is a series of hard blows to the mid-section of a man...Unless you tell yourself there will always be someone for you (out of billions of us). That's never enough, is it? I'm so sick of arguing against that point (it truly feels like billions of years). You know, I'm just tired of seeing people cut each other down, be it with words or actions, voicemails or automatic weapons, because that wasn't enough. If there is not one person in this world with a similar worth than yours, how do you value everyone else? To such selfish personalities, and those who've poisoned Aden's mind in such a manner - be they presidents, senators, teachers, enemies, idols, talking heads, actors, singers, etc. (they are always such people) - I have only one substantial rebuttal: live within yourself while standing in someone else's shoes for once. Sounds (oxy)moronic, doesn't it? Yet if there's one thing Aden (and Nikita) has ever been true to, which I commend him (and her) of, it's this: he (or she) can make you feel like the only person that matters. Their personalities diverge here in terms of acting this way for themselves or for you, surely, but this ability has lent them others' trust before they've ever realistically deserved it...One can only imagine what it takes to gain their trust...Anyways, when a few of Aden's suspicions did hold true, he decided people just weren't molded correctly for commitment. I mean, is what you take for granted more substantive than what you cling to? He felt he'd discovered an unparalleled pleasure in this world by being a self-absorbed, socially amicable rambler. New cities brought new experiences with new faces. Everything seemed atypical, including himself. So Aden readily lent his love to the selfish allure of 'inevitable dead ends' with regards to intimate relationships and championed it as freedom. Where steady gales used to fill Aden's heart sails, now they breezed through tatters left by his own pointed slashes. What a somber sort of freedom, even for the wind, yeah?...

...And the very concept of freedom itself shows just how well-equipped human minds have become in safeguarding us against the misery of our sentience - knowing that for as well as we survive, we must die. Absolutely, Aden gave way to his suspicions too much in that he suddenly became wary of everyone, constantly looking for any sign of malevolent intent. He was especially skeptical of women. I cannot blame him for that. Men are typically very shallow creatures with decidedly clear intentions (the dogs). Women, on the other hand, have far greater depth behind their motivations (the cats). For example, where a vengeful man may set out to kill you over love, a vengeful woman may set out to make you kill yourself (mind or body, both equally as satisfying, though clearly with different volumes of emotional baggage). Tell me now: which plan requires a more intricate blueprint?

As you now see, it took just two years for Aden's head to steadily betray his heart (this was partly my fault, I provided little support) to the point where he now sits - thinking himself into a befuddled mess of delayed feelings and reactions. Perhaps this change in Aden helps us define 'the edge' - on one side your heart ardently drives you towards each moment, on the other your mind fixes you in a doting sentiment for the past. Between the two is the perfect blend of nostalgia and desire. Yet trauma, like that forsaken second when you realize someone you love or share blood with or admire and respect, etc. is lost to you forever (8x for Aden to date), and all that concurrent filthy bluntness, has a way of catching us off-guard and shoving us aside. Some personalities fall towards remembrance and others disregard...But what's important is to strive for that edge again. The edge that cuts between the timelessness of death and the reality of life. If you do not, it'll be very difficult to ever ascribe the word 'live' to any aspect of your life again, friend. Live only for now and the past will have you running blindly through every moment until you find yourself squirming in your deathbed trying to remember what the hell just happened. You'll have spent a lifetime 'moving on' and then suddenly you're gone. Or live always in the past and crawl away from each new moment with the future kicking you in the ass. You'll end up in the morgue before you realize you could never go back. So straddle the moments and walk on through!

-----

Aden remains on this puke-colored couch desperately searching his mind for the person he once was, giving little consideration to the person he wishes to be (what a remembrance man; what a crawler). A strong Pacific wind rattles the wooden rafters of his Auckland home. Auckland is the perfect place for a muddling man - seeing the summer sun alone provides enough direction for the day. But tonight a steady drizzle gnaws at the varnish of the Radiata pine-framed windows. The creak and patter sounds snap Aden out of his thoughts long enough to remember that Ada is on her way over. She has a way of saving him from emptiness. Ada  knows how to save Aden from himself.

Ada is the first true romance in Aden's life since Nikita. She's walking down Mountain Avenue with her head down, sheltering it from the cold, damp air. Jet-black hair billows out from under a hood, each brisk gust of wind pushing exposed strands from her coat's lapels back to her shoulders. She watches as the leaves of the street's European deciduous trees blow across her feet. She moves with purposeful strides, the swagger in her hips causing her torso to sway. Given only the chance to see her walk, one quickly surmises that Ada is a synonym for passion. (The first time Aden had watched her walking down that road to meet him, he had instantly adored her gait to the point of envy. He noted the perfect thirty degree arc of those hips in motion, like a bird's wings in flight. Ada never knew how often he'd sat at the corner of Mountain and Stokes just for a few extra minutes to watch her, but I've always presumed she felt his eyes {some long gazes still feel sudden}.Though Aden had only known her a few months, that first time felt so long ago already. I suppose first times always seem so far away, last times so close.) As Ada flits along her mind is fondly dabbling in the past, picking up and inspecting little keepsakes of a life she's loved living: a family Christmas back in Northern Ireland full of savory food and red wine and white snow; a dinner conversation in London with an Russian ex-boyfriend whom she now recalls with a paternal love largely absent from her childhood; the bustling sounds and pungent, occasionally fetid, odors and salacious male eyes of a Latvian marketplace. She sports a wide grin, her body feels so warm and lively, remembering and reliving these things. A loud honk and screeching tires bring her back to the present. She lifts her head, exposing a creamy pale complexion to the world (sometimes her skin makes her self-conscious, but we find it other-worldly). She's still smiling, adorning dainty dimples just below the mischievously upturned edge of her lips and downward-arching eyebrows, lending her a sort of devilishly affectionate air. Ada revels in her current surroundings. The winds bring that ever-so-nostalgic salty seaweed scent of ocean air. (I truly believe the smell of the ocean is lodged away in some dark recess of our DNA - just watch a person born and raised in a sea of land catch their first whiff and you'll notice a momentary calm touches them, and then a deep-seated recognition will pass slowly across their face only to retreat back into darkness again.) An elderly couple holding hands pass by on the opposite side of the street. She can't help but marvel at the ostensible depth and longevity of their love. Will there ever be a moment in her life as lovely  and novel as this, she wonders? Oh yes, many, many have been and probably many more will be even lovelier, but she tells herself that's never the point. Point being, every moment holds this potential for Ada. She begins thinking of Aden and what the night will bring. Her face flushes with excitement. Her anticipation is making her legs hover above the pavement, movement evading her awareness. Everything she adores in this moment is at an enchanting standstill yet somehow she's still approaching 2 Stokes Rd. In one swift movement, Ada shakes off her hood. Her blushed red lips want to whisper sweet nothings at the world! She quivers with delight, and a bit of curious trepidation, walking between the wooden fence and garden of Aden's home. She smiles to herself once more, her most assured smile, and approaches the heavy, white-painted door...Aden opens up right as she hits the top step, her arm still crooked for a knock. Ada's caught off-guard and she struggles to hide her surprise. Aden smiles and says, "Hello, love." He's been patiently anticipating, waiting for, Ada's arrival for quite some time now. "Hi!" is Ada's reply, with a hint of a shiver and eyes afire.

-----


Thursday, December 30, 2010

The Birds and The Stone

Does love in the heart define the mind? Or does love in the mind define the heart? If you love a mind with all your heart, can minds alone be lovers too? If you love a heart with all your mind, can you make do without a thought to pursue? Does love require heart and mind to be considered true? What if it can be one or the other, but not the two? What would you do? If you looked inside yourself, what would you find? A love of heart or a love of mind? Does a lovely heart seize your loving mind? Or does a lovely mind seize your loving heart? Would mindful answers tear your love apart? Hearts, do you think love minds?
_____

'Aden, you sure do love me huh baby?'

'Of course I do beautiful.'

'Why?'

'Why?'

'Tell me why.'

'Can I show you instead?'

'No, I'm going to bed. Tell me a story.'

'A story?'

'Yes. I want you to tell me a story. A good one.'

'Nikita I'd love to, but I'm no good at story-telling. I mean I'd really love to. I just doubt it'd be-'

'Aden please?'

'Alright alright. So...there was this troubled man. He was inwardly troubled through and through, and I suppose a little bit outwardly too. This man fell madly in love with a woman who thrived by hiding her troubles from view. His first attempts at courting her received only the response 'You're trouble, aren't you?' Then they fell in love, and both turned blue. See, because...because in a serious relationship, the front of one is the fall of two! And and...the man's troubles collapsed the woman's walls until her vulnerability broke through! For, as a woman is wont to do-'

'-Ok, Aden. You can stop. What a pathetically bad story. Goodnight.'

'Gee, thanks Nikita. Guten nacht. And don't worry, that'll be the last story of mine you have to suffer through.'
_____

I've always believed love to be a crescendo; the love that forever grows is the love no limit knows. Yes! a crescendo forever: from clumsy overtures to ebb and flow waltzes to full-blown symphonies with moonlit sonatas! From dainty divertimentos to roaring rondos! Movements so full of ardor their sound drowns on forever! In eternal climax, a climax that defines forever! Defies! forever this climax; where every sound, every second is filled with passion: passions that turn an urge to kill into a will to survive; that turn a will to die into an urge to thrive! Passions that emanate from lips to hips; from nose to toes; from eyes to thighs; from between the ears to through the years. Oh yes. With this love! eternity is eternally defied the denouement of an infinite little passions.
_____

Aden was sitting in the recliner pretending to read; Nikita was lying in bed actually reading. He was thinking he loved the way she read: her back propped up with pillows and legs covered with blanket so only her bare feet showed. Then every so often she would adjust the pillows and rub her feet together, one over the other, the other over the one, which always ended in her toes clasping together like old friends. Love and its general comfort hung in the air of their small apartment. To Aden, it felt warm and thick, this love, and soft affectionate breezes billowed it about the room. The TV idled in the background (he could hear a subdued voice as it spoke of forty more dead in the Middle East; women and children caught off-guard by a misguided missile, the military too; 'collateral damage'; the holy war rages on in the Gaza Strip; recession looms, sure to doom the penniless and reward the thrifty; and now on to sports...). Everything existing outside of their immediate environment seemed to matter only to the poor souls dwelling there. Outside their love. He'd held the book up to his face at an angle which allowed him to see over its top without her noticing. He was staring at her instead of reaching another 'So it goes' Vonnegut line (he'd settled for the subdued newscaster's words, which were much less humorous but conveyed the same sentiment, and this way he could focus his attention on Nikita). She wore the glasses he loved when she read, the ones with the burgundy frames that did something to accentuate her already sexy features that's hard to pinpoint. Sharpened her mental sexiness, perhaps, like that 'sexy librarian' allusion everyone has when seeing a woman they fancy in glasses. The beautiful mind behind the burgundy frames. He studied her as she lay there lost in a Rick Bass world. The full, luscious lips that froze in a slight pout whenever they weren't smiling. The intensely dark eyes that played the devotion role so well, but which you knew could quickly turn and burn two black holes right through whatever they wanted to. Then she caught his eye. Those pouty lips turned to a smile that instantly melted any apprehension of his bothering her into a swift leap on to the bed. She still had the book clasped in her hands with her elbows on either side of her chest, just out in front of her face. Aden ran his hands up her legs, his lips following behind with back and forth, pointed kisses. Then in a swift move, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled his head up underneath the book. She smiled as his face replaced the pages.

'Aden, if men love like I think you love me, why do you make this world such a dark place to live?'

'Umm, well, first I'll assume all men love like I do, Nikita. Second, I'll assume men are the only problem. Which they aren't, in my humble opinion, but I guess-'

'What do you mean they aren't? Are you really implying that women have a hand in your madness? Perpetual war? Senseless violence? The utter destruction of most living, breathing beings? These are manly things. Macho things.'

'Well, let me finish. If I had to make a sweeping accusation, baby, I'd say guys stumbling around as drunk on love as I am tend to become violent after one particular cocktail: jealousy. I mean, look around! It's in me. You can see it in our peers. Peer at the news (he points to the TV). It's there too! It's the Molotov cocktail hurled time and again at the feet of humanity. Jealousy is an explosion of primal fears and crocodile tears! And jealousy has many offspring. First it breeds fear. Next it breeds ignorance. Then it breeds violence. Finally it breeds with you. Back to square one. And jealousy is perpetual want of something more, it leads to take take take. It's-"

'Haha! So you're saying the fault of a woman is breeding with a man? Right now, that doesn't bode too well for you!'

'Time out! Time out! I meant women choose to breed with men prone to inane jealousy!'

'And you included yourself in that group!'

'But, but you know I...but I qualified my statements by saying if men loved like I did, which-'

'Oh so now your love is special? A man's love can't hold a candle to a woman's, Aden!'

'Oh yeah?!'

'Yeah!'

'I'll show you!'

'Show me then!'

'...'

'...'

'I love you darlin'.'

'Und du, Aden. And I love you. I'll always love you.'
_____

But lo! woe be to the soul that lives to see love's curtain fall! To be alive when the crescendo crashes is deafening. In silence. Insolence! The somber waltz to denouement is definitely maddening. Definitively see!-Saw! this passionate love close a mind and open a heart; now insolent silence opens that mind to a closed heart. The moon's always overhead, but the sonata is dead! The love that knew no limit has been chained to a wall. And with it comes a prisoner: the steadfast optimist crumples into a knee-jerk pessimist; the manic warrior deteriorates into a placid captive. Oh lo how low! the devastating depression of love's denouement can go! Love's end subjugates even the most idealistic zealot, leaves a nihilistic void in place of his heart and head. The passionate teacher becomes a spiteful preacher; the social magnet becomes a lonely vagrant. The knife is flush against its pulsing vein! The gun is tickling the back of its throat! The noose is itchy around its neck! EVERYONE! everyone is asking when? When will romance be dead?
_____

Inbox (1)

Cainley, Nikita.....(No Subject).....6:05am

Hey -

Aden, I'm freaking out. So confused right now I don't know what to do. In the week I've had to myself in this new environment, with all these new people around and you across the country...well, well I've thought and I've felt. Remember all those times I worried over you? All those times you came home wasted on another binge or another drug? I'm not questioning your love, I know it's so true, but I wonder if there's anything left...anything left that I can do for you. You're so..you're such a dichotomy. For as much as you love, you hurt. For as much fun as you can be, great fun, you can also be the epitome of melancholy. I don't know what it is with you. But I do know that as you bring out the best and worst in yourself, you take me with you. And your highs are wondrous, but your lows Aden, I'm not sure there's a person out there that can deal with your lows. Do you have any idea how upsetting and frustrating it is to feel helpless around a person you love so deeply? That feeling, the one I felt, is worse than you could ever imagine. Not only does it provoke my own demons, which is bad enough, but I inherit yours too. And these people I've met, for as much as you're unique, they're a lot like you without the melancholy. They have passions, their minds have edges, but you...you have to wear it all on your sleeve. I think I need time, give me a week or two, time to think. You..you won't like my new friends. This is a small community of like-minded interests, and...and I don't know where you fit. I mean, yet. I think. I need to think, Aden.

Love,
Nika

'Who's 'they', Nikita? What's HIS name? How could you?! It's only been a week since we moved out there! I'll be back in less than two months!'

'It's not a man, Aden. I just, just don't know. Life changed so fast all of a sudden-'

'Nikita, is it a man?'

'...'

'Nikita?'

'I didn't think I could feel this way about anyone else.'

'Ah, so now it all makes sen-'

'No! Aden, it's not that way. It's so much bigger...so much more than that.'

'Ok, Nikita. You know what? What a pathetically bad story this...this has all been.'
_____

STOP! lo woe lo whoa! I'm afraid I didn't think this through! All this talk of overtures, of waltzes, of dancing life away engulfed in some sweet sound of love's sonatas - take a fucking curtsy! For to tango it takes two, you see! You do see, don't you? That perhaps it's true, perhaps it's true that love is all we need. But LO! I don't believe, don't believe that when it comes to love romance is all we bleed. Love is so much bigger...so much more than that! As much as love is a battlefield, it's also combat. But if love is the cause! from man to woman; woman to woman; man to man; from church steeples to genuflecting peoples; good christ, what is the war? Hell! who's keeping score? If you truly love, if you truly love more than yourself, then what are you fighting for?
_____

A day in December now,

I don't know where I'm going, because I don't know where I want to be. I've always been able to manage this feeling with a woman by my side. A woman with an indomitable will. A crutch? Sure. Unique? No. I think most folks find it easier to lean than stand alone. But I can't find it; I can't find my purpose here. And as the years pass, as the graves fill, as the people close to me wither or fade to black, I can't help but think: what the fuck do I lack? Why can't I help? I don't care that others tell me I shouldn't think this way - I'd sacrifice my happiness for that of others any old day. Most of the time, it feels I'm setting myself up for exactly the kind of life I don't want to lead: the nuances of routine; the knowing of what tomorrow will bring; the utter inconsequence of everything. Yet, it brings me great pleasure and happiness to affect somebody's day in a positive way. To bring a smile, a sense of being wanted, no, a sense that everything will always be alright. Yet, there is this deeper feeling. It borders on instinct, but I'm at a loss for what it is; what I'm supposed to do with this feeling and its associated thoughts:

It feels like instead of me holding out hope for something, something is holding out hope for me. But the more I can't realize what it is, the more I feel I'm a sinking ship in a calm sea. This drives people away. I mean, who in their right mind wants to anchor a sinking ship? But, but it's like all the decomposing bodies of the world have their decayed faces turned towards me; their rotting eyes pinned on mine. And they're trying to convey a message to me. A message that always seems just out of reach of my understanding. It's like, like: we're dead, Aden, but you can help. Your love can do more. How? It's so frustrating! All I can say, all I've ever been able to say, is: I love you.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

The Duality of a Man

Aden and I are sipping some fine French cognac (redundant) tonight. That damn Aden though, he's a connoisseur of the effect rather than its cause. His pallet for palliatives is as indiscriminate as faith is with its minions. He's also shallow enough to believe drinking red wine qualifies him as being culturally refined and bourbon (neat) a gentleman. Now this cognac, a soul of Ugni blanc that spent over 30 years earning its rite of passage trapped in an oak barrel before inhabiting our body, to him may as well have been moldy grapes picked off a dead vine wrapped around a tombstone and distilled in an urn. While I'm on my side (left) of the body conjuring up delectable images of Brie and Camembert cheeses as soft as a woman's breast with each sup, that halfwit is drowning me in gulps and refills with his leg (right) jack-hammering the ground at 100 mph as he romanticizes coup d'├ętats and anarchist revolutions. Two peas of antagonistic varieties stuck in the same pod, he and I. In terms of naming rights, I've decided he should bear our actual given name (for an explanation see the "DNA" sentence further below, I don't feel it would suit me very well to go by just one name). Hence, I will rarely refer to him as 'me' or us as 'we', and forever Aden he will be.

Lo siento mis amigos, let me retreat before the war has even begun, for I seem to have gotten my priorities out of order. I should have jumped into salutations straight away - hello Liebchens, the name's Aden O'Shea. As I'm sure you've gathered already, that is the given name of a, well how should I put it, uh I suppose maybe, perhaps, one could argue...For the love of respectability, Aden, SLOW DOWN! Sorry folks, but this maniac on my right has reached the point where he's gargling the beloved cognac in his mouth like a debonair does with Listerine. My train of thought feels as though it's swishing around our mutual oral cavity suspended in a river of forsaken Ugni blanc. I'd ignore his foolish theatrics if I weren't afraid of him becoming so completely and utterly polluted as to throw me aside and take the reins. Not that you'd have to suffer through his incoherent ramblings or anything. I know him well enough to foresee a simple dropping of the proverbial trou, after which he would commence urinating on the keyboard while screaming some pretentious Latin slogan like, "Vivere disce, cogita mori!" at the top of his lungs, mispronouncing every word. Thankfully, he seems to have placated himself with Iggy Pop's "The Passenger". This is good, and I hope he remains a passenger, because it's not like I can hide the bottle...

Now where were we? (I love the word devolution in that phrase, so pleasing to the eye). Ah yes, Aden O'Shea is the given name of a mental duality. If you ever find yourself being led on a sled by a wild pack of dogs along the longitudinal fissure of our brain, gee will take you to Aden and haw to me. For the most part, this duality is really a discordant dichotomy. He and I share very few things in common, aside from every physical aspect of the body. Despite his previously alluded to ideological stance, Aden is very much a realist. His will is easily trod upon by the morose, seemingly backward banalities of humanity - war as negative reinforcement of charity; money as positive reinforcement of greed; politicians as scapegoats for people who deemed them necessary evils in the first place; people in suits carrying locked briefcases that one assumes are full of court writs (redundant) for tax evasion but actually contain at least six pairs of women's panties, a gyrating dildo, and the December issue of "The Economist"; people masquerading around as social 'butterflies' when the correct organisms would be 'chameleons'; people frothing at the mouth re the merits of wedlock and multiple babies (artificial insemination no longer implies a vet elbow deep in a heifer's vajayjay); people in general. In other words, he's a typical man - all phallic fears and fickle feelings. Oh indeed, downtrodden is Aden. I, on the other hemisphere, run freely with the infinite motivation of elusive goals provided by idealism. You see, it's impossible to trod on a vagueness, an essence. Ideals can be these things, like faint music in the soundtrack of life or light that always manages to seep through the bars of a prison cell no matter the state of time, respectively. I don't put much weight on having 'values', so to speak, as their worth seems to fluctuate, ebb and flow, with the tides of the global economy. No, I prefer to live by one mantra, and let me tell you, it is a mantra of melancholia to be sure - Always champion love, never succumb to hate. Why the melancholia, you ask? Well, like I stated above, ideals are elusive. And love is an ideal. Hate is just another passion, a weakness of the mind. Hate will hold your hand. Love, in its truest form, will always be relegated to the sparks that fly between outstretched fingertips that can't quite grasp each other. If you could ask this here cognac about true love, it'd be quick to quip, "Vrai amour? Pour moi, elle n' existe pas." I happen to disagree with this cognac, I think she, true love, does exist. Alas, if you asked me her name at the moment, the best answer I could provide would be "Mom". Yes, the mantra of melancholia is love.

Spiritual folk, mainly pagan women past the age of 40, would deem me an 'old soul'. I am not of that opinion. I prefer to think myself as being the mental manifestation of the knowledge accumulated by thousands of successive generations of DNA. What of Aden, then? I suppose he's the freshest pairing of genes, the here and now. He's so...so mortal when compared to me. If we were this bottle of cognac, I'd be the substance and he the dregs. I've stressed our differences enough for now, though. There does exist an aberration in our dichotomy. For as much as I'd like to call my one mantra my own, I'd be ignorant of the facts if I said Aden didn't live by the same policy. I must admit that while I'm never ignorant of the facts, I am often naive to the situation. It is for this reason Aden can be quite a valuable asset to have along for the ride, but I digress, I'll elaborate this point at a later time. Anyway, Aden is also a lover of love. Indeed, speaking of lovers, we were both madly enamored with this alluring woman, bella dama!, named Nikita. The breadth of my lives (thousands of successive generations) have been spent trying to court women like Nikita; same can be said for the dearth of Aden's (dregs) with specific regard to her. Her type almost evades description, but I'll do my best to tap into my effeminate side, as things are always best understood when viewing the world through their eyes. What follows comes solely from my perspective, as Aden is incapable (phallic fears, fickle feelings) of discussing Nikita without...Oh Aden! Aden, no, don't cry. Stop it! I just finished telling these kind people not ten minutes ago how your bouts of drunken behavior tend to involve destruction, and not the kind of the self. Yes, I knew better. It was your reputation at stake, on the stake. Fine, be a maudlin. Here's a violin, go pluck your sapstrings then. Hey, where are you taking us?! Aw Aden, come now, you know I was only giving you a hard time! ADEN! Damnit. We'll continue this later, my friends. It seems we're leaving...
 


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