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“Bloodflowers” excerpt 7

May 1, 2013

Note: You can find excerpt 6 on my own site. I’d like to get as much feedback on this one as possible.

James has grown distant from me, and I’m not sure what to do about it, so I’ve buried myself in rehearsals and recording with North again. At home, I teach Grunt to sit, lay down, roll over, and high five. I try to eat solid food. I stay away from drugs and alcohol. I live a healthy life. It’s not enough.

Tonight, I’m in the basement, trying to write music, but once I put my Sennheiser headphones on, all I can do is listen to The Cure. Once again, I’m back to “Bloodflowers” on repeat. Really, I’m trying to figure out how to get James to talk to me. I sense that he is carrying a burden I cannot lessen, some sense of unmitigated guilt. For this, I have no anodyne; there is simply no cure I can offer him right now. I have only me, and he won’t come near me. It’s another impasse in a whole series of them for me. I have tried to tell James that it wasn’t his fault, and he says, “I know,” but nothing else.

Besides his guilt, I sense he is weighed down by the enormity of the situation. He was willing to fall in love with a musician. He was willing to fall in love with a tortured soul. He was not willing to fall in love with a ghost – and he has. That’s the part he refuses to tell me, and I know it. “Derange and disengage everything…” I sing along with The Cure’s Pornography. Yes. That’s what has happened here. “I chose an eternity of this.” Yes, that too. I wonder if I walk into James’ apartment and drop a razorblade at his feet whether I’ll get a response. Funny, I always thought the line in “Siamese Twins” went “the first cut is the first kiss.” But then again, I thought the line “we writhe under a red light” was “We eat rye – thunder! A red light” for years, so probably I shouldn’t read too deeply into The Cure’s lyrics and any possible wisdom they might have to impress upon me. I scribble a note to myself to have North do a cover of “Figurehead.” It’s long overdue – I’ve been meaning to coordinate this for years, but my headspace never felt right. Now, well, it’s as right as it’s going to get, which is to say that my headspace isn’t all that great.

For a diversion, I switch to De/Vision’s Popgefahr and take a few seconds to dance around the basement the way I would slink on stage to one of North’s songs. It’s such bullshit, I think, the way I lose myself on stage. I flail my arms at the crowd, hold my hand to my chest, pull my hair, and lose myself in words and rhythm. I wish James could understand it. Instead, I’ve shared it with Dave, and I find myself hating that. Another piece of the love slips away, and I wish I could keep a tally of just how much love is left, because I’m sure there can’t be much now. On the other hand, I could be working with an adaptation of Poincare’s Model of Hyperbolic Geometry, wherein there will always be some sort of love or affection, even if it divides in half every day. One can never approach zero; I’ll never reach the edge of this relationship. There will always be love.

On some level, this actually makes me happy. I’m tired of loving David, but I’m pleased that there’s a mathematical model to prove that I can never NOT love him. Similarly, despite James’ avoidance of me at the moment, Poincare’s model suggests that he can never not love ME. Right now, I’ll take what I can get, although taken in from another perspective where a lack of love is at the center of the quasi-universe, one can never approach love with any real understanding of it. I comfort myself with the suspicion that Poincare’s hyperbolic model was never meant to be applied to emotion. Still, I tell myself that one of these days, I’ll tell James I love him. 


From → Bloodflowers, fiction

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