Something rare and forgotten
November 28, 2007 § 1 Comment
Two things happened today… well strictly speaking post twelve last night and then on…
I was reading the trash I like to call “light reading” that is in truth an outlet for some stupid urges I’d rather not dwell upon for the sake of my own mocking voice chattering at me. I suddenly looked at the ceiling of my room, a place I’ve not completely considered mine. I’ve only considered my first room mine, because it felt one, which my sister now occupies. I have flashes of lifescapes where I feel asleep to the sound of the old radio taped together, walking in to the attached balcony and gaping at the stars through leafy shadows, crying when I lost my cool about the mess my home was becoming at the time and mostly talking for seemingly short hours with the boy I loved so uninhibitedly then. That was my room, its not mine anymore as much as I’m not that person. But last night, these four walls I now occupy whispered something. Some strange sensation went through me as the Beatles burst into Real Love, the fan moved lazily in a hazy pattern and the laptop’s light threw some of itself on the unusually evocative ceiling. Ceilings always frighten me. That cap on my visions trap my sense of height and I’m always hoping I’ll see the sky, at least a sliver of it as I fall asleep… but I mostly sleep face down like I’m sinking.
I was painfully happy then, for no reason at all. Mad elation in that moment of overwhelming delight. Maybe it was McCartney saying “no need to be alone.”
I managed to lose it by calling someone who had no time for me… or just didn’t want to talk. I cant dwell on that either for fear of my impulsive denial or repulsive self pity. Whatever happened, I felt the moment disappear and with it gone I had a feeling that happiness for me is a solitary thing enjoyed in hidden proportions of nothingness. Blissful smallness of insignificance.
Today I read the Great Gatsby.
That needs to be left in its own space. Nothing comes quite close to the experience, nothing I can say will sound trite and awfully inadequate in any case. I thought of how a V once said, she was scared of sex. She had tried alcohol, joints, cigarettes and nothing came close to the raves people went into over them. So would sex be any different? Two days back she said she’d found it wasn’t. I remember retorting that everything was over rated. Everything, except maybe chocolate and cartoons. And then some. Or maybe that’s just a hope I nurse that somethings matter.
The Great Gatsby is a tribute to an idea. To any person who dares in this generation lost in itself, beyond us individual victims of our own minds who find emotions are a burden inherited, to love without a question of . I wish I was Gatsby, I wish I had the tenacity to love just once and stick with it. I’ve felt that mind numbing awe, still do… see that damn green light less now, and hell sometimes you pretend its a trick of your overactive mind. But the beauty is still there in its wondrous meaning it makes in your conscious love. I pathetically wish I wasn’t Nick Carraway, but then…
I’ll stick with the Beatles and read my children’s books… a little Eliot though
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.