Sunday, November 29, 2015

PLUNGE UNDER

Siobhan has left , precipitately so. And something in me has cracked up. I think the seeds of disintegration were always latent, felt at unbidden moments with painful intensity, though instantaneously suppressed. I could avoid facing up to things with Siobhan around but now that she's gone i am face to face with reality and my inescapable loneliness. In a sense there is a curious homecoming in this feeling, as though my time with her or with anyone else throughout my life was an interlude and i am now back on terra firma. Occasionally the fear of solitude intensifies and then dissolves because that which is long familiar can only , in my case, be accepted with weary resignation. I do not even have the energy to fight anymore.

Oddly enough memories of Siobhan are fragmentary, mnemonics or set pieces in a tableau being recalled at pivotal points in my dislocation. Her hand on my breast, her deep kiss, her convivial laugh on facing absurd daily things. The fact is that the effort of recalling Siobhan feels more like a reassembling of  disparate aspects of her than a memory of something whole. She never revealed herself even at her most intimate. And part of the reason we got along so well was that she had this reserve of self containment wherein she could revert to whatever she wanted to inhabit unreservedly knowing that her very self sufficiency implied inviolability. I never queried her about her past or sought information of past loves. I intuited a landscape of reserve and withheld pain which irradiated her for me. Her ineffable quality sharpened my love , thickened our passions. Presumably she was grateful to me for not probing or asking unseemly questions. At any rate she wouldn't have answered even if i had and it was none of my business anyway.

In contrast i was fulsome and self revealing. I could have, if it were possible, laid bare my inner being. There were moments when i tried to falteringly express myself but became inhibited by her reticence. I wanted her to understand me in my entirety. Though what i was really doing was imperceptibly superimpose my idea of myself onto her. Though the dimensions of the self i presented to her were not rosy, were rather dark, i still tried to romanticize the dark, emphasize my fundamental transparency in my willing self exposure.

She may have resisted these artless overtures because she liked me to be a mystery too. In this i figured out her prescience in that she was unwilling to impose a structure of preconceptions against which future putative deviations could be measured. Her authenticity lay in her refusal to grasp at definitions or compartments that would foreclose meaning. While i, blunderingly, tried to impress on her the truth of my soul, of my immanent inwardness where , as far as she was concerned, only love prevailed. In a way i was trying to get her to quash any misgivings that might materialize by attesting to my indwelling nobility of feeling. I myself wasn't disingenuous in attempting this because i credited her with percipience , of cutting through the integument of what seemed jumbled to what was underneath.

Whether our wills clashed or i couldn't convince her is uncertain. But she left. And rather than devastation and pain i feel bewildered at the disjunction between the ought to be and is. That may be the lesson Siobhan wished to impart . She may have interpreted my love as appropriation and felt requisitely threatened. She may have made her own interpretations on my conduct which i can neither challenge nor disavow. So much of the other is a mystery and unknowable. I can run through a whole gamut of possibilities and outcomes but her inevitable departure , irrevocable as it seems, puts short shrift to theorising. I will continue to unravel this pattern and unknot this seam knowing i never will fully but hopeful for a glimpse into other apertures. To wrest art from rejection has been universal for many. Such will be my own recompense which, though paltry will assume luminous  proportions and fill the receptacle of my exiguous life with its own intimations of beauty.

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