January 3, 2011
Something Catholic in me—I refuse to stain it by calling it
some species of “taint”—compels me to say that sex is sordid, lurid,
unwholesome, corrupting, unnatural…
It’s that last one that’s a stickler and effaces the
superlatives preceding them, those self-defining, isolated adjectives like
“lurid;” the only thing lurid is the word itself.
Having done nothing sordid recently or ever, I can safely
itemize the following details of my day, given in serviceable, digestible
chunks: awoke, watched, ate, shat,
snoozed, walked, showered, brushed my teeth, talked with five people (Paul, his
girl, mine, clerks) and fucked my girl several times.
The last item I introduce disingenuously, as if it were not
the sole activity summoning the tepid, leprous muse as you, whomever you are,
read. Three times (four?), we performed the mechanics of sex, culminating in my
greed, successful orgasm each time and hers, once for certain; twice possibly.
The certain pop for her happened shortly before I picked up this pen. The
maddening curiosity about these frequent, compulsive, and at times farcical
prance generally but often doubtfully labelled “sex” is that here exists a
mutuality, the quintessential exemplar of human unity, whose paradoxically
definitive quality involves—nay, demands---selfishness. She came because I felt
tender towards her and tickled her clit gently, just so, following with
concentrated, selfless precision the shifting hips to ensure that my middle
finger kept unbroken, massaging contact with that frustratingly small nub which
to my amazement causes her body to shiver into paroxysm of paralytic
pleasure. My tenders towards her, Nits,
the whole of her, coupled with an awareness of the one eternal tragedy (i.e, of
the infinite worlds simultaneously existent though we can only occupy one.
Universes bloom and die, untold suffering unfolds with our every
fetid/glorious/interminable exhalation), to produce an ineffable though stoic
gentility towards her, Nits. She, Nits, consequently held my unwavering
attention to her needs; in point of fact, horniness had abandoned me at the
moment hers, Nits’, was most and suddenly there.
(A note: justice occurs at this juncture. And the only
possible positive slant on the point I here proffer: she gives when I need; I
give when she needs; love, in a word)
Earlier when we had sex, I experienced less affection than
unfettered, (dis)reputable want, rendering me a brutish, singularly orgasmic lover.
Query: Is her, Nits’, pleasure dependant on my mood, hers
(Nits’), ours, or is pleasure situation and arbitrarily so?
She lies now in bed observing me while I light a cigarette,
the flame nearly singeing my increasingly spiked eyebrows. She sighs; she
shifts; she observes me (I don’t see but I know); she tells me I look handsome
as the shuddering pleasure and my semen in almost mutually hostile relationship
co-exist in her, Nits; she, Nits, dreams her dreams; I write that she does so.
The basement where we are is windowless and lit by a miner’s lamp whose
feebleness breeds shadows from every object here, a nicely apt metaphor for the
intrinsic though unintentional and even benevolent doubts and power struggles
qualifying anything worthy of birthing the curious expression, “romantic
relationship.”
…an hour or so has eventfully transpired since the last
sentence was written. She (Nits) dropped to the floor (where else?) a coffee
carafe. After I raced upstairs and we
cleaned up, we retired to the basement and she slept. I heard a noise upstairs
and went to investigate, calling her name thrice in vain to awaken her, only to
hear her groggy, mildly startled voice call after me just as the heel of my foot
hit the last stair at the top…
A descriptive bland paragraph about our immediate physical
environment: grey-green, short-haired carpet, mottled by pop stains and dog
paws covers the entirety of a room perhaps 30 feet long and 12 feet wide, which
is book-ended by a functional and ugly brick fireplace and the bottom of a
staircase adjacent to it. I write now from one of those millions of
cheaply-manufactured, low-slung, obscurely-patterned armchairs standing
sentinel (almost sentient) in an equally number of other windowless, stifling,
9 foot ceilinged basement rooms whose walls are faux-pas strip wood (brown,
naturally) striving for cosiness and achieving instead a kind of metaphysical
and slow decay of all organisms dwelling amongst it, save harmless arachnids
and many-legged crawlies. To my immediate right lies two double-sized
mattresses (ancient, sagged to paper thinness) upon which presently reclines
her (Nits, love of my life, if life-loves there be). In front o me, several
feet and slightly to my left stands upon an old, brown, wooden television stand
the object for which the furniture was fashioned; an assortment of broken VHS
tapes occupy the stand’s hollowed torso. In indescribably haphazard manner lies
boxes of VSH tapes, a broken tv, scattered clothes, odd scraps of crumpled ad
pamphlets, all girded by snaking and insensately menacing power cords. To my
immediate left, a chair, nondescript, mellows. Between the fireplace
mantelpiece and the Styrofoam-planked ceiling are two plastic, rectangular,
garish orange-green, dimpled panes designed to further horrify even the amateur
aesthetes’ sensibilities. Plate on the floor. Her (Nits’) belongings lies on
the floor to the right side of the bed, whose head is at the base of the wall.
That’s all for now.
January 4, 20011
And what comes of it all? In relation to Nits, stronger,
ever-growing feelings of need for her, affection towards her, curiosity about
her, and an unmitigated, steady desire to be in her. In short, she is
prepositionally perfect. In long, she is adjectively inexhaustible: her myriad
attributes, subtleties, disarm one. She catches me off guard, demotes me
peremptorily to the rank of a dim child by quipping fast and wise after
stretches of undecipherable silence.
Her glory earns her double-spacing in
this notebook. But economy and tender consideration for
trees has me resumed single spacing.
Nits and snow: the latter fascinates her; she’d never seen
it in abundance. She tries to catch snowflakes; she observes them joyfully on
her coat; she takes pictures; she makes snow-angels. Her childlike enthusiasm
for snow charms me completely. I find her so very tender and endearing.
We went to Niagara Falls yesterday. Nits and I are trying to
have a baby. The incongruity of the two phenomenon seem to demands separate
paragraphs; yet I know they are related, both somehow and in an infinite number
of ways. But of the latter:
I here ask myself why I want to have a baby with her. My
simple answer is that I love her. And not once, in all cases, and
extraordinarily, did it occur to me to use contraceptives. I love blindly
(sometimes), passionately (always) and with an unrestricted fealty towards the
oft-bitter host of material existence called “Nature” by most. I’m not
reasoning about having a child with her. For me, the matter delves into the
very constituents of love, so that I can refer categorically to biological love,
instinctive love, romantic love, and mystical love; and all streams will drain
into the same baby-wanting basin. A veritable watershed of a radius as large as
my life, as the love I feel while my life funnels all impulses towards a happily
pro-creative glance at my lover. I’ve seen those talk shows where quarrelling
couples desire—usually the hubby—paternity tests. They astound me; for I cannot
understand how a person would not want his progeny repeatedly adamant,
generationally-speaking.
What I told Nanda on her answering machine moments ago in
response to her not letting me see Galeno during Christmas: people can change;
I believe that you believe that, so please exhibit towards me the same
magnanimity you extend to others, and let me see my child…
Cake; birthday; Nits’; bought at Glencoe’s Foodland; vanilla
with pink icing; the last hunk of it stoically, stubbornly, sits encased by the
plastic, transparent container in which it came…
Nits wept openly and with intense sorrow a few days ago,
citing as cause her belief that I will never love her as much as she loves me.
How to quantify, then compare, mutual affections? Perhaps I cannot love her as
much as she does me; but I feel it not; and even were it so, I could say with
unpardonable honesty that I love that woman as much as I could love any other
ever; and I’ve never loved anyone as much. Towards her, I feel love as I
understand the word. Any suspicion that she finds me a bore wounds me; every
stretch of silence becomes miles of waterless marching through an emotional
Gobi. Intelligibility eludes me as often as not when near her. I consider with
uncharacteristic selflessness her best interests. And to see her hurt crushes me.
Her laughter hoists me up into the air as if I were an infant, gurgling with
thoughtless, sensual joy. These bedbugs of doubt, well camouflaged by this
verdant relationship, stalks me; and their names are Jealousy A and Jealousy B.
Ad infinitum.
January 5, 2011
Preceding evening events recounted nervously under the eye
of the Beloved One: explosion. After writing in this journal and growing duly
pensive about all in all and well for all, I met an awakening Nits sombrely,
though not unkindly, at least not in intent. Our seeming inability to mine
fertile conversational round has been and sometimes still does gnaw at my
confidence about our relationship. She’s reticent, but it seems to me not
naturally derived…rather, she seems melancholy. Yes, she’s sad. I cannot
pinpoint why, but it silences her. She fears hell. Something else…perhaps she
fears me, my commitment to her. I asked her why she wanted a baby; what her
favourite book was; how she felt about religion (I already knew); and more
specifically how she was relating to her religion. The issue runs deep and
painfully for Nits. She became in turn solemn and nearly reticent. Reticence,
incidentally, well descrbes her general response to topics I introduce. Strange
how on the phone, I would go on at length and she would seem to be fascinated.
Perhaps the problem is mine; perhaps I am hesitant to talk and then blame her
for my own dithering. Or perhaps she is
not well-familiar with the topics I introduce or feels insecure about her
ability to keep up, which speak about her and most people’s desire to remain in
control and not appear foolish, which itself is a scathing critique about the
way society stigmatizes and penalizes even the most rudimentary forms of
honesty.
Note: advantage to this aspect of our relationship with
Nits: it obliges me to release my need for extended communication through
journally which may yet bear fruit.
(Clattering of necklace I made from a red string, a strong
pen light, and a compass, all gifts from Nits, to help guide me to her. The
most symbolically romantic gestures I’ve ever experienced. She expresses
herself in the most poetic fashion through symbols, signs, gifts, attributable
in part by her organizational, spatial mind. Through these symbols, I see
touchingly clever she is. It’s in her eyes, too. Sharp)
To resume: we have trouble finding an easy conversational
flow. After she gave several non-commital responses to my search for a lingual
running stream, she abruptly asked if I’d like to return to our basement. We
did. We screwed. She didn’t cum after laborious attempts by both my wiggling,
probing fingers (alternating from index to middle) and her own, working in
tandem. Must work harder to engage her
verbally, find what interests her and get interested in it. Adjust my mind,
mould it to fit hers seamlessly.
Sorrow pervades. She, Nits, the optimist, thoughtfully but
with near-good cheer said that she’s going to fly out on Saturday instead of
Monday. I say she leaves me earlier and with good cheer, but only
comparatively; because I was afraid that when I told her that I’d miss her…she
doesn’t seem to want to be here, it seems to me sometimes. Her happiness at
returning earlier than we’d anticipated doesn’t seem to strike her as a
statement about how she feels there, with me. I know I disappointed her, not
paying her for the flight, appearing at the airport drunk, that bullshit with
Meagan—all these things are bound to disturb, but then I wish she would loudly
proclaim what troubles. She suppresses her feelings, conceals her deepest
grief, and I want to talk to her about it but cannot find the right words. It’s
a defense mechanism with her to remain cheerful, or try, in the face of any
vicissitude. Which is why her sudden outbursts of crying take me by surprise. I
should view them as well as testament to her love for me; for she cannot
contain those feelings of hurt as much as she tries. She’s really
extraordinary. I wish I hadn’t made her feel as she does. I wish we could get
past this once and for all.
…but to with heavier heart resume: she didn’t go “boom” last
night after much twiddling and twaddling, and I fell into a sulk, the kind of
petulance awarded after eons of patriarchal preoccupation with…no, that’s not
so: we usually haven’t much cared if a woman has an orgasm by our deft
maneuvering or not; that is something relatively new, an equation between
masculinity and the ability to gratify a femme physically. In any case, I have
succumbed to it, probably more ardently than some since I am what is called
Being In Touch With My Feminine Side. This has drawback, because one fears
going too far and consequently becomes a reactionary. An argument ensued,
replete with confused ideas and bewildered subjectivities vying for one
comfortable foot in tis subectivity; another in some objective field, neither
quarry willing to either relinquish all sense of self nor lose all sense of the
other. I suppose boundaries were established, which is somehow worse thn when
there weren’t any, when we were boundless in each other, when there were amorphous,
nebulous erotic waters whose waters could not be navigated, where we lost
ourselves in each other. Now, we’re two countries, each slightly wary of the
other, convergent only by mutual necessity.
Moment in time: I hand her (Nits’, the Nits) a bit of food
and while transferring the greasy morsel, we spontaneously lock lips.
Silkysoftwarmmoistened lips.
Resuming: feelings bludgeon me. I realize this when
considering that in a scant few days she will be gone and my life will then
immediately hollow. It’s not that it will go back to usual, but will instead be
actively worse; now longing with replace mere and habitual state of being
nonplussed. The perplexity of the situation resides less in what to do than how
to cope (ssssssh, the bottle is always listening, and glistens with
anticipatory, ironic thirst; one speaks of coping tentatively for this reason
if no other, though many others exist). Distinctly am I conscious of the
impending crisis. Though painful enough by virtue of its nature, our relationship
has proven for me profound; or it imitates profundity with the dexterity of a
Chinese or Russian acrobat. Lapels, had I any, would emerge from their
somnolent unanimated existence and flare at the outrage to my already friable
pride for that which is to come. Let it.
I’m using the book-light she (Nits) gave me. Late evening,
with Eat, Pray, Love playing in the background at the behest of Nits. The movie
irritates, mostly because I hate Julia Roberts, but perhaps for reasons. A male
parallel might be found in my favourite movie. The Razor’s Edge was almost as
good as the book, which rare. No acclaim, though. Go figure. She (Nits) lies
beside me; rather, behind me, since I sit and she lies on the bed, soon asleep.
She sleeps often or at least very early if I’m to assume she sleeps poorly at
night. She been consuming no caffeine, takes folic acid daily, consumes lots of
milk. These are for our child, that she might already be carrying in her.
Late evening, same day: Nits sleeps. She’s leaving on Saturday.
My heart hurts. When I express my sorrow over the fact, she laughs. I
realize—or hope—that it is a laugh of relief; for she has with some reason
mistrusted my love for her; and my distress subsequently is interpreted as
indicative of the sincerity of my affection for her. I think of going with her
(Nits) back. Seriously. But I’ve no cash.
When I write here alone, when she sleeps, I get a taste of
what it will be like without her; and it’s a stoppage of time, the unyielding
preclusion of happiness; since no series of events can occur or induce it in
her absence; it is limbo; it is purgatory. The last time she was here was
different. I did not sense the oncoming horror of her departure. Bluntly, I
loved her less then than now. I’m at a loss. She’s leaving and I can’t stop it,
but I mustn’t waste precious time here now. I want to hold my Nits, smell her
beautiful, feel that long, warm fleshy, puresex body close to mine, feel her
breathing. I even love it when she kicks my shins while she sleeps. It’s cute.
How many people know that about her?
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