Years ago, I met a beautiful couple. She was petite, vivacious. On a rise in her chosen career, she struck a deal with her partner. She quit her job. He was tall, stunning, with ice blue eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like his. Like Scott Summers, but with a fluorescent blue gaze. Degenerative vision, leading to blindness. They decided to take turns – he would work until he couldn’t, she would return to work when he couldn’t. I thought it was sacrifice, but the kind of relationship they had, the kind of love they shared, didn’t ask for sacrifice. The kind of man he was, I would have done what it had taken. The kind of woman she was, she didn’t have to struggle with the choices she made. And the love that they have will change the world for the better. Easy.
Stored in my heart. Pulled out every once in a while, a romanticised notion used for reassurance. A substitution for the tangible. In the same space as a future motorbike – desired but currently unknown. Longing for possession, for experience, for the feeling in my hair. A desire that if not controlled, will turn into an obsession. Small controlled doses, small doses. I’m scared that I’ll end up like Dolarhyde, consuming the woman clothed in the sun, representing self. (Remember Icarus? Remember, Icarus?) I’d rather consume or be consumed metaphorically. Without a threat.
On the road, I listened to my mother sing along to a Motown collection, the only music we could agree to. Songs that meant something to both of us for different reasons. As I picked out breaks used on hip hop beats, mum told me stories about listening to these songs on a radio show coming out of Omdurman. The Marvelettes, Marvin Gaye, The Contours, Edwin Starr, The Temptations, The Jackson 5, and on and on.
I’m trying to understand noumenon, and by extension, Kant. Not too sure how far I’m getting with that. It’s getting clouded by Houllebecq’s examination of Lovecraft. I can’t seem to focus on complex explorations of worldviews that bleed into each other but probably shouldn’t. The Houllebecq is Iggy Pop’s fault. I’ve been distracting myself by re-reading the short stories I love: The Great God Pan, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, The Handsomest Drowned Man In The World, The Tell-Tale Heart, The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, On Meeting My 100 Percent Woman One Fine April Morning, etc. I can’t help but look at them now through these lenses.
I need to work with my body again. Some kind of intense form of manual labour. I’m feeling an itch to destroy something and rebuild it again, on a physical plane. I need some kind of pain in my body, pain created by moving away from paper and into a workspace to create. Calluses, cuts, stiffness. I need to work through the next stage, purify myself through exertion, pushing through the burn. A manifestation of the phoenix’s ritual. Fire’s cool.