A woman wrote to me. I want to say she was young, but that only means that she was somewhere near my age. By the time we are old women, young women will lump us together, so a difference of a decade is irrelevant. What she said was what(more) I would have said. What I said back to her is what she might have said. There is a sense here that we sometimes can't tell ourselves apart.
I have read books before, and written letters. But books did not write back, and friends were never strangers when they wrote to me. I am bearing witness to so many people in so small a space. I am in your heart and in your limbs. I walk with you and wash with you, eat and study and sigh.
This is not why I started Typetrigger. I started this on an energetic whim as a way to goad myself into something I didn't have the courage to do. I didn't want to say that I wanted to write, so I gave myself permission to do something small and asked others to keep me company. I thought we would all remain strangers, supportive but cool critics. I didn't imagine story lines crossing the ether. I didn't imagine friendships or coffee or love.
I took a class on Byzantine art and read about the idea of absorbing the life of Christ through repeated vision. Not only would the history be understood: the transformation of the spiritual would occur within the viewer by repeated witnessing. This concept seemed very abstract and religious until I read the words of a woman, of a man, and I read again, and I could no longer tell if we were writing or living together. You speak me. (less)
He had a habit of quoting obscure philosophers or poets or bards from the 8th century in an attempt to confuse or distract me from the argument we were having. He did that. He was so comfortable in his book smarts that he hid behind them. Those and his(more) Clark Kent glasses that he pushed up his nose with his little finger, even when he wasnt wearing them. God, i hate him. He put too much stock in the word 'doctorate'. A word he couldn't even claim yet, but still the idea of another degree nailed crookedly to his wall filled him with a pomp that made him unrecognizable. He hid behind his book smarts and his glasses and his degrees. And his quotes.
'Wilde said it best, 'fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable...'
He was intolerable. When we met he didn't wear those glasses. He only brought up his borrowed philosophies while he was still panting, sweat on the pillow and a cigarette between my fingers.
'You know, the ancients blahblahs used to have wild sex on the Eve of every blahblah and the woman who screamed the loudest was thought to be the one who channeled the Goddess of Fertility.'
Or some nonsense.
I liked him better then, when his book smarts always meant 'let's have more sex and see if you can channel the goddess of Fertility' and he understood that me asking if I should wear the blue dress or the red meant that i wanted him to rip it off me. Or simply to notice it. Fuck Wilde. Wilde never knew anything.
He said it best, when he was still panting and the sweat cooled on the pillow, 'I hope we fuck like this forever.' That was sound philosophy. What happened to that?(less)