My Love Affair with a Lunatic
From: S,
Tanya
Sent: Wednesday, September 03, 2003 4:40 PM
To: M
Subject: Canon Multipass 5500 Printer
Hello,
I would
love any assistance you might be able to offer on getting our printer working
in the Humanistic Studies Office, room 224.
I am on
the LMC campus Mondays from 3-5 for the academic senate meeting. I could meet
you before or after the meeting.
I am
also on the LMC campus on Tuesdays from 4-7 in the reading and writing lab, and
can meet you before or after that.
Please
let me know what would be most convenient for you.
Thanks
Tanya S
_____________________________________________________________________________________
From: M
To: 'S, Tanya'
Subject: RE: Canon Multipass 5500 Printer
Sent: 9/3/2003 6:40 PM
Tanya:
Monday
evening works for me, but if you don't want to stay late, I can meet you
Tuesday at
As
recompense, I'm hoping that I can appeal to your particular expertise -- I'm
afflicted with a sort of intermittent nihilism; I guess I can't let go of the
idea that little scraps of meaning are left, waiting to be found.
At
first, I thought this whole business would bring with it a little Quixotic
romance, but in fact, it can be downright depressing in an
everything's-already-been-said-that's-worth-saying kinda way.
So, what
I'm getting at is: can you suggest any good books? Nothing from the canon
please -- I need something radical and dangerous.
Take
care,
M.
From: S, Tanya
To: M
Sent: 9/3/2003 10:40 PM
Subject: RE: Canon Multipass 5500 Printer
Be very very
careful about asking philosophers for reading material.
LOL!
Your e-mail
reminded me of a quote from Bertrand Russell, something along the lines of
---of course it's impossible to find
An easy
suggestion that doesn't require much investment in your part would have to be
one of my all time classic favorites:
Boethius' -The
Consolation of Philosophy
If however
you’re willing to invest more, and have your world view shattered and in desperate
need of rebuilding try:
P.D.
Ouspensky's -In Search of the Miraculous
But never
forget that I warned you to avoid it!!!!!!!! Before you read it let me
remind you ignorance is bliss, and there are things that once you see them
can't be unseen. I've suggested this book to others, and after reading it
many of them have come away screaming, "plug me
back into the matrix, I just want a decent steak."
The room is
224, the Humanistic Studies Dept Office.
I have an hour
to kill between 5-6 on Monday. I have a
Tanya S
___________________________________________________________________________________
From: M
To:
‘Miklos'; 'S, Tanya'
Subject:
Ode to Spam
Sent:
9/9/2003 11:10 AM
Miklos, Tanya:
Here are
the subject headings of the latest three emails I’ve received:
Uncover
what others don’t want to know illqfkc ojzlp
fw:
nothing is impossible, nothing will cause u get sick
Satisfy
your lover with your penis tarnish
I
can think of no greater post-modern expression of universal truths.
Clearly
the first email is the archetypal call-to-arms – the rousing first episode in
an epic Hero/Quest cycle. It is an eloquent exhortation – an unflinching
challenge to begin anew the lonely inward journey of discovery through dark
landscapes of the Self: “[u]ncover what others don’t want to know.” This
call-to-arms is an imperative; the undiscovered country importunes the hero,
who, willing or otherwise, succumbs to the siren song: “illqfkc ojzlp.”
The song, a shrill overture that provides a deep reservoir of thematic notes
(fully 42% of the English alphabet), at once alludes to the ancient Sanskrit
Shlokas (“He who is seeking knowledge should give up comfort”) and Joyce’s deft
use of musical leitmotifs.
The
second line presents a startling juxtaposition. Buoyed by the initial epiphany,
both naïve reader and meta-anti-hero equate early victories with immortality;
these first discoveries are specious evidence of our own divine identities. The
“fw:” of the second line directly alludes to the author(s) of the St. Thomas
Gospel, only recently discovered in the
And
then finally, in the third line, triumph. Like two rivers, Freud and Jung crash
with mighty and opposing force to commingle in a kind of post-modern sewer:
“Satisfy your lover with your penis tarnish.” The Cosmos is our “lover,” and we
must satisfy and subjugate this feral he-she with our spiritual phallus. This
ultimate union brings with it the shame of the modern world: our spirit-phallus
is not un-“tarnish”ed, but our lover accepts this dark decay, and we at last
achieve orgiastic embrace and oneness with the multiverse.
At
least, I’m pretty sure that’s what the emails were trying to say.
Yours
in utter and complete resignation to our inexorable self-destruction,
M.
From:
S, Tanya
Sent:
To: M
Subject: Poetry and chaperones
M,
I must
say I'm glad there was a chaperone along for the "Ode to Spam" ride,
otherwise your use of terms like "penis tarnish" and “orgiastic
embrace” might have intimidated me. Be sure to thank Miklos for me.
I
thoroughly enjoyed your e-mail, though I would suggest that it reveals more
about you than you intended. Watching you free-associate was delightful.
Brings
to mind a favorite Lawerence Ferlinghetti poem,
A
Poems by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, p.44
And
that's the way it always is and that's the way it always ends and the fire and
the rose are one and always the same scene and always the same subject right
from the beginning like in the Bible or The Sun Also Rises which begins Robert
Cohn was middleweight boxing champion of his class but later we lost our balls
and there we go again there we are again there's
the same old theme and scene again with all the citizens and all the characters
all working up to it right from the first and it looks like all they ever think
of is doing It and it doesn't matter much with who half the time but the other
half it matters more than anything O the sweet love fevers yes and there's
always complications like maybe she has no eyes for him or him no eyes for her
or her no eyes for her or him no eyes for him or something or other stands in
the way like his mother or her father or someone like that but they go right on
trying to get it all the time like in Shakespeare or The Waste Land or Proust
remembering his Things Past or wherever And
there they all are struggling toward each other or after each other like those
marble maidens on that Grecian Urn or on any Met street or merrygoround
around and around they go all hunting love and half the hungry time not even
knowing just what is really eating them like Robin walking in her Nightwood streets although it isn't quite as simple as all
that as if all she really needed was a good fivecent cigar oh no and those who
have not hunted will not recognize the hunting poise and then the hawks that
hover where the
heart is hid and the hungry horses crying and with her blind breasts under her
dress and then Christopher Columbus sailing off in search and Rudolph Valentino
and Juliet and Romeo and John Barrymore and Anna Livia and Abie's
Irish Rose and so Goodnight Sweet Prince all over again with everyone and
everybody laughing and crying along wherever night and day winter and summer
spring and tomorrow like Anna Karenin lost in the snow and the cry of hunters
in a great wood and the soldiers coming and Freud and Ulysses always on their
hungry travels after the same hot grail like King Arthur and his nighttime
knights and everybody wondering where and how it will all end like in the
movies or in some nightmaze novel yes as in a nightmaze Yes I said Yes I will
and he called me his Andalusian rose and I said Yes my heart was going like mad
and that's the way Ulysses ends as everything always ends when that hunting
cock of flesh at last cries out and has his glory moment God and then comes
tumbling down the sound of axes in the wood and the trees falling and down it
goes the sweet cocks sword so wilting in the fair flesh fields away alone at
last and loved and lost and found upon a riverbank along a riverrun
right where it all began and so begins again
T.
From: M
To: 'S, Tanya'
Subject: RE: Poetry and chaperones
Sent: 9/11/2003 2:02 PM
Tanya:
Miklos
is good for all sorts of things -- a swiss army knife of friends.
His response to me was two lines short of a sonnet:
Break
her walls with your massive knob
Fiderty Opordiale
Cast Iron Christmas Tree Stand
Edited by a Human Team
Where were you yesterday
villitys ruddied sølvfads beschuitbakker anbahne
Hypnotize your penis into 12 morgage vacations
additional career options with a flourishing prospect
This is nipple twisting
home loan rates are at historic low levels
Teapot of china, chinatang teapot, vase of chinatang
Has Your Life Been Ruined By Evil?
---
As for
my motivations: first, to amuse my intellectual peers, and second, to reveal
myself.
Did I
reveal "more about me" than I intended?
Maybe
you meant that I unwittingly revealed unpolished or bigoted bits of my self --
either subconsciously or otherwise. Or that I've
insolently trampled punctilio, and shouldn't presume to type vulgar nonsense to
you -- after all, you didn't exist in my universe until a
comment made about my hair a few months ago. I shouldn't be so self-centered
and naïve to think I know Tanya, and that I can say
anything to her and she will approve, or at the very least, forgive.
If my
presumption offends or intimidates, I do apologize -- and not without
embarrassment. But I'm not afraid of being something you don't like or respect.
Your
friendship is worth taking the chance.
Yours,
M.
postscript:
Thanks for the poem. I'd never read it. Don't pass it around though. The lines
he references from Finnegan's Wake are the sources for all my network passwords.
;)
From: S, Tanya
To: M
Sent: 9/11/2003 3:46 PM
Subject: RE: Poetry and chaperones
M,
Well, if I am
one of your "intellectual peers", then I was definitely amused.
However I did not intend to imply that what you revealed was "unpolished"
or "bigoted", maybe more of an existential angst, and
frustration. As with all nihilists, you start out believing the only
meaning is the meaning you create, and only later discover the deceptive nature
of that road. When you are excited and engaged it's easy to crank out
meaning as if it were hiding under every rock. But, when you are low and
tired and lonely, then what? When the meaning buck stops with you and
you're not up to the task, then what? Meaninglessness? Absurdity?
Submersion in literature? E-mails to strangers who
somehow seem not so strange?
I must admit
that initially your Ode to Spam took me a little by surprise with it's graphic
terms and imagery, but as I've mentioned your including a chaperone eased that
uneasiness; as did my laughter as your thoughts unfolded.
What is this
comment about your hair that was my moment of creation? I recall a
blackboard class in which you wreaked havoc on poor C with your wonderfully
entertaining graphics that he was completely incapable of figuring out how to
turn off. And then the Scottish Games. I fear I've missed the hair
comment.
And I feel
compelled to ask about your comment that you're "not afraid of being
something you [I] don't like or respect." Are you afraid of being
someone I don't like and respect? :)
Your new
friend,
Tanya
From: S, Tanya
To: M
Sent: 9/10/2003 6:49 PM
Subject: RE: Ode to Spam
M,
I was wondering
if you had time to help me with my home computer, and Netshare
and Outlook?
I have some
friends coming over Friday night. They are showing "On The Waterfront" at the park across the street from my
house, and a great El Salvadoran restaurant in the neighborhood has been closed
for remodeling and reopens Friday, so we're going to have dinner there.
Perhaps if
you're free Friday, you would be willing to help me out, and join us for our
evening adventure.
Let me know.
T.
(RE: Poetry and chaperones)
_______________________________________________________________________
From:
M
To:
'S, Tanya'
Subject:
FYI
Sent:
9/12/2003 12:37 AM
I am
thinking about you.
M.
From: S, Tanya
To: M
Sent: 9/12/2003 10:41 AM
Subject: RE: FYI
As you
should be.
T.
From: S,
Tanya
Sent:
To: M
Subject: friends
So, a
new friend? There are worse things. I'm in desperate need of
someone to talk with about that book I mentioned to you. In Search of the Miraculous.
Even
with the boundaries obviously needed regarding what we can't talk about I'm
sure with our over sized brains there is still plenty of subject matter left.
If we
are going to be friends, I do have to insist on the implementation of one very
serious rule. You can't make me late for class anymore. And before
you object and say you're not at fault, remember that I've seen your shoulders
and they're plenty wide enough to carry the burden of this one major fault.
Later,
Tanya
From: M
To: 'S, Tanya'
Subject: RE: friends
Sent: 9/16/2003 12:04 AM
Tanya:
I am
smiling, wide. Thank you for writing tonight.
Do they
still have public libraries? I'm sure I can find a copy of this book someplace.
As for
what we can't talk about, I'm afraid I'm not going to be very good at that. I
want to tell you everything. But, I will try.
As soon
as I find this oversized brain you speak of, I am ready. Well, that's not true.
Before I can do the friends thing, I have to say this: I am sorry for not
telling you. I didn't want to type it in an email, and
Oh, and
I have to say one more thing, I would've taken you to France. To
Okay.
Onward. I will find this book. And I will be your friend -- you have taught me
so much about myself already, it is my sincere hope that I can give something
back to you (aside from a printer cartridge).
Yours,
M.
PS.
Okay, so you have my birthdate and birthplace. Are you doing a background
check?
PS2.
When you're at home, you can get things from netshare by going here: http://207.21.55.
You can
move files to netshare by going here: ftp://tS@207.21.55. (assuming tS is your username -- you will be prompted for a
password).
What
kind of email client do you use at home? Outlook? Outlook Express?
m.
From: S,
Tanya [mailto:TS@losmedanos.edu]
Sent:
To: M
Subject: paradoxes
Ideas
are clean, they soar in the serene supernal. I can take them out
and look at them, they fit in books, they lead me down that narrow way.
And
in the morning they are there. Ideas are straight –
But the
world is round, and a messy mortal is my friend.
Come walk with me in the mud.
-
Hugh Prather Notes to Myself
M,
Well
fellow insomniac, I have to be on a train very early tomorrow morning, and I'm
not happy about my inability to fall asleep tonight. Not surprised, but
not happy. Of course they still have public libraries you technophile.
However, it's not a book you'll find there. More complicated yet, it's
out of print. It's not a book I feel comfortable suggesting that too many
people read. But I figure you might get lucky and forget, be
unable to find the book, or possibly just lose interest. Or I'll get
lucky, you will read it and be willing to discuss it, and just hold a grudge
against me for the rest of your life. It took me almost ten years to read
the book, and I was pretty motivated.
As to
conversational limitations, I've had very few if any for most of my life.
However, I've recently begun to learn two very valuable lessons. 1) The
truth is not a stick to beat people with. 2) You can't control how people
will interpret what you say, and in some cases it's better to say nothing.
To this
point I have not been hugely successful at editing myself, but I find I'm gaining
competence over time.
As to
your "[b]efore I can do the friends thing" comment, I hope it's too
late. But apology accepted. Though I enjoyed the fantasies my mind
played with me before I knew that part of your story.
As to
the nature of trust, that's a multi-hour conversation I look forward to
having. Trust is such an interesting concept. But lately I've begun
to wonder if human beings are capable of being trustworthy. I feel pretty
confident in my conscious thoughts, words and deeds. However, unconscious
thoughts, words and deeds require a completely different level of awareness,
not to mention emotional thoughts, words and deeds. Though
none of that is an attempt to deny the importance of trust.
I think
your claims to being a solipsistic nihilist are just a convenient escape.
I hope anyway. Nihilism has a tendency to be incurable if not caught and
treated in the early stages.
As to
your
meaning. I find Americans not very interested in in-depth conversations.
They're generally more topical. But a conversation on trust can last
through the evening and a couple bottles of wine.
As for
what I've been able to teach you about yourself I'm glad. I am getting
the opportunity to practice a new set of skills myself. If I'd had my way
I would have asked you out at the Scottish Games, thereby moving your
revelation of earlier this evening much further up in the overall time
table. But I would also quite possibly have lost out on the opportunity to
make a new friend. At the very least I'm getting that and a printer
cartridge out of the deal.
Not
yours (for reasons still under discussion),
Tanya
p.s.
No, no background check. Just a working hypothesis that
people are a result of their external and internal influences. The
only way I can learn more about your internal influences is to get to know you
better. However, with your birth information I can look at your natal chart,
and this is still a working hypothesis, get a jump start at understanding your
external influences.
p.s.
2 Thanks for the netshare info. I have both outlook and outlook
express, but I prefer outlook.
p.s. 3
references I made earlier this evening:
"If
you venture to think in
Well,
can't find the Willie Nelson reference, I'll forward it when I come across it
________________________________________________________________________
From: M
To: 'S, Tanya'
Subject: RE:
paradoxes
Sent: 9/16/2003
10:08 PM
Tanya:
The
train? How positively urban. And you smoke too? A city girl.
I will
find this book. Miklos can procure anything (well, Dimitri and Franco can
procure anything, Miklos has a suave way of taking
credit for their handiwork). I'm not sure you will find me an acceptable
reading/idea partner though -- while your domain may be philosophical argument,
mine is literary analysis. And the tools of the trade are stony and cold
("analysis" is a kind word for "criticism" which is a kind
word for...).
I'm
fairly resigned to fact that you tend to be cleverer than I, more often than
not. Grrrr. But I can't abide you being a better writer too.
And since that's becoming painfully obvious, you will find me retreating more
and more into literary allusion and liberal quotation of ancient passages in
their native (and preferably, dead) tongues. Please provide me a list of
languages you don't speak/read at your
earliest convenience, so that I may begin compiling said passages.
I applaud your hard-won knowledge (axioms #1
"no whoopins with the truth-stick," and #2 "right to remain
silent.") There is something deliciously apropos in both of these --
having gotten to know you so well in the many minutes we've spent together, I
let out a frightful guffaw when I read #1. Tanya beating her
peers, her bosses, her suitors mercilessly with the Truth, a huge, spiky club,
heavy with bone and flesh, but wielded -- strangely -- out of love and never
malice. That rings, well, true.
I may
choose to debate you on axiom #2 some day. But tonight, I'm with you on that
one...in more ways the one.
There's
more of course, on
I read
only two things today. The rest was shit; scratching in a salt mine, time
wasted. One was your email.
The
other was a poem. The third stanza is where we nihilists live:
The sea
is calm to-night,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; -- on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles
long ago
Heard it on the
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The sea of faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah,
love, let us be true
To one another! for the world which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
-- Matthew Arnold
________________________________________________________________________
From: S, Tanya
To: M
Subject: Swept with confused alarms of struggle and
flight
Sent: 9/17/2003 9:23 AM
M,
Positively
urban, sounds like me. I attended SFSU from 88-00, and only stopped when
I became so sick. Then I needed money for medical bills, so I had to get
serious about work. Playing with the autistic kids was fun, but it
definitely wasn't bringing in the money. Unfortunately, 12 years in the
SF environment left it's M. As for the smoking thing, I try not to talk
about it. I gave up sugar& flour in 2000, recreational drug use,
caffeine and alcohol as an escape in 1991, and this last lingering bad habit of
mine is annoying me greatly. I started my campaign to quit, almost
exactly a year ago, and the best I've been able to achieve is going from a pack
of Marlboro 100's a day to smoking a few clove cigarettes a day. I hate
the whole thing, and hope if I just ignore it, it will eventually go
away. Not the greatest of strategies, but when I cannot achieve something
through my will alone I get cranky.
Oddly
enough it was some remnants of language habits formed at SFSU that made me
realize the truth of axiom #2. I lived in SF for about half of my time at
SFSU, and picked up the habit of referring to my current romantic interest as
"partner". A very widespread practice in SF. However when
I got back out here it caused everyone to think I was gay. It took me
awhile to make the connection. After giving it some thought I realized "boyfriend"
is stupid, sounds like I'm in the 3rd grade. "Lover" implies
something that is rarely true. "We weren't lovers, just brave
strangers." So while I stubbornly stuck with "partner" for
awhile I soon realized I'm also a participant in this thing called
communication, and my word choice was leading to judgment formation on the part
of my communication partners. And so, wrapping up this very long
explanation, the beginning of the formation of axiom #2. It's a waste of
time to be exact in your word choice if people don't have adequate listening
skills.
I must
say I love the foreign ring to the names of your friends: Miklos, Dimitri,
Franco. Brings up visions of drinking espresso in Turkish cafes while
discussing Dostoevsky. I'm sure the reality is nothing so glamorous, but
my imagination has always victimized me. As I think yours does.
As for
Philosophical vs literary analysis. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it is
neither a work of philosophy nor a work of literature. And our broad
experience in those areas is actually more of an obstacle than a help.
It's more of a ripping away of the veil to reveal the mechanisms behind this
theater of the absurd. And to some extent requires faith and
experimentation. The experimentation is fine, it's faith that I struggle with,
as I feel you do. If I was the type of person to be successful at
choosing my beliefs I would have become a Mormon or an orthodox Jew, and let
the rules lead me into the Kingdom of Heaven. But my analytical brain
would never accept that option. I could have married a farmer, moved to
Iowa, had children, and skipped the lying awake at night contemplating whether
or not our identity survives death.
As to
who is the more clever of our little group, I hope the competition continues
for some time. I enjoy the way your mind works. Who gets the
cleverest crown is not yet clear to me. However forming our little mutual
admiration societies for each other sounds like a great plan. And the
insecurity so baldly scrunched up between the words there delights me.
I'm working on sharing my weaknesses with other people. And your expressions of insecurity not only reminds me that my own
are perfectly reasonable, but that expressing them does not bring the world to
an end.
After
your first e-mail I panicked thinking that in order to hold up my end of the
conversation I would have to go out and read Joyce, Finnegan's Wake, and engage
in a deep study of the "leitmotifs" of Joyce's work. But first
I had to look that word up, having no idea what it meant. I got the
Sanskrit,
And I'll have to ask your pardon for pointing out the obvious in contradiction
to your claim otherwise, you are using less and less "literary allusion
and liberal quotation." I hope it's only because your health is
interfering with your time schedule.
As to
languages I don't speak or read, you might try any of the Asian languages,
definitely not my strong suit. Though if you're going to put that much
effort in I think we should choose Sanskrit or Aramaic, and then we can both
put our silly playtime to valuable use. As to who is the better writer I
beg to differ. You almost stunned me into an inability to express myself
in writing with your Ode to Spam, your wit, references, word choice and
numerical ability, almost knocking me into perpetual silence. (I'm still
not sure how you came up with the percentage of the alphabet line, but I loved
it. The siren song is still wringing in my ears.)
I wish I
could wield my club out of love, but I lack the compassion. It's
generally out of impatience. As they say, sarcasm is just a truth that
has lost its temper. And my truth loses its temper quite frequently,
hence the need for axiom #2.
I look
forward to the "more" you mention in your e-mail.
Should I
take your closing poem as your answer to the terminalness of your nihilism?
Who is Matthew Arnold? Brings on visions of Poe and his Annabelle Lee.
" . . . and we loved with a love that was more then love, in our sepulcher
by the sea."
"Late,
by myself, in the boat of myself,
no light and no land anywhere,
cloudcover thick, I try to stay
just above the surface, yet I'm already under
and living within the ocean.
Does
sunset sometimes look like the suns' coming up?
Do you
know what a faithful love is like?
You're
crying. You say you've burned yourself.
But can you think of anyone who is not hazy with smoke?"
Rumi -
The essential Rumi p. 12
I will
confess that our intellectual jousting has been the high point of my day as
well. Though, I don't believe I can claim the rest of the time was
wasted. Smacks too much of free will, and I'm beginning to see that free
will is nothing more than a comforting assumption. In reality I feel more
like Oedipus, a victim of my destiny. So all of my little undulations can
no more free me than his did. My hopes, imaginations and fantasies, my so
called "choices" seem sordidly predetermined by forces I struggle to
understand. So at this juncture I repeat the only mantra that seems to
have any application or relevance. "Please keep your hands, feet and
head inside the vehicle at all times until this ride comes to a full and
complete stop." The great side-effect of Tanya's attempt at a new
world view is it definitely cuts down on the drama.
So my
e-mails are getting longer and yours shorter. Think there's a pattern
emerging?
Forever
cursed to search for patterns (destiny or choice?),
Tanya
p.s.
coffee break on campus on Monday? I'll be done with my meetings at
p.p.s
From: M
To: 'S, Tanya'
Subject: RE: Swept with confused alarms of struggle and
flight
Sent: 9/23/2003 10:43 AM
Tanya:
Oedipus?
Poke out my eyes, apologize.
Dostoevsky?
If you know of any Turkish cafes where we could discuss such things, please
provide a map and time. That is an assignation I will not miss.
I had a
little book, something called "Four Horseman of the Apocalypse - The
Existentialists." It might have even been one of Walter Kauffman's books.
I made the mistake of actually reading it when I was 16. (I say
"actually" because at that time, "reading it" meant buying
a copy at Tower books, carrying around with me in a conspicuous manner, all the
while sporting the angst-ridden countenance suitable -- I thought -- for such
things).
But I
read (most of) this book.
The
Existentialists have a special appeal to teenage boys who've almost put away
their toys, and so I read this book, which surveyed the D-man, Nietzsche,
Sartre, and I think Kafka (I'm sure it wasn't THREE horseman of the
apocalypse!). Then I read Karamazov (during Christmas, of all times). I
remember it as a beautiful book -- and it made me wish that I could read
Russian. But I was too young, and the book has not stayed with me. I went on
instead to Kafka, and English and American modernism. It was all a mistake. I
wish I'd just read the Bible, the Mahabharata, the
Iliad when I was that age.
So,
about your vices. Am I to understand you don't eat sugar and flour? I remember
you said that flour was linked to your heart problem. But
what about sugar? And no caffeine? With no apologies to the state of
(Are you
sure you aren't a Mormon? I mean, Joe Smith and His Golden Spectacles is a
really good story...)
And now
I can add gambling to the list of Tanya's vices. I would not have pegged you, a
mathematician and philosopher, as a gambler. In fact, it wouldn't have
surprised me at all if you'd decried The Line as a depressing blight on Tahoe's
fresh blue face. I fervently hope (that some day) I will see you at 3 AM,
sitting at a smoky Pai Gow table, surround by small Asian men in tired golf
shirts, their manhood held cheap by short stacks and warm Midori sours.
No
segue.
I use
the term "partner" as well. Sometimes I will say "domestic
partner" if I'm filling out forms or dealing with financial or insurance
questions. Girlfriend and boyfriend don't work, and introducing someone as your
"lover" tends (in our shell of a culture) to register the person by
sexual identity rather than an emotional one. I'm not sure when I say,
"partner," if that's ever interpreted to mean "gay
partner." If it is, does it matter? Do I care if when I communicate to
people they know the sex of my partner? A couple of female friends have told me
that they thought I was gay. That surprises me, but it never offends. Others
have told me that some people catch a "sexual deviance" vibe from me,
and -- unable to categorize it --- it's pigeon-holed (WAIT, this metaphor is a
bit tricky; I'll just stop
here)...
Finally,
I don't know shit about Matthew Arnold. But the last stanza of that poem makes
me cry whenever I read it out loud.
I am,
Your devoted admirer and friend,
M.
From: M
To: 'S, Tanya'
Subject: FW:
Something I found funny...
Sent:
Tanya:
I was
surprised to get this email for Moe (see below).
I'm not
going to respond to her until I can chat with you about it (not email).
If you
aren't going to be on campus anytime soon, please ring me at 925-366-XXYX.
Yours,
M.
From:
Sent: Wednesday, September 24, 2003 11:31 PM
To:
Subject: Something I found funny...
I think
it's funny that my 2 favourite instructors thus far this semester are friends
and colleagues. (I'm talking about Ms. S.)
So what did you think of my poetry?
*Moe*
Just another eager mind...
From: S, Tanya
To: M
Subject:
Serendiptitiously
Sent: 9/25/2003
11:16 AM
An
aberration in style, or is it format?
M,
Oedipus?
Poke out my eyes, apologize. Unless you were shooting for a haiku
that sums up Sophocles’ 2nd greatest work in 5 words and 3 punctuation marks.
Dostoevsky?
If you know of any Turkish cafes where we could discuss such things, please
provide a map and time. That is an assignation I will not miss.
How about the 5th Friday in June?
I
had a little book, something called "Four Horseman of the Apocalypse -The
Existentialists." It might have even been one of Walter Kauffman's books.
I made the mistake of actually reading it when I was 16. (I say "actually"
because at that time, "reading it" meant buying a copy a Tower books,
carrying around with me in a conspicuous manner, all the while sporting the
angst-ridden countenance suitable -- I thought – for such things).
But
I read (most of) this book.
The
Existentialists have a special appeal to teenage boys who've almost put away
their toys, and also to one emotionally, sexually
and spiritually shattered teenage girl with an IQ twice that of her peers and
most adults in her life. My caretaker
was a fundamentalist, southern, Calvary Baptist, and Sartre was my savior. and so I read this
book, which surveyed the D-man, Nietzsche, Sartre, and I think Kafka (I'm sure
it wasn't THREE horseman of the apocalypse!). Then I read Karamazov One of my favorites, still find myself calling people
Alyosha from time to time, though no one gets the reference. (during Christmas,
of all times). I remember it as a beautiful book -- and it made me wish that I
could read Russian. But I was too young, and the book has not stayed with me. I
went on instead to Kafka, and English and American modernism. It was all a mistake. I wish I'd just read
the Bible, the Mahabharata, the Iliad when I was that
age. In the
Republic Plato discusses censorship for material presented to the young
mind. At 15 I thought he was a fascist,
now I realize he’s a genius. Though I
wish I’d stuck with “The Babysitter’s Club” series. Perhaps it would have curbed by desire to
infiltrate the intelligentsia.
So,
about your vices. Am I to understand you don't eat sugar and flour? (Rarely, Carl’s
Jr. for example.)
I
remember you said that flour was linked to your heart problem. But what about sugar? And no caffeine? (A Frappaccino
Mocha in a bottle on occasion when camping.)With no apologies to the
state of
(Are
you sure you aren't a Mormon? I mean, Joe Smith and His Golden Spectacles is a
really good story...)
You shouldn’t joke about the Mormons. Tangent - Why do you not take only one Mormon
with you when you go fishing? Because
he’ll drink all your beer.- Back to the subject at hand. You’ve discovered my deep, dark secret. I do want to become a Mormon. But it’s complicated. They believe when a man dies he inherits his
own universe to rule over. When a Mormon woman dies she gets to serve her
husband in the afterlife. Eternally. So I haven’t decided if I’m having a sex
change operation so I can inherit my own universe (If I can even fool God that
way), or maybe if I just wait long enough I’ll meet and marry a Mormon guy
amazing enough that serving him throughout eternity will seem like a
privilege. If only I weren’t so damn
willful.
And
now I can add gambling to the list of Tanya's vices. I would not have pegged
you, a mathematician and philosopher, as a gambler. In fact, it wouldn't have
surprised me at all if you'd decried The Line as a depressing blight on Tahoe's
fresh blue face. (Social Consciousness issues
aren’t my forte.) I fervently
hope (that some day) I will see you at 3 AM, sitting at a smoky Pai Gow table,
surround by small Asian men in tired golf shirts, their manhood held cheap by
short stacks and warm Midori sours. You’ve captured it perfectly. Pai Gow is the only game for a mathematician
and philosopher. Only game in the house
whose odds favor the player. Though I
doubt I qualify as a mathematician. I
love theoretical mathematics: Pythagoras and his numerology, Pi, the golden
mean, the Fibbonacchi series, the fact that the null set isn’t empty. But lower level mathematics, practical
mathematics, leaves me baffled. I
mastered base 12 long before I even captured a glimmer of base 2. Case in point.
Scene: Restaurant,
midafternoon lull. Tanya stands at the
register calculating the tax on a dollar.
The manager, Joyce, stands behind her drying silverware.
Tanya: (Shocked and
excited) Joyce, did you realize that 8%
of a dollar will always be 8 cents?
Joyce: (Smiling
enigmatically as only a tiny middle aged Japanese woman, who makes the world’s
greatest Lumpia, can) Yes. And now so have you. (She didn’t add “Grasshopper” but it was
implied.
I’d only been calculating
that same equation 20 times a day for a few years when I made that brilliant
deduction. I’m still working on 8% of
two dollars.
No
segue.
I
use the term "partner" as well. Sometimes I will say "domestic
partner" if I'm filling out forms or dealing with financial or insurance
questions.
Girlfriend and boyfriend don't work, and introducing someone as your
"lover" tends (in our shell of a culture) to register the person by
sexual identity rather than an emotional one.
I'm
not sure when I say, "partner," if that's ever interpreted to mean
"gay partner." If it is, does it matter? Do I care if when I
communicate to people they know the sex of my partner?
I could care less if people know the gender of my partner, or think I’m
gay. What I do very much care about is
communication and the truth. If my word
choice makes someone believe a lie, then I have failed as a communicator. For me communication is a sacred act. I hope I’m never forced to rank sacred
acts. Truth or communication, what a
quandary. A couple of female
friends have told me that they thought I was gay. As
to your sexual orientation I wouldn’t presume to qualify as an expert seeing
that I’ve unknowingly made passes at gay guys before. Though that may be more geographical than
indicative. That surprises me,
but it never offends. Others have told me that some people catch a "sexual
deviance" vibe from me, and -- unable to categorize it --- it's
pigeon-holed (WAIT, this metaphor is a bit tricky; I'll just stop here)... As to your sexual
vibe, perverted or not, I’m positive it’s none of my business. Nor is it on the acceptable topics for
discussion list. But while we’re not on
the subject of sexual perversion, you didn’t reciprocate on the –vices I’ve
overcome- topic. Well, other than your
adolescent nihilism. Oh wait, you
haven’t overcome that. LOL
Finally,
I don't know shit about Matthew Arnold. But the last stanza of that poem makes
me cry whenever I read it out loud. I
asked because I had never heard of him, and you sent the poem and a few days
later I read a reference to him in Joyce’s Ulysses chapter 1 or 2.
I
am,
Your devoted admirer and friend,
M.
Your cohort in our mutual admiration society,
Tanya
From: S, Tanya
To: M
Sent: 9/25/2003 12:30 PM
Subject: RE: Something I found funny...
M,
I would ring
you, but the number is defective. So you'll have to call me. (925) 381-XXXX.
Tanya
From: M
To: 'S, Tanya'
Subject: RE: Something I found funny...
Sent:
9/25/2003 1:01 PM
Tanya:
Sorry. 925-366-XXXY.
M.
From: S,
Tanya [mailto:TS@losmedanos.net]
Sent:
To: '
Subject: Dorothy Parker
M,
I never
really paid much attention to subject lines in spam or website names, but after
your Ode I've acquired a new sensitivity. I could not resist sharing the
following with someone. Dorothy Parker would have loved the irony.
http://www.suck-my-big.org/blah/propriety.html
My
conference starts at 1:00 pm. tomorrow. So if you're available I could
meet with you late morning tomorrow. Tower drop off? Breakfast
perhaps? Let me know.
T.
From: M
To: 'S, Tanya'
Subject: RE: Dorothy
Parker
Sent: 9/25/2003 6:16
PM
Tanya:
I will
be here in the morning. Breakfast sounds nice -- is that approved by Claudia?
One day,
we should take both our dogs out for some fun.
Yours,
M.
From: S, Tanya
To: M
Sent: 9/26/2003 10:26 AM
Subject: RE: Dorothy Parker
M,
I'm heading out
now, one pitstop and I'll be there.
T
_______________________________________________________________________
From: S, Tanya
To:M
Subject: Still have time for lunch?
Sent: 9/26/2003 12:30 PM
_______________________________________________________________________
From: S, Tanya
To: M
Sent: 9/26/2003 1:08 PM
Subject: Thanks
M,
Thank you for
taking a look at my computer and monitor. Remember, you now have my
computer, so I won't have e-mail access until I come back on Monday. If you need to speak with me (925)381-XXXX. I'll be on
campus Monday and have some time free from
Thanks
again. Though I must admit the best part of needing all this computer
help is getting the chance to talk with you. I've enjoyed it very much.
Have a great
weekend.
Tanya
_______________________________________________________________________
From: S, Tanya
To:M
Subject: Gates
Sent: 9/29/2003 12:01 PM
Dear M,
This is
one of the most difficult letters I've ever written. I've tried to
justify our "friendship" from many different levels. Initially
the
excitement and stimulation were intense enough that I could ignore the pangs of
consciousness wriggling around in the back of my mind. We're not hurting
anyone, just making a new friend. I've wanted so badly to maintain
contact with you because of the high I get simply talking with you. I
told myself I wasn't interfering with anything that wasn't already in a state
of upheaval. However, none of that is the point. As far
as I can tell the point lies somewhere between Kant's 1st formulation of the
categorical imperative and
the definition of self-worth. The first formulation is - in any
situation where a moral choice is required, make that
choice which you would have become law. Make that choice you would bind
everyone to. I think every moment I've spent with you has been amazing
and I want more. Though all of my computer needs and questions are real,
I've been using them as an excuse to spend time with you. Now I've taken the
time to examine my part in this I've found myself facing the question - Would I
want my romantic partner
spending time, even "innocently" if she felt about him the way I feel
about you. The answer is an emphatic NO! Further, I would not want
my partner feeling about another person any of the things you claim to feel
about me, or about spending time with me. I'm scared!!!
"For
a [philosopher], there are no excuses. He can never claim that "he
didn't know it was loaded," or cite youth and inexperience as a reason to
ask for mercy, or claim ignorance of the law, or any of the other many excuses
by which a layman might show a touch less than moral perfection but still be
saved. " P.124 Heinlein Job
Further,
I deserve to be having this experience with someone who is both willing and
able to participate fully. There’s a large part of me that would take the
chance of shortchanging both of us and just saying “Fuck It”, and claim that
the lack of physical contact defines our new friendship, but that’s bullshit.
You say trust
is important to you, as it is to me. With the way our “friendship” is
developing there is no way we could ever trust each other should this ever lead
to something deeper.
I’m not
sleeping well. After I saw you today and we talked my heart rate stayed
up over 100 bpm for almost four hours. And your telling me you awoke at
Please
understand I’m thrilled and proud to be your colleague. However, I am
unable under the current circumstances to maintain any kind of relationship
with you outside that. I don’t believe I’m capable of being your “friend”
in any real sense of the word.
Wanting, desire
can be a wonderful sensation. Even if I claim it’s intellectual and not
erotic. But I don’t want the wanting, I want the having. I don’t
see how that’s possible given the current circumstances.
I’m happy to
present this to you under the heading of “dialogue”. I want your
feedback. No, that’s only part of the truth. What I really want is
for you to convince me our little games are harmless, or short of that LET ME
GO. I think we really do need to contain our interactions to college
based business.
Writing this
letter after all your computer assistance and while my home computer sits in
your office paying homage to your amazingly generous nature, leaves me slightly
nauseous. But I’m having trouble imagining any other alternative.
Your powers of
observation, your knowledge and acknowledgement of your emotional states, your
profoundly amazing mind, your depth of empathy and understanding of what seems
like eerily, similarly experienced situations, the apparently a priori sense of
comfort I feel around you, your enchanting way with words; all of these things,
real or only imagined, have touched me do deeply I wonder at odd moments how I
lived without them. I did and I will again. Why, because continuing
on in this vein makes all those things sordid. When I mentioned that for
me communication is sacred I did not mean it casually.
You say you
feel no compulsion to edit our conversations, but you will to maintain my comfort.
I only wish it were as simple as discomfort. If anyone understands that
discomfort is only another type of stimulation that must sometimes be borne,
it’s me. But this isn’t about comfort/discomfort. For lack of a
better way to express it, it’s about right and wrong. I’ve gone as far as
I can go, and I blew by the line of propriety a few thousand words back.
Please
respond. And thank you for being who you are, so much so that I feel
confident that you will consider my words fully, respond honestly, and forgive
me for wielding my truth as a club.
Hold on to her
M. It’s a rare thing for someone to love another, even rarer still for
someone to accept us in all our awful human glory. There are so many
things you could lose that you wouldn’t even give a thought to. You’ve
had them under your nose for too long. But trust me, what you miss are
the things you never gave a moments thought to. The thousands of dollars
you sacrifice at the end of a relationship is nearly invisible next to the
intangible things you lose: the right to explore the inside of someone’s
mouth, a warm body for your foot to seek out in the middle of the night,
someone to care when your late coming home, someone who knows all of your odd
idiosyncrasies and stopped teasing you about them long ago, someone next to you
while you eat your thanksgiving turkey, someone to soothe away the images of
your nightmares in the dark, someone to fight with over the irrelevant details,
someone that has to answer when you call. I’m frustrated to tears that no
matter what words I use I’ll never communicate to you what you could lose that
you don’t even know enough about to value appropriately.
Self-study is a
grand ideal. Knowing yourself outside of consideration may be noble, may
be valuable, but it’s gut-wrenchingly lonely, you
cannot even begin to conceive. You think the first few weeks will kill
you, but by the 11th month you start wondering if you’re already dead, and have
just become a ghost haunting your own life. There are things once you see
them they can’t be unseen. I’ve chosen this path, and I would choose no
other, but I wouldn’t wish it on another living soul.
Meeting you I
thought perhaps my exile was over, I was wrong it was just one more test in an
endless series of tests. Each one is difficult enough to make me beg the
universe for mercy. But God’s truest gift is, contrary to the popular
literature, that he is unmerciful. So please let me go, I need to study
for my test, and gather the energy to stop my tears and move on. And I’m
terribly afraid I’ll run after you begging for the mercy, the respite, that God
cannot, and would not if he could, offer. And if not that then at least a
little absolution for my human frailties.
Forgive me,
Tanya
From: S,
Tanya
To: M
Sent: 10/1/2003 10:45 AM
Subject: Watchtowers and biological clocks
M,
What made me
most uncomfortable about our interactions since the Scottish Games was the fact
that we had engaged in a love affair. Call it whatever we would, it did
not change the fact that we were falling for each other pretty hard.
I don't envy
you your path. But, one of the benefits of really getting to know
yourself is that you'll finally find out how you really feel about a whole host
of things you didn't know you had opinions about; eggs, sides of the bed,
timing of meals, how much time to reserve in a day for reading, what the
comfortable ambient temperature is when there's no one else in the room, all
sorts of things it's difficult to formulate an opinion on when you must always
take someone else into consideration. It would be delightful if it
weren't so terribly sad and lonely. It's amazing to untangle the mess of
judgments and opinions in your life to see what truly comes from you and what
has just been there as a result of considering others.
The whole
biological clock aspect of our time together was pretty intense. I always
thought the biological clock thing was a psychological construct, a wives
tale. I've discovered over the last few years that I was wrong.
I've noticed that if I stand close enough to a healthy attractive male in my
age range and I can actually smell him one of two things happen. If it's
early enough in my cycle I ovulate immediately. Very weird
sensation. If I've already ovulated that month then my period
starts. Obviously I'd already ovulated this month, because after simply
standing next to you my period started eight days early. I was about to
be morbidly embarrassed by the whole thing, and then I realized how ridiculous
that was. It's a natural function that I can't really do that much about,
and it was your fault anyway for being so close and smelling so good. So
whether I like the plan or not, my body is doing everything in it's power to make a baby. Reaffirming once again that
free-will is an illusion. We are all just slaves to the machinery.
T.
From: S, Tanya
To: M
Sent: 10/1/2003 11:03 AM
Subject: counterstrike
M,
I want to be
very clear on the fact that we are not playing a game. Your casual comment
about opening up the gate was not well considered. This is not a game. It
is a war; a war against ourselves, each other, our friends, lovers,
families. There will be casualties, so fight wisely. I'm not some
naïve young girl who takes your words, or the
expression in your eyes lightly. I am not a shrinking violet. It is
exceedingly rare in life to find a worthy opponent with whom we can engage in
what John Welwood calls "sacred combat." The fight to help each
other break the bonds of the soul cages our roles in life have formed around us
to see who we really are. And that is exactly where we find
ourselves. Be clear I will strike back whenever you strike me. And that
is what your gate comment was. Keep that in mind when you make your
casual, obviously not well thought out offers. I am not your mistress,
whore or plaything, and I ask that you not treat me as such, or make offers
that define me as such. I understand your distress, even feel most of it
myself, but I will not support you using it to hurt me.
Consider your next
move carefully because "moderation in war is imbecility." Or if
you prefer the gentler version, "we are not lost only between
findings."
Part of a war I
didn't start, combating an opponent I'm not sure I want to vanquish, hurting
people I never considered my enemy,
Tanya
From: S, Tanya
To: 'M
Sent: 10/1/2003 10:11 AM
Subject: It's Cold-First draft
It's Cold
I grew so
impatient and lonely I started haunting the streets looking for you. I
spent hours in the bookstore drinking lattes, pretending to read the heavy
tomes of philosophy I lugged around everywhere in an attempt to distract
myself. I always arrived so sure you were coming. So sure I had the right
date and time, though we'd never spoken of it. Then it would grow later, my
latte colder, and I would wonder what was keeping you. Was the dog
sick? Car trouble? Made a left instead of a right at some important
crossroads, and were now frantically trying to find your way back to me.
Then when it was obvious you weren't coming I'd tuck my broken heart back into
my chest, reminding myself you never promised you'd be there, you only promised
to try. Had you forgotten, fallen asleep, got
stranded on a farm in
And so I'd go
off to distract myself with a movie, wondering if you had just come in late and
couldn't find me in the darkened theater; would you be cruel enough to not
search the darkness for me? To sit there quietly breathing the same air,
but denying me the comfort of knowing you'd finally shown up.
A few days
would pass and I would go to meet you at the café. I brought Atlas so I
wouldn't look so foolish waiting for you alone. And still I waited in
vain. I meandered through the Greek Festival like a wraith, unsettling
the natives with my keening cry. I tried to keep quiet. How was I
to know I was an entire year too early? How was I to know the vendor's
were answering honestly when they told me no one fitting your description had
been around? Not that my description was much help: a man, twenty five
to forty five years of age, one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty
pounds, between five foot nine and six foot nine, not likely to be Irish or
Asian (thought I wasn't positive about that.)
"Any
distinguishing characteristics?"
"Of course, Oh Yes!
Definitely. He loves me."
Looking into
the clerk, cashier, or vendor's eyes I'd see compassion as they'd gently say,
"but Miss, that could be anyone."
Thought they were nice enough to leave the "or no one" unsaid.
But they didn't understand, not really.
I thought I
caught sight of you at the Mediterranean place. I was sure I spotted you
amidst the crowd at the cigar boat races. But when I got closer I
realized it was only a passing resemblance.
And now today I
search my memory frantically trying to recall where we said we'd meet. I
can't quite pin down exactly what we agreed on. Or
when. Only that we would.
I hope I wasn't
supposed to wait for you on the bridge on the
perhaps you had forgotten, or gotten irrevocably lost, or couldn't find your
passport.
I've turned the
ringers off on all the phones. It was becoming too comical, or sad.
I would race to answer it when it rang, praying it was you. Fully aware of
how foolish I was being. It couldn't be you. I'd carelessly
forgotten to give you my number or get yours, so sure we'd be seeing one
another again shortly. And well, it's not as if you can call information
and ask.
"Information,
your listing please?"
"I'm not sure what her name is, she didn't have one when I knew her.
I
don't know what city she lives in. But, please, won't you give me her
number. It's important. She's waiting for me to call."
My friends have
been very patient with me. Patronizing, but patient. Remember the
Halloween party. They kept telling me come on, he's not coming, and it's
time to go. But I begged. Please, just a little longer. I was
drunk, and sick inside. "Perhaps he's having trouble with his fake
beard, or his eye patch. Or wait, maybe he's on the patio, or in the rest
room, or parking the car."
One of them
would pull be aside, gently reminding me I'd checked the patio, and the
restroom. Ten times. And the bar was closing soon. For a
moment I almost buckled under my disappointment. The I reminded myself
you hadn't forgotten, you couldn't be intentionally
not showing up just to hurt me. You'd just lost track of time, and would
catch up with us over coffee.
Sometimes I
wonder if the best place to look for you isn't the last place I saw you.
Unfortunately I can't seem to find my way back there, or quite recall where
that was. Some mornings, as I walk along the river with Atlas, I wonder-
is this where I last saw you? Is this where we agreed to meet? Am I
early? Have I gotten the day wrong? Have you forgotten?
Please hurry,
it's cold here without you.
TS
From: Tanya S
To: M
Sent: 10/1/2003 8:30 AM
Subject: Are you the one I wrote this for?
The Seductress
Come with me my love, let us huddle in the sand in front of a bonfire drinking
red wine from mouth to mouth, and I'll show you things you never
imagined. I'll ignite your imagination until it burns so hot you fear it
will consume you. Then we can run down and play tag with the waves, and
lose. You can recite your poetry to me, and I'll hear it, I'll hear it so
loudly you'll be deafened. I'll crawl into you until your poetry flows
from my lips and you'll hear it like it's a novelty. I'll teach you how to
master your hungers, how to feed yourself so well, that you'll understand
gluttony for the sin it is. If you hold my hand we can together become at
home with satiation, knowing it isn't an end of wanting, but the acceptance of
having. Let us talk of God until the words dry up, and we must resort to
sharing visions. I will not give you children or do your laundry, but I
know a salve for soul burn. You know those days that leave your soul
feeling like it's been gone over with a wire whisk brush? I'll be the one
holding the brush, and I'll caress your hair as I spread the salve. The
only peace you'll know with me is the peace of relentlessness. Look into
my eyes, and know I will never relent. I will strive, and in my striving
demand that you expand. I will make all else unbearable, all else pale, because
in my eyes you
will see yourself as you must be, as you are. I will not share with you
earthly pleasures gone in a moment, but more, more. I will open myself to
you, and open you, until we are both sure we are
turned inside out. And once inside out our visions become reality, and the God
within us will be set free to roam our world, for us to gaze upon and
hold. When the sun comes up and the nude strangers run down to the sea
I'll settle down with you deep in the warmth of our excitement, and fall asleep
with visions of all that is at our fingertips waiting to be touched.
TS
From: S,
Tanya
To: M
Sent: 10/2/2003 1:11 AM
Subject: Cruelty
The
number of things your silence could mean woke me from sleep, and drove me once
more to the keyboard. Doesn't even qualify as tragic.
T
Words
for it
I wish I
could take language
And fold it like cool, moist rags.
I would lay words on your forehead.
I would wrap words on your wrists.
"There, there," my words would say -
Or something better.
I would ask them to murmur,
"Hush" and "Shh, shhh, it's all right."
I wish I could take language
And daub and soothe and cool
Where fever blisters and burns,
Where fever turns yourself against you.
I wish I could take language
And heal the words that were the wounds
You have no names for.
-Julia Cameron
From: M
Sent: Thursday, October 02, 2003 12:29 PM
To: 'S, Tanya'
Subject:
Moving
Forward
The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can't reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
in the ponds broken off from the sky
my
falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.
Rainer
Maria Rilke
--
There
are no words to say what I want to say.
Today,
I decided to work with J on our relationship and to work with a professional
(or an army of them) on myself. I cannot talk to you about this further for
reasons that are obvious to you.
That
I can offer you nothing, pains me deeply. I am responsible, in part, for the
pain you feel. But in order for the three of us to get better, I can do nothing
more about it.
Often
times in my relationships with other humans, I do not mean the things I say,
but I wish that I did. With you, I meant everything I said to you, but I wish I
didn’t.
I
am sorry.
This
is something I wrote, the same time you wrote what you last sent me.
---
A
fragment from my dialog with the Lunatic.
He
and I had walked through the Valley that day, through Morisoli’s vineyard, and
had made our way westward. Further west in fact, than I had ever been, either
before or since. As the sun set in our eyes, we came upon the greatest sight I
had ever seen.
A
woman.
She
stood gracefully, behind a ring of fire. Flames licked wildly in a living wall
around her, but I could still see golden hair that parted to reveal pale eyes
and an inviting mouth.
Startled,
I heard the Lunatic proclaim, “There is the most beautiful woman in the world!
She is Helen, and the glow from her cheek left
I
looked again to see that the woman stood inside a circle of brush and bush that
fueled an unforgettable fire. Despite the heat, she stood calmly, with quiet
expectation.
I
said, “She is so beautiful. But what man would dare to touch her?”
The
Lunatic stepped closer to the burning bush.
I
chided, “If she is Helen, you cannot take hold of her.”
The
Lunatic replied, “I know she cannot be kept.” He stepped closer.
I
warned, “You will burn. You will burn for nothing. Though she is beautiful, she
will not visit her charms upon you for more than a fleeting blink.”
The
Lunatic stepped closer.
“It
may be a blink. But it may be two blinks, or three.” He stepped closer again,
squinting at the heat.
I
pleaded, “What is a blink compared to a lifetime? Why do you step, eyes wide
open, to meet fire and suffering?”
“So
I can say, ‘I was burned by that bush,’ instead of, ‘I watched that bush burn.’
And so the bush will scar me, and I will point to the scar and say, ‘my body
has known fire and has been changed forever.’”
--
M.
From: S, Tanya
To:
M
Subject: RE:
Sent:
I can’t
even comprehend the context in which I’m supposed to think about this. Do
I view it from the perspective of the other woman, who should be glad she
didn’t break up a family. Should I view it from the perspective of the
little girl who is abandoned once more by a man who swears to “love”
her. Do I view it as a woman who was truly loved for three hours,
or a lifetime. (Maybe I should ask Shane?) Or most likely of all,
should I view it from the perspective of someone who is desperately trying to
stay awake, even when all those around her snore. The last context may
have been my trap and yours. M, happy in a relative kind of way in his
sleepy little life comes out of his dreams for just a moment, not anywhere near
fully conscious, but a little less asleep than usual. And that moment just
happens to coincide with running into me. And suddenly M doesn’t want to
go back to sleep. Suddenly there’s a pea under M’s mattress. And my
words, my gestures show you there is a world beyond our slumber. I never
anticipated playing Hume to your Kant (He awoke me from my dogmatic slumber),
and then being forced to watch you fall back asleep. The world is full of
sleeping people, one more shouldn’t cause me such distress.
Claudia
asked me if I wanted her to beat you up. I liked thinking you’d let her,
because you would know you deserved it. But, I know a secret. Your
own choices will bring you more pain and turmoil then any petty revenge I could
dream up. And because I do understand the pull of going back to sleep I
compassionately wish you didn’t have to suffer. And the only way to
alleviate the suffering ahead of you is to go back to sleep. Open your
heart to J’s lullabies, they’re your only
salvation. Listen whole-heartedly enough, and you’ll forget what could
be. Sleep. Dream sweet dreams. Forget siren songs that only
contain 42% of the alphabet:
You
don’t belong in Antioch. You belong in Grad School. Your writing
doesn’t belong archived in some- my documents- file. It belongs out in
the world touching people’s hearts, giving them the will to fight sleep a
little longer because someone else has caught a glimmer of the truth.
It’s
such a quandary. Wish you pleasant dreams, or shake you the rest of the
way out of your slumber? But, one thing I’ve learned about attempting to
wake up friends and lovers is that they lash out. No one likes to be
woken up. And though there is no malice in the gestures, the flailing
arms and legs of a half asleep person can do irreparable damage. If only
I could fall back asleep. If only you hadn’t woken up that Saturday
morning and charged the gates. If only I hadn’t let you. If only I
could believe that the pay off of slumber is worth the risk of never forming a
true identity. Perhaps then I wouldn’t envy you so much. Because
every reason I gave you to stay is only an illusion, the bribes we pay
ourselves to ignore the light streaming through the window for a few more
minutes of uninterrupted sleep. The truth is the hardest things to
sacrifice are the ones that actually have no substance. I don’t miss or
value any of the things I list as reasons to stay with J. If I had I
would have stayed. I’ve bet it all on love being more than four legs in
the dark. I’ve bet everything I had on the blind belief that somewhere
out there is someone who wants to see and be seen. Who believes that it’s
possible to be fully present with another human being for more than the first
three months. Someone who will explore with me the possibility that sex
is more than procreation, more than pleasure, more than making love; that just
possibly it is a way to give witness to the glory of the divine, the
possibility of an absolute.
I know
what it means to fear a risk. But somehow I’ve never been able to turn
away from one. Some inborn characteristic I suppose; but, also a deep
understanding of the nature of taking a risk. The first offer is always
the easiest. Each offer after that comes with a higher price and a lesser
pay off.
Case in
point. This is such an awful graphic example, but so expresses the exact
point I’m trying to get across. (Though it fits perfectly with an article
I read in college: “
When I
was at Rainbow Pools in
So now
the question I must answer. Do I creep tearfully away (the actual
subtitle of one of Beethoven’s symphony’s, the third I think), or do I make a
different choice. When I first read your words it took all my will power
not to vomit or run, or run vomiting. (And Fuck You Very Much for that
too. Your message came up while I’m working at my desk, in my office in a
meeting with Don Kaiper and Dave Zimny. I’ve accepted the secretary/parliamentarian
job, and we are in a rush to prep things before the next deadline. I was
shaking and hyperventilating, wondering how in the hell I was going to hold it
together. There they are over my shoulder, 2 feet away, and I’m going
into shock. Nice move Romeo.) But once I had a handle on my bodily
functions I realized I had choices.
The most
obvious option was to congratulate you for making a difficult but appropriate
choice. The self-less option. The road the Tanya I know has always
taken. Your family deserves its pseudo father, and it’s cruel to keep
anyone awake who has any chance whatsoever to fall back to sleep. But
then Claudia whispered in my ear, “you could fight for him. If he’s
really the one you want, you could fight for him.” A whore fight for a coward
and a prick. That’s ironic. Smarter for the whore to spend some
more time leaving her whoring ways behind. Smarter for the whore to let
sleeping dogs lie.
“I am a
lioness and I will never allow my body to be anyone’s resting place. And
if I did I wouldn’t yield to a dog. And
Oh, the lions I’ve turned away.”--'Aisha bint Ahmad al-Qurtubiyya
I
thought you were a lion, but I was wrong you’re only a dog. Which doesn’t
reflect well on me, leaving me to be the bitch and whore. An IQ of
a genius, and the heart of a whore. What an irony. I’m not sure
which of us has disappointed me more.
And now
the crossroads. I could fight for you. I could engage in sacred
combat. I could time my shoves just perfectly, keeping you from solid
slumber. But to what end? For what reason? After this hurt,
do I even want you anymore. That’s the risk. Can I forgive
you? And the risk upped while the payoff lessens. I would have
dedicated my will to yours, made myself part of your war, accepted the
dedication of your will to mine, had you taken the first risk. But now, I
fear I will grow bored with your trivial gestures, long before you risk being
the man I know is sleeping inside you. How cruel to wake you up, make you
sacrifice it all, only to grow bored and leave you; awake, uncomfortable, and
with no map back to your old sleeping chambers. And now for you the risk
is also greater and the payoff less.
Then I
wonder. What if you’re not really a villain, just a confused, scared man.
“Sometimes I’m a strong man, but sometimes cold and scared, and sometimes I
cry.”-Don Henley. Then I grow impatient. Tell me M, where is my
Tanya? Where is my 86% actualized lover who wants to do whatever he can,
offer whatever he can to support my waking up further? Where is the
amazing person who reminds me that the struggle pays, that there is a light at
the end of the tunnel? Where is the person who makes me choke on my
choices and dream of more than I believed possible? Where?
But my
biggest complaint is that you picked today of all days. It’s been an
especially difficult day for reasons completely separate from you. My
application for graduation was denied today. And tonight was my
meeting. This group I’ve worked so hard to become a part of meets on
Thursday nights. But the agreement is you want to work, you want to wake
up, and you’re willing to leave your drama behind, and do what it takes to be
more awake. How could I face that group in good conscience when all I
desperately want is to start hibernating now? I want to sleep until I
forget what you look like. I don’t want to look at all those serious
faces, across that serious table, and acknowledge that you are nothing more
than a tempting illusion with no substance. I don’t want to face once
again the reality that the only person you can count on is yourself; and then
only when you’re awake. I couldn’t face it, so I curled up in the bed and
tried to go back to sleep. Why, M? Why would you hurt me this
way? I didn’t mean to wake you up, stumble into you. Why would you
strike me down so hurtfully.
Because
of the fifth perspective? Maybe I am a demon tempting you from the path
of righteousness. And if so, maybe I should cheer your ability to
vanquish me. But most of all I can’t believe you’ve left me here in the
dark where I can not find you.
“Take
any form, drive me mad, just don’t leave me here in this abyss where I cannot
find you.”
-Wuthering Heights
Or maybe
a simpler truth,
“You
know that place between awake and asleep? That’s where I’ll wait for you,
that’s where I’ll always love you Peter Pan.” -Tinker Bell
Well I’m
battered and barked up, so perhaps I’ll let this rest for now. I’ll leave
you with lyrics from two songs. How can the man who quotes such amazing
poetry not have a passion for lyrics.
“I’m all
right, a little shaky from the landing, I’m all right, a little banged up from
the fall, Oh, I’m all right after all.”-Kim Richey
“The
third hardest thing I’ll ever do, is leaving here without you. The second
hardest thing I’ll ever do, is telling her about you. But, the hardest
thing I’ll ever have to do is holding her and loving you.” -George Jones
And so
the questions I must answer. Do I leave you to your slumber? Do I
fight for what may very well bore me beyond bearing within a few months?
Do I take a stand for once, and say no it’s not okay with me that you turn away
from me, and all I offer? Do I risk that maybe you really can see what I
see, feel what I feel, and are therefore worth any risk? Do dogs even
have answers? Atlas only has one, and I’m not sure how to apply it in
this situation. “There is only now, and now is time for a walk.”
Tanya
p.s. and once more the eerie sensation that I am trying to mate outside my
species.
