"gradually I've come to realise that my house is haunted by the ghost of a dead astronaut"

Sunday, 27 December 2009

22. Damning Blessed Love


"I wonder what James is doing just now? And Philip - I kind of wonder what he's doing too. And what their eyes are looking at. And how the fingers of their souls are touching what they see. I wonder. I wonder"

Damn his coal-grey eyes. Damn the sweep and fall of his hair. Damn the blessed finger that he raised and that rubbed against his temple; damn the flow of absolute life and pulsing breath that swept that move along and that continues sweeping every move in my absence. Damn the air that curls and gleams around him. Damn how his presence washes the air. Damn his brow that throbs with thought, that emanates signals like light, like words, like strong, keen glances. Damn the configuration of limbs, the set of shoulders, the casual thresh of little moves that cut me open. Damn my cuts. Damn the silvery bleeding and the sweet feel of each hot trickle. Damn the susceptibility of this body to cuts so small. Damn every droplet of word and how they coat every cell my head and heart possess. Damn the little weight inside a man’s chest that gives balance to every move and mass to every impulse.

Damn my absence, that all his moves of delicate, focused, layered life and character go on and on without me seeing, feeling it all. Damn the fact that my soul can’t fly and whirl in his space, in the ochre and pink of his skin, in the stubble that lives its short, determined life on his face. Damn my presence here to feel and think all of this.

"Damn the way my soul sees. Damn and curse its vision too beautiful for men"

Dam my heart. Keep up. Don’t fall. Don’t let things get through. Don’t let stuff out. Oh, damn this heart that never ever stops! Most of all, damn its seeking, its perpetual damn seeking. And damn the way my soul sees. Damn and curse its vision too beautiful for men. Damn men. For all that they are and all they appear to be. Damn that our vision always appears better than their reality; damn the fact that we also know that we’re wrong, and that the reality is what blesses the vision with all that makes it gloriously barbed, all that gives it its delicious toxin, that would be nothing but a small kick within without.

But bless the fact that I’m still alive inside. Without it, moments drop dead around me on the ground. Bless this ambling forward, this sore-footed shuffling. Without it, I’m still and falling. Bless this ability to even feel damned! We’re not angels yet. The soar and surge and sizzle of life is ours. Time enough to rest within one emotion, and one state only, when we’re in the ground or in the urn. Bless the way I can feel a smile just behind my lips, rolling around inside of my mouth, probing to find a way out. There is little in life that promises the presence of another moment to follow than the rising energy of love. And its smile. Turning within a mouth, singing its song of desired escape. Bless love’s faculty to dispel void, to eat-up vacuum, to overwhelm absence.  Damn blessed love for ever and a day.

"We’re not angels yet. The soar and surge and sizzle of life is ours. Time enough to rest within one emotion, and one state only, when we’re in the ground or in the urn"

I wonder what James is doing just now? And Philip - I kind of wonder what he's doing too. And what their eyes are looking at. And how the fingers of their souls are touching what they see. I wonder. I wonder.

1 comment:

The romantic query letter and the happy-ever-after said...

Oh Stephanie that was beautiful. Now, it is said in honour of your clear talent not as encouragement for you to continue staying on at that God forsaken hut in the middle of nowhere.