The Aporia and other pieces

 

The Aporia

She is the sunlight whose smile is the star that gave life to the travertine and Montjuïc skin of Barcelona. Her eyes shine, radiant flowers, gleaming through the stone windows above the concrete streets, above the Gaudi tile paths marked by starfish and seaweed. Those Gaudi tile paths led back to our powder room apartment in St. Louis, where her eyes are the windows to pools of forests of memories as numerous as the silky brown hair fibers relaxed on my side while we sat on the sofa by the window before she suggested that we exit our treasure chest studio apartment.

She rose and nimbly strode toward the door, confident as a feline skipping across an eave. She waited, angelic, stern as a sculptor chipping at time with suggestions like;

-You ready? With a Katharine Hepburn wit quick as a black feline tap dancing across a wood floor towards a feast almost as fancy as she appears in black with the patience of a dam with the will of a diamond shining in the light of her exploits, of her marvelousness.

As I picked the lush thick forest of my head, plush with knots, hair thin bridges. Quick as the hare I replied 

-Yes! 

Kissed her lips cool as dew drops. She is the sweet air that flowers exhale and the light that causes them to bloom. Her love is a spring bursting with a nectar sweeter than all of the honeycombs. Sweeter than all the apples. I know there is arsenic is those apple seeds, but our love is unconditioned. I eat her poison enveloped in the meaty flesh of her kindness. Her infinite forgiveness. If there is something that is unforgivable, then what is the point of forgiveness? True forgiveness is a horizon. The forgiveness that is always yet to come.

True love is a horizon. A horizon that we journey towards as we scurried out the door only to fly down four flights of stairs to a street watched by neurotic priests on belfries lusting after Romani dancers, as we jaunted with hands like interlocked vines baring fruits, overflowing with our eternal curiosity. Curiosity for each of our myriads of mysteries. We were flanked by the palazzo of Haynes & Barnett and glared at by Maritz & Young’s Tudor Revival mansion on the promenade stalked by the dead ancestral eyes of industrialists. Their unvirtuous inhospitality still exists as fortresses imagined into existence by ancient architects for men who fed off the blood, bones and sweat of the aboriginals and the native home grown left with less, but that just made our gems more brilliant. 

My gem led me across a thin wood planked bridge over a dark green lake through bush, field and forest where the present is eternal, thus still her eyes can see my desires; through the storms, we seem different, yet—our voices blend. When our flesh blends and she generates life. We forge something new each time we speak of our pain, of our hopes. We build a home and tell stories born of despair. Born of miscarriages. Born of hopes and dreams that died inside us. For us time remains suspended; a fruit that hangs heavy. Our love is a cavern of glimmering minerals in our palatial gift economy.

Our journey is a castle fortified by respect, blood, bone and sweat. Without the manipulative lust of the priest or the anti-deontology of the industrialist. Both lack a love unconditional. But what is unconditional love? Is true love a love with no conditions, a love without limits? And must this love be unconditional for both parties? 

For two people to have unconditional love, then the two people must love each other unconditionally, that is the condition. To have unconditional love for another person without the reciprocation of that gift is an obsession. This is why her love is my love. My love for her is water bursting from a spring, a tree blooming, blossoming from the calm soothing waters of her love. Her love is my love… 

 

Hero

 

Waiting with the intergalactic weight of space-time crushing me into a singularity of pure irritation I notice a titanic mountain of a man standing before me, a pallid man, a corpselike apparition. He turned his gun turret head a full 180 and looked at me with a smile brimming with yellow teeth. I shook in fear and amazement at a rectangular row of bone so yellow that they were green. He ambulated forward a Sunday drive of a walker. The answer to the question of what if a Lemurs genital and ass pheromones developed the capacity to order fast food. He requested a cup for water then he gorilla stomped over to the self-serve beverage station, one hand holding the cup as the pale osseous knuckles on the other hand clanked against the floor as he dragged his mass to the soda fountain. Then, disturbingly, in pure shock, I witnessed a bubbly brown, fizzy fawn liquid stream into his cup. I gazed astoundingly upon this indignant monster with the rage of a thousand girlfriends who told me to

-         Close the door when you are using the toilet.

As he began pouring soda in his cup.

Yes! He was a malicious, disrespectful hulk of man.

In that restaurant, in that working-class mead hall, I wanted to say something, but I didn't have much time; I had to finish making my order and get to work. But then, like the Calvary peaking just over the horizon, a kitchen hero leaped over the counter, Prometheus unbound! And said to the man:

-         Dude, you’re gonna have buy that!

The goliath’s pride was immediately flushed down the toilet of dreams as he looked down and gave the cup to the employee. That Prince David of a worker poured the soda down the drain with the same procedural tact that must have run through the veins of King David.

I told the hero;

- Good job!

Then this model of macho masculinity replied as though that beast was a fly, a minor inconvenience.

That Joseph Campbell heroic deity masterfully careful not to expend anymore effort than was necessary, replied to me, stating;

-That's my job.

Truly, my friends, there are gods among we mere mortals!

 

Unknown

 After grading boring papers and doing the typical Sisyphean administrative stuff, I went to a cafe, which was as old as the brick cathedrals of the 19th century. My plan was to sip decaffeinated coffee and slowly become more immersed in the rushing plot of a novel as though I was being drained down a tube of rushing water. I piloted the current, but barely. I put my steering wheel on a wooden seat with uneven legs. The cold touched my neck and arms like frigid copper wires searching for a secret hidden under my skin. I felt the presence of a window next to me. I was haunted by its absence. However, the book sent me to the land of somnambulism where my concentration was interrupted by an outsider who was a mosquito man, a sort of Brundle fly who took seat next to me.

At the corner where I was seated I faced the door, but my back faced icy bricks. I was surrounded by an army of one. I stared out at the gray marsh that was the sky outside a window near the front door as this fly asked me many questions that unearthed and dredged up memories from my murky pits as if he were constructing a port to drop his mysterious cargo. I invoked, I conjured up, an excuse to leave, to get away from him. When I got up, I collapsed into glass shards shattering on that polychromatic tiled floor as the ancient words of that priest tumbled through my inner ears.

-  It's the fly in the bottle. He's running towards all directions inside the bottle, trying to escape. He thought he'd finally end up outside. He hoped to gaze into their minds, but your friends simply waited outside, laughing. Do you want to know what they're thinking? Well your desire, your lack gives form to function, to essence. You're the fly in the bottle!

- I have been here before! I though. But I was sitting in the other seat, but I was not there. I am not here, I think where I am not. I am where someone else is thinking, because the unconscious has been written. In the netherworld of dreamscapes I saw figures, buildings atop waterfalls, white wolves, creatures of myth. Darkness. They were all determined—written. Written by the god of the pen. Then came speech; in the red, metonymic river of the imagination. Thoth saw the instantiation of strokes by the calligrapher. I translated those stokes, those traces: those epitheliomas. I translated wolves into other languages. Those wolves are unbound yet conditioned by iterability, they are not limited; they hold no meaning because they signify that something awaits me, they point towards a horizon. Shadowy places over which the veil despairs. Truth falls upon the sacred man with the appearance of a mosquito morphing into a fly, who now appeared to be melting into a viscous oil, intended to take a piece of me with him, lifting my bodily shards with the childlike simplicity of a toddler stealing candy from a plastic box in the supermarket, but he was cut.

I cut him.

He then started to bleed, a blood sprinkler spurting sanguine fluids, as the fragments of the glass that was me slid home past the clusters of emerald trees that line the streets with speakers blasting music, a bombastic sonacy soaring through the clusters of leaves falling, hazel meteor showers. At home the floor was dark and deeper than Neptune's Great Dark Spot. Home was a place for me to sink and scatter into another text, another folio, another codex. As I sunk into that great dark spot where I appeared predominant, like a werewolf. A werewolf wandering in the forests of pages, infecting sentences with a lunar virus created by the celestials who keep me crouching, on the lookout, in the corners of pages where numbers lengthen and words shrink. A werewolf roaming the forests of pulp fiction. A werewolf wandering in the forests of obscure texts of Hodgson and Langan fighting the Leviathan under a dying sun. 

Where is the blue sky when darkness calls?

It remains hidden in the intellect until the advent of the annihilation of civilization. I am the werewolf traveling to and fro, hither and thither in the wake of the harlequin’s titters. After the death of the moon, its bones will serve as tools for the religions of the future. People will dance wearing wolf masks, and the sacrificial crisis will continue. People will dance wearing the Dionysian mask based on 'pataphysical power! Because everything is analytic. Fire will consume the building. A dictator plus a bullet—a paralytic departure. Punishment is synthetic. The principle remains analytic. Punishment for the great scam. We wear the Dionysian mask—based on power!

He distracts your eyes while he cuts out your tongue.

But in cutting out your tongue he has cut himself.

It’s over!

Their actions are the catalyst for the fire.

Their actions drove up prices.

Can they pay the price?

It's over! I awoke a lump of shaken stuff as the cold touched my neck and arms like frigid copper wires searching for a secret hidden under my skin. After my chapter length literary prison sentence was completed I parted the 19th century brick café and strolled home.