December 22, 2010
Confessions of a Tischaholic -7- happy yaldaa
fall -- neurotic verses a la reverie
II. solstice vs. equinox
There’s always a letter—but only for the exceptional ones. The expected letter has arrived; as expected, it has been, and will be read, again and again, and then once more, again. She’s reading it to me, word by word, while I write, carelessly using different words with multiple meanings. She “rights” while I “write”: she “rights” his injustice, yet there is no justice in the world which can restore the brittle, bleeding heart left behind in the colorfully lifeless, crackling leaves covering the alley floor. The same alley she passes through at nights drained of moonlight; every pore of her body a wild eye searching for his presence; the ecstasy of a chance encounter overflowing from the cup of her soul; rendering her once again the mad lover that she was. The same alley in which, amid its towering spruces, she whispers a silent prayer for Fereidoon Moshiri in her head, as her mouth moves to form his eternal words:
بی تو مهتاب شبی باز از آن کوچه گذشتم
همه تن چشم شدم ﺧﻴره به دنبال تو گشتم
شوق دﻳدار تو لبرﻳز شد از جام وجودم
شدم آن عاشق دﻳوانه که بودم
I have, on occasion and under the guise of my red cloak, followed her there and watched as she has busied herself reinterpreting the words he has used to interpret the river of feelings he still holds for her; its heavy flow the very same reason he deems accountable for the fact that she must now dance alone. The fog always rushes to embrace her intoxicating beauty as she tries—again and again, for his sake—to right the injustices of love; of vindictive kohl-rimmed eyes and glove-covered velvet hands, caught up in the sweet, scorching tactility of the cinnamon covering their blurry clouds of breath.
Today, I bear witness to her turbulent movements once again. Yet I fear that she has read my hand, that she is withholding her pain from coursing through my eager vision and sympathetically concerned heart. The arching of her body forms a bubble deep in my being, rising to the surface as a sorrowful aching in my soul. It inconspicuously works itself out of the tear duct of my left eye and entraps the four corners of the hands of her mind, gesturing now this way, the next the other. She is sketching both their long-lost and newly emerging worlds by the docile touch of her fingertips, the mystical allure of her gleaming green-blue irises, and the astonishingly vivid imagination of an inspired lover.
She repeats her motions; I fall into a trance, and realize that I have indeed been overly sympathetic and plagued by my own ego: I know nothing of the singularity of her pain, always already dissolving before it reaches its pinnacle of pleasure.
As I glimpse my pretentious compassion's fall with a blink of her right eye, my selfish reasons for claiming ownership of her sorrow skid off their highchairs, my crown collapsing over my own eclipsed heart. Sympathy is highly overrated; humans, highly irrational.
Yesterday, her delicate, marble hands had sculpted the enchanted landmarks of the moonlit alleys of a couple’s “fall.” But in this instant, as the cries of “encore” ring loudly in her expecting ears—too loud for her to hear—she knows that "writing" can never "right." There is no right, no justice. We’re all wrong, and the illusion of justice dies at the fall equinox, assuring that every single step from that point on is a bold, obstinate venture into increasingly darker days and nights. With this cruel realization, other people’s lies become her reality as they presently set her tormented spirit on fire, burning her red fury and his love letter to icy blue ashes.
Tomorrow, I will celebrate the winter solstice as she arises from the dimly glowing residue a serene queen: the queen of winter, having defeated the forces of evil and overturned the battle between day and night in favor of a new equinox, her eternal shimmer defying the ephemerality of love and life. And in that same moment, as she outlines the horizons with her rosy complexion while she clutches her reclaimed heart, I will find myself clutching his hand in futile attempts to leave unclaimed the promise of our sudden, overtime death in a brutally passionate, utterly predictable "fall."
--performing fiction--Labels: narcissism, neuroses
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