Mechanics of Denial: Emotion and Logic

A while back I wrote under the very same title, here. The subject still fascinates me, it is time to return, and surrender. The year is winding down to an end; I have been recharging the batteries and rewinding the clocks. Looking back, looking forward, talking to family and friends, making plans; the usual. I have laughed, I have felt joy, and I have felt sadness. I do not give a hoot about happiness, never did. I am tired of old broken records of drama; we need new productions for the old scripts, we need new scripts. My life exists between the pages of books. Period.

What events of the past year have marked my life? Let’s pass review on this past year.

I am self-centered, egoistical even. The person whom I think most about is Albert Camus; he is dead. All my heroes, all my love, all dead. Biology interests me for the phenomenology. I have a deeper appreciation for brick-laying than for psychology. Heredity is an unprocessed legacy used to anesthetize the gullible. I do not believe in much at all. I construct belief as a matter of convenience. To me fiction is the edited version of reality; and thus defines reality. I know no other definition of reality.

This year has however given me great gifts. More than one, just a few days ago it was forgetting and remembering. I walked once more past the house where another writer lives, and then walked up the hill and rang at the door of a friend. This friend now lives about two doors down from where I once lived many years ago. He, the friend, is new on my horizon although I have known of him for a few years as we occasionally hang out together. The thing is that I put people on my radar, and then forget them there. For the most part I am not interested in the other, I am interested in what I can learn from the other.

On the walk I remembered a fantastic affair that I had with a diplomat who had been a neighbour while living at that house two doors down from where I was intent on ringing unannounced. The affair was a gift from the heavens. I should never forget being both scared-shitless and elated while in London when all of it was happening; I had forgotten. That man gave me back a piece of my own self: the poetry that I had carelessly misplaced on another journey.

A man must have a room with a view, and this one has a room with a view. Clearly this one is a man, a man’s man. One meets few of those these days. I knew that. I know; sometimes I know. I knew about the room with a view. I sat on his couch, drank tea, and looked out the window into the garden of poetry from years past. I had forgotten the beauty of it all. I had forgotten the immense beauty of a grey day and a few snow flakes whispering innocence and caressing surrender. He was in pajamas and I in underwear, we discussed god, being a monk and mildew, he listened. I am not sure that I listened. I did as I do at home, I reached for a saucer when I needed one, opened kitchen cabinets. I sat on the bed, and did not finish my tea. I lose interest in a cup of tea three-quarters of the way down; he noticed.

What got me walking towards his room with a view was the clear knowledge that I did not want anything at all from him. Nothing at all, yet when I left I hugged him and walked down the stairs remembering poetry, remembering me. I do not want it, I do not want the attention. I surrender to it without action.

Yesterday I listened to another friend laugh, and I laughed, we laughed together. We had not talked for years, and we saw each other last when I had been living at that place of the diplomatic affair, not far from a man’s room with a view. They had visited, and I had forgotten that they had visited us there, at that place. Now the memories are refreshed. I remember her laughter, it is fresh in my memory from yesterday. With the refreshing of the memories, the old wall is present, it is not crystal. The wall is there, I have denied it its presence, but it is there; it is not made of crystal, it is transparent. This is poetry, so was the past year. The wound has healed. Will I now be able to listen?

Update: The events on my recent horizon that have marked my life is the past twelve months are many. It could just be that I did not answer the question that I initially set out to answer; sometimes, just some of the time, I do chose to change my declared path.

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