. elsewhere . . letters from the inaccessible .


ARCHIVE


8 February 2001


anachronistic

As Lincoln and Geoff say in Intimations, you need to know when to throw your personal ethic out the window. So here goes; nothing ventured, nothing gained. Oh, well. So I was told that I write about my thoughts here, but not my feelings.

So allow me to explain part of what I was feeling today... I felt put-upon during the big audio-mixup crisis, like I was taking the fall. Dread. Panic. I even let fly some honest-to-goodness nasty language, the puritan that I am. Irate. I think she would've been proud of me, I kicked a little ass today. Anger. After 4 hours of panic and dread, she tells me, though not to worry me, that the wind has shifted: closeness has given way to distance. And I wasn't worried. Just sad, because I still feel close. But time, being cyclical that it is... Hopeful.

Well, you know as well as I do that I hold back. I dissect my feelings when I think about them. Rather than just thinking "I need to talk to her," I think about why. I want to remain close, steadily. I'm accustomed to wallowing in my emotions, but only behind closed doors, as it were. Last night, she shared things she wouldn't tell (most) anyone else, and I knew (no, I felt) how she was feeling. I didn't know how to say it, so I shared a similar experience. I felt stupid after I said it. Not because I felt weak or open, but because I felt like she might think I was trying to compete. I wasn't. However, I also knew, and know, that she didn't think I was trying to compete. Nevertheless, I feel incompetent.

Nameless things, as Clinton says, are nocturnal. That strange, Jungian, collective-subconscious thing has edged me toward a love, a burning fascination, with the night and its sky. When I was in eleventh grade, I went out to Palm Springs with my friend Ryan (who probably thinks now that I'm a flake, but 90-hour workweeks have ruined my sense of, well, just about everything...), and in the evening we sat outside, and I talked to him about how much I loved the stars, the vastness, the delicacy. But that's not what I said: I pointed out constellations, answered questions, talked about redshift and general relativity (its tensors and differential equations, which I barely could comprehend), about interstellar dust clouds, clusters, rotation, and the fact that a light year is around 5 trillion miles. However, it was probably in my voice, or my obvious enthusiasm, or my hurried, staccato sentences like I were an overexcited child recounting a fantastic experience, but he knew I was talking about something I love. It wasn't the shape of space or the globular clusters in the galactic halo that I loved, I just loved to look, I loved to feel the night, warm desert breeze embracing my shoulders, and just watch the beautiful, the most beautiful. In the night above I saw God.

I hide my love in the details. Unless I'm not afraid to show it (rare, rare, indeed). I seal my love in small packets, in the words I speak, in the details I notice, in the nods and the grins. I hide my feelings in the words, because I don't know how else to share them. These words are my feelings, the feelings I have which make my mind reel, my body shiver and my chest ache. But I guess that's just an old-fashioned way of feeling, out of place in this day of expression. What I cannot express outright, I must distill. I can only try to give others the impression of what I feel. Or maybe she's right, and I really am just cold.

musings of señor prod.

Not much rest for the weary at The Revolution. And not much solace for the fearful. What price glory?

 

©2001 Timothy A. Clark -|-