How is it possible to miss someone so much as I miss Eliza? If I do not get this constant yearning under control I will mess things up in some way, call her too much or text her too much or just plain miss her too much and make my life a constant state of torment. I must be an adult about this. I must pull myself together, concentrate on the task at hand, and trust in the fates to weave their skeins as they see fit. But I yearn so for her presence, for the soft simple words from her which I so long to hear, the words that will seal our futures into one. I cannot explain why I love her so fiercely, why I bound myself to her the night that I swore on my virtue to the Universe that I would never abandon her side. It was the right thing to do then, and it still makes sense to me now. I pledged my eternal allegiance to her that night, before the Great Unknown, and I must come to terms with the fact that said pledge was given without demand of recompense, that said pledge was given purely, from the deepest regions of my soul, amidst the purest blossoming of love and the under the banner of ardent sincerity.
By giving that pledge, I abandoned any sort of control. By presenting that pledge to her, I placed my life, my soul, in her hands. I entrusted to her my virtue, and now, in this trying time, in this moment of weakness, so far removed from her presence, my trust in her must be absolute. The future is just that, a dim possibility, the faintest, tiniest chance that all the effort and resolve, all the tears and torment will lead to happiness. My feelings for her are unequaled in my life. I have never met anyone as perfect as she is to me, her simmering humanity, her sharp wit, her twinkling smile, her cunning, her kindness, her fragile strength. If I should find myself without her, if my efforts have been in vain, I will live out my life in tragic discontentment, knowing always that the Perfect Woman chose another man over me.
I will not lay blame. I will not point fingers. My virtue will be intact until the day I draw my last breath. I will never abandon your side, Eliza. Under neither duress nor coercion will I lay aside my proclaimed duty toward you. My heart is in your hands. It has been broken before. It has been crushed many times. A spark burns within it, however, the spark of loyalty, of kinship, of trust. I put that spark there the night I made my pledge, and only the Eternal Tao can stamp it out.
Sleep well, my darling. JP
americanifesto.com | updated Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday
27 August 2009
26 August 2009
milkweed
My mood today has been strangely stable. I have not had to rebuild after a devastating attack of self-torment. I can suddenly feel my future stabilizing. The lines of fate spreading from the present appear less torturous and knotted than those stretching into the past. I have not suffered a wave of sorrow regarding Eliza. Perhaps this is because I understand her reasons for calling things off. Perhaps I finally trust that she and I will one day be together, regardless of how much I want it to happen immediately. Perhaps I have finally stopped trying to control the future, and have come to terms with the fact that things will happen as they are supposed to happen.
Just a few weeks after my father passed away, I now inhabit his country estate, a verdant valley packed full of deer, frogs, hawks, and all manner of insects. A thousand different shades of green assault the eye each morning. Buzzing, clicking, and chirping insects fill the air with constant sound. The good dark earth parts easily under my spade. The stream, clear, swift, and full of tiny living things, gurgles twenty feet from the front porch. The light blue paint curls and chips off the pine shingles, and a small bush is growing out of the rain gutter over the rear patio.
I am separating the wheat from the chaff, the things of emotional or material value from the detritus accumulated over time. My father was a child of war rationing. His house is full of things that would be useful if the world went to shit tomorrow. The barn is full of tools and books for planting and maintaining crops. The .22 rifle, with scope, is lovingly oiled, a box of bullets nearby. His ashes sit in his bedroom, fifteen feet from where I now sit. I have placed his flag and Navy officer’s cap atop the small but heavy wooden box, something I think he would like. I miss him dearly, more than I ever thought I would. I still expect him to come through the front door, or come stumbling out of the bathroom in his robe, but those memories will fade with time.
When I moved here at the end of last year, a single milkweed had sprouted from under the concrete in front of the basement door. My father explained what the plant did, and made it clear that it was not to be disturbed. Today, after rebuilding my modest wattle-and-backfill dam across the stream, I stopped to examine the plant. What started as a small plant not four feet tall has grown into two stalks eight feet high, each sporting numerous healthy pods. A bit of movement caught my eye. On closer inspection, I discovered five Monarch butterfly caterpillars lazily drinking sap, their tails wiggling every so often. I take this as a final nod from my father. This is his last gift to me, the glorious transformation of these small wriggling things into stately masters of the air, right on my doorstep. I will monitor their progress. I will protect the plant, and when they depart, I will rejoice as their red and black wings bearing my father’s soul to rest in heaven.
Requiescat in pace, GHWR. X
Just a few weeks after my father passed away, I now inhabit his country estate, a verdant valley packed full of deer, frogs, hawks, and all manner of insects. A thousand different shades of green assault the eye each morning. Buzzing, clicking, and chirping insects fill the air with constant sound. The good dark earth parts easily under my spade. The stream, clear, swift, and full of tiny living things, gurgles twenty feet from the front porch. The light blue paint curls and chips off the pine shingles, and a small bush is growing out of the rain gutter over the rear patio.
I am separating the wheat from the chaff, the things of emotional or material value from the detritus accumulated over time. My father was a child of war rationing. His house is full of things that would be useful if the world went to shit tomorrow. The barn is full of tools and books for planting and maintaining crops. The .22 rifle, with scope, is lovingly oiled, a box of bullets nearby. His ashes sit in his bedroom, fifteen feet from where I now sit. I have placed his flag and Navy officer’s cap atop the small but heavy wooden box, something I think he would like. I miss him dearly, more than I ever thought I would. I still expect him to come through the front door, or come stumbling out of the bathroom in his robe, but those memories will fade with time.
When I moved here at the end of last year, a single milkweed had sprouted from under the concrete in front of the basement door. My father explained what the plant did, and made it clear that it was not to be disturbed. Today, after rebuilding my modest wattle-and-backfill dam across the stream, I stopped to examine the plant. What started as a small plant not four feet tall has grown into two stalks eight feet high, each sporting numerous healthy pods. A bit of movement caught my eye. On closer inspection, I discovered five Monarch butterfly caterpillars lazily drinking sap, their tails wiggling every so often. I take this as a final nod from my father. This is his last gift to me, the glorious transformation of these small wriggling things into stately masters of the air, right on my doorstep. I will monitor their progress. I will protect the plant, and when they depart, I will rejoice as their red and black wings bearing my father’s soul to rest in heaven.
Requiescat in pace, GHWR. X
10 August 2009
shifting fortunes
How does one deal with shifting fortunes, with the highs and lows of daily life? My first instinct is to blame myself, falling into patterns of thought and behavior that lead straight to heartbreak and woe, self-torment of the most vicious and destructive sort. How do you let someone go who you consider to be the ultimate person, that woman with whom you want to spend the rest of your life? How do you act when she tells you that she is not ready for you now, that she enjoys her life without you in it more than she would enjoy it with you in it? Is it courage that keeps me from calling her, that prevents me from reaching out, or is it the knowledge that any action on my part will lead to naught, to further damage to our potential common future?
I am exhausted from her constant refusals, from the weeks of hanging on a thread, hoping beyond hope that she will come around and say to me that she is ready for Us to begin. It was selfish of her to keep me guessing, but I am also to blame, as I refused to read the writing on the wall and accept her unwillingness to commit. She has always had every right to do what she pleases, and I was a fool to hope I could convince her of my worth, my ability to provide her with a bright and shining future, just by being around her, by sharing time with her. Losing my job did not help things, for my ability to invite her to dinner or pay for activities virtually disappeared. I have never been good with money, and I did not reach the point where I was saving enough each paycheck to allow me not to have money for any extended point in time.
For these two events to occur so closely together is a blow from which I am still reeling, a shock to my self-esteem, my self-image, my faith in myself as a functioning member of society. I need her in my life. Her presence gives me great joy. I love every ounce of her being. It has been extremely hard for me to visualize my life without her. Will I settle for a lesser woman? Will Eliza find another man, one who can fulfill her needs without placing any demand on her for the fulfillment of his own needs? Or is it something about me that kept her from committing? Is it my lack of a career, of a clear and chosen path which I will follow? Why has my writing been suffering so? Is it because I was so focused on winning her that everything else in my life took second fiddle? Perhaps. Constant refusal leads to constant reevaluation of self. I cannot imaging working on the book in any serious capacity, although I know it can be successful, that my desire to transform America as we know it still burns deep within my soul. The confidence to work on the book will come with time. As the pain of losing her creeps out of my heart of hearts, I will be able to pour more effort into a more practical future, the realization of my dream of life as a writer. For now, however, I will ease my way back into it. This writing is a start. I wish her the best. Her happiness is more important to me than many things in life, and if this path leads to the fulfillment of that happiness, my loss and my suffering is worth it. May the winds of fortune shine upon you, Eliza, and may you remember me fondly. Perhaps we will make a fresh go at it, a new start at what we both know could be a bright and happy future. I cannot hope for you to return to me, only that I can find the reasons to love myself enough to be ready if you ever decide that you are ready.
Tao chapter 48:
To win the world, one must renounce all.
If one still has private ends to serve,
One will never be able to win the world.
I am exhausted from her constant refusals, from the weeks of hanging on a thread, hoping beyond hope that she will come around and say to me that she is ready for Us to begin. It was selfish of her to keep me guessing, but I am also to blame, as I refused to read the writing on the wall and accept her unwillingness to commit. She has always had every right to do what she pleases, and I was a fool to hope I could convince her of my worth, my ability to provide her with a bright and shining future, just by being around her, by sharing time with her. Losing my job did not help things, for my ability to invite her to dinner or pay for activities virtually disappeared. I have never been good with money, and I did not reach the point where I was saving enough each paycheck to allow me not to have money for any extended point in time.
For these two events to occur so closely together is a blow from which I am still reeling, a shock to my self-esteem, my self-image, my faith in myself as a functioning member of society. I need her in my life. Her presence gives me great joy. I love every ounce of her being. It has been extremely hard for me to visualize my life without her. Will I settle for a lesser woman? Will Eliza find another man, one who can fulfill her needs without placing any demand on her for the fulfillment of his own needs? Or is it something about me that kept her from committing? Is it my lack of a career, of a clear and chosen path which I will follow? Why has my writing been suffering so? Is it because I was so focused on winning her that everything else in my life took second fiddle? Perhaps. Constant refusal leads to constant reevaluation of self. I cannot imaging working on the book in any serious capacity, although I know it can be successful, that my desire to transform America as we know it still burns deep within my soul. The confidence to work on the book will come with time. As the pain of losing her creeps out of my heart of hearts, I will be able to pour more effort into a more practical future, the realization of my dream of life as a writer. For now, however, I will ease my way back into it. This writing is a start. I wish her the best. Her happiness is more important to me than many things in life, and if this path leads to the fulfillment of that happiness, my loss and my suffering is worth it. May the winds of fortune shine upon you, Eliza, and may you remember me fondly. Perhaps we will make a fresh go at it, a new start at what we both know could be a bright and happy future. I cannot hope for you to return to me, only that I can find the reasons to love myself enough to be ready if you ever decide that you are ready.
Tao chapter 48:
To win the world, one must renounce all.
If one still has private ends to serve,
One will never be able to win the world.
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