Disremembering

It is one of those nights again. I am painfully aware of everything, my thoughts, my twitching muscle below the left calf, the slight jogging ache in the right thigh, the pressing pressure on the temple, a tiny bead of sweat forming at the back of the neck, a nervous pinch in my molar, the crackling of the malt which only serves to heighten the awareness, my unquenchable thirsts, the humming peace, the drumming edginess of a fear, appreciation of loves and loved and the slight smile and bite of apology they bring. There is only existence, as it goes, and my unconscious bubbles to the tensed surface that is I, as morality loosens its grip on me, sending me to the caverns of my soul. Again, I look for an artistic muse to light my way and the find is indeed surprising.

Jasper Johns, Target with Plaster Casts, 1955

Not one, but four visitations in a week. A butterfly drawn to a passionate flame, only to discover that a fire cannot be owned, that it exists in its dying; the wings are condemned in perpetual flight. A kitten stretches out a paw of want for the trudging ideal, only to sense that an ideal walks on insecure grounds of daring, that it realizes itself in a different life; the feline releases and desires life. A nightingale wakes from regrets and flies for her own destiny, though fate decrees the wonderment of the haunting past; the song cracks for a pathway lost. A saint dies with imagined convictions of faith, though memory trounces the absurdity of human hope; the prayer dissipates in the whispering echoes of love. Visitations of dismembered parts.

I live my life as though a narrowing target of passionate ideals, without regrets or prayers, but with the conviction of faith and love. It is an uneven life, an uneven passion, and sometimes I regret, I pray, convicted of faithlessness and the lack of love. But the target remains, drawing me into the center of my destiny as I scrap with the unevenness of space and time, always at the verge of madness. Yesterday I cried a tear for the saint, for I do not know him well but he saw through my soul and loved it. I walked by him, I despised. Wednesday I cared for the nightingale, for I cruelly cast her away but the song continued in painful humming. I refused, again. The other day I touched the kitten after an eternal wait, for I turned my back when she chose what I desired her to choose. I withdrew, again. Thursday I spoke of the butterfly, for I bent to burn her wing for a tailspin. I watched.

Remembering, disremembering, dismembering. Casts of parts watching over my life, of visitations that hail me to my redemption. Petty gods of my chin, my heart, my hands, my penis watching over me, witnessing as I fall towards the center of my elected destiny. There was a voice, once, a strong affinty that assured me of wisdom. I begged for wisdom as tongues fell around me. I have wisdom to see my foibles sitting in grottoes, of votive objects that color my memory and silently cast their judgments on me. I shut and open them at will to score the travails of passion, their shutters creaking with the pulsation of pain and pleasure. “My lord and my god”, the doubt speaks of the wound that drives the spear deep into the spirited cry of the will. Souvenirs of transfiguration, dismembered and disremembered to fit and hide the windows of my soul, sitting vividly, twice nobly and saintly to remind me of my passions. This life, this target, making whole the disremembered parts.