Yes, minor. The Theory of General Relativity states that, generally, everything in the universe is relative. This being the case, the events in our lives which may to the casual and detached observer seem banal often appear to those in direct proximity to the event to be brighter, bigger, shinier, shittier.
Enter the past three months of one K.J. Tavat, reified mystery "man" residing in a secret locality known only to some radical Will hidden deep inside said individual, of whose Will the individual has both every and no conception whatsoever. Hence the apparent universal quality of banality.
For instance: December was the arctic bear that ravaged my realities and comfort zones. (A pathetic lamentation yet to be sung.) Last post, nearly one month past, was to be the heralding of a new day for this blogger. It was in fact intended as a birth ritual--never before had he attempted to present his inner emotions to an anonymous audience in the grand electronic matrix. This was to be the day, the hour. Of course it had to start off with ambuguity, with vagueness; a thinly-veiled Socratic conversation between imagined selves, "Timmy Timor" and "A Reason in the Sun". It was a bar set purposefuly low in order that it might give panash to later material and at the same time clarify the title of the blog. But life--and the blogospher--is surely something that will not bend to simple clarifications; nay, it RESISTS disambiguation, to the point that one is able to locate neither place, nor pattern, nor reason in the bewildering fold of nonsensensical voices, voids. Yet somehow an attempt is made to set this bar. Thus are the objects of the initial blog post fulfilled. On to issue #2.
December was the arctic bear that ravaged my realities and comfort zones. It was the first Tuesday in December. The parking lot where I work was covered in an inch of melting snow and the trees and the grass absorbed the grey lowness of the clouds overhead. The only thing greyer was the smoke that floated out of my cigarette, and its exhaled haze. This is the precise moment the idea entered into my head to write a blog. Don't write enough yet. Need a starting line for an oevre. It should be poinent and captivating, explosive. It will have a guiding theme. But what? The only thing vivid in this moment and in the hundreds of moments in the hours and days preceding this moment was the reality that I had broken up with my girlfriend of four years that Sunday night. The ramifications of this reality did not occur to me until after the deed was done. And a sordid deed it was. And, I thought, a tragic end to our troublesome and protracted drama together. We played a pair of needy souls thirsting after each other. We had danced in the daylight mists of love and then eviscerated each other's souls. We had played and cried and fought and fucked until the fruits of our labors withered, burned by the harsh fires of a sad dependence. We could not leave one another and we swore we would not--until I left her. I left her in a lake of sorrow she had filled with her tears. Her tears were over me alone, she said, and her supply was endless. Endless as well were the waves of rebuke with which I flagalated myself--uncertainty about my ability to judge reality, about my ethical compass, about my worth to the world and to myself, about my compassion and grief and selfishness and lust and greed, about playing the odds and riding numbers on crucial decisions in life, about my potential, about OUR potential to last and live and flourish. There are far more than seven sins. I had to tally my guilt.
Ours was a bizarre basket of love; the disparate straws ruined the design and one might throw the vessel away in disgust over its ugliness. Drunken belligerent phone calls and desperate accusations had been woven in thick strands among patterns of breathtaking affection. Kisses, random gifts, displays of utter devotion were the foundations shattered by cracks of jealousy, rage, and resentment, big and small. Our life together, like this basket, was an unbearable masterpiece.
My mind had been transformed by intense amorous molecules, my behaviour by repetition and reaction. There was no escape and no inate desire to do so, exactly. I along with she punched and kicked and choked and screamed and bruised the fragile membrane of our love. Together we would mend the cracks and heal the scars until the wounds in our life could not be seen at all from the surface. But our sickness was more chronic, our symptoms more systemic, and the organs of our life that used to supply sustenance to our love were useless, had been rotten from the inside out. Our relationship was moribund. But we were still alive. So it was ended.
Banality to be continued, you can be sure...
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