Friday, August 18, 2017

Landmine 1

(19 August 2017, 7:44 am.)

So, here I am. Watching this show that has been making me wonder why in God's ungracious name Rotten Tomatoes rates it 93%. Wondering at the fact that everything I dislike about the show seems to be the premise and the pivot of the show. At the fact that everything I like about the show keeps trying to be overshadowed, in the show, by the central character, whom I keep trying, in vain, to find tolerable. Finishing my second beer after working till 5:00 am. Being awake for almost 22 hours straight at this point.

When...bam! There it is. There it fucking is. A kiss. A goddamn single well done kiss that has now connected with some goddamn revolting, involuntary nerve of ideal desire, idle nostalgia, in some deep, dark, dead corner of what I shall charitably call my existence.

So at this point, I'm 2 episodes down from that scene, because apparently my fear of processing, writing, pausing is so strong that continuing to watch the goddamn show is the only way I could get through the last 40 minutes, although my mind, my time, had ground to a dead halt. It ground to a dead halt and kicked into reverse and I fumbled through people, images, moments to confirm to or remind or convince myself that I've had that feeling before. That feeling.

And I'm going to go back now. I'm going to go back to that episode and that scene so I can grasp at more articulation this time round.

Here we go.

Alright. So I'm done rewatching it and I've started with the third beer.

I think I get it. I really think I do. I think it's the silence and the eye contact, together, that is more jellyfying than any physical contact, then I think it's the spontaneity and the lack of any warning of the kiss, that two people can give into in such a split second, in such a split second, that you question the physics of time. Weren't they always kissing? There's no way they could have been mid-sentence just a second and a half ago. Such fire in every pore that you don't know where or how to move your arms or your fingers. It's like you have glowsticks for limbs. And what the hell do you do with glowsticks?

Weren't we always kissing?

I remember. (Remembering feels wrong because it means it stopped, or changed, or ended, or paused, and none of those are acceptable.) I remember abandon. And surrender. And annihilation. And creation. And absolute zero. Absolute fucking zero, when it all stops.

I remember the strength it took to want. And being consumed by the want. And being consumed by and the ecstasy and the torture of that consumption. I remember the consumption.

So I suppose that's what the kiss was. One of some unknown number of landmines (invisible, until you either singlemindedly work toward nothing but uncovering them, or step on one and are blown to merciful smithereens) snuggled away in me, hiding under...whatever the fuck.

I hate remembering. Just give it to me, or don't.

Then again, words have left me behind, so memories, feelings, people leaving shouldn't be a surprise..

(8:30 am.)

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