All my life, leading up to this. All my writings, foreshadowing this. Nature’s constant theme.
I do not know how much time I will have with him. I do not know if I will have any words to write.
My spirit rebels against turning this tragedy–this central tragedy of my life–this secret tragedy I did not know would sit at the core of my journey–into something as poor and dirty as Art.
Art. Artifice. Dumbshows.
Hamlet screams. Hamlet eschews speech, and groans, gutturally groans.
For the first month, my life flashed before my eyes. All was reorganized. I committed to a woman. A tree, an anchor, a Big Bird love. I let uncertainty settle into certainty; I decided that I no longer wanted to wait between possibilities, that any possibilities to be needed to be made actualities, while time remained–
I am in this with him. I am with him. I go to face my second great fear. I go to sit with him, through a pain that I know is strong enough to sear the structure from my self-state, to unglue my model, to blow down my house-of-cards.
Shall it remain? Shall it remain standing? Is there any profit in that anyway?
Yes. Some part of me wants to survive this.
To think that I will have to spend these many years living in this world without him–it is a pain, a great pain–but I have things to live for, he wants me to live for those things, for those people–
I have responsibilities. I have loves beyond my love for him–my strange, hesitant, love for him, that knew him, second.
Oh, the love they gave me–together–oh, our little lives. So precious. So quick. Ephemeral. Held in place only by the strength of my own vision and memory.
Perhaps the art can serve that end. Not to make what was impermanent permanent–we are not our gravestones. But to make a stone-standing-witness to a world that once was, a relationship that once was, the churning moments and passages of a life–lived for one’s self, and lived for others.
I wail, wordless, but I also write, two contradictions, in one mind.
I love you, Old Father. I wail, but I also sing.