when i call you my love

So far I have only written one topic, which is hardly a topic, and more of a compulsion. The language of topos suggests consolidation around a theme, but this project is negation. I have been writing unwriting.

But lately, unexpectedly, miraculously given the mood, there’s one that I don’t want to unwrite. Despite all the anxieties concerning surplus of any type, now comes an abrupt urge for increase. It’s not quite addition, it’s not a formula, but for once it comes as desire. It’s thrilling and affirming and I’d be a moron not to pursue. I still think occasionally about not pursuing, of course, because of the compulsion, but for once I can’t justify inaction. It’s not even about justification. For once it isn’t volition, it isn’t a decision, it has nothing to do with the apparatus. I mean all of this is inextricably the apparatus, intractably as Derridad would say (your joke, and you don’t even read him), but this occurs just because it does. With you I hit send before weighing the message. Ah but I am weighing the message now, it collapses once more, I can’t get outside, even in the one place I hope to. And it’s dangerous to conflate you with the project. To involve you with the intransigence, which I only half-heartedly seek to resolve, with which I am secretly in love, is to give life to a potent co-dependence. And when I am angry with the intransigence, which is every other day or hour, the attachment could turn ugly…

But this is more concept, and as cogent as it appears now in the wee hours, which I can recognize from a distance as the insane hours, it is precisely what, in my more sober moments, I would like to give up. Again, from a distance. Right now it’s fun, it’s comfortable and exciting, and if there were no other world I would happily accept permanent residency here. But I know that there is, and that for whatever reason a carrying-over occurs between the two, and the more time I spend in this awfully inviting space, this body-shaped imprint in the bed, this threadbare safety blanket, the harder the return becomes. Leaving behind this torrent of concept – which still at times seems absolutely true, which I subscribed to totally for decades and my family for generations, that is, until the rupture, until it became obviously untenable – has always felt like withdrawal. My friend with the oxies, well the one who doesn’t do them anymore, says on the morning when he goes dry, on the commute to re-up, everything turns grey and anxious. Life is a countdown until the discomfort ceases. It’s the same feeling leaving the bedroom after a good thinking binge. The experience is exhilarating, better than anything else, but then the world of human submersion, the place where most people generally abide, becomes almost impossibly dull. And not just dull but also frightening; unbearable in its near-random and variable potential. Solipsism is omnipotence which is as good a trip as any, but it comes with a proportionate come-down. I’ve known this for a long time while still persisting in the destructive half of the equation. I bring this all up now because lately I find myself engaging withdrawl almost actively. I keep returning to the human. I am not entirely sure what’s happening: both because the urge is strange, and here, everything is hard to know.

Those moments come more regularly with, and since you, and enticingly too, which feels like deliverance after that protracted anhedonia. With you a lot is strange. I should clarify, I don’t mean to be evasive, I just don’t want to be prosaic either: the you is a she but she is indirect, and I am exploring directness. As an intellectual project of course, but isn’t exploration always predicated upon intent? At least with all that’s left to explore. With you I see the possibility again, the place before I chose to abide in the torrent, and I’m starting to think that it was always just dumb attraction. But who cares what I think? I no longer believe in ascendance or the place beyond. The look in your eye, something as cliché as the look in your eye, which I can’t forget is a cliché, or the attraction to the look in your eye, at once a very just green and human greenness, and also the knowledge that this is a beautiful eye, because you are just beautiful but also a type of beautiful, and I could never separate it as such, because I can’t delimit the inheritance and the endowment. Derridad again: when I call you my love, my love, is it you that I am calling? You liked that I could quote it. Theory as more than therapy, for once as seduction. The only time in my academic career. Anyway, when it’s happening I know all of this somewhere but mostly I just look.

You have taught me to enjoy texting, and this is an incredible and incredibly embarrassing affirmation. Texting has always been a fraught arena for me. So much potential for overthinking, for curation, and mostly for backspacing. You are not the first person to have called me a bad texter, but I think this is the first time my deficiency has threatened to end a relationship. Gone for a week, so close on the day of departure, and within another two, you can’t even remember the feeling. Just the weight of the overwrought texts. I am not sure when it happened but eventually I sent a relatively un-edited and possibly idiotic message, because I recognized my syndrome and that I had to leap to move beyond it, and to suffer the pains of another bad text was better than letting it go unattempted. Of course, my effort at inspiration was thoroughly intentional, but as DFW would say, I am within the aura. There’s not a lot I can do in this regard. You responded with a sun emoji, which made me laugh. Speaking of Foster-Wallace, I do think the ironic emoji is on the way out, but this is just more theory. I’m not completely sure if it was ironic anyway.


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