Accept your fate; accept your fate...
The nagual repeats this over and over again in Carlos Castaneda's The Second Ring of Power. I'm in the process of accepting my fate, which, while I cannot see it before me plainly, I suspect will be as follows:
I will, as the famed Albany psychic Ann Fisher told me, probably live to extreme old age. This pleases me, as I have no desire to be dead. However, in the meantime, all the people whom I ever loved, and more importantly, those who have loved me, will have died. Surely I will find new people on whom I can lavish my attentions, emotional, spiritual, nay even physical, but those who express their love for me are so rare. There may indeed be many who love me, but so few who will confess it.
Therefore, if this were true, one must imagine some of these silent others may in fact love me. If I were to believe that come the end of my days, there may in fact be some who do, then in this I would be truly blessed, even if it were not true.The belief of their love would be enough to see me through to the fist at the end of the valley...
However, not only shall I die old, but unrequited. A former friend, a certain Tom O'Connor used to preach to me about self-fulfilling prophecies, that it is I who declare I will die alone. Well, that I do, but not of my will, rather from my observation. I do not wish it upon myself, but I do not wish death upon myself either! So I go along accepting my fate until I see my fate as something else.
Nevertheless, I can hope beyond hope for fresh water in a barren sea, and still no water will produce itself. Oh, surely the rain will fall, and in small puddles at the bottom of my life raft small quantities will gather. These would be the moments with N from N, or M from CP, or the confession of J from S. Oh yes, these rose moments where I felt the pulse of something more than banal sexual encounters given freely for orgasms would be as the small morsels that fell from Madame Eglentyne's lips to her smale houndes. And I have cherished these rarities so, since they keep me from dying of dehydration as I drift across the blue waters of Annwn in search of Iolo Morgannwg's elusive and perhaps counterfeit Gwynfyd where at last I will lust with Ceugant, the ultimate truth, in a complete way, as I have lusted with no mortal being, a pleasant if theoretical end and purpose to all this entropy and longing...
Ahh, these lovely fictions, portrayals of reality. I should learn to take my own advice, perhaps this is what some others do. Yes, I have a lover who is wonderful, and looks after me, and offers me gifts and ruts with me like a beast, yet remains nameles and faceless, like God.
Would that I were given to lies; my life would be simpler.
Yet as I look around me, all I see are knotworks...
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We share the same sorrows.
I will be knitting on your front porch when we are old and loveless, if my vices don't kill me first.
I, too, wish I could suspend my disbelief and swallow and lie or two.
At least we have the cold sweet comfort of alcohol.
I find it difficult to believe that a man whom has such ease (or so it seems), articulating his feelings, would lack love in his life.
This reminds me of Jeanette Winterson in some ways, and of the troubadours in others: courtship as a metaphor for the spiritual journey. It seems like a theme we can't quite put down.
To Tree,
Yup, I still remember our conversations about growing up to be cool old people and sharing a house with a big front porch during our dotage. Well there are far worse ends, so I will keep my eye out for a couple of nice rocking chairs! You knit, I'll widdle, we'll both smoke and we'll keep the Michters on the little table between us.
To fucking diddums,
Believe it or not, that's the way it is. What I find is that most people run from emotions like roaches run from the light. I would serve myself better if I were able to have fewer of the pesky things.
To Nathaniel,
Now I will have investigate this Winterson person. I did wiki her, and she seems to have an intriguing past. As for my metaphors, I'm never sure where they're heading. In this entry I think I intended the spiritual to be methaphor for the romantic, but there is definitely a point at which that shifts. Sometimes this is the result of blogging at 2AM with too much juniper juice flowing through my neural pathways...
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