2007-01-09
My Lover's Arms are Cold.
For a while, I flirted with the idea of moving to a new cyber address (again). Only one person has had privy to the site so far - not so much due to viewer discretion but the writer's lack of confidence, but as you can all see, I'm back here.
Why? I don't really know. Perhaps the idea of ditching the truckload of archives (that my dismal html skills have not allowed me to transfer) scared me. And did I mention that getting rid of my archives was what motivated the (almost)move? It looks like my hangover from the past just isn't going away, but I'm beginning to learn to love the headache. Afterall, as all self-respecting contemporary-artist-wannabes will tell you, "it's the process that matters".
And what have I been doing all this while? I have been learning. I have been learning more about this craft - language and literature - that I claim to love. I have been learning about others who, too, have been sleeping with my mistress.
The long and short of it, 1. I have been writing a play with Colin and Andy (which really was to be written by Andy, directed by Charmaine and produced by Colin, but we all got a little too excited along the way) 2. a new literature teacher came into my life and 3. my sensitivities have returned.
And I thank Colin, first of all, for helping me rediscover the joys of literary (- if I may use such a presumptious word) autopsy, and returning faith into the careful hand that feels every little detail in the crafting process. In the short span of 2 weeks, I have been a man, been a woman, been a wife, been an adulterer, been a murderer, been in love, lost, and learnt.
But for all the Being I have been, this world is a lonely one.
My first taste of co-writing has taught me a lot. For one who was always aware of the inevitable and arrogant solitude creativity brings, I started off being very, very worried. I am proud to report today, that I loved the experience, and will readily admit that nothing I produced alone would have come close. But I am also acutely aware that as I take the place of (one of) the triumphant creator(s), someone else has had their baby kidnapped, their subterfuge hijacked.
As my new Literature teacher, a mature woman with a flamboyant passion for Shakespeare, launched into her Very Long Introduction of Shakespeare and his Genius, it became painfully clear how such feelings were non-transfereable. I can't quite say it - but it was all at once too thin and too thick for what I felt.
And I know that there are tons of lovers out there - some giving in to passionate ardency, others wrestling with silent, unspoken crushes. And although we can pass our poems around like bottles, present criticisms like chocolates and flowers, no one yet shall be able taste the sweet seduction our mistress pulls on us the same way our individual tongues do. (I have no idea why I'm writing in such a masculine voice.)
Perhaps this is why we love great writers, for they have found the words that have eschewed us. And until I become worthy of that, I can only look at the glazed eyes around me, and be certain only of the fact that I'm not alone, if not alone.
nothing ever happens at 6:42 p.m.