All This Pain Is An Illusion

Of course.

But even hallucinations can make you bleed from inside out. Or, in my case, leak crimson instead of ichor.

I Less-Than-Three Recycling

The life of an ice cube is somewhat square. Hardly adventurous. One drifts in a sea of beverages that require cooling dispensing droplets of water. Not the material that adventure novels are made of. So when an opportunity for unmitigated adventure boldly presents itself the principle reaction of an ice cube is to jump at the occasion whilst sublimating any frustration it might have felt prior to the occasion. This year I have several unmitigated adventures ahead! First, a meeting with a guy I've met in this ether (virtual space). Second, a trip to NY - the city that has spawned Interpol. Should I get more excited I would most certainly explode into a million crystalline pieces. Isn't it lucky then that I happen to know that Mother Nature & I share a passion: we both love recycling.

I recycle all things; mostly, books. I call it my book search & rescue squad, which at the moment consists of only me. I'm not at all saddened by the lack of comrades, for I often spurn the specious fraternal familiarity between men which - with an objective eye could be construed as latent homosexual; a fact which most men will dispute to the death - they deem as "male bonding". On a side note: I find the term bonding slightly scientific & somewhat alarming for I always picture the relationship to be of a parasitic nature in which one of either party syphons off energy whilst the other slavishly fulfills its tasks as the host. Ah, well. I love recycling books. I have recycled a great many, and am always on the look-out for books that need saving.

These last few days have been a pinch more than hectic which has considerably affected my mental resilience. Too tired, too strained, too many people wanting a piece of my attention (some silently demanding a lion's share). I've had it. I've got myself into a little tiff with my ex-room mate. Let me start by saying that I completely understand his objections to my behaviour, and feel genuinely sorry. If you have sensed that presently will follow a "however" your intuition is close attuned, and duly rewarded. However, I cannot help but feel a little irritation myself. I suspect that he expects me to treat him as I treat, or have treated, my other friends. (In general, I do. If I have made an appointment which is loose I tend not to cancel if something comes up. I know this is a bad trait; I try to change my behaviour, but as most of you can attest one cannot change one's behaviour at a drop of a hat.) I believe he fails to understand that he's not like my other friends since he is entirely a different person, that my history with him differs greatly from the ones I have constructed with my other friends (meaning: I have never dated any of them), and that the relationships I have with my friends are far from interchangeable. I don't know. I can speculate about the why but I'd rather not. Speculation is as specious as "male bonding".

I'll leave you with a little poem by Sylvia Plath:

Cinderella
The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span

The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,

And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince

As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock.

Dante's Hell, Or The Story About The Guy With The Bluest Eyes

I reckon that Dante is most commonly known for his book on the circles of Hell. He's written more than just a nice political allegory; he's also written a very beautiful tribute to his love Beatrice, whose true historical identity still remains a mystery. His love for her was truly eternal, since he continued to long for her long after her death. I've read Vita Nuova a few years back, and fell in love with the language and the intensity of his love for her. His love was almost ravenous, and his passion spoke to me in a clear, crisp voice. If you haven't read it yet, you should. It's a wonderful read. I especially like the line: "I am your master; Behold your heart." I fell in love with this line, not that I'm an aficionado of leather straps and bondage (not that there's something wrong with a little slap'n'tickle), but it speaks such a raw energy. Dante must have had ichor pumping through his veins because he's managed to capture the eternal aspect of love quite befittingly.

Love, or any inclination resembling the concept, is a double-edged sword. It can liberate and bind one at once. One can feel absolutely happy, when one's lover reciprocates one's feelings, and miserable, when one's lover shows himself/herself cold, and distant. Love is a constant master/slave role play in which both lovers alternate between the roles of master and slave. This is what Dante meant with that line, I reckon.

Well, given the choice no-one wants to linger in Dante's Hell. We'd all prefer to spend our days in our lover's arms staring into our lover's eyes, while our lover whispers sweet nothings in our ears, and tells us of her/his undying love for us. In reality such a situation does rarely, if ever, exist. And, as long as our view of love is askew we will never get what we truly want/need. We all know that love is hard work, but we never seem to understand how much work exactly, and in which areas, and how we can be our best selves in a relationship. "To know my deed. 'Twere best not know myself.", MacBeth uttered. I would like to say: "To know Love. 'Tis best to know myself." At any rate, one needs to have an inkling.