Still

You could be anyone.

Spiral Traffic (1962) by Remedios Varo

Hesitation: The pace of nature, my perfect friend. No one loves you better than these wet trees, bowing as you arrive, always knowing more about things you don’t want to know. That’s passion: the suspicion that this adoring stranger understands more than you do, moves through your dark corners like light through water, breathes in terror and exhales exquisite madness, filigreed glimmers of affection, small loops of compassion like a child’s cursive, feigning innocence for your comfort.

That’s nature: Pretending at purity, no recollection of the murders that occurred in the black night. Dignified restraint, full of secrets that would never deign to take the shape of common words. That’s real power. These birds can feel it but you’re still bewildered, so you’re looking up names that some other confused but reverent soul gave to these breathing vines.

No one stands still long enough to paint them, but this green world will, welcoming you against its damp shoulders in the morning after a downpour, reminding you that no matter how hard you concentrate, you’re still just another animal, angry or anxious or maybe just hungry, enlightened or reflective or maybe just virile, crestfallen or empty or maybe just tired. No one stands still long enough to be studied carefully, or to notice you the way these trees do, they have nowhere else to be, they have nothing to explain so you’ll just have to guess. Irrefutable, so dignified, incomplete in ways that hint at hidden wholeness, here at the center, on a hill at this still point, the whole world pivoting around this still place, the galaxy rotating around this still moment, where placid trees patiently stretch their arms toward some vacated heaven.

If the world is rushing by in a blur, that’s because you’re out there on the fringes, so far from the fulcrum, unaware of how far you’ve wandered, unclear about instincts, forgetting your old migratory impulses, foggy about centrifugal forces, immune to the tug of distant stars behind this white sheet of clouds. You’re at a meeting, stubbornly holding forth to someone who talks more than she listens. You’re in a car, mournful about the stories on the radio, bewildered by the elaborate wisps of madness filling up the backseat. You’re still in bed, longing for something concrete that will never match the grace of hesitation, the pace of nature, the sigh of a perfect friend. It’s morning but you already know in your bones that no one stands still long enough for you to really touch them, to introduce your thoughts to theirs without unnecessary syllables, to let your emotions dance in the backroom together, knocking tea cups out of the cupboards, gliding over all of your shattered porcelain hopes, relishing each note, each step, each graceful cut.

I could be describing anyone at all, so that’s what I’m doing, pretending there is no center, listening to the sounds you make about this blur, feigning innocence for your comfort, only hinting darkly now and then that heaven has been abandoned and now it’s falling into the sea, pretending that this isn’t a problem, that you’re not an animal, that you don’t bleed or smell or thrash, god’s house goes in the water, you go in the water, shark’s in the water.

Our shark.

***

Everyone tells you not to break anything, not to trip and fall. When trouble arrives, they want you to know that your only real course of action is hiring professionals who’ll train their eyes on technicalities and minutiae, experts who’ll never talk about your anger like it’s just hunger, paid soldiers who’ll never paint your war as the long-delayed temper tantrum of a lonely child, assassins who don’t notice that even betrayal and abandonment are gifts from our gracious host, breathing in horror and exhaling desire, ethereal as tender vines.

If you really need to act, then strike a match, burn a bridge, and be done with it. Give it a name. What do you call a person who’s never been on your side, always acting on brutal instinct but blind to their own greed, tolerated by a preoccupied herd, feigning innocence in spite of repeated infractions and defections? You choose the name. I have no feeling for this battle, it’s not mine. I could be describing anyone, it’s that common, it’s utterly unremarkable. There is no seduction here, no pause between hard notes, just an ugly grab for more that always fails. Don’t talk to the rats who jumped ship or stir up animus or hold an exorcism. Don’t build weapons from the shards of your childhood. Name this betrayal and then retreat to the center, that hesitant place where all is forgiven, wet branches reaching down to remind you that you’re whole, too, in spite of all obvious gaps and dents and flaws. There’s a giant hole at the center of everything, a complete void, exhaustive and exhausted, and you were created in its image.

Instead you’ll spend your days describing what you’re seeing in harrowing detail, everything a blur, doubling down on bewilderment, summoning more animals who don’t know they’re animals, investing in an elaborate engine that breathes in the pollution of rage and hunger, exhales misshapen clouds of confusion and fear, and spews out acid rain, its merciless drops whispering

they never cared, they couldn’t see you, they never loved you at all

Be more careful about what you worship.

***

Here’s a concrete example, since you love the so-called real world so goddamn much: There’s a perfume called Dear Polly. What the fuck do I care? People are taking meetings with celebrities to build a series based on the repeating themes of a column I wrote ten years ago. What are we even talking about here, besides some blur of confusion, some ugly grab that mostly fails, on the outer edges of this spinning top? Once someone let me know he could see me clearly, and now he’s building an outhouse on the moon, one that consumes waste while amplifying the sound of his own voice. Who makes mattering? Why is famous? How does a meeting? Where is cage? Meeting goes in the water, you go in the meeting, shark’s in the water.

At least bleed in my direction, like ink in my water glass, at the meandering pace of forgiveness. I’ll drink whatever you have to give. That’s natural. Everyone who’s whole lands here. Sometimes it feels like we can wait forever. But your long history of dominating or being dominated will scare you off, make this innocent curiosity feel eerie just because there’s focus and intention here, until you’re proving that you’re just another jittery, remorseful animal on the loose, unaware of its collar, unconsciously treading the same circular path into this meadow, trampling the bittercress and the hairy vetch, sure that there’s some dark angle behind these innocent loops, this exquisite madness, these filigreed shadows arching toward your vacated heart.

No one stands still long enough to paint them. Power is repulsive to the powerless. They always decide the real party must be somewhere else, out of sight, on the fringes, into the blur. No one hesitates long enough to see each other clearly. No one honors the empty hole at the center of everything. No one stands still long enough to welcome this splendor.

And no one feels strong enough or beautiful enough to be watched. They’re all so sure that they’ll look hideous, a projection of their fears about themselves, an echo of grief and loss, so certain that these desires can’t dance, so sure that this longing will never fly, too confused to see what’s pretty in this ugliness, too impatient to notice that these scars look just like breathing vines.

Maybe there’s some small sliver of truth to their dread, a fear of what they don’t want to know yet, a whiff of death, a discouraged premonition of the melting world, like birds softly singing to each other

they never cared, they couldn’t see you, they never loved you at all

But don’t be brittle while there’s still rain. I’ll take whatever you leave behind: trampled thorns, red clay doubts, splinters of regret, my perfect friend. You could be anyone. If you want to be special, then show me who you are.