Decided to watch ‘V’ tonight. Not sure why. I suppose I knew what the outcome would be… which means I know why, doesn’t it?
Sigh.
I remember he told me that he thought V was the man I wanted him to be. I remember telling him nothing could be further from the truth. He always seemed to think I looked at him and saw less than should be. He never understood how often I saw more than expected, or the many ways in which he seemed perfection. Why it made the cruelties he enacted so ugly or why my lash so quickly echoed his own.
He never saw his, of course. Only mine. And I could not be silent under the lash. It was folly to expect it but I freely admit that I knew from the start that it was expected. Mea Culpa, mea culpea — knowing but not understanding, I could not endure it.
I was not the only one lacking understanding. Such a hideous struggle and so pointless. For both of us. Motes and beams, cursing one another for what we could see and lancing one another where we could not. Neither of us able to set down the weaponry and both so very weary for carrying it. Or worse yet, making the leap of faith and casting weapons in the dust at the precise moment of the other’s despairing strike.
There is no sadness like that which comes from mistimed vulnerability.
There was a lot I never understood. And he lacked the courage to explain it to me. Not that I can blame him… for all I sometimes try. It is difficult to be courageous in the face of tooth and claw.
There was a lot he never understood. And I lacked the patience to wait for him to be calm enough to explain it. My words spilling out quickly in hopes of making it into his mind before the gates boomed closed.
I wear a hematite band on the only finger that will bear a ring at all. Despite how angry I have been and on occasion, still am, I continue to let him have this place, this space… and will never begrudge it even as I rail for it and slowly shred myself for it.
Red and raw, endless blooming. Touchstones and tenderness. Emptiness and ache. Abandonment of all hope.
Memory is a blessing and a curse most times. I sit here, where so much of our initial interactions occurred, and let it have its way, let it pulse and rise to the surface. I remember preparing mala for him here…. hand-sewing the bags…. how I smiled to carefully wrap and send them. I remember whispers at midnight, and an interrupted moment, and how he called and pled with me to return and how I shushed him with the simple truth — I would always be there when he wished it.
He did not believe it, of course. Perhaps once he did. Perhaps he never did. Regardless, eventually, he needed more for it to be false than true and took the truth and made of it a lie, a horror, and a malignancy.
He does not wish this way anymore. Perhaps he never did. I no longer know…. actually, I never knew. But for a time, I hoped.
Sitting here now, the movie paused at the Monte Cristo scene, I remember the lies and hurtful things he so eagerly painted over this, the senopia, and then — forget them and let myself feel what is… without need for anything other than to know it so.
But it is heavy and I cannot help the tears.
When I’m angry for it, I tell myself he was and is a liar. But most times, I sit with the ache and say nothing. It speaks without words and the things it says are nourishment… for all tis often crumbs. I ponder that perhaps he does the same, but castigate myself immediately. Impossible. The abyss between the horrors of those lies and that possibility is too great for anything other than laughter. Me, laughing at myself for the foolishness of wishing as if it isn’t twisted and warped enough as it is.
Sigh.
He never thought he was good enough. Irony, really. I’ve never thought I was, either. I suppose we proved one another right, for all we wanted to prove one another wrong. The last time I wrote to him, I told him there was nothing to forgive. It would have been more accurate to say there is nothing I can forgive. The lies remain as does the truth. The only ones who know either as they really are — is us… and it seems we’re not able to speak well enough to name them properly to anyone, let alone one another.
The words I would say cannot be said. They are unutterable. Only without sound can they be heard and so, pointless and poignant, I wrap them in a hematite band and wear them upon my left hand.
I may write many words, but the ones I wear in silence do not find any page. They hug my finger with quiet fidelity and there they will remain this life. Perhaps some other place/space/time I’ll be able to soundlessly say them and know them heard.
Sometimes, I dream they are heard even in their silence – A song that reaches and touches. But a human cannot believe very long in dreams or songs that are never more than midnight lullabies. This human cannot, anyway… perhaps a failing… one of many, to be sure.
As for the rest… the stones in the field are quiet as stones should be. I set them there after hauling them from the riverside and they will remain there, undisturbed, until there is a way to give them and have them received as they were intended or until the meaning they hold is utterly undone. In many ways, a reminder to myself… known better in this moment, for all I have said it many, many times…
… you cannot give a gift that will not be received.
But that does not mean you cannot wish you could.