M{y} di[lem]m[a*]: (just well just be!)

Of uncertain time, my dilemma has

arrived:

I know you all have waited so long.

Or at least, I suspect –

on further inspection – that respecting your

positions is way overdue.

 

My dilemma as *motto is the

question I always asked:

the y of my life

is the why I am loved.

Not when or where,

but now simply could it be Claire?

 

It’s a foolish notion, this asking

of why:

a foolish potion of thoughts and

fishy seams, like knotted

nets which appear to capture

dolphins of some kind of weirdly

 

eternal yoof!

“And struth!” you might exclaim,

as plain as the day,

when anything I say strikes one so

fanciful: and in that fancy,

I see your body strong, as it

 

stretches out singing that

song of love I wish we’d shared

so very much: dear me,

dear dare, oh my …

And when I see the steps you take,

as ciggie sits sharp between one finger

 

and thin other, I know that whatever

you might make of my feelings,

you will leave me

real reeling for the rest of my life.

You have made me forget,

in an evening of unspoken

 

rhymes – but not unspeakable! Oh,

never ever that … –

the memory of your mother:

that woman who

so hurt me.

And it’s true you know:

 

whether that was your intention,

I now never want to see her again.

At the cost of falling

besottedly in love with you, I have

lost all attachment to the

passion I once professed.

 

And whilst academic present is my

being right now, I still see your face

every minute of my life:

and every minute of my life I would

like to see

your face

 

again.

 

And now to be sincerely free,

I think you are clearly telling me

I must leave both the idea

of you and of me: my identity being

whirled

quite madly by this

 

rock, as I roll with the humanity

I have constructed out of [h]ours:

for what I see in you I would love

to be a reality,

and if only you spoke just once,

and if only you wrote just once,

 

and if only you texted me short

to indicate

 

some thought you had,

I could proceed then to hang on

small devices

and gadgets galore – on Foucault

like technologies, and personalities

and more – the

 

whole of my future

as imagined in my madness:

the excess of my enthusiasm

 

unbound by the ground

that feet (so

they tell us) must firmly stand on.

So really all I’m saying, dear Claire,

is that you not only

replaced in me and my strange soul

 

a grand but dangerous

affection for your mother,

an affection which had destroyed

 

all my capacity

to resist and be resilient,

to make movement

and just well just be,

you also managed – quite

amazing this, and this quite

 

manifestly handsome result of

handsome nature –

 

to allow me a goodness and

a gracious curiosity: at last,

the moment I thawed to

future hope; at last,

a willingness on my rusted part

to fail in the strange arts of

 

love again.

 

And so finally, quite ultimate

I must repeat, equally I must leave

behind me my past.

For the real sad part of all this story

is that only by saying goodbye

to my history can my future

 

begin to lay down future

present.

And all this life lived together with

beloved ones must upend its

features,

like celluloid unspooling.

 

And I begin to try to see for me

a better time,

and I feel guilty that

pleasure, unadulterated,

may be mine.

 

And so now I can tell you that

I do want my liberty,

as I do want to grasp

the beauty of my [he]art.

 

And whilst I do understand, fine

Claire, that your job as job is

job now done,

 

and that you have readily, cleverly

achieved your beautiful goal,

in this oft mad releasing me from the

 

prison of pain your mother did

concentrate, so capably

 

that rend, that before,

and that when,

still I would love it

if you and I could be friends true!

 

Do you understand and believe me in this?

 

Do you see why I might?

Do you realise how very much of your

 

being

I truly love?

Can you truly comprehend the

 

life you gave me back;

the reality you recovered for me;

the sensibility you make me now feel

for real;

 

the wonder of beauty

I no longer resist?

 

And so when this is over,

and of my emotions

I become

utterly disabused,

will you – one day, please! –

 

explain to me exactly why you did what

 

you did do?

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