Actually, it wasn’t he who presented me with a piece of my past repurposed, so I am beginning with somewhat of an untruth, but really, it was from him, through someone else, that I received that ambiguous gift.
You see, I'd forgotten what a mango tastes like.
You see, I grew up with that shit.
Nusrat is kirtan to me. Scuff or wax on the wood floor on Sunday mornings, the living room a cavern—you were nowhere, friend, there was so much life before you, I deny you your place—a cavern resounding sombre warmth. I swear, if I’d been paying attention, I would have been able to see my parents’ limbs softening in silent supplication.
Of course, la culpa no es suya, he couldn’t have known, he just learnt charm in school and cavalierness at summer camp. I learnt deference—where? I learnt appetite, so I extended my palm and took what was given me because I believed—still do—that nothing is valueless. I drank chai lattes, too.
He was so proud of his ability to go deep. He didn't know I was just shallow.
That pride is profound: it believes it has touched the heart of darkness. That pride is Conrad and Flaubert and the ilk: self-styled travellers, translators, truth-seekers, bringing back tales from the wild. Chasing echoes, they thought—you too—they could see the other side. But what they saw was an old postcard.
You can’t get inside a postcard.
*
It’s quite a thrill to be an idyll, to look at someone and watch him see in you a romantic apparition. But the thrill slumps quickly into condescension, and soon, you find yourself chivvying some poor boy to go have some of your own life experiences.
You are the murderer of your own mystique.
Really, you were on the point of swooning when he was talking that early summer evening. All necessary textures were present: flagstone, cotton, bluster, rasp, encroaching summer, nostalgia. Finally, that old vengeful dismissal—'be more, you paltry fuck, then I’ll think about giving a shit'—materialising before your eyes.
But the thing is, you’d overshot him, this sweet person with so much of your shiftiness and soft spots. And now you felt you were looking backward, or waiting, or remembering, or reliving a dream. Something long-anticipated is not always fulfilling.
Being discovered, it turns out, is no fun for you.
You see, I'd forgotten what a mango tastes like.
You see, I grew up with that shit.
Nusrat is kirtan to me. Scuff or wax on the wood floor on Sunday mornings, the living room a cavern—you were nowhere, friend, there was so much life before you, I deny you your place—a cavern resounding sombre warmth. I swear, if I’d been paying attention, I would have been able to see my parents’ limbs softening in silent supplication.
Of course, la culpa no es suya, he couldn’t have known, he just learnt charm in school and cavalierness at summer camp. I learnt deference—where? I learnt appetite, so I extended my palm and took what was given me because I believed—still do—that nothing is valueless. I drank chai lattes, too.
He was so proud of his ability to go deep. He didn't know I was just shallow.
That pride is profound: it believes it has touched the heart of darkness. That pride is Conrad and Flaubert and the ilk: self-styled travellers, translators, truth-seekers, bringing back tales from the wild. Chasing echoes, they thought—you too—they could see the other side. But what they saw was an old postcard.
You can’t get inside a postcard.
*
It’s quite a thrill to be an idyll, to look at someone and watch him see in you a romantic apparition. But the thrill slumps quickly into condescension, and soon, you find yourself chivvying some poor boy to go have some of your own life experiences.
You are the murderer of your own mystique.
Really, you were on the point of swooning when he was talking that early summer evening. All necessary textures were present: flagstone, cotton, bluster, rasp, encroaching summer, nostalgia. Finally, that old vengeful dismissal—'be more, you paltry fuck, then I’ll think about giving a shit'—materialising before your eyes.
But the thing is, you’d overshot him, this sweet person with so much of your shiftiness and soft spots. And now you felt you were looking backward, or waiting, or remembering, or reliving a dream. Something long-anticipated is not always fulfilling.
Being discovered, it turns out, is no fun for you.
No comments:
Post a Comment