From you I get the story
Cherry tree on West Street.
I tell myself that when I am dying, leaving
the things of this world, it will no longer
matter that I paved the banks of that river,
diverted its flow, moved the humming stream
of desire to my imagination. What I want with
an ache of jealousy, with the pain of
something that was never meant to be, won’t
matter to me then. The impulse – to covet, to
pursue, to get – will be meaningless.
Self-denial will have been the obvious
course.
Don’t expect a description here, a list of
lusts. It’s not all about lust (though
sometimes, of course, it is. I am human.). It
is the pull and push of expectation, sadness
at the inevitable narrowing of life. Here I
stand on a plank in the river, steering in
the direction of what will be, trying not to
gaze back. My husband is here too, pushing us
through the water, sometimes reaching back to
touch my hair or hold my hand. I love him. He
is comforting. Real. I am free from want.
Or I’m not. What about the desire for
lyricism? Luck? A publishing contract? Some
days I just want to be left alone. I want to
eat a meal in the sunshine, with my book and
my thoughts, without guilt. I want 24
obligation-free hours. I want words that fly
out of my fingers, practically effortlessly.
I want to watch them take off and form
themselves into unstoppable narrative. I am
power-mad for deadly metaphor.
But even more strongly I want to be an image
in someone else’s head, a character real and
fully formed. I need an author, someone to
flesh out the plot of my own life, someone
who understands these redirected desires
implicitly. He (yes) sees me, knows my lurid
heart, feels the iciness of my thoughts. He
loves me anyway. This is what believers get
from God, I suppose. It’s an impossible task
for any human being, given that we are opaque
even to ourselves.
Pointless, pointless
desire. But it does propel me
forward.