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.