Too Late for the Gods… Too Early for Being – Martin Heidegger
And today after his bedroom and going to mine, the long hallway between, the Third Avenue Corridor, I slept until noon, and woke up sleepy.
Have I distanced myself from the written word, like a trained killer distances herself from the target? Erase all traces of humanity from the anguish and desperation in the eye of the verb, gazing with immovable resolve upon the corpse of the truth expressed symbolically? Is language really a disease, William? Were you onto something in your tangential Tangier heroine escapade?
I arranged the books at the top of the stairs while he took an IQ test. I read the MENSA book, filed it alongside his dream dictionary, alongside the stacks of the 1975-76 back issues of High Times. When he was through he came to tell me the results.
He knows the same things I know. Things others, outside of here, don’t. He is an antique; collector of crystal doorknobs and high powered rifles, of out of print books, of mismatched Tupperware sets from the eighties, he archives sensuality on a complicated live wire system of cameras and post-it notes. I no know more of his type of pain than I know of the willow tree’s life but I watch nonetheless fascinated; and divinely afraid when the wind blows those long whipping branches free and wild. Someday he will write, make a film, someday. What will come out of that mind rivets me for his reserve is tenacious and when for one moment he acquiesces, I can fill him with the hope that he abhors.
When he fell asleep I heard in my head the crack and shatter of a plate glass window. Getting through won’t be easy. So hard I may not try.
Words have lost their lexicon, so removing that and leaving nothing leaves me open and ready but vulnerable to losing the truth. The truth is, that only in a moment hangs the balance, after that it is only conjecture and hearsay, after that is only dreams and false memories. Putting on paper the moment of truth takes away the truth, it’s an inherent law that only immediacy of communication provides relief from isolation of the existentialist’s life, after that it is only sickly sweet, like dish soap film in a glass, filling your mouth with the version of truth you know to be a lie.
But this is so dark and in contrast to that summer day in August, only two months gone, and now the rain and the cool air and the overcast sky and my black sweater are all that remains.