“Travel is only glamorous in retrospect.”

Paul Theroux, in the Observer, London (April 1, 1979)

The metaphor is probably the most fertile power possessed by man.

José Ortega y Gasset’s The Dehumanization of Art (1925)

Journal from 2012, July [XX]

Subject: is it soulmatery—with enough time it might just be. The letter, the unexpected email—bear wrestling?

My book was open, I was ready, champing almost, and then it happened.

I can never decide if it’s endearing that out of the blue, Anna will email me, or I’ll get a postcard; sometimes a text message, as if to say, hey, I love you, sup? As if it’s the most normal thing in the world—there’s that word again. “Know your audience,” they say­—let me rephrase that—there is nothing more normal (more normal?) than an unexpected message, regardless of the medium, at an unexpected time. There isn’t. It’s a thrill. It’s Christmas morning every, single, time.

And why shouldn’t it be? I write my letters to her every week, put them in a cream envelope—I bulk bought a lot of this beautiful textured stationary some years back, along with boxes and boxes of gorgeous paper this guy wanted rid of—cheap, but not that cheap—I took it all, remember that? I bought five or six boxes, then the seller was like, hey, look I only have ten of these, so I went ahead and said, sure, why not?

And then I put the letters I write, in a box.

Anyway, I had a, hey, what’re you doing? email, which really means, just talk to me for a bit and tell me things. I don’t mind, why should I?

It’s Christmas morning.

So, I started with something like, I went to bed early, like I wanted, tried to unwind. I was tired. I really was. I had a fan on, it was actually quite cool, not like the previous night, but could I relax, or switch off? Could I bollocks. Of course not. Could I string a sentence together? Technically? Well yes—would you like to see it?

*

You know, the usual stuff, but then, I don’t know. I forgot she wasn’t here-here—I mean in some respects she’ll always be here, but this was different—I just, well.

I wrote that: I don’t know why I’m still up. (I’m not even sure if that’s true)

That’s it. That was the genius which appeared from my mighty fingers—all because I was worried about missing her in the morning. She was off to climb a mountain, hike, camp in the wilderness, wrestle bears? Something awesome and would’ve been up with the birds.

But then I woke at six, everything was falling into place. I splashed a little water, smoked, and assumed as decent position as any to get some words done, and … well, I fell asleep—and woke up a couple of hours later with a cold cup of tea and decided, there’s no rush … and, well, I took my time.

Your email was proper funny! I wrote, I loved it.

Then Moby appeared, wanting complete attention—no half measures. I’ll let him sit there sulking for a little bit, I thought. But not too long.

I was going to have that last graph read: Your email was proper funny! Oh, course I don’t need trigger warnings!  But didn’t feel I could quite pull off the next bit.

*

“I feel like that bloke who’s been given an ultimatum by the girl or boy of his dreams, and he has to meet them at location y—usually a railway station (why is that?)—it’s never waiting for an Uber at x O’clock—and something always goes wrong—sometimes they cut it fine and almost miss each, but then can’t quite see each other—and they’re always on the one train ever built with sound proof glass … you know! I feel a bit like that.”

*

I am so completely—no, feel. I feel so completely devoted to this person. It’s like an out of body experience, and because of it, my empty remains has room for more—devotion’s probably not the right word—but it’s not the wrong one either. It’s such a foreign feeling.

I just don’t get attached to people—I may have done once upon a time, but I have no recollection of that; I don’t share-share, I don’t fall for people, I love, sure—I have crushes, all, the, time—I think—but in a confined manner, a reserved way, a way which protects me from the people who turn out to be vultures, parasites and gas-lighters—so maybe not love than—a better than average platonic show of affection?

No that’s not it either. (Be still my autism.)

OK, having thought about it. I don’t think I do love other people—but she’s not other people—I can still be heartbroken by others (weird verbing there) so, huh. *

* It might have something to do with the way my brain can just shut up shop when it comes to sex and particular forms of attraction (it’s always something to do with sex isn’t it?) —but I still haven’t quite got my head around it, and really, it’s something that deserves its own space. I just don’t feel like it’s interesting, at all, while I’m in ACEfluxOFF mode.

Anyway, I literally rambled my way out of whatever insight I thought I was making, which is unlike me. Sure, the stream of consciousness stuff is a regular part of gauging whether I need to seek some preventative intervention from psychological professionals, but I’m not usually a rambler when I get the, hey, what’re you doing? shout outs. So, I told her what I’d been thinking about. I mean, it’s been six months give or take since the last text. Maybe longer.

*

“You know I’m yours, right. And I mean in that in its most complete form; in the all of body and mind way—in that very new—or very old (so old I’d forgotten how it feels, buried deep just waiting to be pranked out of me) way—like a last laugh on a condemned man about to … (writing prompt anyone?)

“Is this what soulmatery is all about? Is it dualism, plurality, something else? Witchcraft—although I think the preferred nomenclature these days is: sorcery (I misplaced my guide-book, so I could be wrong). It’s something, my love. But I have the strangest feeling that were it to stop abruptly, something somewhere would protect us from the worst of the pain—you know? We wouldn’t be consumed by that awful, gut-wrenching suffering of negative emotions and feelings of loss—I think that void would be a place of harmony, of words, memories of that imaginary life, the one we could have had, the one we’re constructing in ever greater detail, the one more real than either of us could possibly imagine, and so overwhelming in its beauty, that we would only smile and feel joy and be filled with thanks for being blessed for long enough to’ve been given such a gift—that we had found each other and had such a perfect life. Something would make everything alright, take our pain and heal us, shield us … “

*

It just came flooding out. Of course, it’s never far from the surface, how could it not be when my internal voice is hers.

I don’t think anything’s going to happen, my love, I continued:

“I’m trying to convey how peculiar and particular, how singular what’s going on is, and if that’s the case, if it is what I think it is—then why can’t the hypothetical worst-case scenario—actually be something bloody marvellous too. It’s [REDACTED] and I’ve been taking far too long getting this written, but you’ll be busy driving, concentrating on the road and not of the two of us—that’s it, of course—it’s not like an obsession about a person or a thing is it? —it’s how real our relationship feels, our life—all of it—I mean, I can be anywhere (it helps to have a rough idea of the place, or at least an idealised image of wherever it is I want us to be) and if I can, then we can. When I think of you, it’s always in the context of a pocket of “real” life—and it feels real. I mean, it’s not like it’s all just animalistic limbic-system grunting—we have fucking conversations about mundane things—we wash dishes—you sweep—we talk, potter—we shout at each other, but we’re not argumentative, it’s cathartic, a way we know will expel demons—we encourage it, we need it, we understand it, it’s never personal; we never attack each other, we’ve had too much of that it our lives. We understand each other because we see ourselves in each other—perhaps it’s why there’s such a blur between self-harm and fantasy—and perhaps we see a little of one in the other … “

*

I’m getting all knotty reading this again. I think I get what I’m saying. That if soulmates are a thing, then I think this is what it looks like; what it feels like. That it’s a gift and needs embracing. Just like I know I will, her, for the rest of my days.

*

“I love waking up and feeling you there before I think of you. Everything was just so hollow before. A void. Perhaps I knew you were always there, of course I knew, but I certainly wouldn’t have allowed myself to let my brain run away to this extent—meeting you has always been one of those pivotal psychological crunch points for me, like one of those moments in spacetime which is so powerful, no amount of tinkering with it can alter it!” 

*

I’m just pissed off I fell asleep this morning before I could write to her and then too tired to string more than a sentence together. But if I hadn’t, I may not have had the time to meander through my thoughts.

Were you driving at 10:16 wondering why I hadn’t written? Were you biting your cheek? It just kept on coming.

*

“We are strong and powerful and can survive anything. We’ll survive falling out, though I can’t see what it will be over. I don’t think we could fuck it up, even if we wanted to. If either of us walked away it wouldn’t last, we’d be drawn back to each other because I think we know what this is now, what we have—it’s why I don’t think we’d argue in the traditional sense. I can’t imagine saying horrible things to you (except when, you know) and even if I did, you’d probably just say something like, what the fuck was that? And I’d be like “???????” and it’d be defused—you’d unleash your animal whenever you need to, I’ll shout with you—and together … “

*

That’s where I was going—we’re always together when I think of her, unless I deliberately imagine her alone. Of course there are reasons why I would, voyeuristic reasons, sadistic reasons … no, I don’t think I will share, you’ll have to imagine that picture of the girl and the [REDACTED] ground, wondering [REDACTED] first.

*

“I love you and will continue to love you. We are safe from harm, we can’t fuck this up. I tried, remember? —you’re welcome to try yourself if you feel like engaging in acts of futility, but it’d be an act of futility. I’m not your boss, I don’t own you, have no claim on you, you don’t owe me anything, I can’t tell you what to do or what not to do, I won’t demand anything from you (and why would I want to—you’re a free, brilliant woman)—but you’re my soulmate, (I think I’m pretty sure) which means, you can do whatever the fuck you want, tell me whatever the fuck you want and you cannot fuck this up. I’m going to help you regrow those beautiful wings of yours and get you flying again.”

*

I think missing her sometimes rears up in spectacular ways. It was something chronic this morning. It really was, but that’s OK. I know she’ll get it before she turns off her phone.

Maybe it was the world testing me, daring me to just let it out, enough of the fancy pants literary flourishes, just … I had a couple of hours to ponder with a little more depth than I otherwise would have and concluded that, we are unbreakable.

You know, I didn’t read a word last night. Not one word.

—JustD

*This photo was taken by early colour photographer Ellis Kelsey in the Swiss Alps around 1898, capturing the somwhat sinister silhouette of his sister Edith in an ice cave. She isn’t a Missy to mess with! Enhanced by Stuart Humphryes: known on-line as BabelColour