Up To Date: Heavens To Betsy

Three times I sat and wrote. This is what I have ended up with. A lot is missing. But that too was the point. The challenge was to produce a fragment. My constraint was time, mental focus and of course, my ability to feel. 

"Chelsea, why do you think people only tell us half of what they know?"

It's everything, they think.

"But why show us only half of what they feel?"

They feel they should be a mystery.

"Why, Chelsea, why be that?"

They think others will feel they mean more. 

"But they don't, do they?"

Gabe, why do you think I know?

projecting concern, displacement feared.

I am isolated, but not lonely. I am inside myself, but on the outside I am visibly touching you. I feel isolation in the instant of our touch. In each other’s eyes, we are not moving, but I come to mind elsewhere. At home, he lies on his back. A big body in a twin bed. His hands cradle his head. Against the pillow, his arms look like wings. They might be arrows. It’s just a vision and isn’t determined by what he thinks. He’s thinking I haven’t called. He cannot not remind himself of this as night fades to light. “She hasn’t called. She said she would. She didn’t call.” We are always far from where we expect ourselves to be. He’s looking for clarity, but hasn’t made a difference. I don’t feel bad. He isn’t even moving. He’s just lying there, waiting, rewinding, pausing, but never advancing. With others, I have the potential to be all around; even if at the moment, I am touched by you. I want to be committed, but I am always fleeing. They say shadows take to skin, I am afraid of becoming attached. On Friday, Gabe told me he had been alone all day. It was nighttime now. I asked him how it felt. “Not like anything. I was depressed. I am always depressed after snorting drugs. In the morning, I couldn’t move. I sat on my bed and didn’t have a thought. It was the first time I couldn’t think at all.” I asked him how it felt. 

“Not like anything. I may be addicted.” 

Already? 

“These things are immediate.” 

What things? 

“Chelsea, I’m desperate.”

*

They depended upon me. “We, the characters, came from her language.” My story depends upon them. Sure, I could make them up. But once they were dreamt, they were alive—always, somewhere—now. My life was at risk too. If they were to go, disappear, vanish, be forgotten I couldn’t prevent part of my being from dying also.

Was I, the authorial God hovering over the text, speaking through or for the characters? Did I need them to go further, before they needed me? Were they puppets? Could I make them dance? Storytelling is a projection. Few make this connection, because they are too seduced into listening or watching the mouth move and forget to listen entirely. I don’t know where anyone actually is, but I imagine they are not where they appear or how they seem. Here’s a secret: nothing in mind hasn’t been discovered in sense. I am not creative. I use what I have because what I have is all I can think to use. There are no stories that haven't been already thought in some form or another. Which is why I lick the backside of you, like a stamp, and see if I can deliver you to some place you never expected you’d be taken.

Within the instant, there is no linearity. Figures are non-narrative. As soon as the eye blinks, images become anew. The mind collapses these fragments, attempting to restore a scene and develop a memory. But as fragments, a figure is the closest it will ever be to truth. There are many in one and it’s the same situation for all; we are a bit broken up. They have no time. They are lovers. The instant is all they desire to keep. “Now, now, now” can be heard when the wrist is brought to the ear. Tongues pursuing you, you, you, me, my, us. We are engaged in the instant, denying and yet motivated by the reality: this moment is unmatchable. I told you, dare me to be committed to the moment. And look how I behave!—thinking I heard you say, “I dare you to tell me the truth.”

It is certainly difficult to judge, and almost impossible to escape so I can show you what I have in mind. Clarity doesn’t already cling to me as I make meaning. It only follows, which isn’t soon enough. Does that mean I can't be listened to? Tell me if my writing looks like scribbles—a child’s art project drawn with a black Crayola. As a kid I was very serious. I saw in contrast. People don’t change; they only become more of who they are. Have I told you that? I never look back at what I wrote. It was written, that is enough for me. At the time I am confident it is manic musings, genius if provided the chance to be read into. Do I and/or you care? About what? 

“I’m desperate.” 

Who? 

“All of us.”

*

I saw you (and by you I mean him, but you will feel more connected if you think this is all about you) for the first time outside the city. Greenpoint, I think it was. Six randoms sat in the backyard around a picnic table. Others grilled meat, drenched their hot dogs in relish, gargled with “mystery juice”. I was on the outside looking in. Talking but never connecting. Engaged, but that was only how I looked. Inside I was waiting for you. Waiting for someone to know me, to save me from myself. It was an eclectic mix of partygoers. I came to meet a friend’s boyfriend. Well, that’s what she thought. I had my own reason. I came to document moments I would otherwise not see. I had a strange sense we were always being framed and attached to us was a reflection people took us as. My lens cap was always off. Photography is a mirror facing time. People are projections. Eyes don’t speak, but they are the reason we have expectations. The other mediums of art are translations. Translations of time and the people breathing its air. It sounds profound, but it’s only things we are focused on. Things—it sounds superficial, when heard on its own.

Everyone was shit faced. And underneath the sound of their fists banging the wooden tabletop, wrists flinging sake bombs backwards down throats and bongs bubbling filthy water, I could hear myself more deeply. Who was this interior narrator? I always wanted to know. Something. Anything. Even just her name. She was talking to me always and I didn’t even have to answer back. It was a relationship where I didn’t have to be so involved. I liked her because of this.

On the opposite end of the bench, I could hear you talk about your writing. You sounded like you may match my intensity. My eyes couldn’t just pass over you. I stared, wanting you, wanting to know you. See if what you wrote was worth talking about while everyone was shit faced, laughing and looking to score. I took 23 pictures of people highfiving. What were you thinking? I never asked. Maybe you watched me when the camera was over my eye, and thought I’d be the perfect woman to lie down on the page. Maybe you chose me because your other character, the leading lady, turned out to be uninspiring halfway into the novel, and now you needed a quick replacement, a rush of sensations. Something to charge your writing. Make your fingers dance. We were the same, yet different. Like you, I am flooded by language. But as I watched you, listened as you tried to announce your future, I only had hope. Hoped if you would let me know you, you could change my life.

You had nothing to do with my writing.

*

A pleasure to meet you, Gabe. “The pleasure is all mine.” Ten days after, you called wanting coffee.

“Chelsea, it feels like it has taken forever to reach you.” But my voice is always just a phone call away. “What are you doing?”
When?
“Right now.”
Writing.
“A story?”
Fragments toward the whole.
“Come have coffee with me. I’ll give you a plot.”

But it is the climax I need.

What do you look like? I’ve forgotten and remember only what matters. I walk by the window, unaware you are watching through the glass. I am rushing to meet you. The coffee shop is almost empty, but it will fill and we will still find ourselves isolated, becoming closer to each other. From the corner, you look up at me framed inside the doorway. This will be the only instant you act during our entire engagement. 2 months and 17 days. For us it will have felt longer and the quantity of time will hold no meaning. Remember, you saw me in the third dimension, when I was on the outside. You knew we were almost together. But with your head down, for a moment you appeared like you had not been waiting or looking for me. I forgive you. We are all self-conscious.

*

Have you been here long?
“Yes, no.”
You have?
“No, no, not more than an instant.”
Oh god, I’m sorry. Recently, I’ve been behind on life. This was a fragment.
“Are you unfulfilled?”
Sorry, I practically ran here. Remind me, what are we talking about?
“Your writing. Your life.”
Oh, yes yes yes, of course. But they are both separate.
“Are they?”
They should be. But my answer is the same. If fulfilled means finished. Then yes, I am unfulfilled with my writing and my life.

Help me remember. How did you look? Blonde hair. More dark than light. But wouldn’t that be brown? I’ve never been attracted to blondes. So okay, you have brown hair. Green eyes matching my own. Did this help us see the same? Tall, yes you are tall. Taller than I was use to, but I can get use to it. I did get use to it. Now it's a preference. Your body just hung there, loose. And I remember seeing your chest. A sliver of it. Enough to make me wonder. Were you encouraging me to follow you home? I didn’t ask. I did so anyways—on my own accord.

I drank coffee. You had tea.

I thought you came for coffee.
“I came for you.”
Oh, okay.

You looked like you hadn’t expected me. Expected me to be like this. Candid. You are right. I didn’t expect myself to be this way either. But you did something to me. I changed around you. Immediately. Or rather, I was more myself, which was a change and an accomplishment from the usual circumstance. You helped me stay inside myself. Together we communicated that and from there.

I thought you would have charm.
“Chelsea, you have no qualms saying anything that is on your mind.”
Should I be careful?
“Not around me.”
Well, I just figured since you’re a man, you would use your charm. You know, to get me to like you, to keep me interested. But so far you are only a voice. Completely unaware of your body.
“What if that’s the charm?”
What if, Gabe. What if. 

Remind me of the outside. How you appeared. Your shirt, your skin tone, even the type of tea you drank. I can’t remember the truth or everything that is real. Tell me anything, so the story can be more colorful. See, I never thought visions. I thought words. My desire was to collapse time between myself and another. It was more exacting. More intensified. I wanted intimacy. I wanted it all around. I am a writer. I am a human being. I need to feel. Everything else is a projection, and that washed away, disappeared each time I closed my eyes. What is left is fragments, scars of stories stored in my mind, a memory bank of hot flashes. Anything outward had to come inside to last. I took in feelings. I translated the larger reality, and kept a more specific truth. Fragments, you may decide. But who were you to assume something was missing from my story? What I mention is what matters most to me. And really it is all I have. As I write this, I am letting myself give it away.

*

To get closer to another and have our skin touch, we could not let our flesh fool us. This required a risk of some sort on the other’s behalf. I couldn’t ask anyone to take this chance. It [simply] had to happen, against our will and yet as a result of our will, too. And when it did, I always reflected thoughtfully on who that person was to and for me. I thought of how we were together. In the coffee shop, we seemed like we had known each other always. But we knew nothing. We only felt we could, that we were learning, getting somewhere faster than usual.

You became more than memorable—now, to me, you are unforgettable. I wish I could let myself engage in judgment on the page. Then I could make a record of your appearance, your mannerisms, the exterior scene. I wish I could quote you accurately. But whenever someone captivates me, I don't have those things because instead, a feeling is effectuated. They existed in the moment and in the mind as an interior translation. A feeling, a sensation. They provided me with more sense, than accessory detail. How could I possibly show a feeling? How could you, from a feeling, read me and imagine a face—a face I am not even thinking of, for it isn’t how I remember you. It is your touch I return to every time. Remind me, what did you look like?

You are absolutely attractive, that much I know. But it isn’t a result of the visual. I saw the sense or rather felt your sense before I became visually aware. And at the point my sight became active, the two perceptions were already inextricably mingled. So is that what it is? You are unforgettable because I retained the feeling of you, which was immediately intriguing and made me forget to be impressed by your face.

I desperately want to see you as you touch me. But the lights are always off and you are half of what you could be. I am making out with a shadow.

*

“The thing about life is it’s all based on perception. You and I can sit here discussing thoughts until there are no more beans to brew, but we aren’t going to change the ways of the world.”
I don’t know what to do about it. I guess it’s why I’m stuck. Stuck in the middle of a world of words.
“All you can do is tell someone how you feel. Otherwise, you’ll remain the way they see you. Scary, huh?”
What if I feel I think too much?
"Chelsea, what if I told you I could talk to you forever?"

And I followed you home. Wanting to know you, discover us, in another place in time.

*

Once we reached your room, I felt I never left. My body was always there. Waiting while you spoke. Touching you in silence. In Manhattan, one of every two apartments has a tenant that lives alone. There are also bedrooms without windows. You can only see beyond what you imagine could be there. We never minded. It kept us out of time. And was a good reason to never leave. When I left, I never felt you were without me. For three weeks we kissed upside down. Mouth over mouth, passing breath from one body to another. It’s an unbelievable rush. And even more extraordinary was what we hadn’t fathomed: we could survive if were attached and breathing in the same air.

But still, there were things I didn’t know. Gaps I got lost in. Like what happened before me? Who was lying on your bed then? Why wouldn’t you tell me? I swore I wouldn’t mind, but you kept trying to teach me to care. I did care, but not about that.

Tell me who you were.
“But I’m not that way.”
You’re missing the point. You are this way because of then.
“Chelsea, I’ve told you everything. I guess it isn’t what you want to know.”

I just didn’t want summaries. And everything began to feel that way, like you were walking around the core when all I asked was for you to enter it. Was the truth that avoidable? I’d watch you write, and I’d come up with clever ideas. A few lines. How often you used the restroom. If you ate the moment you woke. Whether you napped on your side. Asked you how it felt sleeping on your stomach.

Are you able to breathe?
“Of course or I wouldn’t do it.”

I wrote that down too. Notes and notes. I was building character. One day, you said it made you nervous, that you were becoming too self-conscious. But I am harmless. I didn’t understand the conflict of interests.

I just want to do everything I can to make sure my memory is accurate.
“What memory? You always imply that one day you are going to be up and gone.”
Gabe, strange things happen all the time.
“Not to me.”

You became more involved with your novel. Never letting me read it because it wasn’t good enough yet. Remember that night, you read a passage from Chapter 13 aloud? I wrote it down. It was gorgeous and daring. So fleshed out, like poetry. Anyone could have mistaken it for reality.

Her mind was always a fixed condition
She controlled how often she smiled
How often you laughed.
She had the power to not let anyone just be.

Somehow I felt better because of her
My gestures and mind were separate no longer
They moved in a single wake.

Quantity was restricted,
But I sensed there was reason for everything
And held back because
Quality became something else
Ecstasy, maybe.

When we let ourselves go
We saw each other at our best.
It was then I felt
My body was outside control.

She’d let her hair fall over mirrors,
A curtain across her face
So I couldn’t see her double
She said I may fall in love.

Breathing everything in
Up she’d come, head high with something
Close to a smile.

Unguarded in her underwear,
I loved her most.
Calling—
“My gossamer girl”
I needed her closer.

You never call me your gossamer girl.
“That’s because you’re my nut muffin.”
Then, who is your gossamer girl?
“She isn’t mine. She’s a character. She’s the story’s.”

It was fiction right? Or maybe that one line, “My gossamer girl” was a fragment that bared no truth and the rest was really about me. Everything felt like a mystery. I felt I couldn’t access you, that your opacity was obscured. I went missing in the darkness. Silence suffocated me. Our relationship depended upon what we offered up. We were what we revealed, just as you had said at the coffee shop. And each time you left me curious, I felt you were depriving me of meaning, that you were holding me back from what mattered.

*

From then on when we kissed I couldn’t feel your lips. Your tongue was half awake. I couldn’t remember why I was there. What made me stay? Had we exposed our feelings too soon? And now we didn’t have any? Did we share all our thoughts and now we didn’t speak because we were insecure we’d sound repetitious? Seven times during one week, you entered me and I could tell we both knew you were feeling my inside, how warm I am there, while I was only experiencing your outer shell, your unbearable weight. Was it true, that the unsaid cheats one out of pleasure?

“Chelsea, will you miss me when you’re gone?”
I’m not leaving.
“That’s what they all say. You're already going.”
Whose they?
“All of us.”

*

The day before I left, you asked if I missed you. I said I am always nostalgic. And you asked me to come to bed.

I slept with you for the last time. The night kept me awake. It was too black. Powerful. Profound. I thought of what had happened. How we fell in and fell out. How love is a story I would never be able to tell. It rushes past you. It’s impossible to get it all down. I tried, but maybe I had written down too many thoughts. Maybe I had tried to remember the details and forgot to isolate the feelings. You breathed easily through your dreams. You thought of something better. In boredom, I drew an arrow from your navel down and wrote, “He helps me think.”

In the morning, I woke practically thrown from your bed.

“What’s this about?”
I couldn’t sleep. I was restless. I didn’t mean it.
“Of course you did or you wouldn’t have wrote it.”
Gabe, it’ll come right off. I promise.
“It’s permanent, Chelsea. This is all so goddamn permanent.”

And you threw the sharpie against the wall. I left, never really looking back. When I was on my way, I was going, going, gone. Two days went by. Ten days went by. I drank tea at the coffee shop. Wrote some lines. Fragments, which made it possible to forget the whole truth—to select my story—to reorganize the last 2 months and 17 days of my life and turn it into a memory that was bearable if I was ever tempted to remind myself.

On the 23rd day, you called.

“I told you you would leave.”
No, you told me to leave.
“I have to see you.”
When?
“Right now.”
I can’t, I’m writing.
“You always are, but you still haven’t started your story.”
It’s coming along.
“Barely. Chelsea, please see me. I’ll give you your story.”

*

This time you were waiting for me when I walked in. You were wearing all white with red high-tops. Two mugs of coffee were set on the table. I have no idea why you were behaving this way.

What’s going on?
“Can’t I get a hello first?”
Hi. What’s up?
“How are you? What have you been doing?”
Writing, sleeping around, writing. You know me, the usual. Why what’s up?
“You’ve slept with someone else?”
I’m allowed to aren’t I?
“How does it feel?”
Erotic. Distanced. Unattainable. Poorly evoked.
“Sounds terrible.”
Yeah, it’s not half bad. Now really, what’s this all about?
“I’ve just been alone all day. I was alone yesterday, too. And the day before that and the..well..ever since you left, I’ve just kind of being hanging out. Trying to finish my novel. I was so close to being done. But now all I can think about is how lonely I am.”
What does it feel like?
“Impossible to describe. Like nothing I have ever known.”
Maybe you should be seeing someone.
“I want you back.”
No, I mean, someone professional. Therapy. You even look different.
“Nah, it’s all artificial. Real egocentric. You know Chelsea, I’ve been doing a lot of drugs since you left. I never had before, but it helps. Not all the time. But it really makes a difference in the instant.”
That’s not good, Gabe. That’s not good at all.
“It is until the morning. But it doesn’t help that I have been all alone.”
What happened this morning?
“I couldn’t move. I sat on my bed and didn’t have a thought. It was the first time I couldn’t think at all.”
How did it feel?
“Not like anything. I may be addicted.”
Already?
“These things are immediate.”
What things?
“Chelsea, I’m desperate.”

(edit - Overslept. At times Manhattan barely makes a sound. You look out: there are buildings, an unmovable sky and time is still. You think, "But New York City is always supposed to be moving, making noise, never sleeping." But nothing is supposed to be anything. You determine what a place is - you can make it whatever you want. For me, Manhattan was not what I expected, which could possibly mean it was better. It was a relationship for sure. It had its upsides and downsides. But I needed it. And tried not to anticipate becoming distanced from it; for it was then, I knew, I would want it most. The Science Section is my favourite section of The New York Times. And low and beyond, today an article by NATALIE ANGIER on Touch being "The Indispensable Sense". My dream is to be reviewed for isolating such sensations - to write a novel where touch guided vision, determined relations and defined reality. I want meditation - lines that aren't perfected, edit after edit. I want "stories" to be an interior display. Since, it is those truths that distance us from our self and the other. And I want to start there first, so the intimate is not so unbearable and seeing out does not carry so much weight. Also, an article about Scorpios, which hands down is influencing my next work. I never have been one to follow astrology but read some of it, and you'll see, there are many stories just waiting to be written.)