The magic gloves, Horizons and the effect a beautiful woman still can have on me
from "The World According to Garp" by John Irving:
"It's very simple. He can do wonders when he's wearing his magic gloves. If his wife is sad, he touches her with his gloves, she's happy. If his children are crying, he touches them, and they smile. But he can't feel them! He yearns to feel. He can even hold off death with his magic gloves, but he can't feel life. "
from "White Satin Nights" by William F. DeVault:
"why can't I touch love?
are the gloves really cursed?
...
self-pitying questions
that belong but to me...
moments that burn out
on the Avalon sea.
music and magic...
everyone can recall...
but I've never known them...
no soft spirits' call."
You're never more alive than when you can see the bars on your cage, when you can feel them against your skin, hear the ringing echoes as you beat your fists against them.
I once had a friend who told me she was sure she was dead, because she was in so much pain. I told her that pain was proof of life, not death. Its when we stop feeling we know we are dead.
I'm not dead. Except, in a curious way, inside. I believe in happy endings, for others. I believe in hope and peace and love. For others. Atlas with a pen, holding up the sky, but never really able to appreciate it, arms stretched out and legs locked, back bent and so, so sore. Providing the word music for lovers, but from memory. Ancient memories. Memories with the crisp and sharp scent of decay and funereal oils.
The other day I felt it, the movement inside me. I heard the sound of stone on steel, as a spark was struck. But I was not of a heart to feed that flame, to nurture it, to build something. I heard an old acquaintance, a woman I had known in high school and had a terrible crush on, speak of their dead spouse in glowing terms and I was envious. Envious of both her and of him. I heard an old friend say that were his wife to ever die, he would kill himself in grief, and I celebrated his need for her.
My friend Thomas, I call him Saint Thomas, was right. I do not seem to need, to hunger, for someone, and thus I am alone. He calls me the most fearless man he's ever known. I would trade it all for the desperation of my friend who can't imagine life beyond his wife's.
I'd like to blame that all on my second wife, but I can't. I have been dead inside for longer than that marriage limped along.
No, not dead. Pain is proof of life. I have been in pain that long, too blistered and torn and cut and bruised to trust my heart. Living on the periphery of love, unable to trust, to relax, to surrender. Filling my belly with morsels and mould. Holy crap. Another line from "Horizon" has been fulfilled.
How does it go, again?
"there was a season
when I was stronger."
Yes, I recall...
"when days lasted longer and wind filled my sails."
Yes.
"there was a reason
for love's trial and error."
Purpose. That's what there was.
"ghosts in the mirror were yesterdays' tales."
So many ghosts, so may beautiful ghosts.
"the winds now are memory.
hope and illusion.
pain and confusion inherit my gold."
I can read this several ways, including a frighteningly cryptic path.
"but I, I shall live on
the crusts stained with jelly,
filling my belly with morsels and mould."
I am sustained by table scraps and memories, hm?
"there is yet a season,
with dragons returning,
the fires yet burning shall lift to the skies."
Really? Now that would be something to see...a season yet left?
"there must be a reason
to seek the horizons.
to sail for the islands with unclouded eyes."
New purpose presents itself, does it?
"my sails are of iron. the sun is my shepherd.
and I am the leopard.
the lion. the beast."
I know that. I think I always knew that.
"alone at the tiller. I seek no more portage."
That doesn't mean I won't find it, I just am not actively seeking it.
"the winds of an old rage
shall yet drive me east."
And there's the puzzle. East to where? or have I already fulfilled that passage by returning to Morgantown? What "old rage"? I could make some ex-wife jokes...but...I will sleep on this.
But at least I understand the "morsels and mould" passage now. You know, I wrote this pieece in the mid-eighties. Did I see forward or have I lived, preconsciously, to fulfill?
I wish I knew. Or, maybe I'd rather not.
