I get paralyzed sometimes. My body submerges in forty feet of isolation and sixty feet of water, but never drowning, never even fearing drowning, but only floating in deep history. Perhaps Romeo and Juliet, maybe Tristan and Isolde, maybe Catherine and Heathcliff felt this intense folie à deux too. Maybe amongst the playpen, the crossing paths at Crembebe', the egg hunts in front of the Holy Temple in the days before Christ, we remember meeting one another. Maybe at the Parthenon, maybe we remember meeting at the Parthenon. Or maybe we're just a bunch of people falling down a place from where we can't be retrieved. Maybe we're stuck here for good.
I listen to the sounds of the Gypsy Kings and the Volare and the Bamboleo, reminiscing the man who has spent majority of his life searching for his long lost La Maga, rummaging the streets of Montevideo and Artigas and into a country that lends itself to the incubus and paranoias of fiction because love and life and death is everywhere. It's everywhere.
Because we're all lost aren't we? We can't choose what stays and what fades and we can't even predict the revelation and the revolution, and it's not even a conversation we want to think about really. But there has to be someone looking, someone searching for us. Maybe we can find ourselves a nice antique rocking chair to rock in or maybe one of those days when we're unshowered and unadorned and sleeping in a tent built of duvets and pillows to hide in, the one person we've been longing for will wake us. Someone, somewhere, is longing for our crazy ideas and graniloquent needs and the paralysis of lying with us in that perfect insane asylum of a tent and under those perfect, white crisp sheets. Someone could walk into that very room and say our life was on fire and we would remain motionless, still waiting.
The time has made us so damn warm, hasn't it? But it feels good. The good shit hurts, but it hurts so good because someone, somewhere, someday is starving for our copy. Someone has sniffed us out and sensed our emotional rawness and saw us across that crowded room and found us because some things are just meant to be. Someone has craved for that dirty sip of our martini and for that single opporutunity to suck on our green olive. Someone has made us the very thing that sedates them into happiness and into a victory march filled with cold love and a broken hallelujah.
Because F. Scott will always recognize his Zelda. F. Scott will always find his Zelda somewhere, even with no poems, no prose, no words.
