You are a photographer, you say, huh? You also claim to moonlight as a poet.
Do you know what I see? An insular, lonely and acerbic man. One who does not deal with the real world around him in any meaningful way. Using cameras and words as tools to build his own fiction. Building narratives that lull that feeling of numb, blunt the sting of the truth.
You once told me of a Ted Chiang story (which I still have not read), in which the difference between "talking" and "precise speech" is elucidated. The take away, as I understood it was, "talking" deals with versions, and hence can mean different things to different people, even if the same person says it in similar ways. It's also possible that the "talker" herself wants to give different versions. Versus "precise speech" is where you say things as you saw them, and let others interpret it - a la scribe.
You were always a "talker". You build stories all the time. An auteur with words. You took our real world and made it your story, dear thief.
Models, philosophizing, metaphors - thats all I ever meant to you. I never felt like a vulnerable human being with you. Behind all of this charade, was a fucking wimp of a human being. Someone who stood for nothing. Someone who was always talking, possibly lying via stories, but never listening.
Very often I think of you Tail. Sometimes as much as 500 times a day, or more maybe. You are like a buzz that never leaves my head. In these years as I have stayed away, I have deeply missed you. I have built romantic possibilities and allusions. Yet, I know this, when I do meet you, within a few minutes you will bring my fucking edifice crashing. In a few minutes I will see you again, for what you really are. A weak undercooked dumpling, one that takes the shapes of the plate.
And you always thought I was the one conflicted? Take a pause, my love, anyone who has to deal with half of you, will die of exasperation. The remaining half might be helpful in dumping me six feet under.
You are two faced. Not in an evil sort of way. Yet, being disassociated is baked in into your fabric. You sometimes remind me of the temptation of the poisoned chalice. The meniscus (edge of the cup, dumbo!!) beckons, and yet - the red flame inside forewarns.
Tail, I am handcuffed to you, and yet I steadily choose to stay away. Go figure.
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