Peeling back the skin on the custard, watching it pull against the tepid, luminous liquid it covers like a scab, seeing it tear a little...feeling it stick to the roof of my mouth, and retching as it worms its vile way down my throat, not quite slipping smoothly down but getting caught between my mouth and my oesophagus. The acrid smell of vomit, catching my soft palate and making my mouth water with vinegary saliva in preparation for more. The days have come, as I predicted, the days of tearing and breaking and becoming One again... Again? Just Becoming One. The moment of separation is here.
Posh has moved into her new house with the boys, and I am now legally homeless. I have cried for 4 days, as together we packed up the final pieces of our life together...mine are in storage, hers are her business, and the wax model of our joined hands has been buried. I had wanted to be out of the relationship for some time, feeling intensely the suffocation that she brought...the pull she had over me (...indeed, that I allowed her to have...), and yearning for the freedom to Be One. But now that freedom is here it seems like such a vast expanse of space and nothingness that I don't know where to start, or what to make of it. So where is my Hero today?
If I've learned anything about nothing, it is that there is always something. A vacuum always attracts space from a place of higher pressure; the only void is a black hole and even that has a name; the only silence is in death, but even then there is the munching of the maggots. I have tried hard not to feel anything for the last few days....I have longed to feel nothing, trying to block out the Unbearable Weight of Sadness with drink and drugs, but to no avail.
My life begins again next week: my things arrive on Tuesday, and my Moon in Cancer will be glad for the creature comforts. I will have survived, and I will become my own Hero. I will.
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4 comments:
That first paragraph was extremely vivid. Do you have a re-occuring dream about drowning in stale custard?
Vivid was certainly the intention...No recurring dreams about custard - nothing quite that exciting; I believe I'm right in saying this is Kristeva's own analogy for the idea of abjection, and an effective one too since so many people are so deeply disgusted by that milky skin. What are your feelings about it?
Custard, mostly evokes primeval disgust at the yellow sludge served at my school table. I've re-educated my palate a bit since then, but that early experience cannot be eradicated. "You look at the gravy/all lumpy and still/if that doesn't get you/the custard will."
Indeed - the experience of many of us, I fear! And clearly one that informs Kristeva's analogy and makes it as effective as it is. Thanks for dropping by.
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