This is a continuation of the first passage on entropy. It picks up a bit after the first couple of paragraphs. I don’t always feel happy with writing, especially when I’m writing the same thing over and over and I have a deadline to attend to. I wish I could write about something else, but it is really difficult to do so at the moment. There are just too many powerfully associative memories about this piece, and I need to get them out:
Whatever love is, it is certainly disorder and chaos. To move from a state of chaos to order is to move from love to whatever comes afterwards – absence, recrimination, silence.
Leave the floor untouched for a week and entropy sets in. A man’s unwashed hair, tangled with sweat and dirt, takes on the consistency of oil. Her eyes reflected my face within their brown irises. We slept in her bed, ensconced in silk sheets underneath her sister, who slept in the bed above. Her hands, like elevators, traveled up and down my body, then his. We were ravenous.
All the men wear similar shirts and my mind is confused. Striped affairs, purple on off-white, they pursue me in my dreams. Which was it?
I concentrate on the happy and familiar, the touch of her fingers on my face, the photographs she took as I was asleep, or awake with a pink satin sheet pulled over my face, hidden from view, only my smiling eyes visible.
Sometimes, I’m told, ambiguity is the best stylistic device. Whether or not I love her, whether or not this mountain has crumbled into the sea, the issue is debatable only on the macroscopic level of time. When I write by hand, my words contain the mark of an advanced writer – the individual letters rushed, smudged, dashing – the overall effect one of speed and movement, as if each word has already been written in the mind, and must be put down on the page as a simple placeholder, a single step on the journey to completion.
Another photo shows us turning to dust, then to coal and eventually fuel, the graves dug up or eroded into the soil. This brings a whole new meaning to carbon dating.
Bitten by a German shepherd who lived under the house, she was to be driven to the hospital but didn’t even leave her own driveway, her brother’s car hit by someone in passing, like an afterthought. A suburban afterthought, like sexual abuse, revealed only to me, like something given as a virtue of trust. The responsibility lies with me.
Every truth she told me could be further dissembled from her face. The day we went to San Francisco, friends shined a laser to the top of a seventy story building, her face told me most of the truth she’d later reveal. One single spectacular truth, one single etching on her face, on our merged faces, connected by lips and noses, cheeks and ears and eyes exchanged in perpetuity. She always wanted plastic surgery to account for the flaws she witnessed in the mirror, flaws which I kissed and, to her ecstatic surprise, reveled in, revered.