To Mine Saturnine Rembrandt, because you could be a justification for anything, including a chronic case of word vomit.
Do tell: Was it 2009 or 2010? Or even last year, or the past few weeks? Was it yesterday that we sat side by side, I fullheartedly choking on the smoke of your “Proust’s madeleine” for the sake of getting brief, rare moments of sublime visuals—for I idolized you that much, and it didn’t seem fair that I got to see the least of you—and you, the way you always were, seeming to be drowning in your dreary shades of contemplative blue; for all I know, in your head, you could have been in Murakamian 1984 Tokyo, with your crazy cats and your fishy rains, or an early foggy morning on the shores of Corsica, waiting for the arrival of a certain seagod as a company to smoke a madeleine with (and while you’re at it, also going down to the business of disscussing the environmental complaints of both your and your seagod’s myriad, omnipresent water-nymphettes: “Mortals made our rivers alike themselves: filthy!” “So many disgusting, unindentifieable poisonous things nowadays!” Though I can relate.), or somewhere in the depths of 1940’s Pacific Northwestern highways, cold mountain air and the sweet scents of evergreen all around you, with your beat generation friends and your beat generation zeal... and I’m just right there, on the side of the body you’ve abandoned for Elsewhere, feeling deeply, just feeling. Ah, my dear Saturn, you taught me the ways of your Kerouacs and your Nabokovs, that it would be a shame for me not to write in long sentences (though I must say it’s also a pleasure I’m guilty of; wordplay I’m an amateur of). So was it yesterday, or was it that we see time as just a stupid, mercurial successions of fixed stills, like your Bergsen said it was?
Because if it’s true, that it’s as subjectively mercurial as your personal undercaffeinated ex-nymphette is, then it would explain how after years and years, I am still madly in the hell of, you know, whatever that thing was that Plato and his buddies discussed so passionately in Symposium. For it sure was an eternal hell for me; almost ten years now and I never quite found a way out (I’d like to believe that ten earthen years are much longer and more painful, in a way, then ten infernal years). Do you know that I believe there is a part of you in everything I see, I feel? You used to be some kind of an all-encompassing deity for me, and I searched for you in every single person I see. I’m not quite sure of what I’ve found. But I looked for you everywhere, and I’m never satisfied.
Until these last days. Though I’m not quite sure. I think, Rembrandt, that I’ve found a piece of you in someone I just got to know recently—I can point out so many similarities. Although he’s quite like a more of those contingent ones. It’s starting to seem desperate. Yesterday I saw so many little signs—I interpret so many daily little daisy things to what I’m hoping to find. I’m hoping to see you in that drowsy, peacefully hanging branch of a tree filtering four o’clock sunrays, and I thought I did. I’m hoping to hear you on the breaking, cooing voice of the morning thunders—my favourite!—and I thought I did. It rained for a while as I went out of my front door to the perch, leaning my body on the steel fences so I could look up, as further as I can because I’m desperate, desperate to find something although, really, what was I hoping to find by looking up at the sky while it’s raining in the morning? An Argoan spaceship, piloted by you, whose crews hope to get me to elope and bring the glad tidings of my secret space-dragon-slaying fate, all Gabriel-like? “Our Illustrious Warrior Astika, come hither, aboard the ship, joineth us and embraceth thy heroic, universe-commanded space-warrior fate”?
Yes, because that’s what happens daily on our universe—oh, honey, how we long to escape! How we sure long so painfully to get away from the arschloch , our lovely enemy reality, that our souls lean out of our bodies, becoming a lusty, juicy sight for all the devils in the world that they like so, so much to be around us. That’s probably why hell followed us wherever we went, my dear Saturn, especially with you trailing all that black dusts reeking of anger. Anger. How fallible you were you to anger—or are you, still? Like Rembrandt, dark and festive it was: dark, for it was saturated with so much violence, and festive, for it was adorned with sparks of your downturns—you were an all-star.
I love you for all those faults you are, violent and all-starred. I love you in flames. I still love you even though I’m far deep and lost into some other soul’s wild alleys, disoriented, still thinking that I’m in the same lane of a city I once visited, years ago. I love you despite and because you brought me into the black, lightless place—Öd’ und leer das Meer, I love you despite and because everything. They say it’s not love. They say the right kind of love will only awaken you, impregnate you with the zeal of living. But I do! It has its own kind of sufferance, but how I do want to live, Rembrandt! I never felt so sure of myself. I don’t want to live—I already am! I am as alive as young Achilles in the Mount of Pelion, vowing to his lover Patroclus that he will be the first hero to live happily. Though dying is only another great option—something more peaceful, where I can love you even more without complexities, without the silly burdens of the world; while all the world is loud and bright and busy with itself, I am in rest, finally unattached from anything that could rot and stink, and in love.
It is not just to destroy; it is to enliven through destroying the self.
I don’t believe in those versions of God(s) who punishes and prizes with Heavens and Hells, but if God(s) truly is, or are, like what they conceive him to be, then heaven would be filled with those hateful, envious, mundane, insufferable creatures with ungodly tastes of living and a flair to hate everyone in which they see nothing of resemblance to themselves, and I don’t want to be anywhere near them, especially in a very long time period like eternity.
If what they consider to be “good” deeds are the prerequisites for heaven, then I’d rather lose. If God truly is like what they say, that those things are sinful and those things are not, then we’re irredeemably marked and reserved for hell, for if I am only one thing, then it’s that I want to live the way I want to. Fascilis descensus averni, the descent into hell is easy; to unfitting lowlifes like we were, it was not even easy. It was inevitable. We belong to all the nine circles of Dante’s hell. If God truly is what they wrote on those books they clutch so proudly to their chests, then let this imminent, transitory world be my paradise, because only in this part of all the existence of my soul was I allowed to hold your hand. If all of those bigots are true, then this: let us meet in hell, if this all-righteous God permits us to. My love, my Saturn, my dark and festive Rembrandt, let us hopefully have our reunion in this God’s hell.
Have a good “sinful” day,
Your coffee nymph
