How far into the darkness does one go to court the muse?

That title -- moribund and silly -- has stuck with me the past few days. My teacher, Katherine Kurs, in my Death and Mourning class pulled it out after a girl read her 'encounter with death' paper that involved a friend committing suicide.

How far into the darkness does one go to court the muse?

How can one look at death -- or life -- constantly and not feel the impulse towards ending existence? Towards ceasing.

Each note I've written in that class has a pseudo-profound feel to it. 'denial is not necessarily denial, sometimes people believe.' (Joan Didion's husband's shoes -- he'd need them to walk) -- 'we exist closer with memories (are they counter-productive to acceptance?) than we do with the dead bodies we see' -- 'victims of the dead' (those left behind) 'dealing with the belongings of the dead triggers revisionist history' 'one cannot be angry 'with' a dead person, only angry 'at' -- another time when the tense must change. A likes -> A liked'

'losing mind or losing body?
'who do the wishes of the dead belong to? need they be honored?'
'Dead change status of living.'

The last is a line that we read in a paper (an anthropologist/granddaughter was studying the death of a town in Santa Maria, Spain -- meanwhile her Jewish grandfather was dying in Florida -- which was at odds with her Cuban upbringing) -- she starts to discuss memory (a fascinating topic in and of itself) and quotes Curteau*:

Memory is played by circumstances, just as a piano is played by a musician and music emerges from it when its keys are touched by the hands. Memory is a sense of the other.


I think that is one of the most true things I have ever read... A pleasant memory, tainted by the circumstances surrounding the remembering. (Right now: Alex and myself, after prom, coming into a greyed NYC to sit in Washington Square Park and eat crepes -- his? dulce de leche, chocolate, and some other fruit/vegetable... mine? brie, onion, turkey... -- It is only sad now that I've started to accept/understand the idea of 'outliving your use' and 'growth' -- although I'm still a fervent denier.)

In fact -- the term 'death' is tossed around so often, but with such reverence (when used seriously) that I often forget that it is applicable to life -- rather, to events in life. The death of phases -- the death of loves. They are cessations ... they are just as filled with impact and importance. To have a relationship, effectively, die -- is to have to live with the corpse tied around the back. Each moment is an opportunity for another moment to have happened. The funny looking woman with the really furry boots could have been something -- could have been a significant inside joke or memory -- but is instead trapped inside the singularity of one head. The oppressive inability to tell somebody -- somebody who simply 'cares' -- that "I saw a woman funny looking woman with really furry boots yesterday, while crossing 9th street." -- Something one might tell a dead person, or a dead person who is still alive, or a person to whom you are dead.

I guess that is a tad bit... extreme. A tad bit unnecessary.

Of course, in starting this new venture into Blog-dome, I can't really help but wonder if I should focus on the facts (mundane... the blog acting as a living lover) -- or the thoughts (what has been written here would fall into the category of 'thoughts' or 'pondering' or something alogn those lines)...

Facts: I woke up at 8:30 (Justin got back into the room around 5 am after clubbing all night) -- I got up, got dressed (in the black and white specked sweater I bought at Old Navy on a whim, my tight-ish, dark blue pants -- the teal underwear, the Timberland boots that now have salty and un-tie-able laces) and walked to Starbucks. Today I want to run at the YMCA (because every moment I'm not there, I could be there) but my back feels annoyed with me ... and I'm not sure if it would be worth the walk. I'm not sure if the endorphins would properly come. Or, if I really feel like showering afterwards and the tiredness that accompanies a walk there, a run there, an elliptical, and a walk back.

I also have these concerns: the amount of work I have and the hectic schedule I have next week (kinda) -- whether or not I am returning to New Jersey tonight/whether or not I am going to go to Meryl's dorm tonight (If I'm to go home, I want to be home -- I want to sleep in my bed and think my thoughts without accompaniment) ... I also have the concern about whether or not I should text Alex telling him that I can, in fact, meet him for coffee at Starbucks around 12.

These are the worries that keep me dreading tomorrow -- the A, B, or C of it all. The circumstances surrounding each decision. The endorphins that will or will not come. The heart spasm that may or may not come today. The pure flimsiness of it all.

And so I'll run. And so I'll text Alex (asking for 12:30). And so I'll probably go back home ... and feel guilty/shitty with or without Meryl's dorm.

I am goddamn tired, and I feel like today I'm being attacked by conflicts. (And at the YMCA, on the treadmill, I feel attacked by the women who want to use it and who look at me envying my taut skin.)

But that might be unreal -- that cannot be classified as 'thought' or 'fact'.

(Who knows if I'll post here again?)

*I think it was him -- I remember a 'C' was involved and the name was vaguely French-sounding.