Sublime

That word is yours now. Even if I never see you again, even if you fall into the ocean or get hit by a speeding tricycle, even if you pass directly from the solid to the vapor state and condense back to solid form and this somehow keeps you from contacting me in the future, that word belongs to you. And it won’t be your face that I see in my mind’s eye when the word find me in conversation, or even in passing, or on the wind, or in the bottom of a barrel shot full with holes, I will no more see your face then you (and now I) see a solid passing to a vapor back to a solid when we think of the word. That definition is unimportant. It lacks aesthetics. It isn’t (I don’t think) what you would have me conjure. It is relevant only perhaps within the confines of a splendid magic trick; a dove exploding into a cloud of smoke then appearing alive and well under our table. The explosion is sublime. The dead dove crushed under the magician’s hat is sublime. The blue ribbon of course goes to the live dove, flapping its wings in victory. He will have his turn in the hat tomorrow. I don’t see your face when I hear the word. I recall the backs of my eyelids, for in the face of your brand of sticky surrender I am unable to look. One may tear up, wide-eyed, when faced with beauty, but when that word finds me, I can only blush and wither. Words fail and fate becomes impatient. It is linked, of course, to other words, from the four-letter to the infinite. And presents both a suicidal nihilism and a freedom unfathomable. It makes a fine argument for the plight of the pig. It makes a similar one for the concept of stillness, for resignation, for the vagrant, but these are early thoughts. Then again, can’t the sublime be rendered mundane over time? If the Mona Lisa hung in my bathroom, would I not tire of her face eventually, as you would tire of mine, I of yours? But I don’t think of your face when that word finds me. I think of the chinks in your armor, the little holes that can be penetrated only by fingers, toes, and tongues. I picture rivers of tears behind my eyelids, collected for years, and imagine the pool in which you keep them. Expend, emote, excrete. It’s all bleeding, baby. Drop by drop. Weeping behind closed doors, or alone in the basement, we bask in horror. Swim in it, drink it, love each other for the appreciation of it, and pity the pale world and their pale delusions. From down here in the muck they look like bloated parade floats filled with shit, yet still we (I) fear their scrutiny. For now. It’s a good word. I will tattoo it where you choose or burn it in effigy. I will shout it from the mountaintops or place it in the clay man’s mouth and never speak it again. It is your word. Do with it what you will.




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