ELEVEN O'CLOCK TURN AROUND


Lover,

Well, former lover,

Estranged,

Girl formerly known as lover,

I'm sorry to write to you like this but twenty-five minutes after eleven and as any jilted romantic can tell you I am in the icy grip of the eleven o'clock turn-around.

I don't doubt your sincerity in saying that you want to remain friends. On the contrary. I know that there some things in me that you will always need around. But for me, to cut the engines and coast to a soft landing is fantasy. I am falling at thirty-two feet per second per second and no matter how we try to paint it nicely, I am going to crash. I need to bail out of this fireball. Maybe I can meet you on the ground later, but I am not going to partake in this nose-dive.

I didn't deserve this. I have never deserved this. And I will be damned if I will aid and abet in my own martyrdom. My love for you was an addiction and friendship would only be methadone. A staving off of the final pain. To try and stay connected now will only act as a toxin in me. I need to slit my belly open and let it all tumble out. It's the only way I can survive.

Jesus, God this hurts! The eleven o'clock turn-around kicks in the door, no matter where I am or what I am doing. It holds up your picture and then runs. Cowardly bastard. Soon I will be able to wait at the door and hit it in the head with a mallet or any blunt object I find lying around my psyche. But not yet. I'm waiting for the day to arrive.

See, things would be all right if I could get to bed by ten or so. But I preoccupy my mind so much during the day that I haven't finished when eleven rolls around and broadsides me. I want you out of my head! I want you out of my heart! I want to sledgehammer this drywall life I've created and put up a wall that will stand on its own, without reinforcement. It's unfortunate that the stones of solitude are the only building materials available to me at this time.

I'm sorry, Enigma, I know this is hurting you, but there is nothing I can do. I have been through this before and have never gotten it right. The story of the 3 Little Pigs was always wasted on me because I favored the wolf. The wolf's persistence enthralled me. I knew that if the pigs hadn't boiled him alive, he would have succeeded. No matter how many times I read the story, it always ended the same. The wolf, the vagrant without a home of his own, is boiled down to the marrow, while the confident pigs dance in the strong shelter of the brick house. I need to dance in confidence. I need to build that shelter and find a home of my own.

All wordy precocity aside, this hurts like hell. Of all the women in my life that I should have done this with, I'm sorry it had to be you. You brought such a zest and fervor to my life that I feel old and lost without you and that's the cancer I want to cut out. There is nothing in you that I wish gone from my life. But I need to find my footing.

Heaven knows I wish I could implement that resolution into my life, but now, the love affair with myself is in the rough outline stage. It's a pitch session to the producers of my spirit. Whether or not it's greenlighted? That's up to the producers. I know that some would say that I am the producer. That's not how I feel now. I put you in the production booth and begged you to make it a good show. That's more than I should ask of anyone.

If you can tell by the disjointed nature of this piece, not to mention the fact that this letter is taking on the form of a "piece", I am in a state of subdued, violent flux. The boundaries of me are expanding and liquefying and materializing and colliding and rerouting and changing dimensions too rapidly for me to do anything. I just sit here, banging away on the keys of my word processor while the turbulence rages in the area between my chin and my boring haircut. I'm surprised that my skull hasn't erupted and ruined the earth-tone décor of my father's dining room with a shocking splash of brown and crimson.

In the end the only real message I have is that I need more time than I have allowed myself. I need to find out what this love thing is all about and if I want to invest more of my mind in it. I bitter right now and I want to find that sweet, chewy center in me without having somebody chew it out for me.

You know, the truly frightening thing about love is that, in the end, it's really nothing at all.  It's not something that anyone can control or capture. Every screenwriter, poet, sculptor, painter, singer and psychic friend has tried to capture love. All that anyone has managed to do is freeze a moment of nostalgia. A reminder of the chemical explosion that occurred in their brain when the love mix was right. Or wrong.  That's all I'm doing now.  Love has no shape, limits or rules. Love and time are madman brothers. You never have enough of either. They are ruthless, savage crippling tyrants that demolish everything in their path.

My only regret, lover, is that I can't be demolished by those tyrants with you anymore.