Silence is NOT a virtue. I don’t know much about life but I know a lot about love. I don’t know how to split atoms, I don’t split body from mind, but I’ve split many infinitives and I split my gut laughing. O hell, I’ve been splitting fine hairs with tradition for years. I don’t know much about life but I’ve learned a lot about loss and I know I have to speak the truth as I see it just to survive.
Tell your love, tell your sorrow, all the days of your life, the nights, too! Ring out a true love story of your own from doorstep to doorstep. Express your glands, express your joy and your pain, howl the truth from out of your personal closet right into the hallway. You can cry if you need to: nothing grows without water!
I get all upset the way people hush themselves like it’s a virtue sometimes. Casey said in her parents’ house they never got angry, they ate all the food on their plates, their closets were tidy, they just never spoke about it. She said there was nothing to speak of, it’s just that her brother was playful. He just got carried away, he was boyishly curious, that’s the natural way he expressed it, his first stirrings of manhood. She said there was nothing to speak of, she had no way to stop it, she was not always so strong or so big or so butch or so brave.
She said it doesn’t affect her adult life today, no, not at all, so there’s nothing to speak of, she keeps it all in the family. She said, it’s all relative, really, so there’s nothing to speak of, it’s not like real incest, so there’s nothing to speak of. It’s just all in the family, it’s all relative, really, so there’s nothing to speak of, it’s all relative, she said, it was only her brother, so there’s nothing to speak of, it’s all relative, she said, it’s all relative.
I may not know that much about life but I’ve been well tutored in loss and I know a lot about love and about the relative ways different people withhold it and snatch it away. But if there’s nothing to speak of then all words lose their meaning and I can never express it how sometimes she’s touched me and I’ve wanted to touch her, my Pagliacci sister, her practiced immaculate presence, her subterranean silence.
But If there’s nothing to speak of words can never express it, how the joy she unleashes flings open my floodgates, but we never expressed it, relatively speaking. Still she touches me whenever she wants to and my own desperation allows it and wants it but she will not let me touch her in return, despite that the fit of our bodies strike sparks on the guilty blanket of need that we borrow. But if there’s nothing to speak of then all words lose their meaning and I’m stripped of all currency save for the stealth of her tongue and her kindling caresses and the way she moves into me with such rough sudden need that it hurts like a scalding but I only steam through my pores and my eyes start to rain, and later I staunch the flow of my bleeding after I stagger back home to my own lonely bed, sprawled out like a swastika, appropriately crimson, and I wonder and tap my only true gift and begin to write about the types of love we give and gift and take and endure and inflict.
But if there’s nothing to speak of I can never express it, at least not to Casey, how the heartache she’s known and the heartbreak she’s sown still fling open my floodgates and I’ve wanted to touch her, to heal her, but if there’s nothing to speak of I can never express it, how much I’ve ached just to tell her the many ways that I’ve loved her but she will not let me touch her and only shakes her head sadly and pulls me aside but every graze of her razor sharp lips leaves another keloid scar on the topographical map of my body and each one reads goodbye and goodbye until the next time… or never.
But sometimes even now just the memory of the stunning sound of her voice like a clarion bell when she forgets herself for even a moment and lets loose from her studious anchors and starts genuinely laughing out loud still sets me free!