In Search of Adele H

The ship finally docks, after lurching and worrying its way west for a month.  The tiny cabin, the plunging horizon, the inquisitive overtures, the cold and the rain.  Nature is terrible—terrible.  I won’t meet their eyes.  But, in a moment, this moment, it falls away.  I have forgotten.  Everything is forgotten, everything is new.  I’ve lived this so many times in my mind that I am hardly present to my present.  Everything shimmers; I watch myself walk down the gangplank and onto the dock, hovering a few steps above the planks and stones.  No one knows; not yet.  Not anyone.  Not him.  I have a secret name.  I have a secret language.  I have a secret mission.  There are practicalities of course, I must see to my bags.  I must find rooms.  I must remember who I am, and who I am pretending to be.  And then, in this place—finally! 

My life will begin.

I knew *exactly where I was going.

Fantasy isn’t all hope and fairy wings. It can easily become a vicious, cannibalistic demon, growing ever stronger upon less.  It doesn’t need much reality to feed on.  In fact, less is better, because then facts don’t interfere with the story you’re writing in your head.  He doesn’t call?  He doesn’t write?  It doesn’t matter!  After all, you’re very busy imagining what he’ll say when —  if —  he does, rehearsing it over and over again until the conversation goes just the way you want.  In fact, you can spend so much time this way that months, even years might pass and you’ll hardly notice.  Well, you’ll notice, but it won’t make you stop.  Disappointment won’t necessarily bring you back to your senses; you’ll just imagine harder, and better, and more elaborately, until you come up with a better plotline and the best conclusion. 

Despite the legends, Hope is not alone in Pandora’s insidious Box. Imagination created that Box in the first place — and that’s the really dangerous thing with wings.

He said.  He promised.  He DID.  And then - he didn’t.

I know, I know, I KNOW.  I shouldn’t trust words.  Only actions!  Only what he DOES; it. does. not. matter. what. he. SAYS.  Or, it shouldn’t matter … But I mean, a word is an action!  It IS, writing is an action, speech is an action.  Your Derrida (who’s now mine, since crossing over) said speech cannot be erased.  Yes, I understand our Monsieur D. perfectly now; in this realm, his transparencies come to the fore and his opacities recede. Speech cannot be taken back, it is an entity in the world, altering that world the minute it enters.  And writing, writing is - actually - actionable.   

How can I NOT believe in words?  I think in words.  We live in words.  I write - I don’t have enough words for what I write, I need to resort to code.  And code is a technology, it makes things happen.  Dad wrote and things happened - in our lives, in the world.  The spirits communicated by spelling.  Spelling!!  Letters, the skeletons of words, needing only inspiration to animate and enliven with layers of epiphenomena. Of course words matter.  Of course they are magic.  How else can you say what you mean?  

Who am I?  I am this story.  Who is he?  He is who I make him.  Who are you?  You imagine us into being.  So tell us, please; or just tell me.  1=A, 2=B … please: what happens next?