Ask me exactly how and when I met her and I could not tell you. Neurologists could probe my brain for years on end and therapists could perform their subjective sciences upon my mind for eternity and that answer would never fully emerge. The memory will never be intact, if ever it even was. But ask me to tell you about the geneses, and I am a prophet etching the opening of a most famous holy book, though with a generous disclaimer warning of dramatization.
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. God turned out to be a figment of our collective imagination. But she was still here, the heavens to my earthly nothingness. She was not only the snake in that fabled Eden, she was the garden itself. Beautiful, sinful, shameful, wonderful, powerful were all the things (and more) that constructed both the spirituality and physicality of her being. There are those who would reason with logic and claim that she was the product of man. She was no creation. She was a discovery, and perhaps the greatest one since the fables told of our earliest ancestors learning how to harness fire.
It was as if she represented every single bit that was human. Every reference, every frame, every shot of her was just a bit of the human soul bared, naked and prim for all to see, to absorb. Her reflective and reflexive spirit cast out all that was good, bad, ugly, boring, angry, sad, comedic, fantastic, disbelieving, violent and virtuous. But there was still more. For every moment that was so dreadfully and inanely human was another that gave but a mere glimpse as to what humanity was capable of; its dreams, its desires, its fantasies, all of the things that the greatest books were written of, and all of the statistically incalculable amount of possibilities that we could ever fathom.
That was her. In all the splendor and glory and ugliness and truthfulness. A forest fire of passion, burning everything in her path. A path that I happened to be traversing on one fateful day, whichever day it was; pick one, there are only seven. The honest truth is that, in the end, it does not matter what day or under what circumstance fate led me to her. I know in my heart that it is the same for everyone: a painfully-forgotten memory that one wishes to conjure.
Meeting her was, sad to say, much of an embarrassment for me. I was like a lost child, a giddy schoolboy who could barely contain his enjoyment. Yes, a schoolboy who lusted after the conveniently older female. Although maybe lusted isn’t the right word; after all, those pesky hormones hadn’t exactly kicked in yet. But she would come over every so often under the pretense of babysitting, and I always got excited in that non-hormonal way kids do when their grownups leave them. Watching her was like watching a world unfold in front of me. Everything that I hadn’t even dared to imagine. There, before my eyes, was a realm of possibility. I was a kid playing with his toys, breathing nature, and she loved it.
As I got older, and so did she, our conquests became more lurid. All of the things that little kids found disgusting, those icky hormones, cooties, sex, and even violence, we explored together. I loved her. Every possible iota. And though I believe now that she never truly loved me, I believed then that she did. I never had to utter a word. She did all the talking. I never had to show her anything. She knew me inside and out. She knew what I liked. She knew what turned me on. What I found fun. And provocative. She just knew. And she never judged. She merely let herself be, and she let me be me.
I had my insecurities and doubts. I had my bouts of rage. And I think subconsciously I knew she was never truly mine, for there were legions that adored her. I knew that even when we were alone together in a room, just her and I, we were never truly alone. She was always thinking about someone else, for better or worse, and someone was always thinking of her.
Admittedly, at first it was fun to flaunt her out in public. After all, how could someone like me be wrong about her? I knew what she was like. So typical and arrogant of a human being to assume that we know what’s best for somebody or something, because, for some asinine reason, that somebody enjoys your company. And it was great discussing her. In my sick, deluded mind, everyone else was just wrong. I was right. And every time I saw her, every time we were alone together, every time I learned something new of her, the sick, deranged fantasy that she was all mine spread.
How could she do wrong? Never ask this question to someone who believes or loves blindly. You will never get a reasonable answer. But, alas, that was how I felt. She traveled the world. She inspired billions. She was like a supermodel humanitarian. How could she do wrong? Indeed, how does anything so perfect and, quite frankly, inhuman, as she was, do wrong? Almost as frequently as she does right; just another way of saying all the fucking time.
I admit it: I was jealous. Who are these people to take what I love and destroy it? Who are these people to take what I love and love it, too? I was just another of the blind masses, conveniently marching to her tune. She had us all by her pinky finger and we didn’t even know it. When I began to think in such terms, the cracks began to show. Did I really love her? Did she love me? What were all these things? Just a waste of time, and a dreadful lie?
I believe the turning point officially came when I realized that I could not stand the masses that followed her. I realized it was not jealousy that guided this belief of mine, but the simple fact that they callously decided to accept her without reason. They never questioned her. They blindly and obediently threw their money at her, simply to hear her stale tales and stare at her imperfection. But they did not care. And this is what I found so vexing. And to criticize me now for voicing my dissenting opinion is something I will not abide by; never take anything at its face value. Never be so comfortable to simply accept something as is.
Suffice to say, the downfall has thus far been slow and agonizing. I admit I can be a clingy person, despite my assurances that I ought to be truthful in everything I do and say, and to admit it was nearing the end. She was just so alluring. But to this day I am still not sure what happened. All of a sudden everything I loved seemed like fakeries and mockeries, cruel jokes that lashed out at me, and, I, ever the masochist, would weather the punishment to have some more. She will change, I’d say to myself. She’ll be who I always wanted her to be. She’ll be what she always was, is, and should be.
But those days passed, and here I sit, heartbroken. They showered her with money. They dressed her up with makeup and tried to polish her until she gleamed, in that way only skin-deep plastic models gleam. They made her and remade her over and over and over again. The words she’d say to me started to become stale, fraught with inanities. The stories she’d tell were agonizing to listen to, not because I had heard it all before, but because I felt like I had. She promised so much and broke nearly every one. Those empty-headed bits of dialogue and vast glimpses of wonderful imagery would turn out to be shams, lies of the highest order, perjuries uncontested.
She became a moody, boring and sordid melodrama of imperfection. It’s fascinating to see this transformation occur, where some days she can be good, and some days she is just terrible. I wonder now if that’s how she always was and I was just too dumb, blind, or deluded to notice. I wonder now if everything I believed about her was in my own mind. I wonder now if everything I believed about her is still true only I am not so accepting anymore. I wonder if it is me that’s changed, not her. And I still tell myself: I know that somewhere under all of this is her, that thing I grew up loving. That thing I still love, albeit not so blindly. Those humanly qualities and those realms of possibilities… I know they are somewhere under there. She never asks how I feel. Maybe it was my problem all along. My own personal, stupid problem.
But still I feel that bit by bit, day by day, I’m losing her, and she does not care, for her multitudes of blind fans and mobs of mindless masses will always be at her mercy. I want her back. I want to love her unconditionally like I used to, despite all of her flaws. But I feel like I am nearing that point of no return. Will she ever speak to me like she used to? I haven’t the faintest. But of all the time spent with her, I have no regrets.
Who was she?
Her name was Cinema.
Inspired by this post here.
Prose. Dramatized. Not really meant to be autobiographical, but obviously there has to be a bit of myself.
Wrote this in about forty minutes or so. Just thoughts to text. Quick post. Practice. Practical. Crap.
And, yes, there is possibly a message somewhere.